Belle De Jour (4 page)

Have I really been able to repay so much love? she asked herself. Have I tended his happiness well enough? He’s done so much for me and I’ve taken it all for granted, as my due.

Remorse felt sweet. For someone to be so sensitive, there was a kind of virtuous exaltation in recognizing faults she desired to put right. For Séverine knew perfectly well both what she owed Pierre and how much power she had over him. A day ago she’d never have believed that her voice, her arms, could have brought peace so quickly to such a despairing heart.

Now I know, thought Séverine. He depends on me like a child.

She remembered that Pierre sometimes called her as his drug. She didn’t understand the dark shadows connoted by this word, and she didn’t like it, as she was repelled by anything that worked against the norm, against good health. She’d never been curious about her husband’s possible experiences before they’d met. What need had they of anything outside themselves? They had their love, their simplicity.

Séverine thought of Pierre’s shining smile, she remembered his strong, frank hands. She had a moment of fear at the idea that this smile, this strength, were at her mercy.

I could hurt him so much, she thought.

No pride corrupted that anxiety. It was mixed only with the profound integrity of her love. Pierre was all she had in the world, she loved no one else.

This assurance struck her so strongly, it rose from so deep within her, that she smiled at her fleeting fears. Whatever happened, Pierre would never suffer because of her. What a wonderful warmth she felt for that man, breathing beside her like a boy. Since all his joy and sorrow lay in her hands, she would see to it that his days were happy. Till the end of their twin existence. They’d never know a single doubt. Séverine realized she was the guardian of a proud flame but she felt so strong, so pure with love, that the high task seemed simple to her.

Another woman might, at that moment, have been concerned about the dreams which followed her sickness,
about the queer relationship that had been established, the night before, with Husson. But Séverine’s principally physical education, her usual good health and happy balance, her natural propensity for untroubled happiness, all discouraged her from introspection. She was concerned only with surface emotions, controlled only the most obvious aspects of herself. Since she imagined she was in full possession of her being, Séverine had no idea of the powers that lay dormant in her, and, as a result, no hold over them at all. Since these secret layers of her personality had so far supported wishes sanctioned by reason, her desires had invariably possessed a strength to which she acceded with a feeling of impatient inevitability.

She could wait no longer to show Pierre the new depths of tenderness in which she moved. She kissed his forehead, a long kiss. Still trapped in that uncertain state between sleep and full consciousness in which the drifting body obeys its instincts, Pierre pressed against Séverine. For several seconds he lay on the warm shores of love, before becoming aware of the woman beside him. Then in a voice redolent of dreams he murmured, “Darling. My beloved love.”

Séverine switched on the low bedside light. She needed to see that total felicity, void of thought, implicit in her husband’s words. Veiled by thick silk the light spread softly through the room. It barely touched Pierre, who didn’t stir; but the elemental mystery of a face belonging to the shadows and bearing only the semblance of life, which Séverine had attempted to surprise, had now fled from his features. Pierre came to.

“How wonderful to find you here again,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much.”

His eyes opened suddenly.

“Of course,” he continued slowly. “Poor little Marco. He was Italian, you know. He used to horse around with me.”

This time Séverine had only to stroke Pierre’s hair to calm him down. Softly he added, “Already I’ve stopped grieving for him. I’m too full of you. There’s not much left over for anyone else.”

“Hush. If everyone were like you, Pierre, life would be a whole lot better. Do you know,” Séverine went on lovingly, “I’ve been thinking about you so much this morning.”

“Have you been awake long? But it’s barely light. Weren’t you feeling well? And there I was sleeping like a log.”

Séverine laughed tenderly.

“Don’t go and reverse our roles now,” she said. “I was just going to tell you how much you mean to me, and ask you how I can make you happier …”

She stopped short, as if she’d struck a false note. There was surprise and a good deal of embarrassment in her husband’s face.

“Please,” he muttered. “Don’t be too kind to me. It’s you who are my child.”

“In any case,” Séverine continued, “I want to take more of an interest in your life. I want to know everything you do, all about your patients, your operations. I don’t help you in a single thing.”

