Simone Beauvoir - She Came to Stay

‘Why doesn’t that girl come?’ said Pierre.

‘Perhaps she’s still asleep,’ said Françoise.

‘Of course not, yesterday evening when she dropped into my dressing-room she said quite clearly that she’d have herself called,’ said Pierre. ‘Perhaps she’s ill, but then she would have telephoned.’

‘Not she, she’s got a holy fear of the telephone, she thinks it’s an instrument of evil,’ said Françoise. ‘But I do think it’s likely she’s forgotten the time.’

‘She never forgets the time except out of spite,’ said Pierre, ‘and I don’t see why she should have a sudden change of mood.’

‘She does occasionally, for no known reason.’

‘There’s always a reason,’ said Pierre, a little irritably. ‘Only you don’t try to understand them.’

Françoise found his tone unpleasant; it was in no way her fault.

‘Let’s go and fetch her,’ said Pierre.

‘She’ll think that’s indiscreet,’ said Françoise. Perhaps she did treat Xavière rather like a piece of machinery, but at least she handled the delicate mechanism with the greatest care. It was very annoying to have to offend Aunt Christine; but, on the other hand, Xavière would take it greatly amiss if they were to go to her room to fetch her.

‘But it’s she who’s in the wrong,’ said Pierre. Françoise rose. After all, Xavière might be ill. Since her discussion with Pierre a week earlier, she had not had the slightest change of mood: the evening the three had spent together, the Friday after the dress rehearsal, had passed in cloudless merriment.

The hotel was quite close and it took them only a moment to get there. Three o’clock. There was not a minute more to be lost. As Françoise disappeared up the stairs the proprietress called her.

‘Mademoiselle Miquel, are you going to see Mademoiselle Pagès?’

‘Yes, why?’ said Françoise a little arrogantly. This plaintive old lady was fairly accommodating, but her inquisitiveness was sometimes misplaced.

‘I would like to have a word with you about her.’ The old woman stood hesitatingly on the threshold of the little drawing-room, but Françoise did not follow her in. ‘Mademoiselle Pagès complained a little while ago that the basin in her room was stopped up. I pointed out to her that she had been throwing tea-leaves, lumps of cotton-wool and slops into it.’ She added: ‘Her room is in such a mess! There are cigarette ends and fruit-pips in every corner, and the bedspread is singed all over.’

‘If you have any complaints to make about Mademoiselle Pagès, please speak to her,’ said Françoise.

‘I have done so,’ said the proprietress, ‘and she told me that she wouldn’t stay here one day more. I think she’s packing her bags. You’ll appreciate that I have no trouble in letting my rooms. I have enquiries every day and I’d be only too happy to let a tenant like that go. The way she keeps the lights burning all night long, you have no idea how much it costs me.’ She added, ingratiatingly: ‘Only because she’s a friend of yours, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience her. I wanted to tell you, that if she changes her mind I won’t raise any objections.’

Ever since Françoise had lived there, she had been treated with unusual consideration. She showered the good woman with complimentary tickets and the old lady was flattered by it: and, most important of all, she paid her rent very regularly.

‘I’ll tell her,’ said Françoise. ‘Thank you.’ With decisive steps, she went on up the stairs.

‘We can’t let that little wretch become a damned nuisance,’ said Pierre. ‘There are other hotels in Montparnasse.’

‘But I’m very comfortable in this one,’ said Françoise. It was well heated and well located: Françoise liked its mixed clientèle and the ugly-flowered wallpaper.

‘Shall we knock?’ said Françoise hesitantly. Pierre knocked. The door was opened with unexpected promptitude and Xavière stood there, bedraggled and almost scarlet in the face; she had pulled up the sleeves of her blouse and her skirt was covered with dust.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said with a look of complete surprise.

It was useless to try to anticipate Xavière’s greeting, one was always wrong. Françoise and Pierre stood rooted to the spot.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Pierre.

Xavière’s throat swelled.

‘I’m moving,’ she said in a tragic voice. The scene was stupefying. Françoise thought vaguely of Aunt Christine whose lips must have already begun to tighten, but everything seemed trivial in comparison with the cataclysm that had ravaged this room as well as Xavière’s face. Three suitcases lay gaping in the middle of the room; the cupboards had disgorged on to the floor piles of crumpled clothing, papers, and toilet articles.

‘And do you expect to be finished soon?’ asked Pierre who was looking sternly at this havoc-stricken sanctuary.

‘I’ll never get finished!’ said Xavière. She sank into an arm-chair and pressed her fingers against her forehead. ‘That old hag …’

‘She spoke to me just now,’ said Françoise. ‘She told me that you could stay on for tonight, if that suits you.’

‘Oh!’ said Xavière. A look of hope flashed into her eyes and died immediately. ‘No, I ought to leave at once.’

Françoise felt sorry for her.

‘But you aren’t going to find a room this evening.’

‘Oh, surely not,’ said Xavière. She bent her head and sat prostrated for some time. Françoise and Pierre stood as if spellbound, staring at her golden head.

‘Well, leave all that,’ said Françoise with a sudden return to consciousness. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go and look together.’

‘Leave this?’ said Xavière. ‘But I couldn’t live in this rubbish heap for even an hour.’

‘I’ll help you to tidy it up tonight,’ said Françoise. Xavière gave her a look of plaintive gratitude. ‘Listen to me. You are going to get dressed and wait for us at the Dôme. We’ll dash off to the private view and we’ll be back in an hour and a half.’

Xavière jumped to her feet and clutched her hair.

‘Oh, I would so like to go! I’ll be ready in ten minutes. I just have to tidy myself up a bit.’

‘Aunt has already begun to fume,’ said Françoise.

Pierre shrugged his shoulders.

‘In any case, we’ve missed the port,’ he said angrily. ‘Now, there’s no longer any point in getting there before five o’clock.’

‘As you wish,’ said Françoise. ‘But the blame will fall on me again.’

‘Well, after all, you don’t give a damn,’ said Pierre.

‘You’ll smile at her winningly,’ said Xavière.

‘All right,’ said Françoise. ‘You’ll have to think of a good excuse for us.’

‘I’ll try,’ grumbled Pierre.

‘Then we’ll wait for you in my room,’ said Françoise.

They went upstairs.

‘It’s an afternoon wasted,’ said Pierre. ‘There won’t be enough time left to go anywhere after we leave the exhibition.’

‘I told you she couldn’t learn how to live,’ said Françoise. She walked over to the looking-glass: with this upswept coiffure it was impossible to keep the back of one’s neck looking neat. ‘If only she doesn’t insist on moving.’

‘You haven’t got to move with her,’ said Pierre. He seemed furious. He had always been so cheerful with Françoise that she had almost reached the point of forgetting that he was not good-tempered, that his fits of anger were legendary at the theatre. If he took this affair as a personal offence, the afternoon was going to be grim.

‘But I will; you know that. She won’t insist, but she’ll sink into black despair.’

Françoise glanced over the room.