‘You think too much,’ said Monsieur Bernadet kindly. ‘That’s what’s the
matter with you. When I saw you last night I said to myself: “That’s a
pretty girl, but a girl who thinks too much.” For instance, just now
when I passed, what were you thinking of?’
Marya said: ‘The newspaper kiosk.’
‘Ah?’ He lifted supple eyebrows.
She explained: ‘I like sitting on the terrace of a café near a kiosk
and looking at the names of the newspapers. Can you see? _Magyar
Hirlap, Svenska, Poochi, Pesti Hirlap._ I like looking at them ranged
one under the other because--’ She stopped and shrugged a little.
‘Evidently,’ remarked Monsieur Bernadet, ‘it’s an amusement like
another.’
(‘My God, what a neurasthenic!’ he was thinking. ‘But she has beautiful
eyes.’)
‘To tell you the truth,’ he continued, ‘I have no curiosity at all
about other countries. None. After all, what can I find in other
countries that I can’t find better in France? Of course, if one went to
make money it would be different.’
‘Evidently,’ answered Marya in her turn. ‘A Pernod fils, please. One
pretends that one will find something different. It’s only a game.’
Bernadet said, after a silence: ‘Stephan is waiting for you at the Rue
Bleue. You know that he’ll be alone there for a few days. Do you drink
that without water?’
‘Yes,’ answered Marya. And, ‘Yes, Stephan told me that you were going
away this evening. You’ve been kind to him, Monsieur Bernadet. Thank
you.’
‘It’s nothing at all,’ muttered the other. ‘One does what one can for a
comrade.’
He fidgeted, then drew his chair closer and went on in a mysterious
voice.
‘And if I tell you that Stephan ought to leave Paris as quickly as
possible, I say it for his sake. Yes. And the less he goes out while he
is here the better. A man thinks, “I’m quite safe. Nobody is bothering
about me.” He goes out; someone who knows him sees him on the boulevard
and--there you are. Next day the police. People are _vache_, people
play dirty tricks for no reason at all. That’s life.’
‘Perhaps it makes them feel warm and comfortable,’ suggested Marya.
Monsieur Bernadet said: ‘What? Well, it’s no use making philosophy
about these things. Nearly everybody will be _vache_ if you give them a
chance; the best way is not to give them a chance. That’s life.
‘You understand,’ he went on after a pause, ‘that it’s not my
business. I’m going away and if anything happens, it will not be seen,
not known as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I bet it will,’ thought Marya. But she liked him better than she had
done.
He finished his apéritif.
‘Well, Madame, I hope to see you when I come back. Don’t worry too
much. Stephan is a clever boy and energetic. Anybody who looks at him
can see that. He won’t stay long in _la misère_. But, of course, if
he can have a little money to help him so much the better. People may
talk,’ said Monsieur Bernadet, ‘but without money--without any money at
all--well.’
He pressed his lips together and shook his head several times. Then he
rapped for the waiter, paid and got up.
She watched him walking up the street. He wore a very tight brown
overcoat cut in at the waist. He sidled past people who got in his way
with peculiar eel-like motions of his shoulders.
* * * * *
‘Perhaps when I’ve sat here for a while,’ Marya told herself, ‘I’ll be
able to think better. Can’t think now. So damn tired.’
Her brain was working slowly and confusedly; it seemed at moments to
stop working altogether.
‘But I’ve lots of time,’ she assured herself again. ‘Lots. Hours and
hours.’
She stared at the newspaper kiosk and again began to imagine herself
in the train, thudding across the great plain of Europe. With Stephan.
Hundreds of miles of plain for the wind to sweep over.
Stephan. He looked so thin and his eyes were horribly sad. She
remembered him saying, ‘I cried like a little boy,’ and her heart
twisted with pity.
The tears came into her eyes and she told herself: ‘That’s this damned
apéritif. I must pull myself together; I must think properly.’ She
pushed the glass, which was still half full, away from her.
After a time she took Heidler’s letter out of her bag and looked at it.
He had written: ‘I’m sending this to the Hôtel du Bosphore and hope
you’ll get it. I’m worried about you. Why have you come back to Paris
so suddenly? Will you let me know where and when we can meet? I am only
too anxious to do all I can to help you. Please believe that.’
When and where? In some café, of course. The unvarying background.
