Geneviève looked at her in some astonishment and went looking for M. de Laléande; he had already left.
“You see, I was right,” said Geneviève, returning to Françoise.
“I’m dying of boredom here,” said Françoise. “I’ve got a headache; please, let’s leave right now.”
3
Françoise didn’t miss the opera once, and, filled with vague feelings of hope, accepted every invitation to dinner. A fortnight went by, she had not seen M. de Laléande again and often woke up in the middle of the night thinking by what means she might see him. Although she continued to tell herself repeatedly that he was boring and not handsome, she was more preoccupied by him than by all the wittiest and most charming men. Once the season had finished, there would be no further opportunity of seeing him again; she was resolved to create one and kept mulling over the possibilities.
One evening, she said to Geneviève:
“Didn’t you tell me that you knew a certain Monsieur de Laléande?”
“Jacques de Laléande? Yes and no – he’s been introduced to me, but he has never left his calling card, and I’m not at all well acquainted with him.”
“The fact is, I’ll tell you, well, I have some small or maybe even great interest in seeing him and getting to know him, for reasons that don’t personally concern me and that I can’t disclose to you for a month.” (Between now and then she would have agreed with him on some lie, so that she wouldn’t be caught out; and this thought of a secret known only to the two of them gave her a warm feeling inside.) “Please, try to find some way of doing this for me – the season is over and nothing will be happening, and I won’t be able to have him introduced to me.”
The close practices of friendship, so purifying when they are sincere, protected Geneviève as well as Françoise from the stupid curiosity that is such a vile and intense pleasure for most people in society. And so, with all her heart, without having entertained for a single moment the intention or the desire, or even the idea, of questioning her friend, Geneviève tried to think of a way, and only got cross when she couldn’t find one.
“It’s such a pity that Madame d’A*** has left. There’s Monsieur de Grumello, of course, but actually that won’t get us very far – what would we say to him? Ah, I’ve got an idea! Monsieur de Laléande plays the cello – rather badly, but never mind that. Monsieur de Grumello admires him, and then he’s so stupid and will be all too happy to please you. The only problem is, you’ve always given him the cold shoulder and you don’t like just dropping people after you’ve used them, but you’d then be obliged to invite him next year.”
But already Françoise, flushed with joy, was exclaiming:
“But I don’t mind that in the least, I’ll invite all the foreign parvenus in Paris if need be! Oh, hurry up and do it, Geneviève my dear, how kind you are!”
And Geneviève wrote:
Monsieur, you know how I seek every opportunity to give pleasure to my friend, Mme de Breyves, whom you have doubtless already met. She has several times expressed to me, as we were talking about the cello, how much she regretted never having heard M. de Laléande, who is such a good friend of yours. Would you ask him to play for her and for me? Now that we all have so much time, it will not be too much of an inconvenience for you, and it would be so very kind. With my very best wishes,
Alériouvre Buivres
“Take this note straight away to Monsieur de Grumello’s,” said Françoise to a servant. “Don’t wait for a reply, but make sure you personally see it is handed in.”
The next day, Geneviève sent Mme de Breyves the following reply from M. de Grumello:
Madame,
I would have been more delighted than you can imagine to satisfy your desire and the wishes of Mme de Breyves, whom I know slightly and for whom I have the warmest and most respectful feelings of friendship. And so I am very sorry indeed to have to tell you that, as ill luck would have it, M. de Laléande left just two days ago for Biarritz where – alas! – he will be spending several months.
Please accept, Madame, etc.
Grumello
Françoise, white-faced, rushed over to lock her door, and no sooner had she done so than choking sobs were pouring from her lips, and a flood of tears from her eyes. Up until then she had been busy imagining scenarios in which she would meet him and get to know him, sure of being able to turn them into a reality as soon as she wanted: she had lived off this desire and this hope, perhaps without properly realizing it. But through a thousand imperceptible roots striking down into all her least conscious moments of happiness or melancholy, filling them with a new sap from an unknown source, this desire had implanted itself in her. Now it was being ripped out of her and cast aside as something impossible. She felt all torn apart: the suffering she felt, as this whole “herself” was so abruptly uprooted, was appalling, and now that her hopes had suddenly been exposed as baseless and she was plunged into a profound grief, she saw the reality of her love.
4
Françoise withdrew more and more each day from all of life’s joys. Even the most intense of them – the ones that she enjoyed in her close relations with her mother or Geneviève, in her hours of music, reading or walking – she experienced distractedly, now that her heart was in the grip of a jealous sorrow that never left her for a single moment. She suffered agonies, both because of the impossibility of going to Biarritz, and also – even if such a thing had been possible – because of her absolute determination not to go there and thus compromise, by her unreasonable behaviour, all the prestige she might have in the eyes of M. de Laléande – and her pain was immeasurable. Poor young woman, a victim tortured without knowing why, she was terrified at the thought that this pain would perhaps linger on like this for months before any remedy came, never letting her sleep calmly or dream freely. She was filled with anxiety too, because she didn’t know whether he might pass through Paris – any day now, perhaps – without her knowing. And the fear of letting a happiness that was so close escape her a second time emboldened her; she sent a servant to enquire about M. de Laléande from his concierge. He knew nothing.
Then, realizing that a sail of hope would never again appear on the sea of grief that spread out to infinity, beyond the horizon of which it seemed there was nothing more, since the world there came to an end, she sensed that she was going to do something crazy, she didn’t know what, write to him perhaps – and, acting as her own doctor, so as to calm herself down a bit, she allowed herself to try and let him know that she had been wanting to see him, and she wrote this note to M. de Grumello:
Monsieur,
Mme de Buivres forwarded your kind words to me. I cannot say how grateful and touched I was! But one thing worries me. M. de Laléande did not, I hope, find me indiscreet? If you do not happen to know, ask him and tell me the whole truth, as soon as you have found out. I am filled with curiosity to know, and you will be doing me a real favour. Thank you again, Monsieur.
With my best wishes,
Voragynes Breyves
One hour later, a servant brought her this letter:
You have no cause for concern, Madame. M. de Laléande was quite unaware that you wished to hear him play. I had asked him which days he might be able to come and perform at my place, without saying for whom he would be playing. He replied to me from Biarritz that he would not be returning before January. And please do not bother to thank me. You do me the greatest favour by asking me to do a small one for you, etc.
Grumello
There was nothing else to be done. She did nothing else, fell into an increasing depression, and was filled with remorse at feeling so sad and thereby causing her mother sadness. She went to spend a few days in the country, then left for Trouville. There she heard talk of the social ambitions of M. de Laléande, and when a prince, striving to please her, asked, “Is there any favour I could do for you?” she almost cheered up on imagining how surprised he would be if she gave him a straight answer to his question; and she distilled, so as to savour it the more, all the intoxicating bitterness that she felt in the contrast between all the great and difficult things people had always done to please her, and this one small thing, so easy and yet so impossible, that would have restored her calm, her health, her happiness and the happiness of her family.
She found a certain enjoyment only in the company of her servants, who had
