Marie by Madeleine Bourdouxhe Read Free Book Online Page B

rather ridiculous, whereas your surname makes a good first name.’ He’d recalled exactly what she said; it was unusual for Marie to utter a sentence like that, one of the rare occasions when she’d said something that related directly to him.
    He replied: ‘I couldn’t afford a big trip so I just went to the Touraine. I’ve been back in Paris three weeks, I’m working on my new magazine.’
    After a few moments he added: ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot.’
    ‘How can I be of use to you?’ she asked coolly.
    He had a sudden urge to hit her. Instead, he decided to respond as if his last sentence bore some relation to the one before it.
    ‘You might be of use to me at the magazine. I thought you might be interested in collaborating with me on it some time. You’d need to know what it’s all about, you’d have to come to the office so that we could discuss it. If I asked you to come to my place you would refuse, as you always have done.’
    ‘That’s because you’ve always asked me to come for no particular reason, the very day after we’ve just met and chatted away for as long as we’ve wanted … And then I probably had other things to do, other people to see.’
    Why not call her bluff, he thought? ‘You’ll come, then? Today at half-past two?’
    ‘I’ll be at your place at half-past two.’
    She got up and stretched out her hand. He watched her as she walked away, admiring her easy stride and her hair shining in the sun – hair that no hat concealed and no hairstyle kept in check.
    Was it possible that today was his lucky day, when he would find an intelligent collaborator as well as the woman he had desired for so long?
    Marie, meanwhile, had gone into a bookshop to browse through his magazine. She’d found it to be feminine and fashionable, and wondered what kind of collaboration Denis could possibly have in mind for her.
     
    AT HALF-PAST TWO MARIE entered a building in the rue Marguerin, pushed open the door of the office and asked for Marius Denis. As she waited, she breathed in the exciting smell of ink and new paper. She imagined the back rooms where the magazine was printed, where the smell must be even stronger; she’d have liked to visit them.
    But Denis arrived, and said: ‘Let’s go up to my apartment, it’s more comfortable there.’
    Not wanting to annoy him she followed, somewhat reluctantly, towards the elevator.
    The apartment was small, with only one room; the door opened directly on to a kind of studio furnished with couches, armchairs and shelves full of books. Marie tookeverything in – the closed curtains, the dim light from a single small lampstand, and the table adorned by two glasses, a cocktail shaker and a plate of biscuits – and grasped the situation immediately.
    Feeling distinctly uneasy, she sat down on the sofa in the place indicated by Denis. Her unease was born not of fear – she wasn’t at all apprehensive – but of repulsion. He does all these preparations to make women feel more relaxed, she said to herself. It was a kind of trap. And women fell into it because they were giving themselves not to the man who was there with them, to that man rather than to another, but to someone who was so effaced by the darkness of the room that he became almost anonymous; they were yielding not to a man but to an ambience – the dim light, the cushions, the closed curtains, the smell of the wine. The next day they could appease their consciences by saying quietly: ‘It was all because of the ambience.’
    Marie remained seated, knees together, hands clasped, her whole body filled with physical repugnance. Denis was talking banalities, such as things that had happened to him on holiday. This went on for several minutes whilst he moved closer and closer. Finally he leaned over her handbag, as if to admire it. Marie realised he thought that when he raised his head he could kiss her. She said nothing, but began to laugh without letting him see. She allowed him to