Françoise Sagan - Bonjour Tristesse and a Certain Smile

At last the letter from Luc arrived. In it he said that he would be in Avignon on 22 September. He would await me there, or, if not me, then a letter from me. I decided on the spot to be there myself and the month just past looked like having been blissfully simple. But it was so like Luc, the calm tone, the ridiculous, unexpected choice of Avignon, the apparent lack of interest. I set about weaving a web of lies and wrote to Catherine asking her to send me a fake invitation to something. When she did so, she sent me another letter along with it, saying how surprised she was, since Bertrand was on the Côte d’Azur with all the gang, so who could I be going to meet up with? She was distressed by my lack of trust in her. She saw nothing to justify it. I sent her a note of thanks, merely pointing out that, if she wanted to make Bertrand suffer, all she had to do was to tell him about my letter … which she did anyway, out of friendship for him, of course.

On 21 September, carrying only light luggage, I set off for Avignon, which fortunately is on the way to the Côte d’Azur. My parents took me to the station. I left them with tears in my eyes, not knowing why. For the first time it seemed to me that I was leaving behind my childhood and the security of the family. I already hated Avignon.

As a consequence of Luc’s silence and the distant tone of his letter, I had conjured up quite a hard, detached image of him, and I arrived in Avignon feeling quite guarded, a mental outlook that did not sit well with a supposedly amorous rendezvous. I was not going away with Luc because he loved me nor because I loved him. I was going away with him because we spoke the same language and because we found each other attractive. When I thought about it, these reasons seemed rather slight and the trip itself a terrifying venture.

But once again Luc surprised me. He was standing on the station platform looking anxious. Then, when he saw me, his look changed to one of delight. When I got off the train he gave me a hug and kissed me lightly.

‘You’re looking great. I’m glad you’ve come.’

‘You too,’ I said, referring to his appearance. Indeed, he was looking tanned and slim and much more handsome than he had looked in Paris.

‘There’s no reason for us to stay in Avignon, you know. We’re going to go and take a look at the sea, because, after all, that’s what we’re here for. After that we’ll decide what we’re doing.’

His car was parked in front of the station. He threw my case into the back and we set off. I felt completely dazed and slightly disappointed, which was not how it should have been. I didn’t remember him being either so seductive or so cheerful.

Our route was lovely. It was lined with plane trees. Luc smoked and we bowled along in the sun with the hood down. I kept saying to myself: ‘There, I’ve made it, this is it.’ Yet it didn’t matter to me, it didn’t matter at all. I might just as well have been sitting under my poplar tree with a book. In the end the fact that I was so detached from what was taking place made me cheer up. I turned towards him and asked him for a cigarette. He smiled:

‘Are you feeling better?’

I began to laugh.

‘Yes, I’m feeling better. I’m just wondering what I’m doing here with you, that’s all.’

‘You’re not doing anything. You’re going on a drive, you’re smoking, you’re wondering whether or not you’re going to be bored. Don’t you want me to kiss you?’

He stopped the car, put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me. It was a very good way of acknowledging each other’s presence. I laughed a bit as we kissed and we set off again. He held my hand. He understood me. For two months I had been living with near-strangers who were frozen in a state of mourning in which I could not participate, and it seemed to me that, very slowly, life was beginning again.

The sea was astonishing; for a moment I was sorry that Françoise was not there so that I could tell her that it really was blue, with red rocks and yellow sand, and that it was very well done. I had been rather afraid that Luc might point it out to me with an air of triumph while watching for my reactions, which would have forced me to reply with much rhetoric and to make faces expressing my admiration, but he merely indicated it as we arrived in Saint-Raphaël.

‘There’s the sea.’

And we drove on slowly into the evening, with the sea alongside us growing pale until it faded into grey. In Cannes Luc stopped the car on la Croisette 19in front of a huge hotel whose lobby horrified me. I knew that, to feel any enjoyment, I would have to forget about the decor and the bellboys; the latter I would have to turn into familiar figures who didn’t look my way or pose a threat. Luc was having a powwow with a haughty-looking man behind a desk. I would rather have been anywhere else but there. Sensing this, he put his hand on my shoulder as we crossed the lobby and ushered me along. Our room was immense, almost all white, with two French windows looking out over the sea. There was a hubbub of porters and luggage and of windows and wardrobes being thrown open. There I was in the midst of it all, my arms dangling by my sides, indignant at my own inability to react.

‘So here we are,’ said Luc.

He cast a satisfied glance round the room and went to lean over the balcony.

‘Come and look.’

I rested my elbows on the railing beside him but at a respectful distance. I had no wish at all to look out nor to be on familiar terms with this man whom I didn’t really know. He glanced at me.

‘Come now, you’ve gone all shy again. Go and have a bath and come back and have a drink with me. I can see that there’s nothing will cheer you up but luxury and alcohol.’

He was right. Once I had changed I stood leaning on the balcony next to him, with a glass in my hand, and complimented him a thousand times on how nice the bathroom was, and the sea. He told me that I looked most radiant. I replied that he did too and we gazed at the palm trees and the crowds below in a satisfied way. Then he went off to change, leaving me with a second whisky, and I walked about barefoot on the thick carpet humming to myself.

Dinner went off well. We talked about Françoise and Bertrand with a lot of good sense and affection. I hoped I wouldn’t meet Bertrand but Luc said that we were bound to bump into someone or other who would be only too happy to spill the beans, to both him and Françoise, and that it would be time enough to worry about that in the autumn. I was touched by the fact that he was running that risk on my account. I yawned as I told him, because I was asleep on my feet. I also told him that I liked his way of approaching things.

‘It’s a very good way. You make up your mind to do something, you do it, you accept the consequences and you’re not afraid.’

‘What do you expect me to be afraid of?’ he said in a strangely sad way. ‘Bertrand is not going to kill me. Françoise is not going to leave me. You are not going to love me.’

‘Perhaps it’s me that Bertrand will kill,’ I said crossly.

‘He’s much too nice for that. In fact, everyone’s nice.’

‘It’s nasty people who cause the most trouble, you told me so yourself.’

‘You’re right. Anyway, it’s late, come to bed.’

He said that quite naturally. There had been nothing passionate about our conversation but that phrase ‘come to bed’ did strike me as rather offhand. To tell the truth I was afraid, very much afraid, of the night ahead.

In the bathroom I put on my pyjamas with trembling hands. They were quite schoolgirlish pyjamas but I had nothing else. When I came back, Luc was already in bed. He was smoking, with his face turned towards the window. I slid in beside him. He held out a steady hand and took mine. I was shivering.