“No, my friend.”
Of my own accord I sit down beside him again, but timidly, fearing lest my gestures or words elicit another loving exclamation, familiar and detested.
His instinct warns him not to take advantage of such prompt docility.
The arm that supports me doesn’t try to embrace me, and I no longer feel that contagious, dangerous, comforting warmth . . . No doubt he loves me enough to guess that, even if I lay my obedient head on his strong shoulder, it’s not as a gift, but as an experiment . . .
My forehead on a man’s shoulder! . . .
Am I dreaming?
I’m neither dreaming, nor rambling.
My head, my senses are all calm, mournfully calm.
And yet, in the untroubled state of mind which keeps me there, there’s something more, something better than indifference, and if my absentminded, chaste hand is playing with the gold braid on his vest, it’s because I feel sheltered and protected—like a lost cat that people take in, which can play and sleep only when it’s got a home . . .
Poor admirer . . . what is he thinking about as he sits there motionless, respecting my silence?
I bend back my head to look at him, and I quickly lower my eyes, dazzled, confused by the man’s expression.
Oh, how I envy him for being able to love so strongly, able to gain such handsomeness from his passion!
His eyes have met mine, and he smiles heroically.
“Renee . . . Do you think you may possibly love me some day, whenever it is?”
“Love you?
How I’d like to, my friend!
You don’t look like a vicious man . . . Don’t you feel that I’m on the way to becoming attached to you?”
“Attached to me . . . That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Renee: it isn’t the path that leads to love . . .”
He’s so absolutely right that I make no protest.
“But . . . wait . . . you never know . . . Maybe when I come back from my tour . . . And then, at last, a very, very deep friendship . . .” He shakes his head . . . No doubt he has no use for my friendship. As for me, I’d be very happy to have a friend who’s not as old and “used up” as Hamond—a real friend . . .
“When you come back! . . . First of all, Renee, if you really hoped to love me some day, you wouldn’t be thinking of leaving me behind.
In two months it will be just like now, the same Renee will hold out her little cold hands, her eyes won’t let mine in, and these lips which hold back even when offering themselves . . .”
“It’s not my fault . . . Here are these lips . . . Take them . . .
I’ve rested my head on his shoulder, and I shut my eyes, more resigned than curious, then I open them again a second later, surprised that he hasn’t pounced with the greedy haste he displayed yesterday . . . He has merely turned slightly toward me, and is encircling me comfortably with his right arm. Then he joins my two hands together with his free hand and leans down; I see the slow approach of that serious, unfamiliar face, of this man whom I know so little of . . .
By now there’s almost no space or air between our two faces; I’m breathing rapidly, as if drowning, and I make an effort to break loose.
But he’s holding onto my hands and tightening his arm around my waist.
I throw back my neck in vain just as Maxime’s lips reach mine . . .
I haven’t closed my eyes.
I knit my brows to threaten those eyes above me, which are trying to subdue and extinguish mine—because the lips kissing me, soft, fresh, impersonal, are just the same as yesterday, and their inadequacy irritates me . . . Suddenly they change and I no longer recognize the kiss, which comes to life, becomes persistent, dies away, and resumes, taking on movement and rhythm, then halts as if awaiting a response that fails to come . . .
I move my head ever so slightly because of the mustache brushing against my nostrils, with its scent of vanilla and sweet tobacco . . . Oh! . . . all at once, in spite of myself, my lips have voluntarily parted, my mouth has opened as resistlessly as a ripe plum splitting in the sunshine . . . From my lips down to my sides, down to my knees, I feel the rebirth and diffusion of that exigent pain, that swelling of a wound about to reopen and widen—the sensual pleasure I had forgotten . . .
I let the man who has reawakened me drink of the fruit he is squeezing.
My hands, stiff just a while ago, abandon themselves, warm and soft, in his hand, and my body, flung back, seeks to fit into his.
Bent over the arm that supports me, I burrow a little more deeply into his shoulder, I cling close to him, careful not to detach my lips, careful to prolong our kiss in comfort.
He understands and acquiesces, with a little grunt of happiness . . . Finally sure that I won’t run away, now it’s he who separates himself from me, catches his breath, and studies me, biting his own wet lips.
I let my eyelids fall, I no longer have the need to see him.
Perhaps he’ll undress me and take full possession of me . . . It doesn’t matter.
I’m awash in an irresponsible, slothful joy . . . I’m in no hurry, except for that kiss to resume.
We have all the time in the world . . . Proudly my friend picks me up in both arms like a bunch of flowers, and places me on the couch semirecumbent. There he joins me.
His mouth now has the same taste as mine, with the faint fragrance of my rice powder . . . His skillful mouth wants to renew itself and vary the caress even further, but I already venture to show my preference for a nearly motionless kiss, a long, peaceful one—the slow crushing together of two flowers, in which there only vibrates the palpitation of two coupled pistils . . .
Now we’re resting.
A long truce during which we catch our breath.
This time I left him, and stood up, needing to wring my hands, to stretch, to grow taller.
To straighten up my hair and look at my new face, I have picked up my hand mirror, and I’m laughing at us, seeing us both with drowsy faces, with trembling lips that glow and are slightly swollen.
Maxime has remained on the couch, and his wordless summons receives the most flattering reply: my gaze, like that of a submissive dog, a little crestfallen, a little beaten, very pampered, and ready to accept anything, the leash, the collar, the place by her master’s feet . . .
HE HAS left.
We dined together, in slapdash fashion: Blandine cooked some cutlets in gravy, with gherkins . . . I was dying of hunger.
“And love satisfying our every need, except . . .,” he quoted, to show he’s read Verlaine.
The end of dinner didn’t throw us back into each other’s arms, and we haven’t become lovers, because he’s correct and I don’t like impromptus . . . But I committed myself and became engaged joyfully, without any flirtatiousness:
“We have plenty of time before us, don’t we, Max?”
“Not too much, darling!