Françoise Sagan - Bonjour Tristesse and a Certain Smile

‘It wasn’t cohabitation,’ I laughingly protested, ‘it was a honeymoon.’

‘All the more reason!’ he said, detaching himself from me. That was the moment when I really had the impression that he was leaving me and I felt the desire to catch him by the lapel of his jacket. It was very fleeting and very unpleasant.

The return journey went well. I drove a bit. Luc said that it would be night-time when we got to Paris, that he would phone me the next day and that we would have dinner soon with Françoise, who would be back from the country, where she had been spending that fortnight with her mother. It all seemed rather worrying to me, but Luc advised me simply not to mention our trip: he would sort things out with her. I could easily enough see myself spending the autumn in their midst, meeting Luc occasionally to kiss him on the mouth and to sleep with him. I had never envisaged his leaving Françoise, firstly because he had told me that he wouldn’t and then because it didn’t seem possible that he would do that to Françoise. If he had offered to do so, I would probably not at that time have felt able to accept his offer.

He told me he had a lot of work to catch up with but that it didn’t interest him greatly. As for me, it was a new year of study, which meant having to go deeper into things that had already bored me enough the previous year. In a word, we were going back to Paris in a dejected frame of mind, but I was happy enough with that, because it was the same sense of dejection for each of us, it was the same problem and consequently we each had the same need to cling to the other, to that person who was other, yet the same.

We got to Paris very late at night. At the Porte d’Italie 25I glanced at Luc, who seemed rather weary, and it struck me that we had come through our little escapade rather well, that we were really adult and sensible and civilized; and then suddenly, with something like rage, I felt that I had been incredibly humiliated.

PART THREE

One

I had never had to rediscover Paris. When I had first discovered it, it had been once and for all. But I was astonished now by its charm and the particular kind of pleasure I found in walking in its streets, still with a summer holiday feel about them. For three days, that took my mind off the emptiness and the impression of meaninglessness that Luc’s absence had left me with. At night I looked to see if he was there and reached out for him with my hand, and each time his absence seemed senseless and unnatural to me. Our fortnight together was already taking on a certain shape in my memory and was striking a note that was simultaneously harsh and resonant. Strangely enough, I had not been left with a sense of failure but, quite the contrary, one of achievement. However, it was a type of achievement that I could well see would make any similar endeavour difficult, if not extremely painful.

Bertrand would be returning soon. What would I say to him? Bertrand was going to try to get me back. Why should I take up with him again and, above all, how could I tolerate someone else’s body or someone else’s breath when they were not Luc’s?

Luc did not phone me, not the next day nor the day after that. I put this down to complications with Françoise and that made me feel both important and ashamed. I walked a lot, reflecting in a detached way and with only a very vague interest on the year ahead. Perhaps I would find something that it would make more sense for me to study than law, since Luc was supposed to be introducing me to one of his friends who was a newspaper editor. Even though my inertia, up to then, had prompted me to seek emotional forms of compensation for what had happened, it was now making me think of compensation in career terms.

After two days of waiting, I could no longer resist the desire to see Luc. Not daring to phone him, I sent him a little note that was both casual and friendly, asking him to ring me, which he did the next day. He had gone to the country to fetch Françoise and had not been able to phone me sooner. I thought his voice sounded strained. It occurred to me that he was missing me and, for an instant, while he was actually telling me so on the phone, I had a vision of the café where we would meet and where he would take me in his arms and tell me that he could not live without me and that those two days had been an absurdity. All that I would have to do would be to reply: ‘Neither can I,’ which was not too much of a lie, and then let him decide further. But although he did in fact arrange to meet me in a café, it was just to assure me that Françoise was fine, that she wasn’t asking any questions and that he was swamped with work. He said: ‘You are beautiful,’ and kissed the palm of my hand.

I found him changed – he had started wearing his dark suits again – changed but still desirable. I looked at that sharp, tired face of his. It seemed strange that he no longer belonged to me. I was already beginning to think that I had not really been able to gain any ‘benefit’ – and the word was repugnant to me – from my stay with him. I talked to him cheerfully and he replied in the same way, but there was nothing natural in the manner of either of us. Perhaps it was because we were surprised that it was so easy to live with someone for a fortnight, surprised that it had gone so well and surprised that no greater harm had been done. Only, when he stood up, I felt a burst of indignation and I felt like saying: ‘Where are you going? You’re not going to leave me on my own, are you?’ He departed, and I was left on my own. I had nothing much to do. I thought: ‘This is all quite comical,’ and shrugged my shoulders. I walked around for an hour and went into one or two cafés, hoping to meet the others, but no one was back yet. I had always the possibility of going to spend a fortnight on the Yonne. But, as I was due to have dinner with Luc and Françoise in two days’ time, I decided to wait until after that before setting off.

I spent those two days at the cinema or lying on my bed, sleeping and reading. My room seemed alien to me. Finally, on the evening of the dinner, I dressed with care and went to their flat. I had a moment of fear as I rang the bell, but Françoise came to open the door to me and I was immediately reassured by her smile. I realized, as Luc had said, that she could never look ridiculous or play a role that was incompatible with her exceptional kindness and dignity. She had never been duped and most likely never would be.

It was a strange meal. We were all three of us together and it worked very well, as previously. Quite simply, though, we had drunk a lot before sitting down at the table. Françoise appeared to know nothing, though perhaps she did look at me more attentively than usual. From time to time Luc looked into my eyes when speaking to me and I made it a point of honour to reply light-heartedly and in a natural way. The conversation got round to Bertrand, who was due back the following week.

‘I won’t be here,’ I said.

‘Where will you be?’ asked Luc.

‘I’m probably going to spend a few days with my parents.’

‘When will you be back?’

It was Françoise who asked that question.

‘In a fortnight.’

‘Dominique, I’m going to call you tu ,’ 26she exclaimed suddenly. ‘I find it tiresome to call you vous .’

‘Let’s all use tu ,’ said Luc with a little laugh, as he headed for the record player. My eyes followed him and, turning back to Françoise, I saw that she was watching me. I returned her gaze, feeling rather anxious, and especially anxious not to appear to shy away from her. She laid her hand on mine for a moment, with a sad little smile that upset me.

Calling me vous but then correcting herself, she said: ‘You’ll send me a postcard, won’t you, Dominique? You haven’t told me how your mother was.’