Belle De Jour (2 page)

Pierre Sérizy was checking the harness. Séverine had just put on her skis.

“Ready?”

She had on a man’s thick blue sweater but her body was so firm, so slim, that her impatient figure seemed not at all burdened.

“Can’t be too careful with you in tow,” Pierre called back.

“Darling, there’s absolutely no risk. The snow’s so clean it’ll be a pleasure to fall. Come on, let’s go.”

Pierre straightened and swung lightly into the saddle. The horse didn’t move, didn’t so much as quiver. A
powerful, placid animal with heavy flanks, it was used to pulling rather than being ridden. Séverine held tight to the grips on the long leashes attached to the harness, spread her feet a little. She was trying the sport for the first time, and concentration contracted her features a little.

Because of this, her facial defects, which one usually didn’t notice, stood out: chin rather too square, cheekbones jutting. But Pierre loved absolute determination in Séverine’s face; to be able to watch it a moment longer, he pretended to be adjusting his stirrups.

“Okay,” he called out, finally.

The guide-reins Séverine was holding drew tight. She felt herself slowly sliding forward.

At first she could think only of keeping her balance and not making a fool of herself. To reach open ground they had to go all the way along the one street of the little Swiss village. At this time of day everyone was out. Smiling, Pierre greeted sporting friends, bar acquaintances, some girls in ski-pants, others stretched out on brilliantly painted sleds. Séverine saw no one, aware only of indications that they were getting into the country: now passing the church, with its little square and without any mystery … the skating rink … the stream, dark against white banks … the last hotel, facing the fields.

Once beyond the hotel, Séverine breathed easier. No one would see her fall if she stumbled now. No one but Pierre … for a moment, the young woman felt her love for him like a soft, living creature in her breast. She smiled at her husband’s broad shoulders, his tanned
neck. Pierre had been born under the sign of harmony and strength; everything he did was natural, right, assured.

“Pierre!” she called.

He turned. The sun swept across his face, making his gray eyes squint.

“It’s marvelous,” she said.

The snow-covered valley stretched ahead in curves so gentle they seemed artificial. High up, a scattering of clouds drifted on the summits, soft and milky fleece. On the slopes, skiers moved with the winged, unconscious grace of birds.

“It’s marvelous.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Pierre answered. He urged the horse on, and it broke into a trot.

“Here we go,” she thought.

The delicious anxiety she’d felt so far gradually became confidence. She was doing pretty well. These elongated skis carried her by themselves. All she had to do was yield to their movements. Her muscles began to relax. She started to gain control. They met heavy sleds piled with logs; on them, their legs dangling, sat square-set men with sunburnt faces. Séverine smiled at them.

“Fine, fine,” Pierre called out to her from time to time.

Then it seemed to Séverine that this happy loving voice came from inside herself. And when he called “Watch it!” hadn’t some reflex already informed her that the pleasure was about to mount? The noble cadence of the horse’s gallop hammered at the roadway;
the rhythm took possession of her. The speed helped her balance, she stopped thinking about it and surrendered herself to a rising primitive joy. Nothing in the world existed but the pulsations of her body, ruled by the rhythm of their speed. She was no longer being drawn along, she herself controlled this impetuous race; she ruled, and was ruled by it.

And this whiteness shining all around … the iced wind, pure and fluid as spring water, as youth itself.…

“Faster!” she cried. “Faster!”

But there was no need to urge Pierre on; nor did the horse need any prompting. The three of them made one happy animal group.

Leaving the road, they made a sudden swing. Séverine couldn’t make it—dropping the guide-reins, she ended up half-buried in a snow-drift, so soft and fresh that, ignoring an icy trickle down her back, she felt a new joy. Before Pierre could come to help she was standing up, sparkling. They set off again. When they’d reached a little inn, Pierre pulled up.

“We can’t go any further,” he said. “Let’s take a break.”

They were early; the main room was empty. Pierre looked around the room.

“How about sitting outside?” he suggested. “The sun’s warm enough.”

When their table had been set in front, Séverine said, “I knew right away you didn’t like this place. Why don’t you? It’s so clean.”

“Too clean. It’s been scrubbed and scrubbed till nothing is left. In France even the lowest dive has its
own character: you can breathe in a whole district. Don’t you see how open everything is here? The houses, the people: nothing mysterious, no life.”

