Belle De Jour by Joseph Kessel Read Free Book Online Page A

out, “No, that’s enough. Be quiet. I can’t … they ought to forbid … Pierre, Pierre, you’ve no idea.…” Her words ended in convulsive sobs.
    “Séverine darling, my poor sweet Séverine.”
    Pierre stroked his wife’s face, her hair and shoulders with a pity that transcended his anxiety, since Séverine clung to him as if he were saving her from some frightful hunt. And when her distracted movements revealed her face, he saw in it a heart-rending expression—that of a hunted, innocent child. Finally he was able to make out these words from her groans: “Don’t despise me, please don’t despise me.”
    He thought that Séverine was ashamed of crying, since she never cried; so his voice was tender as he said, “But, darling, this only makes me love you more. How incredibly pure you must be to have been hurt so badly by that story.”
    Abruptly she shook herself free from him, stared him in the face, and raised her head in a drugged way.
    “You’re right. I ought to go to bed.”
    Laboriously she stood up. Pierre’s movement to help her was never completed. He suddenly felt himself astranger to Séverine; but when he saw her standing there, so exhausted, he hesitantly suggested, “Would you like me to spend the night with you?”
    “Certainly not.” A moment later, when she saw how pale he’d gone, she added, “But I’d love it if you’d stay by my bed till I go to sleep.”
    This was not the first vigil Pierre had held over Séverine, but it was by far the most heavy-hearted. In the half-light he sensed that his wife’s eyes were constantly turning towards him. Finally he could bear it no longer and leaned over her. There was a deathly rigidity in her face.
    “Darling, what’s wrong?”
    “I’m so scared.” She was shivering.
    “But I’m here. Who are you frightened of? What is it?”
    “If only I knew.”
    “You trust me, don’t you?”
    “Oh Pierre, yes.”
    “All right, say to yourself that it’s going to be a fine day tomorrow. See how clear the stars are outside. Tell yourself you’ll play tennis, that you’ll be wearing white and win in three straight sets. Close your eyes, darling, and summon up all your strength to imagine that. Now, doesn’t that make you feel better?”
    “It does,” Séverine replied, while within her the enemy installed itself again. But was it really an enemy? Each of Séverine’s thoughts, now, was shadowed by a secret image; Husson’s icy smile haunted the tennis-balls curving through the sunshine.
    Since Husson’s attempt to seduce her, Séverine hadseen him in public several times and had pretended not to recognize him; and he had quietly accepted this. But he showed no surprise when he saw her coming across the court the next morning.
    “You haven’t started yet?” Séverine asked him.
    “No, not yet,” he answered, “and I’ll only play when you’re fed up with my conversation.”
    As Séverine had somehow anticipated, they both felt entirely at ease. Only Husson’s strange deference, the same as that he’d shown after she had rebuffed him, chilled Séverine a little. Still, she said: “You know, Renée and I were talking about you only last night.” (He knows I’m lying, Séverine thought quite clearly and indifferently.) “Yes, she gave me a piece of gossip I’m sure would amuse you. It concerns a friend of hers who goes into one of those houses, you know.…”
    “You mean Henriette? Oh yes, I know, I know.”
    Without looking at Séverine he seemed to study her breathing before going on: “Not really a very interesting case. Matter of cash. Not interesting in itself, I should say,” he corrected himself in a toneless voice, as if to put Séverine at ease. “But spicy enough for those who want to make use of it. After all, here’s a woman who in the ordinary run of events receives nothing but compliments, or at least courtesy, and on whom, in a whore-house, a man can inflict any desire he has. The most exacting desires