Belle De Jour (7 page)

“Is Dr Sérizy still here?” Séverine asked the hospital receptionist with dread.

“Just leaving. Look, there he is, going across to put on his things.”

Pierre was crossing the courtyard surrounded by a knot of students. They were all wearing white coats. Séverine looked at her husband’s youthful face, toward which others still younger were turned. She knew little enough of the delights of the mind; but there was such a strong desire for knowledge, such intellectual vigor in this group—all of which converged visibly on Pierre —that she didn’t dare call out to him.

“I’ll wait here,” she said softly.

But warned, doubtless, by the instinct of his love Pierre turned his head toward his wife, and, though she was shaded by the porch, recognized her. She saw him say a few words to the young men around him and then
walk toward her. As he drew near, Séverine hungrily examined those precious features, as if she were never to see them again. But this face of Pierre’s was one unknown to her, still marked by hours spent in a world of his own, a world of teachers and students. Séverine saw in his face the lines left by beloved work, the signs of patient good nature, the look of a leader and good workman together, the expression of a man surprised among his fellows and in his element; all this together with his white coat, so white she couldn’t help thinking of the sacred red of blood.

“Please don’t be angry with me for disturbing you here,” Séverine said, giving him an affectionate and guilty smile, “but since we never lunch together, and as I happened to be in the neighborhood.…”

“Be angry with you,” Pierre exclaimed. He felt both impatient and shy in a way quite unusual with him. “Be angry with you, darling, when you make me happy like this. Why, I’m so proud to be able to show you off to everyone here. Didn’t you see them all staring at you?”

Séverine bent her head slightly to hide the pallor that had crept into her cheeks.

Pierre went on: “Just wait for me a second. We have half an hour before lunch. If only the Director hadn’t invited me for lunch, how happy I’d have been to eat with you, darling.”

The weather was good. Séverine felt drawn towards the most innocent spot she could find and took Pierre off into the garden next to Notre-Dame. Spring was always somehow more humble, there, than anywhere
else in Paris. The unhealthy tenements near the Hotel de Ville produced the pallid children who were playing in the park. From time to time a ray of sunlight pierced the April clouds, struck against a gargoyle or lost itself in the mystery of some stained glass window. Old workmen chatted on benches. The Ile Saint-Louis was visible, a peaceful quay on the left bank.

Their arms around each other, Séverine and Pierre strolled through the gardens. Pierre spoke of the humble lives sheltered under the cathedral, but Séverine heard only the timbre of his voice, which he had lowered without noticing. Something within her was slowly, fatally breaking. When it was time for Pierre to go she went with him only as far as the gate.

“I want to stay here a while. You go on, darling.”

She kissed him vehemently, convulsively, and repeated dully, “Go, darling, go.”

Then she managed to get to a bench where she burst into soundless tears between two women who were knitting.

She didn’t think about eating lunch, or leaving the bench. She tried to collect herself; she listened to the secret voice within her. In this way she spent two hours. Without so much as a look at her watch she left the little Notre-Dame garden for the rue Virène.

Mme Anaïs seemed glad to see her.

“I was beginning to give you up, dearie,” she said. “You left so fast this morning I thought you’d gotten scared. There’s really nothing to worry about, you’ll see.”

She gave a healthy affectionate laugh and took Séverine
into a small room that overlooked a dark yard.

“Put your things in here,” she ordered cheerfully, opening a cupboard in which Séverine could see two coats and hats.

She obeyed without a word, since her jaws seemed soldered tight. But she was feverishly thinking, I have to tell her … the man who’s coming here for me … just him, no one else. But she found it impossible to utter a sound and went on listening to Mme Anaïs whose sincere kindnesses both comforted and terrified her.

“You see, dearie, I’m generally in here unless someone wants me. There’s not much light but over by the window there’s enough for my work-table. The girls give me a hand when they have nothing else to do. Mathilde and Charlotte are both very nice. To start off with, I can’t stand anyone here who’s not decent and easy-going. We have to get our work done and no nonsense. That’s why I fired Huguette, she was my third, five days ago. She was a pretty girl all right, but her language was something. Now you, dearie, you look real elegant. What’s your name?”

“I … I’d prefer not to give it.”

