Aimez-vous Brahms by Françoise Sagan Read Free Book Online Page B

Paris, and had even come down in his pyjamas to scour the library for a work on telepathy. In vain, of course! He knew it was puerile: he always tried to get out of things by childish solutions or strokes of luck. But Paule was someone you had to deserve, there was no escaping the fact. He could not win her merely by charm. On the contrary, he felt that his looks set her against him. "I've a face like a hairdresser's assistant," he groaned aloud, and the bird momentarily broke off its piercing cry.
    He walked slowly back to the house, stretched out on the carpet, put another log on the fire. Maître Fleury would be back soon, modest in his triumph but even more sure of himself than usual. He would revive famous trials before a few dazzled countrywomen who, their brains tiring slightly towards the end of the meal and their eyes somewhat blurred with wine, would begin to transfer their attentions to the young, silent, well-mannered pupil—to himself, in fact. "You stand a chance with that one, young Simon," Maître Fleury would whisper, probably singling out the oldest. They had been away together before, but the obsessive allusions of the great advocate had never led either of them into much mischief.
    His anticipations were borne out. Only, it was one of the gayest dinners in his life: he talked endlessly, broke in upon the great advocate and captivated every woman in the room. On arrival, Maître Fleury had handed him a letter which had been forwarded from the Avenue Kléber to the Palais de Justice in Rouen. It was from Paule. He put his hand in his pocket, felt it against his fingers and smiled with happiness. And even as he talked, he tried to recall its exact wording, quietly reconstructing it in his head.
    Mon petit Simon—she had always called him that —your letter was too sad. It is more than I deserve. Besides, I was missing you. I'm none too clear where I stand at the moment—and then she had written his name again: Simon, and then she had added those three wonderful words: Come back soon.
    He was going back at once, the moment dinner was over. He would drive flat out for Paris, he would stop in front of her house, perhaps he would see her.  At two o'clock he was there, unable to budge. Half an hour later a car drew up in front of him and Paule got out, alone. He did not budge. He watched her cross the road and wave at the car, which drove off. He could not budge. It was Paule. He loved her and he listened to the love within him call out to her, go up to her, speak to her: he listened without budging, terrified, his mind aching and empty.
     
    9
     
    T HE lake in the Bois de Boulogne stretched icily before them under a cheerless sun; a hardy oarsman—one of those strange men one daily sees trying to preserve a figure which no one could possibly care about, so characterless is their appearance—was making a lone effort to resurrect the summer, his oar sending up an occasional spray of water, silvery, sparkling and almost inopportune, so sadly did winter proclaim itself among the frozen shapes of the trees. She watched him tussling down in the boat, his brow puckered with determination. He would row round the island and come back exhausted and pleased with himself: she found a touch of symbolism in this short, obdurate, daily pull. Simon, beside her, was silent. He was waiting. She turned to him and smiled. He looked at her without returning her smile. The Paule for whom he had driven right across a province the night before (a Paule not merely available but naked and vanquished in his mind like the road he had driven along) had nothing in common with the tranquil Paule (she had been barely pleased to see him) who drowsed beside him on an iron bench in trite surroundings. He was disappointed and, misinterpreting his disappointment, he thought he did not love her any more. That obsessed week in the country, in that dreary house, had been a perfect example of the absurdities into which his imagination could lead