Knowing waiters, clouds of smoke, the smell of drink. She would sit
there trembling, and he would be cool, a little impatient, perhaps a
little nervous. Then she would try to explain and he would listen with
a calm expression. Top dog.
‘Of course you want money,’ he would be thinking. ‘Naturally. How much?
I’m willing to give the traditional sum, the sum which is right and
proper under the circumstances, and no more. Well, talk. I’m listening.’
She’d talk and all the time her eyes would be saying, ‘I loved you. I
loved you. D’you remember?’
But he wouldn’t look at her eyes, or if he did he’d look away again
very quickly. He’d be feeling healthy-minded, outrageously so. He’d
long for cold baths and fresh air. Can’t she explain and get it over?
‘Didn’t I tell her that she made me feel sick? The extraordinary
persistence of this type of woman.’
Explain? But she couldn’t explain. She’d have to be clever and cunning,
or she wouldn’t get any money at all.
‘I’ve got to be clever,’ she thought, ‘clever.’ Then again something in
her head clicked and jarred like a rundown machine. It was cold on the
café terrace. She began to shiver.
‘Must be pretty late. I’ve been here a long time.’
She opened her bag, put away Heidler’s letter, paid the waiter and
walked away, moving stiffly.
‘I can’t any more--I can’t. I must be comforted. I can’t any more. I
can’t any more. Can’t go on. Can’t....’
* * * * *
Stephan had spread the table with cold sausage cut into slices, potato
salad, a bottle of wine and a half-emptied bottle of rum. The huge
photographs stared down at them with glassy eyes.
They ate in silence. She noticed that the cardboard boxes had
disappeared and that he must have spent a long time trying to make the
room look tidy. He had a mania for order, had Stephan.
When the meal was over Marya cleared away the plates and piled them in
the kitchen.
She said to him when she came back: ‘Stephan, listen. I’ve something to
tell you.’
‘Well?’
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she repeated and, turning her eyes away
from him, fixed them on a big spider motionless on the dirty white wall.
‘What is it, Mado?’
‘It’s that.... D’you love me?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Really, really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m terribly unhappy,’ said Marya.
She knelt down by his chair and put her head on his knees. Then she
thought it would be ridiculous to talk to him like that.
‘Nothing to kneel about. How perfectly ridiculous!’
She got up, sat in one of the hard, straight-backed chairs, gripped the
sides of it and fixed her eyes on the spider.
She said: ‘I’m unhappy. Help me, Stephan, do help me.’
‘I see that you’re unhappy,’ he told her gently. ‘I want to help you.’
‘I found a letter from Heidler at the hotel,’ she said. ‘I ... I want
to tell you about him ... and Lois.’
She flushed as she pronounced the name of her enemy. Then she went on
in the voice of someone talking aloud in an empty room.
‘Yes. There was a letter from him at the hotel today. But first ... I
must tell you. When I’d been there with them ... a little time, Heidler
started making love to me. And so I went to her, to Lois, and I told
her what was happening and I asked her to let me have the money to go
away. And she said ... that what was the matter with me was that I was
too virtuous and that she didn’t mind. And that I was a fool not to
trust Heidler. And that night she went out somewhere and left me alone
with him.’
She was silent for a while. Then she repeated:
‘Lois said: “What’s the matter with you is that you are too virtuous.”
And she went out and left me alone with him....’
He leaned forward, and looking at her with an expression of curiosity,
said:
‘Mado--did you let Heidler make love to you?’
She answered impatiently: ‘Wait and let me tell you. When she said
that, I knew she was lying, but I despised her, hated her for lying,
and I made up my mind not to think about her any more. And I was
awfully tired. You don’t know.... I was tired. He kept saying, “I love
you.” Over and over again. Just “I love you, I love you, my dear.” And
I loved him too,’ she whispered. ‘I loved him too--quite suddenly.’
Then she was silent for a moment.
‘Listening outside the door,’ she went on. ‘Putting on carpet slippers
and creeping up outside the door to listen.’
‘Who did, Heidler?’
‘No, she did. She used to put on carpet slippers and come and listen
at the door. She said “What’s the matter with you is that you’re too
virtuous.” I swear to God she said that. And she sneered. She was
always sneering. She has that sort of mouth. You don’t know how often
I’ve lain awake and longed ... to smash her mouth so that she could
never sneer again.’
