Belle De Jour (5 page)

She expatiated on this theme for some time, since Séverine did not reply; her silence drove Renée to paint the most turbid, hideous picture she could in order to draw some reaction from such an obstinate creature.

She failed to do so; but if she had seen Séverine’s expression in the half-light, she would have been terrified. Her face was frozen, caught in some invisible mold, unbreathing. Séverine felt that she was dying; her limbs were so heavy it seemed impossible that she could ever move them again. She didn’t know what was happening to her, but she was never to forget that
cadaverous moment nor the unspeakable anguish which stopped her heart. There passed before her eyes waves of cloudy flames through which appeared nude, contorted bodies. She wanted to shut her eyes with her fingers, for her lids were as rigid as the rest of her body, but her hands remained helpless beside her.

Enough, enough, she would have screamed at Renée if she’d been able.

Each of her friend’s phrases, each loathsome image conjured up, sank into Séverine, seemed to take advantage of her lethargy and to lodge, charged with vitality, in the depths of her being.

Séverine, never knew how she got out of the taxi, nor how she reached home. True consciousness only returned in her own room, and there only because of a sudden shock.

Since her recovery, Séverine had been in the habit of entering her room and going straight to the big mirror which she used while dressing. Now she went and stood motionless in front of her reflection, so close she seemed to want to melt into her image. In the icy mystery of the mirror she became aware of herself. At first her stupor was such, her defense-mechanism so strong, that she thought she was staring at a stranger. Then she realized that this woman drawing nearer was her double, part of herself, and she wanted to detach herself from that reflection, to escape an act of possession she didn’t desire. But a fierce fascination held her there. She had to know who was leaning toward her. She could not have explained it, but it seemed imperative that she examine this person who faced her.

She inspected her image with excruciating clarity. Chalky cheeks, nude forehead bulging above hollow eyes, abnormally developed, red, yet lifeless lips: all produced such an impression of panic and bestiality that Séverine couldn’t bear to see herself a second longer. She ran to the door to escape, to put as much ground as possible between herself and that curdled, thin and frightful figure in her mirror. But when she twisted the door handle, it wouldn’t open. She realized she had locked herself in, and a quick heat flooded her face.

“I wanted to hide,” she said aloud.

Then, with a revival of her pride and honesty, she violently flung the door wide and muttered, “Hide from whom?”

But she didn’t go beyond the doorway. She felt sure that the reflection in the mirror was still alive, quite close to her. Would it re-appear outside the room where she’d first surprised it?

Séverine shut the door behind her, steered her eyes clear of anything that might reflect an image of herself, and collapsed into a chair. She pressed her roaring, burning temples between her icy fists. Gradually her cold hands calmed her queer fever, and at last she found herself able to think; all that she had so far felt were instinctive sensations, chaotic impulses which she was already forgetting. Even the memory of her desperate animal-mask in the mirror was blurred.

Séverine emerged from this disordered state feeling an intolerable sense of shame. She felt eternally soiled
and it seemed to her that not only was she unable to wash herself clean, but that she didn’t even want to.

“What’s wrong with me?” she groaned, over and over. Her head rocked back and forth.

She tried to rally the dim scattered remnants of the moments she had just lived through but couldn’t. Some veto from the depths of her soul, to which her will-power had no access, opposed all her efforts and stopped her from reconstructing Renée’s chatter. Séverine walked quickly into Pierre’s den and dialled Renée’s number on the telephone.

“Listen, darling,” she said to Renée in a voice that strove to conceal her play-acting, “I must have had some sort of blackout in that cab. Do you know I barely remember how we parted.”

“But you seemed perfectly all right. I didn’t notice anything odd.”

Séverine breathed again. She hadn’t given herself away. And she didn’t bother to ask herself in what way she might have done so. She just didn’t know.

“Feeling better now?” Renée inquired.

“Absolutely,” Séverine replied cheerfully. “I’m not even going to mention it to Pierre.”

“Still, take care of yourself, darling. These spring evenings can be tricky. You really don’t wear enough, you know.…”

Séverine listened impatiently, but she made no effort to cut short the conversation. She expected, she feared, she actually hoped that Renée might go on and perhaps return to that bit of scandal … If she does, Séverine
told herself, then I’m positive the whole thing will become clear to me. And in all sincerity she believed that to be her sole motive in staying on the phone.

