7

Laure hadn’t spoken to her about Mario’s visit. She wasn’t accountable to her, of course. This was still significant, though, and Betty was quite glad to have a grievance, small as it was, against her companion.

She didn’t like people who always appeared too perfect. She mistrusted them. After throwing herself on her, Laure was already beginning to feel a little weary, to long to have her own life back, especially since Betty was bedridden and the doctor had forbidden her to go out or to drink.

‘Did you sleep well?’

She too was cheating when she replied that she had.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll have your vegetable broth brought up. Which do you prefer: dim or bright light?’

She didn’t care. She lay there, inert, and derived a secret pleasure from doing so. Laure lit the lamps, flitting between the two rooms. The soup arrived and Betty sat up in bed.

For both of them, it felt as if things were dragging on. Time was passing slowly this evening, as if each had something else on her mind.

Laure, in her room, got changed and didn’t know what to do with herself. Her voice was slightly different and she seemed to be fussing even more than usual.

‘Was it a bit tasteless? Wait while I plump up your pillow. Would you like the chambermaid to come and make your bed? Do you want to freshen up?’

All those words, all those sentences, and finally:

‘Would you mind very much if I left you alone for a couple of hours to go and have dinner out? It’s not very charitable of me to say this when you’re confined to bed, but I need some air, some life. If you want anything, ring the bell. I’ll leave instructions for Louisette. She’ll telephone me if necessary and I’ll be here within a few minutes. You’re not annoyed? You don’t feel as if I’m abandoning you?’

On the contrary, Betty was pleased she was going. She couldn’t wait to be alone and, after letting ten minutes or so go by, so as to be certain that her friend hadn’t forgotten anything and wouldn’t be coming back, she got up, began by closing the communicating door, for no particular reason, perhaps as a symbolic gesture, and went into the bathroom.

She wasn’t feeling very strong and she took a long time to wash, do her hair and put on some discreet make-up.

While choosing a nightdress from the drawer, she found a travel alarm clock and started to wind it up.

‘Hello, mademoiselle, can you tell me what time it is, please?’

‘Are you better? It’s half past eight. Eight thirty-two, to be precise. Do you need anything?’

‘No, thank you.’

She set the hands. This was the first time since Avenue de Wagram that she had taken an interest in the time, was aware of it, and that already represented a return to some kind of life.

In spite of the doctor’s orders, she would have been capable of getting dressed on her own and going out, of calling a taxi to take her to Le Trou.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she was tempted to do so, and tried to imagine Laure’s reaction on seeing her walk in, and that of Mario.

She mustn’t. It would be no use, quite the opposite. She switched off the lights, except the bedside lamp, and slid between the sheets.

She didn’t intend to sleep. Nor did she want to dwell on depressing memories. Something was brewing, something still very vague, which it wasn’t advisable to spell out, a possible solution.

Yesterday, this morning, still this afternoon, she had been convinced that there was no way out. This evening, she was in a state of expectation, fighting off the numbing drowsiness. All of a sudden, at ten to nine, her hand groped for the bell marked Beverages.

She needed a coffee. A few more minutes and she would have fallen asleep. Jules knocked at the door, worried, and murmured:

‘I’ll call the chambermaid right away.’

‘It’s not the chambermaid I want.’

‘Madame Lavancher told me …’

‘It doesn’t matter what she told you. I want a cup of black coffee.’

‘That’s different.’

All the same, he was hesitant.

‘I suppose I can bring you one. Are you sure it won’t do you any harm?’

A little later, he brought her a filter coffee and she sat up in bed. She was waiting while the coffee strained when the telephone rang. She reached out, surprised that something had happened so soon. A man’s voice said:

‘Madame Étamble? I haven’t woken you? I apologize for disturbing you. A Monsieur Étamble insists on speaking to you.’

‘Did he give his first name?’

She thought it might be Antoine.

‘No. I’ll ask him.’

