La Chamade Read Free

enliven the dinner. How can one be thirty, so good-looking and so gloomy?'
    'Diane's great mistake is falling for intellectuals. It's never been a success for her.'
    'Some intellectuals are amusing,' said Claire with indulgence, 'but Antoine is not an intellectual: he confines himself to editing a series of books at Renoard's. And how much does an editor make? Nothing. You know that as well as I do. Diane's fortune, thank Heaven, is sufficient for...'
    'I don't believe he cares much about money,' said Johnny feebly, for he thought Antoine very handsome.
    'Oh, he'll come to it,' said Claire in the weary voice of experience. 'Diane is forty and has millions, he is thirty and earns two hundred thousand francs a month. That sort of equation can't last.'
    Johnny began to laugh but stopped suddenly. He had used an anti-wrinkle cream recommended by Pierre-André and had not had time to let it dry thoroughly. He would have to remain stone-faced until eight-thirty. As it happened, it was eight-thirty already. He laughed again and Claire threw him an astonished glance. Johnny was an angel but the bullet or two he got when playing the hero serving with the R.A.F. in 1942 must have done something to his brain. A ... what was it, a lobe, yes, a lobe must have been affected. She looked at him with amusement. To think that those long white hands, now too delicately arranging the flowers on the table, had grasped a machine-gun, a joy-stick, and brought in flaming planes in the middle of night... Human beings were so often surprising. One never knew 'everything' about them. Actually, that was the reason why she was never bored. She gave a long, satisfied sigh, cut short by the stiff belting around her waist. Cardin went too far when he pictured her as a sylph. Lucile tried to disguise a yawn, done by breathing in through the corners of the mouth, then exhaling softly between the front teeth. It resulted in a rather rabbit-like appearance but one's eyes did not fill with tears afterwards. The dinner seemed interminable. She sat between Johnny, who had been anxiously patting his face since the meal began, and a quiet, handsome young man, said to be Diane Merbel's new lover. The silence, however, did not bother her. She hadn't the least desire to fascinate anyone that evening. She had been up too early. She tried to remember the odour of that devilish spring wind and closed her eyes for a moment. She was surprised, on opening them, to find that Diane was staring harshly at her. Was Diane so much in love with the young man, or jealous? She looked at him: he had ash-blond hair and a firm, determined chin. He kneaded a bit of bread into a ball. There was a whole row of them round his plate. The conversation turned to the theatre. An excellent topic, for Claire adored a play that Diane loathed. Lucile made an effort and turned toward the young man.
    'Have you seen the play?'
    'No. I never go to the theatre. And you?'
    'Very rarely. Last time, I saw that charming English comedy at the Atelier , with an actress who was later killed in a car accident. What was her name? I've forgotten.'
    'Sarah,' he said softly, and laid both hands flat on the tablecloth.
    His expression petrified Lucile for a second. She thought suddenly: 'My God, he's really unhappy!'
    'Forgive me,' she said.
    He turned toward her and asked, 'What?' in a dreary voice. He no longer saw her. She could hear him breathing, unevenly, like a man who had received a shock and the idea that she had caused it, although unintentionally, hurt her deeply. She took no pleasure in being insolent, and even less in being cruel. 'What are you dreaming about, Antoine?' Diane's voice had a strange sound, just a shade too light, and created a silence. Antoine did not answer: he seemed blind and deaf.
    'He really is dreaming and no mistake,' said Claire, laughing. 'Antoine, Antoine ... '
    Nothing. Now there was a dead silence. Forks in hand, motionless, the guests watched the pale young man as he sat