“Don’t be a fool—nobody’s asking for your birth certificate here. Pick what you want, only it has to be a nice cute name. Pleasing, you know what I mean. Well, we’ll find one. The girls and I’ll find one that fits you like a glove, you’ll see.”

Mme Anaïs stopped and listened. Laughter filtered from the far end of the corridor.

“Mathilde and Charlotte must have finished with
M Adolphe,” she said, “one of our very best clients. A salesman. He’s really loaded, and what a character. Pretty much everyone who comes here is O.K. You’ll get along fine, I’m sure. Meanwhile what about a little something to celebrate your start, what’d you like? I’ve got anything you want. Look.”

From a closet opposite the one in which Séverine had put her hat, Mme Anaïs pulled out several bottles. Séverine picked one at random, and drank without tasting anything while Mme Anaïs lengthily inhaled her anisette. When she had drunk it she went on:

“For the time being we’ll call you Belle de Jour. How’s that for size? O.K., dearie? You satisfy pretty easy, don’t you. Still a little shy, but that’s natural. As long as you can get away by five, that’s the idea, isn’t it, then everything’s O.K. You in love with him?” Séverine recoiled. “Oh don’t worry, I’m not going to make you tell me your secrets. You’ll tell me plenty on your own soon enough. I’m not your boss, you know, more like your friend. Hell, I guess I ought to know something about life by now … And, sure, I like my job better than yours, but it wasn’t you or me who made the rules, honey. Now come and kiss me, my little Belle de Jour.”

There was true generosity in Mme Anaïs’ tone; all the same, Séverine disengaged herself quickly from that embrace. With a frown, her whole face drawn and pale, she stared toward the room from which laughter had come a few seconds before. Silence reigned there now, punctuated by muffled noises. And it seemed to Séverine that those noises regulated the beating of her
heart. Her eyes were so fixed, so full of animal distress as she looked toward Mme Anaïs, that for a second perhaps the madame felt something of the carnal drama over which she daily presided. An uneasy half-smile appeared on her benevolent lips. Her eyes, too, turned to the room which she rented in all good faith, then looked back at Séverine. They exchanged one of those intimate glances which are always regretted later on because they reveal too deep a truth. It was a look of terrible sexual fear.

“Come on, come on,” and Mme Anaïs shook her blonde permanent, “you’ll put me in a bad mood. Like I said just now, dearie, we didn’t make the world, you and I.”

A rather hoarse but definitely gay cry came down the corridor.

“Mme Anaïs, we need you.”

“Must be Charlotte developing a thirst.”

Mme Anaïs went out smiling comfortably. As soon as she’d gone Séverine rose in a single motion. Escape … she had to escape, she couldn’t stay here another moment. She couldn’t connect her presence in this place with anything real, or possible. She’d forgotten the boatman, she’d forgotten Pierre, she’d forgotten even Mme Anaïs herself. She had no idea what had brought her here and this very fact filled her with a wild desire for liberty. But she didn’t move.

A man’s voice could be heard crying reproachfully, “There’s a new girl here and you haven’t brought her in. That’s not nice.”

Mme Anaïs appeared, took Séverine by the arm, and led her off.

“Here’s Belle de Jour,” exclaimed a very dark girl.

The room Séverine found herself in was the one Mme Anaïs had shown her that morning. Though she no longer recognized it, still it was a far cry from the carnivorous sexual cavern which she had just been imagining. The bed was a little rumpled, a vest hung over a chair, two shoes were set side by side on the floor: all attested to a kind of middle-class licentiousness. And the sanctimoniously smiling man who sat in the armchair and dutifully caressed the breasts of a big brunette didn’t seem to Séverine to belong in this room, which, till that moment, she had seen as pervaded by an atmosphere of quasi-mystical perversion. He sat in his shirt-sleeves. Strong suspenders followed the line of his jovial belly. His fat, soft neck supported a balding head, and good nature and smugness shone from his face.

“Hi, doll!” he called out, moving too-small feet which wore a pair of flashy socks, “what about a glass of champagne with us—and my old friend Mme Anaïs too. ’Course, after the appetizer I just knocked off a good brandy would probably be better, only Mathilde here,” and he indicated a thin girl on the bed getting back into her dress, “she wants champagne. She worked hard and me, I’m not stingy.”

M Adolphe’s eyes followed Mme Anaïs as she went to get the wine. Her powerful, well-built figure made him sigh.