‘Don’t bother. Put him through.’

‘The thing is, he’s downstairs.’

Under his breath, as if he were afraid of being overheard by someone close by, he added:

‘He asked me a lot of questions, demanded to know whether you were alone, if you’d had any visitors …’

It hadn’t occurred to her for one moment that Guy might want to see her, or even, if it was Antoine who was waiting, to send his brother. Hadn’t Florent, his lawyer, already contacted her?

‘Send him up.’

She took a sip of coffee and snuggled between the sheets, resuming her pose of that afternoon.

The stern Jules walked ahead of the visitor along the corridor and showed him into the room. It was Guy, hat in hand, embarrassed, who was trying to accustom his eyes to the dim light.

‘I’m not disturbing you?’

She waved him with a weary hand to a chair, the one at her bedside in which the doctor had sat.

‘Have a seat.’

‘When he spoke to you on the telephone, Florent had the impression that you weren’t yourself. He said that he could barely recognize your voice. I was afraid you were ill or that something had happened to you.’

‘I am simply tired. Very tired. It will pass.’

She watched him covertly. He was the same as always, a little more anxious, a little awkward. He did it on purpose, out of prudishness, to choose mundane language.

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘What does he say?’

‘That I’ll be up and about in four or five days.’

‘Do you have someone to take care of you?’

She automatically looked over towards the communicating door.

‘A friend. She’s gone out for dinner and will be back shortly.’

She felt no emotion on seeing him and she was even amazed to note that he seemed like a total stranger.

She found it hard to believe that she was his wife, that, for six years, she had lived with him, sleeping in his bed every night, that they had two children together, made from part of each of them.

Did Guy feel the same? He too gazed at her furtively as if trying to think of what to say.

She was the one who spoke.

‘Are the children well?’

‘Very well, except that Charlotte has a head cold and is cross at being kept indoors.’

‘Has your mother returned to Lyon?’

‘Not yet. She’s staying with Antoine. She’s better but it’s preferable for her not to travel on her own at the moment. The friend she came down with had to go back. It’s likely that, in two or three days, Marcelle will drive her home.’

It was almost unbelievable. They were talking as if nothing had happened, uttering the same words, even though there was no real bond left between them.

Betty still didn’t understand why he had come, found it hard to believe it was simply to inquire after her health. He could have sent Florent or possibly Antoine. He could even have asked the hotel management. Which he had done, in fact. So? Why come up?

Putting his hat down on the carpet, he stood up, because he had never been able to sit still for long, especially for an important conversation, and he had to resist the urge to stride up and down as he was used to doing in his study.

‘I wanted to say something to you, about the matter of the document you signed. Know that it is not my intention to use it right away.’

… I declare that I was caught by my husband and my mother-in-law, Madame Étamble, a widow, in the marital home, at 22A, Avenue de Wagram, on …

Everything was there, the date, the time, the name of her accomplice, which she’d been loath to divulge. The presence of the two children in the apartment was mentioned, as well as the fact that she was stark naked.

She agreed to an at-fault divorce and relinquished in advance her maternal rights.

‘I’ve thought very hard about it. I shan’t hide the fact that having no news of you for several days worried me.’

‘Florent told me.’

‘It was above all to make sure that nothing had happened to you that I asked him to telephone this morning to suggest a meeting. Apparently you refused to see him.’

‘I was waiting until I was better.’

‘Have you had a nervous breakdown?’

‘I don’t know. In any case, it’s not serious.’

He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, like when he was dictating.

‘I think, you see, that in a situation like ours, we shouldn’t be in a rush. No one can foresee the future and we are not the only ones involved. Mother and I talked about it at length.’

Betty’s forehead creased, her pupils narrowed. She listened with heightened attention.

‘I don’t know what you will think. It is not necessarily the best solution. I presume you realize that it would be difficult now for you to come back home.’

She couldn’t believe her ears.

