Françoise Sagan - Bonjour Tristesse and a Certain Smile

‘How pale you are,’ he said. ‘I’m going to look after you now. I won’t let you be ill-treated any longer.’

I could recognize Elsa’s imagination at work. I asked Cyril what his mother thought of her.

‘I introduced her as a friend who was an orphan,’ said Cyril. ‘Elsa’s very nice, actually. She’s told me everything about that woman. It’s strange, she has such a fine face, so full of class, yet she’s a scheming manipulator.’

‘Elsa has exaggerated a lot,’ I said feebly. ‘In fact I was going to tell her that …’

‘And I’ve got something to tell you too,’ interrupted Cyril. ‘I want to marry you, Cécile.’

I had a moment of panic. I had to do something, say something. If only I hadn’t felt so fearfully sick …

‘I love you,’ Cyril was saying into my hair. ‘I’m dropping law. I’ve had an attractive job offer from an uncle of mine … I’m twenty-six, I’m not a little boy any more, I’m talking seriously. What do you say?’

I was desperately searching for something eloquent but non-committal to say in reply. I did not want to marry him. I liked him but I did not want to marry him. I did not want to marry anyone. I was tired.

‘It can’t be,’ I stammered. ‘My father …’

‘I’ll deal with your father,’ said Cyril.

‘Anne won’t want it,’ I said. ‘She claims that I’m not an adult. And if she says no, my father will say no too. I’m so tired, Cyril. All this emotion is wearing me out. Let’s sit down. Here comes Elsa.’

She was coming down in her dressing gown, all fresh and radiant. I felt dull and scrawny. They both had a healthy, blooming, excited look about them, which depressed me even more. She made me sit down, fussing over me as if I had just come out of prison.

‘And how is Raymond?’ she asked. ‘Does he know that I’m back?’

She had the happy smile of a woman who has forgiven all and who has cause for hope. I couldn’t tell her that my father had forgotten her any more than I could tell Cyril that I didn’t want to marry him. I closed my eyes. Cyril went to fetch coffee. Elsa talked on and on, she clearly considered me to be someone very discerning whom she could trust. The coffee was very strong and very fragrant. The sun cheered me up a little.

‘I’ve tried my hardest but I haven’t found a solution,’ said Elsa.

‘There is none,’ said Cyril. ‘It’s an infatuation, he’s under her spell. There’s nothing to be done.’

‘Yes, there is,’ I said. ‘There is a way. You just haven’t any imagination.’

It flattered me to see them hanging on my words. They were ten years older than me and they had no idea! I said airily:

‘It’s a question of psychology.’

I talked for a long time, explaining my plan to them. They raised the same objections as I had outlined to myself the day before and I took keen pleasure in refuting them. It was quite gratuitous but, by dint of trying to convince them, I in turn became excited about it. I proved to them that it could be done. It only remained for me to prove to them that it ought not to be done, but I couldn’t find such logical arguments for that.

‘I don’t like this kind of scheming,’ Cyril said. ‘But if it’s the only way of getting to marry you, I’ll sign up to it.’

‘It’s not strictly speaking Anne’s fault,’ I said.

‘You know very well that if she stays, you’ll marry the person she wants you to,’ said Elsa bluntly.

That was perhaps true. I could see Anne on my twentieth birthday introducing me to a young man, also a graduate, with a brilliant future ahead of him, intelligent, sensible and very likely to be faithful. Rather like Cyril, in fact. I began to laugh.

‘Please don’t laugh,’ said Cyril. ‘Tell me you’ll be jealous when I’m pretending to be in love with Elsa. How were you able to envisage such a thing? Do you love me?’

He was speaking in a low voice. Elsa had tactfully moved away. I looked at Cyril’s strained brown face and his sombre eyes. It gave me a strange feeling to think that he loved me. I looked at his lips, red and full, so close to mine … I didn’t feel intellectual any more. He brought his face still closer and our lips, touching, met in a kiss. I sat there with my eyes wide open and with his mouth resting on mine, warm and firm and slightly tremulous. He pressed his mouth a bit more against mine to stop it trembling, then he parted his lips and his kissing became serious. It quickly became urgent and skilful, too skilful … It was dawning on me that I was better suited to kissing a boy in the sunshine than to studying for a degree. I drew away from him a little, gasping.

‘We must live together, Cécile. I’ll go along with the Elsa plan.’

I wondered if my reckoning was correct. I was the driving force, I was directing these theatricals and I could always call a halt to them.

‘You have strange ideas,’ said Cyril with his little crooked smile that made his lip curl up to give him the appearance of a bandit, a very handsome bandit.

‘Kiss me,’ I murmured, ‘quick, kiss me.’

So that is how I set the comedy in motion, in spite of myself, offhandedly and out of curiosity. Sometimes I think I would prefer to have done it deliberately, with hatred and vehemence, so that I could at least blame myself for it, rather than blaming my indolence and the sun and Cyril’s kisses.

After an hour, feeling rather worried, I left the conspirators. I still did have several arguments to fall back on for reassurance: my plan could turn out to be a bad one, my father’s passion for Anne could very well extend to faithfulness. What was more, neither Cyril nor Elsa could do anything much without me. I was sure to find some way of calling a halt to this play-acting if my father appeared likely to be taken in by it. It was amusing, in any case, to see whether my psychological reckonings were correct or not.

And besides, Cyril loved me and wanted to marry me. This thought in itself was enough to make me euphoric. If he could wait for me for a year or two, just long enough for me to grow up, I would accept his offer. I could already see myself living with Cyril, sleeping next to him, never leaving him. We would go for lunch every Sunday with Anne and my father, one happy family, and we could maybe even include Cyril’s mother, which would also contribute to making the meal a family occasion.

I ran into Anne on the terrace as she was on her way down to the beach to join my father. She greeted me in that sardonic way in which you greet people who have been drinking the night before. I asked her what she had been going to say to me the previous evening before I fell asleep, but she laughingly refused to tell me, on the grounds that it would annoy me. My father was just coming out of the water. He was broad-shouldered and muscular, and to me he looked superb. I went for a swim with Anne. She swam gently, with her head out of the water so as not to get her hair wet. Then we all three stretched out side by side on the sand, face down, quiet and at peace, with me in the middle.

It was then that the boat hove into view in full sail at the far end of the inlet. My father saw it first.

‘So our dear Cyril could hold out no longer,’ he said, laughing. ‘Shall we forgive him, Anne? Basically he’s a nice boy.’

I raised my head, scenting danger.

‘But what’s he doing?’ said my father. ‘He’s sailing round the inlet. Ah! He’s not alone …’

Anne had also looked up. The boat was going to pass in front of us and then go in the opposite direction. I made out Cyril’s face. Inwardly I begged him to go away.

My father’s exclamation made me jump, even though I had been expecting it for a couple of minutes:

‘Good heavens, it’s Elsa! What’s she doing there?’