“You still not satisfied?” asked Charlotte, caressing the salesman.

“No matter how you wear me out, when I look at her I feel just like new.”

“Forget it,” put in Mathilde quietly. “It’s no use. Mme Anaïs is too respectable. Take a look at this new kid instead. Look, she’s afraid to sit down.”

“Belle de Jour, dear,” Mme Anaïs came in with a bottle and glasses, “help me with the wine.”

“She sure looks like a kid,” remarked Charlotte, “but sort of English in that two-piece, don’t you think?”

Going up to Séverine she whispered in a kindly tone “you really ought to wear something that takes off easy. You know, like a slip, say. You’ll waste a hell of a lot of time otherwise.”

The salesman caught the last words.

“No, no,” he cried, “the kid’s right. That outfit suits her fine. Let’s see how you look a bit closer to.” He drew Séverine to him and muttered in her neck, “It’ll be fun undressing you.”

Mme Anaïs, disconcerted by Séverine’s expression, intervened: “Girls, the champagne’s cold. Here’s to M Adolphe.”

“Delighted to drink to that,” he answered.

As the warmish over-sweet liquid touched her lips Séverine hesitated. As if she were being acted by someone else, she saw herself, bare-shouldered, seated beside a handsome, loving man named Pierre and ordering only the driest, coldest champagne. But the Séverine in this room felt herself damned to do what was expected of her, and she finished her glass. The first bottle
was emptied, then a second. Charlotte gave Mathilde a clinging kiss. Mme Anaïs’ honest laugh rang out rather too often. M Adolphe’s jokes verged on the obscene. Séverine alone kept stoically silent. Suddenly a strong hand gripped her by the hip and saddled her across a pair of fat thighs. Close against hers she saw wet eyes, heard the softened voice of M Adolphe whispering, “Belle de Jour, it’s your turn now. We’re gonna have a good time together, huh?”

And again Séverine’s expression was one that didn’t go down well in the rue Virène establishment; and once more Mme Anaïs managed to forestall an anger that would hardly become a Belle de Jour. She took M Adolphe aside and said, “Look, I’ll send Belle de Jour in to you in a second. Only, don’t treat her rough, see. She’s brand new.”

“In your place, you mean.”

“In my place and anywhere else. She’s never worked in a house.”

“A real Christmas present, huh? Thanks, Anaïs.”

Séverine was back in the room with the cupboards and the work table.

“Well, dear, I hope you’re pleased,” said Mme Anaïs. “Picked out the minute you came in. And by a rich, swell guy like that. Now don’t worry, M Adolphe doesn’t ask much. Just relax, that’s all he wants. The toilet’s to the left, but go back in dressed up like you are. He liked your suit especially. And smile, honey. Always make it look like you want it as much as they do.”

Séverine seemed not to have heard. Her head was lowered, her breath came hard. The sound of her uneven
breathing was all that showed she was alive. Gently but firmly Mme Anaïs pushed her toward the door.

“No, no,” she burst out, “it’s no use, I’m not going in there.”

“Listen, where the hell d’you think you are, honey?”

Although Séverine was hardly conscious she shivered through and through. Never would she have thought that Mme Anaïs’ amiable voice could have become so inflexibile, or that her open face could suddenly have turned so tough—to the point of cruelty. But it wasn’t fear or anger that made Séverine tremble; it was a feeling she recognized, one that traveled deliciously, miserably, through her whole body. She’d lived her life in such a secure sense of dignity that no one had ever dared displease her. And here was the madame of a bordello putting her in line like some lazy maid-servant. A disturbed gleam of acknowledgement appeared in Séverine’s haughty eyes; and, so as to drink to the dregs this dose of humiliation, she obeyed.

M Adolphe had not been wasting his time. He had folded his trousers and artistically arranged his suspenders over a table. He was just completing this task when Belle de Jour came back. Catching sight of the salesman in long underwear, she took such a definite step back that M Adolphe got between her and the door.

“You’re really a wild one, aren’t you,” he said in a satisfied voice. “But look here, I’ve sent the others off. Now there’s only the two of us.”

He came close to Séverine, who suddenly realized she was taller than he, and pinched her cheek.

“So it’s true—first time with anyone outside your
lover. Need a little dough? No? You’re dressed well enough, but that doesn’t prove anything. What is it then, need a little sex …”