Séverine laughed. “How nice you are to me—every day you tell me you love me for my clarity.”

“Right, but you’re my vice,” Pierre replied; and brushed her hair with his lips.

The waitress gave them country bread, wrinkled cheese, and beer. It disappeared as Pierre and Séverine ate hungrily. Every now and then they glanced down at the narrow gorge winding below. The firs bore flimsy spindles of snow on each branch, which sun and sky turned into ash-blue haloes.

A bird perched nearby. It had a startlingly yellow stomach and gray wings streaked with black.

“What a splended vest,” Séverine cried.

“It’s a tit mouse, a male. The females are duller-looking.”

“Like us, I guess.”

“I don’t see.…”

“Oh, darling, you know perfectly well you’re the handsome one. I love you so much when you scowl like that!”

Pierre had turned his head and Séverine could see only his profile, made childish by irritation. Of all the moods of his bold face, this was the one that most touched her.

“I want to kiss you,” she said.

But Pierre had scrunched up a snowball.

“I’ve a good mind to chuck this at you.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a
handful of powdery snow hit him in the face. He replied in kind and for a few moments they were embroiled in a fierce battle. The old lady who kept the inn appeared in the doorway at the sound of their overturned chairs; the snow-fight came to a somewhat embarrassed halt. But the old woman gave them a motherly smile; and it was with a similar smile that Séverine brushed the snow off Pierre’s hair as he remounted.

This time they galloped all the way, even through the village, shouting warnings at the top of their lungs from sheer happiness.

Séverine and Pierre occupied adjoining rooms in their hotel. As soon as they got back, Séverine said, “Go and change, Pierre. And rub down well. It’s chilly out.”

Since she was shivering a little, Pierre offered to help her undress.

“No, no,” she cried. “Go and do as I say.”

Pierre’s hurt look told her she’d put something too lively into her refusal, something beyond mere solicitude.

“After two years of marriage!” His eyes said. Séverine felt her cheeks burning.

“Hurry,” she said nervously. “Or we’ll both catch cold.”

As he opened the door she went and pressed against him for a moment. “That was a beautiful drive, darling. You make life so full.”

When Pierre came back he found his wife wearing a black dress which revealed her fine firm body. For
several seconds neither of them moved. They stood still, enjoying the sight of each other. Then he went and kissed her neck where it softly joined her shoulder. Séverine stroked his forehead. There was something about this sisterly gesture that always intimidated Pierre. He quickly raised his head to break away and said, “Come on, let’s go down. We’re late already.”

Renée Févret was waiting for them in the Viennese pastry shop. This woman, elegant, vivacious, always on the go and bursting with talk, had married a friend of Pierre’s, like him, a surgeon. She’d developed a deep, even extravagant affection for Séverine, which had eventually broken through that young woman’s reserve and forced her into intimacy.

When she spotted the Sérizys coming in Renée waved at them and cried across the room, “Here, I’m over here. It’s no fun being stuck here with all these English men and Germans and Yugoslavs. They make me feel like a foreigner!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Pierre said. “Our horse took us rather too far.”

“I saw you coming back. You two really make a lovely couple. And Séverine looked so charming in blue.… What do you want to drink? Martini? Champagne cocktail? Oh, here comes Husson. He’ll make up our minds.”

Séverine frowned slightly.

“Don’t ask him over here,” she murmured.

Renée answered—too quickly (at least in Séverine’s estimation): “No good, darling. I’ve already caught his eye.”

Henri Husson slid between the tables with nonchalant
agility. He kissed Renée’s hand and then Séverine’s—at length. Séverine found the touch of his lips deeply disagreeable. As Husson straightened she stared him full in his emaciated face; he met the attack without a change of expression.

“I’ve been skating,” he informed them.

“Did you let everyone admire you?” asked Renée.

“No. I could only manage to do a few figures, there was such a mob. I preferred to watch the others. Pleasant enough when they’re good skaters. Makes me think of an angelic algebra.”

His voice contrasted sharply with the worn immobility of his features. It was restless, richly inflected and endowed with a captivating musical quality. And he employed it discreetly, as though he weren’t aware of its power. Pierre, who seemed to enjoy listening to him, inquired: “Plenty of pretty girls, I suppose?”