He listened to this incoherent speech without moving, but when she was
silent.
‘When did all this happen?’ he asked.
Marya thought how ugly his voice sounded. ‘What am I doing here with
this man?’ she thought. ‘This foreigner with his ugly voice?’
‘It happened,’ she said vaguely, ‘oh, quite soon. And they wanted me to
go on staying with them, but I wouldn’t because I heard them whispering
together one night about me. That was why I went to the hotel.’
‘You mean to say,’ said Stephan, ‘that all the time you used to come
and see me in jail you were Heidler’s mistress? You used to come
and laugh at me, well put away behind the bars so that I couldn’t
interfere?’
‘I didn’t come to laugh at you. Oh, no! But I wish you’d listen,’ she
exclaimed fretfully. ‘You keep stopping me. And I want to tell you.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Stephan. ‘I’m listening. You can go on.’
‘She said to me: “What’s the matter with you is that you’re too
virtuous.”’ Then again she was silent. An expression of hatred
convulsed her face.
‘But what’s the use,’ interrupted Stephan, ‘of going on about what
Heidler’s wife told you? She did the best for herself and I don’t
blame her. D’you think she’s the only woman who shuts her eyes? More
than shuts her eyes if necessary. Come! Don’t be a fool. If you were
so naïve you have only yourself to blame. When you went to the hotel,
Heidler came to see you? When did he come? Often?’
‘No, I don’t remember,’ said Marya vaguely. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter!’ Stephan laughed loudly. ‘You are funny, you!
You have a special way of looking at things. Well, and then? Go on, go
on!’
‘He told me,’ said Marya, ‘that I mustn’t have anything more to do with
you, or see you when you came out of jail. But I longed to see you.
Because I thought it would help me. I was awfully unhappy. Oh, awfully.
But when you’d gone to Amsterdam, you know, and I met him, he....’
She stopped, passed her tongue over her dry lips, swallowed.
‘He chucked you, hein?’
‘Yes,’ said Marya. ‘He said he was disgusted with me. And that he
had a horror of me and that when he thought of me he felt sick.’ She
stared unseeingly with the eyes of a fanatic at a little pulse that was
throbbing in Stephan’s cheek just above the jawbone.
He passed his hand over his mouth.
‘_Quelle saleté!_’ he said, ‘_quelle saleté!_’
Then he laughed and said:
‘_C’est bien boche, ça._’
She went on: ‘It wasn’t that that I wanted to tell you. Because really,
you see, it doesn’t matter. I wanted to beg you to be good to me, to
be kind to me. Because I’m so unhappy that I think I’m going to die of
it. My heart is broken. Something in me is broken. I feel.... I don’t
know.... Help me!’
‘You must think I’m Jesus Christ,’ said Stephan, laughing again. ‘How
can I help you? What fools women are! It isn’t only that they’re beasts
and traitors, but they’re above all such fools. Of course, that’s how
they get caught. Unhappy! Of course you’re unhappy.’
He began to walk up and down the room.
‘My poor Mado!’ he said, and again, ‘My poor Mado!’
‘Help me,’ she said.
But when he tried to take her in his arms she shrank away.
‘No, don’t touch me,’ she said. ‘Don’t kiss me. That isn’t what I want.’
He looked at her in silence, then shrugged his shoulders, poured
himself out a half-glass of rum and said:
‘Wait a bit. Where is the letter you told me you had from Heidler?’
He took it from her bag.
‘So, now.... Wait a bit.... He seems to have forgotten that you make
him sick. Well, that sort of feeling, it comes and it goes. Everyone
knows that. He wants to see you? Well, now you have a place for him to
come to. It’s not very chic, but still. So you will write to Heidler
that he comes here tomorrow afternoon. Go on, write now! And I’ll post
the letter. He’s made a fool of you--but he forgot me when he did that.
Wait a bit. I’ll be waiting for him when he comes. You want me to help
you. All right!’
‘You must be mad,’ said Marya. And to gain time she added: ‘And do you
suppose, if you have a row up here with Heidler, that the concierge
won’t call in the police at once?’
‘She won’t,’ answered Stephan, ‘before I have had time to break his
back.’
‘You won’t break his back as easily as all that,’ said Marya.
‘No? Well, we’ll see. I think I’ll have a little advantage because he
won’t expect me. I’ll jump on him from behind the door. He won’t even
have time to make a row.’
