Read Online Aimez-vous Brahms by Françoise Sagan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Françoise Sagan
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She was wearing a dark suit and a blue-grey scarf that matched her eyes. She looked tired. He took a step towards her, she smiled at him and in a flash he felt invaded by such a feeling of peace and plenty that he shut his eyes. He loved her. Whatever happened to him, so long as it was through her, he had nothing to lose. Paule saw his blindman's face, his outstretched hands, and she stopped. She had missed him, it was true, these last ten days. His continual presence, his admiration, his persistency had created, she thought, a kind of tangible habit which she had no reason to break. But the face he thrust towards her had nothing to do with habit, nor with the morale of a woman of thirty-nine. It was something quite different. The grubby pavement, the passers-by, the cars—everything round them suddenly struck her as a timeless, stylized, unchanging backcloth. They looked at each other from a distance of two yards, and before she could succumb again to the noisy, drab reality of the street, while she was still awake, alert, at the limits of her consciousness, Simon stepped forward and took her in his arms.
He held her loosely against him, unable to breathe yet possessed of a great calm. He laid his cheek on her hair and stared straight ahead of him at the sign over a bookshop: 'The Treasures of Time', dimly wondering how many treasures there could be in the shop, and how many throw-outs. At the same time, he was amazed that he should ask himself such an absurd question at just that moment. He had the impression of having finally solved a problem.
* * *
"Simon," said Paule, "how long have you been here? You must be wet through."
She inhaled the smell of his tweed jacket, his neck, and had no desire to move. His return had brought her unexpected relief, almost a feeling of deliverance.
"You know," said Simon, "I simply couldn't live without you. I was all at sea. I wasn't even bored: I was cut off from myself. How about you?"
"Me?" said Paule. "Oh, Paris isn't too bright at the moment." She was trying to introduce a normal note to the conversation. "I looked at a new collection, played the career woman, met a couple of Americans. There's talk of my going to New York . . ."
At the same time, she was thinking that it was useless taking this tone when they were standing in the rain, with their arms round each other, like two ecstatic lovers; but she could not move. Simon's mouth came lightly to rest on her temples, her hair, her cheek, punctuating her sentences. She broke off and nestled her head a little closer to his shoulder.
"Are you keen to go to New York?" said Simon's voice above her.
As he spoke, she felt his jawbone working against her head. It made her want to laugh like a schoolgirl.
"The States are sure to be fun, don't you think? I've never been."
"Nor me," said Simon. "My mother couldn't stand it there; but then, she has always hated travel."
He could have talked to her for hours about his mother, the urge to travel, America and Russia. He wanted to treat her to a hundred commonplaces, to make her a hundred unassuming, effortless speeches. He no longer thought of dazzling her or seducing her. He felt fine, at once frail and self-assured. He would have to take her home to kiss her properly, but he dared not let go of her.
"I need time to think," said Paule.
And she herself did not know whether she was referring to him or her trip. She, too, was afraid: afraid of looking up and seeing that youthful face next to hers, afraid of encountering the same old Paule, strong-willed and moderate. Afraid of judging herself.
"Simon," she murmured.
He stooped and kissed her lightly on the lips. They kept their eyes open and all each could see of the other was a huge twinkling blur, full of gleams and shadows: an immeasurably enlarged pupil, liquid, terrified almost.
Two days later they dined together. Paule had only to say a few words for Simon to realise what those ten days had been like for her: Roger's jibes and
He held her loosely against him, unable to breathe yet possessed of a great calm. He laid his cheek on her hair and stared straight ahead of him at the sign over a bookshop: 'The Treasures of Time', dimly wondering how many treasures there could be in the shop, and how many throw-outs. At the same time, he was amazed that he should ask himself such an absurd question at just that moment. He had the impression of having finally solved a problem.
* * *
"Simon," said Paule, "how long have you been here? You must be wet through."
She inhaled the smell of his tweed jacket, his neck, and had no desire to move. His return had brought her unexpected relief, almost a feeling of deliverance.
"You know," said Simon, "I simply couldn't live without you. I was all at sea. I wasn't even bored: I was cut off from myself. How about you?"
"Me?" said Paule. "Oh, Paris isn't too bright at the moment." She was trying to introduce a normal note to the conversation. "I looked at a new collection, played the career woman, met a couple of Americans. There's talk of my going to New York . . ."
At the same time, she was thinking that it was useless taking this tone when they were standing in the rain, with their arms round each other, like two ecstatic lovers; but she could not move. Simon's mouth came lightly to rest on her temples, her hair, her cheek, punctuating her sentences. She broke off and nestled her head a little closer to his shoulder.
"Are you keen to go to New York?" said Simon's voice above her.
As he spoke, she felt his jawbone working against her head. It made her want to laugh like a schoolgirl.
"The States are sure to be fun, don't you think? I've never been."
"Nor me," said Simon. "My mother couldn't stand it there; but then, she has always hated travel."
He could have talked to her for hours about his mother, the urge to travel, America and Russia. He wanted to treat her to a hundred commonplaces, to make her a hundred unassuming, effortless speeches. He no longer thought of dazzling her or seducing her. He felt fine, at once frail and self-assured. He would have to take her home to kiss her properly, but he dared not let go of her.
"I need time to think," said Paule.
And she herself did not know whether she was referring to him or her trip. She, too, was afraid: afraid of looking up and seeing that youthful face next to hers, afraid of encountering the same old Paule, strong-willed and moderate. Afraid of judging herself.
"Simon," she murmured.
He stooped and kissed her lightly on the lips. They kept their eyes open and all each could see of the other was a huge twinkling blur, full of gleams and shadows: an immeasurably enlarged pupil, liquid, terrified almost.
Two days later they dined together. Paule had only to say a few words for Simon to realise what those ten days had been like for her: Roger's jibes and
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