All this roused in Pierre feelings of guilt rather than
gratitude. Like all sensitive strong men in love, he imagined that the slightest trouble Séverine took on his behalf was a sort of crime he had committed against her.

“I lost hold of myself last night,” he said, “and now I’ve gone and made you anxious over me. I’m really ashamed. But don’t worry, darling, that’s the last you’ll see of that.”

Séverine felt faintly impatient. Her desire to love was so difficult to put into practice. Every attempt she made seemed to turn back on itself. She wanted to serve Pierre, and instead he constantly put himself at her service.

She wanted to share in his work, his concerns, his reading, his thoughts. But despite her desires, Séverine felt powerless to enter his world: her own upbringing, her own abilities, her very desire, caused her to fail in this activity, never very congenial to her.

With growing confusion and an immense desire to give she murmured, “Then what can I do for you, my darling?”

The tone of her voice made Pierre lean toward her. They looked at each other as if suddenly discovering themselves. And the prayer the young woman read flickering deep in those gray eyes was this:

Ah, Séverine, if only you could stop giving me your body just for my own enjoyment, and enjoy it yourself, lose yourself in such happiness.

His look was so powerful, so heavy with appeal, that Séverine actually felt aroused as never before. What Husson had made her feel the previous day she felt
again, but accompanied now with all the joy of love. If Pierre had taken her then, with those hands of his whose strength she knew so well, with those limbs whose muscles had so often played so proudly before her eyes, surely she would have arched beneath the ecstasy he asked of her. But at the very moment he reached for her she saw a gleam of gratitude in his eyes. Once more she let herself be taken, feeling maternal.

Later they lay without moving.

What was Pierre thinking? Was he remembering his mistresses, women he hadn’t loved but in whom he had aroused the almost mortal pleasure of sensuality? Or was he thinking of the injustice that made of this woman who loved him, and for whom he’d have given his life, a body incapable of the passion he desired so savagely, so religiously.

Séverine herself felt only a dull misery. Despite her awareness of total power over Pierre, she had failed to pry open any further a soul that belonged to her. Without wanting to, that soul had refused itself to her, as her own body had refused itself to him. The silence between them was thick with their defeat.

Fortunately, they had a passionate affection for each other that soothed everything. Their essential love was in no way hurt. On the contrary, they felt all the more a need to draw close to each other, to affirm what they knew to be indestructible. Unconsciously, Séverine slipped her hand into her husband’s. He gave it a firm squeeze, innocent of any sensuality, the grasp of some traveling companion, of some life companion. She
replied in kind. They felt that their love was above meaningless disharmony.

Sensuality, they seemed to agree, is a passing flame. We share a rarer, surer wealth.

Daylight had now come to dispel the subtle and mysterious struggles of the instincts, those creatures of the dark. Pierre and Séverine looked at each other and smiled. This first light, implacable to all things forced to fade, was kind to their young faces. They emerged from the night, filled with freshness.

“It’s still early,” Séverine said. “You’ve got time before you have to go to the hospital. Come to the Bois with me.”

“It won’t tire you?”

“No, that’s all over now. I’m not sick any more. Hurry up and dress.”

When Pierre had left the room she suddenly realized she’d never told him about Husson.

Well, I won’t, she decided. Why should I give him any unnecessary anxiety?

For the first time in her life she thought it best to conceal something from Pierre; and somehow, she loved him all the more for it.

Séverine felt as though she’d been exorcised. She was finally free of that unknown woman who had seemed part of her on the brink of death, and who had been slowly destroying, by a succession of strange, corrupt fantasies, her pure self—the only self she accepted. She was quit of that woman for ever, she felt sure. Born of sickness, this creature of the shades had collapsed now that Séverine was strong again, now that her mind once more grasped the normal relationships of the rational world.

She resumed her former place in this world with assurance. Food, sleep, affection and straightforward pleasures
put themselves at her disposal as before, and in a way that restored her equilibrium. A refreshed interest in the details of everyday life stimulated her vitality. She went from one room to another as if on a voyage of discovery. Furniture, objects, seemed to demonstrate their deep functional cohesion. Once again she was in charge of them, as she was of her maids, her own feelings, her life.