‘On the other hand, it’s not good for you to remain on your own. Because I imagine you are on your own?’

‘Didn’t the concierge tell you I was?’

‘Yes. Besides, I thought you would be. My mother and I wondered whether we could try an experiment. You would go with her to Lyon. There’s no reason why she can’t stay in Paris until you’re better. Two or three days won’t make any difference. You’d live there with her for a while and if, afterwards …’

He didn’t finish his sentence. He was clearly embarrassed, but full of good intentions.

‘Was this your idea?’

For Betty, it was at the same time both kind and repulsive. As he paced up and down the room, this overgrown boy, Guy, was hinting that she might be able to resume her place in his home, with his children, rather as if he were beginning to forgive, as if he were promising to forget.

And it was her mother-in-law who had thought of it, who had suggested this trial period comparable to a nun’s novitiate.

She would take her in under her roof, under her control. In the apartment on Quai de Tilsitt, full of the general’s memorabilia, she would watch her day after day, noting her progress, probably counting on her influence.

Betty didn’t laugh, didn’t become indignant. She almost had tears in her eyes.

‘Were you hoping I’d say yes?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it what you want?’

‘I’m thinking of the children, of you.’

He felt sorry for her. He had just extended a helping hand to rescue her.

‘Thank you, Guy. I am very touched by your gesture. And by your mother’s. Please tell her so from me.’

‘Is it no?’

‘I believe it’s wiser. Not so much for me as for all of you. I warned you, remember. You wouldn’t listen to me.’

With one sentence, she reversed their positions. She was the one who became magnanimous, self-sacrificing and, as she spoke, she glanced at the carriage clock, wondering what was going on in Mario’s restaurant.

She was afraid her husband would linger and ruin everything with his presence.

‘You were right to come. It was better for us to say goodbye on a different memory.’

If Schwartz had been there, he would have said sarcastically:

‘And there you go, romanticizing again!’

She hadn’t expected this opportunity, this part she was being given to play, this choice that she was being offered.

‘I’ll telephone Florent in a few days. Go. Don’t forget to thank your mother. It’s not my fault if I’ve hurt you, believe me, but all the same I ask you to forgive me.’

She went along with it herself and, what’s more, she was half sincere. It wasn’t a cynical act. She felt no attachment to Guy, but, if life had been different, they might perhaps have been able to be happy. Well, he could have been happy, in any case. He could have been happy with any woman, except with her.

She had no regrets, but that didn’t stop her feeling sorry for him.

‘Go!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Go!’

She was panic-stricken at the thought that Mario might arrive. Guy didn’t realize that he represented a past world from which she had cut herself off. She was already living elsewhere. She was convinced another life was about to begin, had already begun, or almost, but it was still precarious, vague.

He picked up his hat, murmuring:

‘You don’t need anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Good luck, Betty.’

‘Thank you. You too.’

He didn’t know whether to hold out his hand. She didn’t dare hold out hers. As he made his way slowly over to the door, she said again:

‘Thank you.’

He didn’t turn around. She heard his footsteps fade away down the long corridor and she wiped her hand over a forehead damp with sweat.

She drank the rest of the coffee, now cold, even though she was not likely to fall asleep any more. Guy’s visit had perked her up, and so had the thought of Le Trou, where she already was in her mind.

She was tempted, better to put herself in the mood, to slip out of bed, go into Laure’s room, look for the bottle they’d opened earlier and take a large glug.

She mustn’t smell of alcohol. It was important that she should be exactly as she had been that afternoon, when Mario had tiptoed over to the bed.

She rang the bell. Even the filter and the cup on the table were in the way.

‘Remove that, Jules.’

‘Are you going to sleep?’

‘I think so.’

She tried to calm herself down, unsuccessfully. Her nerves were taut with impatience and she found it hard to lie still in bed.

