Read Online Aimez-vous Brahms by Françoise Sagan - Free Book Online
Authors: Françoise Sagan
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face. Roger looked at him and searched hazily for a weak chin or mouth. The fact that he did not find them put him out of temper. "And I suppose Paule is looking for you?"
"I'm going to her," said Simon, and he turned on his heel.
Roger caught him by the elbow. He was suddenly furious. The young man stared at him in surprise.
"Wait... I have something to ask you."
They surveyed one another, each of them conscious that there was nothing to be said, yet. But Roger was amazed at his action and Simon was so proud of it that he smiled. Roger understood; he released him.
"I wanted to ask you for a cigar."
"But of course . . ."
Roger followed him with his eyes. Then he walked over to Paule, who was talking to a group of people, and took her by the arm. She trailed after him and at once fired a question.
"What did you say to Simon?"
"I asked him for a cigar. What were you afraid I'd said?"
"I don't know," she said, relieved. "You looked furious."
"Why should I be furious? He's just a kid. Do you think I'm jealous?"
"No," she said, and she lowered her gaze.
"If I were jealous, it would more likely be of your other neighbour at table. At least he's a man."
For a moment she wondered whom he was referring to; when she realised, she could not help smiling. She had not even noticed him. For her, the whole meal had been illuminated by Simon, whose eyes, like beacons, had skimmed her face regularly every two minutes, a little blatant in their attempts to catch hers. Occasionally she had responded, and then he had treated her to such a tender, such an anxious smile that she'd had to return it. He was infinitely more handsome, more alive than her other neighbour, and she reflected that Roger did not know what he was talking about. At all events, Simon came up to them and held a box of cigars out to Roger.
"Thank you," said Roger. He selected one with care. "You're too young to know what a good cigar is. That's a luxury reserved for men of my age."
"You're welcome to it," said Simon. "I loathe the things."
"Paule, you haven't taken a dislike to smoke? Anyway, we'll soon be going home," he said, turning back to face Simon. "I have to be up early."
Simon was not impressed by the 'we'. He thought: that means he'll drop her outside her place and rush back to that little tart, leaving me here without her. He glanced at Paule, felt he read the same thought in her eyes and murmured: "If Paule isn't tired ... I can drive her back later."
They turned to her of one accord. She smiled at Simon and decided that she would rather go home: it was getting late.
In the car they did not say a word. Paule was waiting. Roger had dragged her away from a party she was enjoying; he owed her an explanation, or an excuse. He drew up opposite the flat and left the engine running . . . and at once she realised that he had nothing to say, that he would not be coming up, that all this had been merely proprietary cautiousness on his part. She got out, murmured "Good night", and crossed the road. Roger drove off at once; he was angry with himself.
But parked near the entrance was Simon's car, with Simon inside it. He hailed her and she went up to him in astonishment.
"How did you get here? You must have driven like mad. And what about your mother's party?"
"Get in for a moment," he begged.
They whispered in the dark, as though someone might hear them. She slipped adroitly into the little car and realised it had become a habit—like the trusting face turned towards her and bisected by the light of the street-lamp.
"You weren't too bored?" he said.
"No, no . . . I . . ."
He was close beside her: too close, she thought. It was too late for talking, and he'd had no cause to follow her. Roger might have seen him, the whole thing was ridiculous . . . she kissed Simon.
The winter wind was getting up in the streets; it blew across the open car, driving their hair between them; Simon was covering her face with kisses; in a daze she inhaled his young man's
"I'm going to her," said Simon, and he turned on his heel.
Roger caught him by the elbow. He was suddenly furious. The young man stared at him in surprise.
"Wait... I have something to ask you."
They surveyed one another, each of them conscious that there was nothing to be said, yet. But Roger was amazed at his action and Simon was so proud of it that he smiled. Roger understood; he released him.
"I wanted to ask you for a cigar."
"But of course . . ."
Roger followed him with his eyes. Then he walked over to Paule, who was talking to a group of people, and took her by the arm. She trailed after him and at once fired a question.
"What did you say to Simon?"
"I asked him for a cigar. What were you afraid I'd said?"
"I don't know," she said, relieved. "You looked furious."
"Why should I be furious? He's just a kid. Do you think I'm jealous?"
"No," she said, and she lowered her gaze.
"If I were jealous, it would more likely be of your other neighbour at table. At least he's a man."
For a moment she wondered whom he was referring to; when she realised, she could not help smiling. She had not even noticed him. For her, the whole meal had been illuminated by Simon, whose eyes, like beacons, had skimmed her face regularly every two minutes, a little blatant in their attempts to catch hers. Occasionally she had responded, and then he had treated her to such a tender, such an anxious smile that she'd had to return it. He was infinitely more handsome, more alive than her other neighbour, and she reflected that Roger did not know what he was talking about. At all events, Simon came up to them and held a box of cigars out to Roger.
"Thank you," said Roger. He selected one with care. "You're too young to know what a good cigar is. That's a luxury reserved for men of my age."
"You're welcome to it," said Simon. "I loathe the things."
"Paule, you haven't taken a dislike to smoke? Anyway, we'll soon be going home," he said, turning back to face Simon. "I have to be up early."
Simon was not impressed by the 'we'. He thought: that means he'll drop her outside her place and rush back to that little tart, leaving me here without her. He glanced at Paule, felt he read the same thought in her eyes and murmured: "If Paule isn't tired ... I can drive her back later."
They turned to her of one accord. She smiled at Simon and decided that she would rather go home: it was getting late.
In the car they did not say a word. Paule was waiting. Roger had dragged her away from a party she was enjoying; he owed her an explanation, or an excuse. He drew up opposite the flat and left the engine running . . . and at once she realised that he had nothing to say, that he would not be coming up, that all this had been merely proprietary cautiousness on his part. She got out, murmured "Good night", and crossed the road. Roger drove off at once; he was angry with himself.
But parked near the entrance was Simon's car, with Simon inside it. He hailed her and she went up to him in astonishment.
"How did you get here? You must have driven like mad. And what about your mother's party?"
"Get in for a moment," he begged.
They whispered in the dark, as though someone might hear them. She slipped adroitly into the little car and realised it had become a habit—like the trusting face turned towards her and bisected by the light of the street-lamp.
"You weren't too bored?" he said.
"No, no . . . I . . ."
He was close beside her: too close, she thought. It was too late for talking, and he'd had no cause to follow her. Roger might have seen him, the whole thing was ridiculous . . . she kissed Simon.
The winter wind was getting up in the streets; it blew across the open car, driving their hair between them; Simon was covering her face with kisses; in a daze she inhaled his young man's
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