Françoise Sagan - Bonjour Tristesse and a Certain Smile

I don’t want to give the impression that he made any great show of pursuing his love affairs. All he did was simply not conceal them from me, or, to be more precise, he refrained from telling me things that, although they might have sounded acceptable, would have been untrue and would have been said merely to justify the frequency with which such-and-such a girlfriend had breakfast at our house or to justify her moving in with us – albeit, I’m glad to say, temporarily! In any case, I could not have remained in the dark for long as to the nature of his relationship with his lady ‘guests’, so-called, and he was no doubt anxious to retain my trust, especially since, by doing so, he avoided having to go to troublesome lengths to concoct stories. His calculation was excellent. Its only flaw was that for a time it gave rise in me to a certain disillusioned cynicism where love was concerned, which, in view of my age and experience, must have appeared rather more amusing than impressive. I liked to repeat to myself elegant formulations, including Oscar Wilde’s: ‘Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.’ 3I made this dictum my own with total conviction, and much more firmly, I believe, than if I had put it into practice. I thought that my life could be modelled on it, that it could draw inspiration from it, that it could blossom out from it like a kind of morality tale in reverse. I forgot that there are times in life when nothing happens and when things don’t cohere. I forgot about everyday goodness. Ideally I envisaged a life of baseness and moral turpitude.

Three

Next morning I was woken by a warm, slanting ray of sunshine that flooded my bed with light and brought to an end the strange, somewhat confused dreams that I had been wrestling with. Still half asleep, I tried to brush the implacable heat away from my face, then gave up. It was ten o’clock. I went down to the terrace in my pyjamas and found Anne there, glancing through magazines. I noticed that she was lightly but immaculately made-up. It seemed she never allowed herself to be really on holiday. She paid no attention to me so I settled down quietly on a step with a cup of coffee and an orange and started into this delicious morning fare: I bit into the orange and its sweet juice spurted into my mouth. That was followed straight away by a gulp of scalding black coffee and then again came the coolness of the fruit. The morning sun was warming my hair and smoothing out the marks that the sheet had left on my skin. In five minutes I would be going for a swim. Anne’s voice made me jump.

‘Cécile, are you not eating?’

‘I prefer just a drink in the morning because …’

‘You need to gain three kilos to be presentable. Your cheeks are hollow and your ribs are showing. Go and get yourself some bread and butter.’

I begged her not to force me to eat bread and butter, and she was about to explain to me why it was essential that I do when my father appeared in his luxurious polka-dot dressing gown.

‘What a charming scene!’ he joked. ‘Two little brown girls in the sun chatting away about bread-and-butter matters.’

‘Alas, there’s only one little girl,’ said Anne, laughing. ‘I’m the same age as you, my dear Raymond.’

My father leant forward and took her hand.

‘As severe as ever,’ he said tenderly, and I saw Anne’s eyelids flutter as if they had been unexpectedly caressed.

I took the opportunity to make myself scarce. On the stairs I met Elsa. It was obvious that she had just got out of bed. Her eyelids were swollen and her lips were pale against the crimson of her sunburnt face. I nearly stopped her, I nearly told her that Anne was downstairs with a flawless, well-cared-for face and that she was going to tan prudently, with no ill effects. I nearly warned her to be on her guard. But she would no doubt have taken it badly. She was twenty-nine, thirteen years younger than Anne, and, as she saw it, that gave her a major advantage.

I fetched my swimsuit and ran to the inlet. To my surprise Cyril was there already, sitting on his boat. He came towards me looking serious and took my hands.

‘I would like to apologize for yesterday,’ he said.

‘It was my fault,’ I replied.

I did not feel in any way embarrassed by what had happened and I was astonished by his air of solemnity.

‘I feel very bad about it,’ he went on, pushing the boat into the water.

‘There’s really nothing to apologize for,’ I said cheerfully.

‘Yes, there is.’

I was already in the little boat. He was standing up to his knees in the water, leaning with both hands on its gunwale as if he were making a plea in court. I realized that he would not climb in until he had had his say, so I paid him the attention required. I knew his face well, I could make sense of it. It occurred to me that, being twenty-five, he perhaps saw himself as a seducer of minors, and that made me laugh.

‘Don’t laugh,’ he said. ‘I felt bad about it yesterday evening, you know. You have no protection against me, not in your father, nor in that woman. You have no example to go by. For all you know I could be a complete bastard, and you would be just as likely to trust me.’

There wasn’t even anything ridiculous about him. I felt that he was kind, and ready to love me, and that I would love to love him. I put my arms around his neck and laid my cheek against his. He had broad shoulders and his body felt hard against mine.

‘You’re very nice, Cyril,’ I murmured. ‘You’ll be like a brother to me.’

He put his arms round me with an angry little exclamation and gently pulled me out of the boat. He held me close to him, raised up so that my head was on his shoulder. At that moment I loved him. In the morning light he was as golden-skinned, as kind and gentle as I was myself. He was protecting me. When his mouth sought mine I began to tremble with pleasure, as he did, and we kissed without remorse or shame, simply searching each other out and murmuring from time to time. I broke free and swam towards the boat, which was drifting away. I plunged my face into the water to cool it down and regain my composure. The water was emerald. I was filled with a sense of perfect happiness and freedom from care.

At half past eleven Cyril went off and my father and his women appeared along the goat-track. He was walking between the two of them, supporting them, proffering a hand to each in turn with an unaffected graciousness that was all his own. Anne was still wearing her towelling robe. She removed it in leisurely fashion before our watching eyes and lay down on it. She had a slim waist and perfect legs, and was virtually without a blemish. This was no doubt the result of years of care and attention. I automatically shot my father a look, my eyebrow raised in approval. To my great surprise he did not return my look, but closed his eyes. Poor Elsa was in a terrible way and was plastering herself with oil. I reckoned it would take my father less than a week to … Anne turned her head towards me:

‘Cécile, why do you get up so early here? In Paris you would lie in bed till noon.’

‘I had studying to do there,’ I said. ‘It wore me out.’

She didn’t smile. She only ever smiled when she wanted to, never out of politeness like everyone else.

‘And what about that exam of yours?’

‘I flunked it!’ I said brightly. ‘I totally flunked it!’

‘You absolutely must pass it in October.’

‘Why must she?’ broke in my father. ‘I never had any qualifications myself and I live a life of luxury.’

‘You had some private means to begin with,’ Anne reminded him.

‘My daughter will always find a man to keep her,’ said my father gallantly.

Elsa started to laugh, then stopped when she saw the three of us looking at her.