Ten o’clock … Half past ten … People were eating at Le Trou, surrounded by the red walls with English etchings … Jeanine, at the bar, was jiggling her big breasts as she laughed, running her hands over her hips to smooth her girdle … The African was popping up at one door, then another, like a benevolent genie … Laure had finished eating and was sipping her drink, watching the faces around her and taking in snatches of conversation …

Had the doctor shamefully slipped into the toilet to give himself an injection? … Did John have a new companion who was waiting for the moment when she would lie down on his bed while he gazed at her, his eyes bulging, a drink in his hand, sitting in his armchair, where he would eventually doze off …?

She was afraid of missing her chance, of losing her place, because, in her mind, it was already her place. Mario was strong, slightly brutish, a little naive. From the first moment their eyes had met, he’d been intrigued.

He had driven Maria Urruti to Buenaventura to defend her against her family and she had been kidnapped under his nose. He came every day to a quiet room at the Carlton to chat with the widow of a professor from Lyon and give her, before leaving, the pleasure she needed, as Bernard needed his drug.

He probably had known other women of all kinds, but he had never yet encountered one like Betty.

Betty knew that she was all women rolled into one. He already suspected it. He had received her silent message and had responded.

Why wasn’t he there yet? Was Laure detaining him? Did she have any inkling that they had arranged to meet almost in front of her?

The other evenings, he would go from table to table, and he sometimes jumped into his car to drive a customer home, an oddball in a bad way, as he’d done with the doctor.

He would find an excuse. He didn’t need one. He didn’t belong to Laure.

He had no idea that, because of him, Betty had just refused to return to Avenue de Wagram. By way of Lyon, true, as if on a trial basis.

And she had given Guy the task of thanking her mother-in-law!

But it wasn’t generosity. Betty could even reconstitute her mother-in-law’s thought process. Now that she was no longer in that atmosphere, she wasn’t tempted to feel moved any more, but to rebel.

Not even that! No! At Le Trou, there was no question of rebellion. She had gone beyond that stage. There was no possibility of going back either.

It was the end of the line.

The end of the line for oddballs! Last stop before the asylum or the mortuary!

She had been mistaken in thinking that, for her, the time for the asylum or the mortuary had come. She hadn’t known then that she still had Le Trou, still had Mario. She wanted to live. She was eager to live.

Anxiously, she looked at the clock, perfectly aware that it would be tonight or never. She didn’t want to miss the opportunity. She dredged up a prayer.

‘Oh Lord! Let him come.’

And, her body aching from impatience:

‘Let him come quickly!’

She did not add:

‘And let me succeed.’

If he came, she was certain she would. She desired it too much. She hungered for it too much. It was heart-breaking to be left in uncertainty and not be allowed to move.

It would be better if she didn’t have to get up to open the door, she thought, all of a sudden. He had to come in by himself, thinking it was a surprise, a gift, and he should find her lying in the semi-darkness.

Barefoot, she hastily opened the door into the corridor a fraction, hoping that the bellhop on night duty or the chambermaid wouldn’t close it as they walked past.

Instead of the bedside lamp, which was too bright, she lit the lamp on the dressing table, which was further away and dimmer.

Half past eleven … She wrung her arms with nervousness …

‘Oh Lord! Please, let him …’

She was of a mind to make a promise, a vow, in exchange. She didn’t know what to offer and was afraid it would backfire on her.

Let her just be given this chance, the last one. Was it too much to ask as a reward for all her efforts?

She had closed her eyes. Her thoughts clanged in her head and now she howled, in a voice that came from the depths of her throat:

‘Mario!’

He was there, between the door and the bed, walking on tiptoe like earlier, and mischievously he placed a finger on his lips.

He had understood the message. He had come. He sat on the edge of the bed and, holding her shoulders with outstretched arms, he gazed at her for a long time before bending down to press his cheek to hers.

‘You came!’ she said, laughing and crying at the same time.

And, rubbing her cheek against his like an animal rubbing up against another animal:

‘You’re here!’