La Chamade by Françoise Sagan Read Free Book Online

her insolence, her silence, her refusal to play the game. Lucile smiled, her eyes raised to Antoine, and it was an easy smile, amused and reassured. That was the right term, 'reassured'. The kind of smile a woman could only have if she knew a man intimately. 'But when, when could they have met?' Claire's mind began to function at top speed. 'Let's see, the supper at Marnes was three days ago, nothing existed then. It must have been some afternoon, in Paris no one makes love in the evening anymore, everyone is too tired. What's more, they have Charles and Diane to cope with. Today?' She looked at them, her eyes shining, nostrils flared, trying to detect the traces of pleasure on them with the passionate interest that curiosity gives some women. Lucile understood and, in spite of herself, burst out laughing. Claire withdrew slightly, her fox-hound expression changed into something softer, more resigned, the 'all-understood, all-permitted' look, which passed without being noticed, unfortunately.
    For Antoine was looking at Lucile, laughing confidentially with her, delighted to hear her laugh, delighted to know that she would tell him why next day in his bed, during the happy, weary period that follows love-making. So at present, he did not ask: 'What are you laughing about?' Many affairs are denounced in this way: by silence, the lack of questions, phrases left dangling, a password so commonplace as to become extravagant. In any case, a person who had heard Lucile and Antoine laugh, who had seen their expressions, could not be misled. They themselves felt this vaguely and took a sort of pride in seizing the opportunity offered by the Boldini incident to laugh together without causing alarm. Though they would never have admitted it, the presence of Claire and the other guests increased their pleasure. They felt young, almost like children who have been forbidden to do something, have done it just the same and not yet been punished.
    Diane returned, cutting through the crowd, rapidly withdrawing her hand from a friend as he kissed it, neglecting to answer some question about her health or an enthusiastic remark praising her beauty. In a confused murmur of 'How are you, Diane? You're in wonderful shape, Diane, where did you get that divine dress?', she endeavoured to reach the dark, malevolent corner where she had left her lover, her true love, with a girl who intrigued him. She hated Charles for having dragged her away from the drawing-room, she hated Boldini, she hated William for having recounted that deadly, interminable story about his purchase. He had bought it for a song, of course, it was a great bargain, the wretched dealer had been completely hoodwinked. It was irritating, this mania that the ultra-rich had for always, always getting a bargain. To have a rebate from the dressmaker, a discount at Carrier's, and to be proud of it. She had escaped all that, thank Heaven, she was not one of the women of means who haggled with tradespeople. She must tell that to Antoine, it would amuse him. People amused him, he always quoted Proust on the subject, and on many others as well, which annoyed Diane somewhat, for she had very little time to read. Dear Lucile had certainly read Proust, she looked just the type and, of course, living with Charles, she must have plenty of time. Diane paused. 'My God,' she thought suddenly, 'I'm being vulgar. Really, can't one grow old without becoming vulgar?' Her heart ached, she smiled at Coco de Balileul, returned Maxime's mysterious wink, stumbled over a dozen smiling, friendly obstacles. She accomplished this nightmarish steeplechase to rejoin Antoine who was laughing over there, laughing his deep laugh; she must stop that laugh. She took another step and closed her eyes with relief: he was laughing with Claire Santré. Lucile had her back turned to them.
    CHAPTER NINE
    'What a noisy party,' said Charles. 'People drink more and more, don't they?'
    The car glided gently over the quays, it was