‘Souvenir of the First Communion of Maxime Dufferein-Chautel, May 15, 18 . . . ’ ”
“It’s true!” exclaims the Big Ninny. “Mother sent it to you because she thought I was so handsome!”
I refrain from joining in their laughter.
I’m not pleased that they know each other.
And I feel ashamed in the strong light of noon, with my hair losing its curl beneath my fur cap, my shiny nose in need of a powdering, and my mouth dry with hunger and thirst . . .
Under my skirt I hide my rehearsal boots, shapeless lace-up boots whose scratched kidskin shows blue streaks, but which cling properly to my ankles and whose thinned soles are as flexible as those of ballet slippers . . . Especially since the Big Ninny is studying me as if he’s never seen me . . .
Repressing a sudden childish urge to cry, I ask him, as if about to bite him:
“What’s wrong?
Do I have a smut on my nose?”
He doesn’t hasten to reply:
“No . . . but . . . it’s odd . . . when someone has seen you only at night, he’d never believe you have gray eyes . . . They look brown when you’re onstage.”
“Yes, I know.
I’ve already been told so.
You know, Hamond, our omelets will be cold.
Goodbye, sir.”
I hadn’t had such a good look at him, either, in full daylight.
His deep-set eyes aren’t black, as I thought, but a slightly tawny brown, like those of German shepherd dogs . . .
They shake hands interminably!
And Fossette, that little hussy, “says goodbye to the gentleman” with the ear-to-ear smile of an ogress!
And, because I’ve mentioned omelets, the Big Ninny puts on a face like a pauper watching a feast!
Just let him wait till I invite him! . . .
Unfairly, I’m sore at Hamond.
And so I keep silent while rushing through a superficial washing of hands and face, before joining my old friend in the little study in which Blandine is setting the table.
Because I’ve eliminated, once and for all, that gloomy, useless room called the dining room, which is occupied only one hour out of the twenty-four.
I must explain that Blandine sleeps in my apartment and that an additional room would have been too expensive for me . . .
“Ha, ha! You know Maxime!” Hamond exclaims, unfolding his napkin.
I was expecting it!
“I?
I don’t know him at all!
I gave a private performance at his brother’s place and I met him there.
That’s all.”
I neglect—why?—to mention our first interview, the Big Ninny’s lustful invasion of my dressing room . . .
“Well, he knows you.
And he admires you a lot.
I even think he’s in love with you!”
My shrewd Hamond!
I look at him with that feline feeling, merry and sly, which men’s naivete inspires in us . . .
“He knows that you like roses and pistachio candy.
He’s ordered a collar for Fossette . . .
I’m furious:
“He’s ordered a collar for Fossette! . . .
After all, it’s none of my business!” I say, laughing. “Fossette is a completely amoral creature: she’ll accept it, I know she’s capable of it!”
“We spoke about you, naturally . . . I thought you were good friends . . . ”
“Oh! . . . I would have told you, Hamond.”
My old friend lowers his eyes, flattered by his own friendly jealousy.
“He’s a very nice fellow, I assure you.”
“Who is?”
“Maxime.
I met his mother, who’s a widow, in . . . Let’s see, it must be thirty . . . no, thirty-five . . . ”
What can I do?