‘You must be mad,’ said Marya again.
‘Write the letter,’ he told her. ‘Write it now and I’ll go and post it.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘You poor thing!’ he mocked. ‘You poor thing! You have no blood, you.
You were born to be made a fool of.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she said. ‘I might have known that you’d only hurt me
worse. I was crazy to tell you.’ She began to cry. ‘Oh, God, why did I
tell you?’
‘Well,’ said Stephan with contempt, ‘stay here and cry. It’s all you’re
good for. I’ll go and find Heidler myself. After all, it’ll be better
like that. Look here, d’you see this? A revolver, yes. You didn’t know
that I had it, did you?’
He put the revolver back in his pocket, muttering:
‘He thought I was well put away behind the bars. Wait a bit!’
‘No!’ said Marya.
She was standing near the door; she spread out her hands to prevent him
passing.
‘You shan’t!’ she said again. And then: ‘You think I’d let you touch
him? I love him.’ A delicious relief flooded her as she said the words
and she screamed again louder: ‘I love him! I love him!’
He muttered something, collapsed on the broken armchair, and sat
staring at her with miserable eyes. He looked small, shrunken, much
older.
‘You left me all alone without any money,’ she said. ‘And you didn’t
care a bit what happened to me. Not really, not deep down, you didn’t.
And now you say beastly things to me. I hate you.’
She began to laugh insultingly. Suddenly he had become the symbol of
everything that all her life had baffled and tortured her. Her only
idea was to find words that would hurt him--vile words to scream at him.
‘So,’ he said when she stopped breathless, ‘now I know. Very well. As
you like. Now will you get away from in front of that door?’
‘No!’
He gave an impatient click of the tongue and caught her wrist to swing
her aside. She fought him wildly, with frenzy.
Now, added to all her other terrors was the terror of being left alone
in that sinister, dusty-smelling room with the enlarged photographs of
young men in their Sunday-best smirking down at her.
‘You shan’t go, you shan’t! I’ll call for the police. If you go out of
this room I’ll go straight to the police-station and give you up.’
She saw the expression in his eyes and was afraid.
‘No,’ she said piteously, backing away from him. ‘I didn’t mean....’
He caught her by the shoulders and swung her sideways with all his
force. As she fell, she struck her forehead against the edge of the
table, crumpled up and lay still.
‘_Voilà pour toi_,’ said Stephan.
He straightened his tie carefully, put on his hat and went out of
the room without looking behind him. He felt dazed and at the same
time extraordinarily relieved. As he went down the stairs he was
thinking: ‘The concierge; I must be careful of the concierge.’ But the
concierge’s _loge_, when he passed it, was in darkness.
Outside in the cool street he found himself face to face with
Mademoiselle Chardin.
‘_Tiens_,’ she said, ‘good evening you ... I left my bottle of scent
upstairs; have you seen it? Is your wife there?’
‘No,’ said Stephan, ‘there’s nobody there.’
She looked sharply at him, took his arm and asked what was the matter.
‘Why, nothing,’ said Stephan, beginning to laugh. ‘Nothing at all. I am
looking for a taxi. I’m going off.’
‘Take me with you,’ said Mademoiselle Chardin suddenly.
She had a very pretty voice. She thrust her hand into his arm and
walked along with him.
She repeated: ‘Take me with you, Stephan.’
‘But I tell you I am going off,’ said Stephan. ‘Off, off! I’m staying
one night in some hotel near the Gare de Lyon. Tomorrow morning I’m
off.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mademoiselle Chardin. ‘As it happens, I know a very
good little hotel around there. Comfortable, not expensive. We’ll talk.’
A taxi crawled past them. Stephan signalled to the driver.
‘I’ll take you there,’ said Mademoiselle Chardin.
She climbed into the taxi and, leaning forward, gave the driver an
address in an authoritative voice. Stephan hesitated, climbed in after
her.
‘_Encore une grue_,’ he was thinking.
At that moment women seemed to him loathsome, horrible--soft and
disgusting weights suspended round the necks of men, dragging them
downwards. At the same time he longed to lay his head on Mademoiselle
Chardin’s shoulder and weep his life away.
She put her warm hand over his firmly and said:
‘My little Stephan, don’t worry.’
The taxi rattled on towards the Gare de Lyon.
* * * * *