“Possibly half a dozen. Not too bad. But where do they get their clothes? You know,” he said, turning to Séverine, “Take that big Danish girl, the one who’s staying at your hotel … Well, she was wearing a pleated olive jersey with a pink and cream scarf.”

“How awful!” screamed Renée.

His eyes still on Séverine, Husson continued: “Besides, a girl with breasts and hips like that ought to go naked.”

“You’re not asking much,” Pierre laughed. “Look at you.…”

He touched the heavy coat Husson kept on despite the heat, so that only his fine, thin, chilly hands were exposed.

“Clothes lend sensuality to women,” Husson answered. “It seems obscene to me to clothe a chaste woman.”

Séverine had turned her head aside, but she felt his tenacious eyes on her. It wasn’t so much what he said, it was his determination to address his words to her that made Séverine so uncomfortable.

“In other words, the angels of our skating-rink bore you?” Renée remarked.

“I didn’t say that. Bad taste gets on my nerves, and that I always find stimulating.”

“Oh, so to please you we have to dress badly!” Renée spoke gaily and yet, Séverine thought, she was more restrained than usual.

“No, no, no,” interrupted Pierre. “I get the idea. It’s just that some combinations of colors are exciting. They make you think of whores—right Husson?”

“These men are really very complex, aren’t they?” Renée said to Séverine.

“Hear that, Pierre?”

He laughed his virile, tender laugh. “I’m only trying to understand things,” he answered. “With a little alcohol, it’s easy.”

“Do you realize,” Husson broke in suddenly, “that you two are still taken for honeymooners? After a couple of years of married life, that’s not bad.”

“But a little ridiculous, I suppose,” said Séverine; her manner was now strangely aggressive.

“Why? I’ve just said that sights that unnerve me aren’t necessarily unpleasant.”

Pierre was frightened by the violence that contracted his wife’s face.

“Tell me, Husson,” he interrupted, “you in shape for the race tomorrow? We absolutely have to beat this Oxford team.”

They started talking about bobsleighs and rival teams. When the subject was exhausted Husson asked the Sérizys to have dinner with him that evening.

“Sorry,” Séverine replied, “we’ve already got a date.”

In the street, Pierre said: “So you dislike Husson so much you’ll tell a lie to avoid him. Why? He’s a good sport, he’s cultivated, and he isn’t malicious.”

“I don’t now what it is, but I find him just insufferable. That voice of his … it always seems to be looking for something inside you you’d rather not … And then those eyes … have you noticed how they never move? That icy air … in any case, we’ve only really known the man a couple of weeks.” She paused. “Don’t tell me we’ve got to see him back in Paris? You don’t … ah, you’ve already invited him. Oh my poor Pierre, you’re really incorrigible. You’re so trusting, you make friends so easily. You needn’t make excuses; actually, it’s one of your charms. I’m not blaming you, my darling. Besides, Paris isn’t like this place. I’ll be able to avoid him there.”

“Renée will doubtless avoid him less.”

“Do you think …”

“I don’t think anything, but she shuts up when Husson’s there. That’s a sure sign. By the way where are we going to eat tonight? We can’t be caught.”

“At the hotel.”

“Baccarat afterwards?”

“No, darling. You know it’s not that I care about how much money you’d lose; but you say yourself it leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth. And you have your race tomorrow. I want you to win.”

“All right, sweetheart.”

He added, as if despite himself, “I never thought it would be nice to take orders.”

Because Séverine was watching him with the loving, slightly troubled eyes of a young girl.

That evening they went to the theater. A London company was giving
Hamlet.
A famous young Jewish actor was playing the Prince of Elsinore.

Though she had been schooled in England, Séverine didn’t care much for Shakespeare. Nevertheless, on the sleigh-ride back, under moon and snow, she respected Pierre’s silence. She sensed that the play had put him in a mood of nobility and sadness; and, though she didn’t share it, she loved the expression it lent to his handsome face.

“Movelski’s a real genius,” he murmured. “It’s almost frightening. He even manages to put sensual desire into madness and death. And there’s no more infectious form of art than that of the flesh, is there?”