These inner feelings, this more intense vigor, showed on her face only as the most subtle glow. Never had Pierre found his wife more seductive. And never had Séverine evinced such effective tenderness towards him; for all that remained in her consciousness of the imperfect crisis following her sickness was a resolve to work harder for her husband’s happiness. Her too-direct approach had failed, but this frustration by no means weakened her desire. Her wish to please him could be heard in the inflections of her voice, could be felt in a constant gentleness which both moved and disturbed Pierre. Such solicitude unbalanced the axis on which his life had till then swung.

Two aspects of his wife’s behavior, however, remained the same as before, and so lessened his apprehension over her new attitude: Séverine still showed the same almost savage modesty, and she kept to the same style of dress.

In fact, she showed the same happy hunger in choice of clothes that she did in everything; but, as before, she chose girlish materials and designs. Sometimes Pierre went to the couturiers and hat-shops with her, so as to share her pleasure and also so that she wouldn’t
hesitate over prices. But mostly it was Renée Févret who was Séverine’s companion in shopping sessions. Renée had a great flair for the world of cutters, fitters, mannequins and saleswomen. She showed a truly lyrical talent and faultless taste. Séverine, less interested in all the paraphernalia, and always tempted to cut the business short too quickly, was very grateful for Renée’s devoted help.

One evening when she was due for an important fitting she waited for Renée in vain. Eventually her friend joined her, but only after her dress had already been fitted.

“Do forgive me, darling,” Renée cried, “but if you knew.…”

She barely glanced at Séverine’s dress, made no comment on it whatsoever, and when the saleslady had gone out for a second whispered hurriedly: “I just heard something absolutely fantastic at that Jumiège tea-party. Henriette—our good friend Henriette—goes regularly to a brothel!”

Séverine made no reply, and Renée went on: “You don’t believe me? Well, I couldn’t credit it at first either; it was listening to all the details that made me so late. But there’s no doubt about it. Jumiège shares a party line with Henriette and he overheard her conversation with the madame of the place on the phone. And you know Jumiège—he talks a lot but he doesn’t lie. And he certainly wouldn’t risk slander … you realize, of course, the whole thing’s dead secret. Jumiège begged me not to tell a soul.”

“And now everyone will know all about it,” Séverine retorted amicably. “But what do you think of my new dress? I have to wear it tomorrow night.”

“Darling, do forgive me. I’m afraid I’m not quite so hard-headed as you. Just a minute. Mademoiselle, would you.…”

She
gave meticulous instructions, but Séverine realized what will-power her friend needed, today, for the task, one that as a rule absorbed her utterly.

As soon as the fitting was over Renée asked, “Where are you going now?”

“Home. Pierre will be back soon.”

“Then I’ll come with you. I absolutely must tell you about Henriette. I simply don’t understand how you.…”

Once in a cab Renée went on: “No, really I don’t understand you. I tell you something like that and you don’t seem to give it another thought.”

“But you know quite well I’ve only seen Henriette a couple of times at most.”

“That’s not the point, darling. It’s the whole idea of someone, even if she were a total stranger … a woman who … who … well, words fail me. Look, you don’t realize what it means, you’re still thinking about your dress. A woman from our level of society, not as rich as we are, of course, but still a woman like you and me—goes into a whore-house.”

“A whore-house,” Séverine repeated mechanically.

Struck by her friend’s voice Renée said nothing for a second, then added in a lower tone: “I really should
have guessed it. You’re beyond anything like that. You’re so pure you couldn’t possibly understand the situation. Well, I’d better be.…”

But Renée’s need to communicate her excitement pressed too strongly.

“No, you absolutely have to know,” she exclaimed. “It can’t do you any harm, one simply doesn’t live in this world with one’s eyes tight shut. Look, even when it’s with a man for whom one only feels a sort of tenderness” (she means her husband, thought Séverine, annoyed at herself for thinking of Pierre) “even then certain things can be sort of unpleasant. Well, darling, imagine what it’s like in a house. At the mercy of the first man to come in, ugly, dirty. Doing what he wants you to do, everything he wants in fact … total strangers, changing every day. And in the midst of furniture belonging to anyone. Imagine those beds … just for a second, just one second, darling, imagine yourself a prostitute and you’ll see what I mean.…”