But Renée hadn’t finished with her good advice when Séverine heard Pierre come in. All at once the inexplicable fear which had closed on her in her room gripped her again. Should Renée talk of Henriette, Pierre would guess something. Once again, Séverine didn’t ask herself what he might guess, for in fact she had no idea; she simply hung up in a panic.

“You’ve just come in, sweetheart?” Pierre asked her.

“Oh no, it must have been at least ten minutes ago I.…”

Séverine stopped in bewilderment. Why, she still had her coat on, and her hat. She rushed on: “You know what I mean … ten minutes … I can’t say exactly … probably less. I suddenly remembered I had something to ask Renée. And what with phoning her, I didn’t have time … but please don’t think.…”

She felt that every word she uttered more and more exposed the guilt she felt, a feeling which for the life of her she couldn’t define. She stumbled out, “Just a moment. I’ll get my things off.”

By the time she’d come back her clear, almost powerful reason had triumphed over the still unknown enemy crouching in the secret recesses of her being. But she had become fully aware of the bizarre nature of her behavior, almost delusional. She knew she wasn’t guilty of anything. Then why did she feel such a need to make excuses for herself? Why that suspicious disorder lurking in her soul?

She kissed her husband. More than had any of her efforts of will, the feeling of security at Pierre’s touch relaxed her. For the first time in an evening whose despotic, abandoned pace belonged to some power alien to her, Séverine felt free. She gave such a sigh of healthy well-being that Pierre came out with—“Not feeling well? Had a quarrel with Renée?”

“Darling, what an idea. On the contrary, I’m absolutely delighted. My dress is perfect and I feel like enjoying myself. Let’s go out somewhere.”

Séverine saw that Pierre was disappointed by the idea. Only then did she remember that this was the only evening in the week they’d be alone, and that they’d decided to spend it at home together. She recalled her resolution, faithfully maintained till then, of doing everything she could to make her husband happy; but she felt it absolutely imperative to have a violent change of scene to throw back into the past those terrifying moments she’d just lived through.

At first her plan seemed to succeed. The blazing lights and noises of the vaudeville and dance-hall to which she had Pierre take her did give her the suspension of feeling she was seeking. But as soon as they came out onto the street the now familiar agony filled her body. The noise of the engine, the splashes of light and shadow inside the taxi, the driver’s back seen dimly through the glass, all made Séverine think of riding with Renée and hearing about … In the elevator up Pierre noticed his wife’s dead white face.

“I told you,” he said gently, “going out would tire you.”

“No, it’s not that. Please. I’d let you know if …”

For a second Séverine was liberated. She’d tell Pierre and everything would be made clear. He’d led a full life before meeting her. And he’d be able to explain, he’d be able to calm this satanic agitation of hers by comparing it with similar examples drawn from his experience.

Was the flush at Séverine’s temples due solely to her hope for release? Or was this hope mingled with another, less distinct but far more disturbed and powerful desire? To evade the problem Séverine started speaking as soon as the apartment door shut behind them.

“I was rather upset by some gossip Renée told me about. One of her friends, Henriette, you don’t know her, well, it seems she often works in a … a whore-house.”

These last words came out on such a note of shock Pierre was surprised.

“And?” he asked.

“But … well, that’s all.”

“So you upset yourself over a thing like that. Come and sit down, darling.”

They’d been talking in the hall. Pierre led his wife through to his study. She sank onto a sofa. A fit of trembling had taken hold of her, light enough but so rapid and recurrent that she felt faint.

She was avidly, desperately, waiting for what Pierre would say. And now it was not simply tranquillity she wanted: she felt incurably curious. A necessity as organic as hunger possessed her to hear discussed aloud those things she herself had refused to imagine.

“So? What do you think?” There was a prayer in her question, a prayer in which fear and violence played equal parts.

“But my poor sweet, this is a perfectly simple little story. A matter of wanting a little luxury, that’s all. I mean, this Henriette, her husband doesn’t make much, I imagine? So there you have it, she wants to be dressed like you and Renée. You know, like everyone else, I’ve met creatures of that kind in the sort of place you mentioned.”

“Did you visit them often, Pierre?”

This time her voice scared him. He took her hand and said, “Now calm down, of course I didn’t. In any case I’d no idea you’d be so jealous of my past, which after all is an ordinary one.”

Séverine summoned up the strength to smile. Yet what she would have given to have been able to slake the thirst that consumed her.

“No, no, it’s not that I’m jealous,” she answered. “I just like to hear anything new about you, that’s all. Go on, go on.”

“But what do you want me to say? That kind of woman—I mean someone like Henriette—is generally very quiet, submissive and frightened in such establishments. That’s all, darling, and now let’s talk about something else because really that sort of enjoyment is just about the saddest in the world.”

If Séverine had been an addict she would have recognized the intolerable sensation she now felt. She was on the verge of the sort of madness that seizes a junkie whose shot is snatched away just as he feels the needle’s
prick. None of Pierre’s explanations corresponded to what she’d been expecting. They lacked savor, they lacked resonance. An exasperation she would never have thought possible grew against her husband; it was born in her fingers, spread through her body without sparing a single nerve, a single cell; it reached her breasts, her throat, her brain. She whispered distractedly, “Say something, say something, can’t you.”

And as Pierre began to stare at her too closely she cried out, “No, that’s enough. Be quiet. I can’t … they ought to forbid … Pierre, Pierre, you’ve no idea.…” Her words ended in convulsive sobs.

“Séverine darling, my poor sweet Séverine.”

Pierre stroked his wife’s face, her hair and shoulders with a pity that transcended his anxiety, since Séverine clung to him as if he were saving her from some frightful hunt. And when her distracted movements revealed her face, he saw in it a heart-rending expression—that of a hunted, innocent child. Finally he was able to make out these words from her groans: “Don’t despise me, please don’t despise me.”

He thought that Séverine was ashamed of crying, since she never cried; so his voice was tender as he said, “But, darling, this only makes me love you more. How incredibly pure you must be to have been hurt so badly by that story.”

Abruptly she shook herself free from him, stared him in the face, and raised her head in a drugged way.

“You’re right. I ought to go to bed.”

Laboriously she stood up. Pierre’s movement to help her was never completed. He suddenly felt himself a
stranger to Séverine; but when he saw her standing there, so exhausted, he hesitantly suggested, “Would you like me to spend the night with you?”

“Certainly not.” A moment later, when she saw how pale he’d gone, she added, “But I’d love it if you’d stay by my bed till I go to sleep.”

This was not the first vigil Pierre had held over Séverine, but it was by far the most heavy-hearted. In the half-light he sensed that his wife’s eyes were constantly turning towards him. Finally he could bear it no longer and leaned over her. There was a deathly rigidity in her face.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

“I’m so scared.” She was shivering.

“But I’m here. Who are you frightened of? What is it?”

“If only I knew.”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Oh Pierre, yes.”

“All right, say to yourself that it’s going to be a fine day tomorrow. See how clear the stars are outside. Tell yourself you’ll play tennis, that you’ll be wearing white and win in three straight sets. Close your eyes, darling, and summon up all your strength to imagine that. Now, doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“It does,” Séverine replied, while within her the enemy installed itself again. But was it really an enemy? Each of Séverine’s thoughts, now, was shadowed by a secret image; Husson’s icy smile haunted the tennis-balls curving through the sunshine.

Since Husson’s attempt to seduce her, Séverine had
seen him in public several times and had pretended not to recognize him; and he had quietly accepted this. But he showed no surprise when he saw her coming across the court the next morning.

“You haven’t started yet?” Séverine asked him.

“No, not yet,” he answered, “and I’ll only play when you’re fed up with my conversation.”

As Séverine had somehow anticipated, they both felt entirely at ease. Only Husson’s strange deference, the same as that he’d shown after she had rebuffed him, chilled Séverine a little. Still, she said: “You know, Renée and I were talking about you only last night.” (He knows I’m lying, Séverine thought quite clearly and indifferently.) “Yes, she gave me a piece of gossip I’m sure would amuse you. It concerns a friend of hers who goes into one of those houses, you know.…”