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Authors: Françoise Sagan
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young, and that in marrying a woman of his own age, he would cease to belong to the category of men whose age does not count. I had a momentary feeling of triumph, but when I saw the tiny wrinkles at the corners of Anne's eyes, and the fine lines round her mouth, I felt ashamed of myself. It was only too easy to follow my impulses and repent afterwards.
A week went by. Cyril and Elsa, who had no idea how matters were progressing, must have been expecting me every day. I was afraid to go and see them in case they tempted me to try anything new. Every afternoon I went up to my room, ostensibly to work, but in fact I did nothing: I had found a book on Yoga, and spent my time practising various exercises. I took care to smother my laughter in case Anne should hear it. I told her I was working hard; and I pretended that my disappointment in love had made me keen to get my degree as a consolation. I hoped this would raise me in her estimation, and I even went so far as to quote Kant at table, to my father's dismay.
One afternoon I had wrapped myself in bath towels to look like a Hindu, and was sitting cross-legged staring at myself in the mirror, hoping to achieve a Yoga-like trance, when there was a knock at the door. I thought it was the maid and told her to come in.
It was Anne. For a moment she remained transfixed in the doorway, then she smiled:
"What are you playing at?"
"Yoga," I replied. "But it's not a game at all, it's a Hindu philosophy."
She went to the table and took up my book. I began to be alarmed. It lay open, and every page was covered with remarks in my handwriting, such as 'Impracticable', 'Exhausting'.
"You are certainly conscientious," she said. "And what about that essay on Pascal? I don't see it anywhere."
At lunch I had been talking about Pascal, implying that I had worked on a certain passage, but needless to say I had not written a word. Anne waited for me to say something, but as I did not reply she understood.
"It is your own affair if you play the fool up here instead of working, but it's quite another matter when you lie to your father and me. In any case I found it difficult to believe in your sudden intellectual activity."
She went out of the room leaving me petrified in my bath towels. I could not understand why she had used the word 'lie'. I had spoken of Pascal because it amused me, and had mentioned an essay to give her pleasure, and now she blamed me for it. I had grown used to her new attitude towards me, and her contempt made me feel humiliated and furious. I threw off my disguise, pulled on some slacks and an old shirt and rushed out of the house. The heat was terrific, but I began to run, impelled by my anger, which was all the more violent because it was mixed with shame. I ran all the way to Cyril's villa, only stopping when I reached the door to regain my breath. In the afternoon heat the houses seemed unnaturally large and quiet, and full of secrets. I went up to Cyril's room; he had shown it to me the day we visited his mother. I opened the door. He was lying across the bed, fast asleep with his head on his arm. I stood looking at him and for the first time he appeared to me defenceless and rather touching. I called him in a low voice. He opened his eyes and sat up at once.
"You, Cécile? What's the matter."
I signed to him not to talk so loudly. Suppose his mother were to come and find me in his room? She might think . . . anyone might think ... I suddenly felt panic-stricken and moved towards the door.
"But where are you off to?" he cried. "Come here, Cécile!"
He caught me by the arm and laughingly held me back. I turned round to him, and saw him grow pale, as I must have been myself. He let go my wrist, only to take me in his arms and draw me over to the bed. The thought that it had to happen sometime flashed through my confused mind.
I stayed with him for about an hour. I was happy, but bewildered. I was used to hearing the word love bandied about, and I had often
A week went by. Cyril and Elsa, who had no idea how matters were progressing, must have been expecting me every day. I was afraid to go and see them in case they tempted me to try anything new. Every afternoon I went up to my room, ostensibly to work, but in fact I did nothing: I had found a book on Yoga, and spent my time practising various exercises. I took care to smother my laughter in case Anne should hear it. I told her I was working hard; and I pretended that my disappointment in love had made me keen to get my degree as a consolation. I hoped this would raise me in her estimation, and I even went so far as to quote Kant at table, to my father's dismay.
One afternoon I had wrapped myself in bath towels to look like a Hindu, and was sitting cross-legged staring at myself in the mirror, hoping to achieve a Yoga-like trance, when there was a knock at the door. I thought it was the maid and told her to come in.
It was Anne. For a moment she remained transfixed in the doorway, then she smiled:
"What are you playing at?"
"Yoga," I replied. "But it's not a game at all, it's a Hindu philosophy."
She went to the table and took up my book. I began to be alarmed. It lay open, and every page was covered with remarks in my handwriting, such as 'Impracticable', 'Exhausting'.
"You are certainly conscientious," she said. "And what about that essay on Pascal? I don't see it anywhere."
At lunch I had been talking about Pascal, implying that I had worked on a certain passage, but needless to say I had not written a word. Anne waited for me to say something, but as I did not reply she understood.
"It is your own affair if you play the fool up here instead of working, but it's quite another matter when you lie to your father and me. In any case I found it difficult to believe in your sudden intellectual activity."
She went out of the room leaving me petrified in my bath towels. I could not understand why she had used the word 'lie'. I had spoken of Pascal because it amused me, and had mentioned an essay to give her pleasure, and now she blamed me for it. I had grown used to her new attitude towards me, and her contempt made me feel humiliated and furious. I threw off my disguise, pulled on some slacks and an old shirt and rushed out of the house. The heat was terrific, but I began to run, impelled by my anger, which was all the more violent because it was mixed with shame. I ran all the way to Cyril's villa, only stopping when I reached the door to regain my breath. In the afternoon heat the houses seemed unnaturally large and quiet, and full of secrets. I went up to Cyril's room; he had shown it to me the day we visited his mother. I opened the door. He was lying across the bed, fast asleep with his head on his arm. I stood looking at him and for the first time he appeared to me defenceless and rather touching. I called him in a low voice. He opened his eyes and sat up at once.
"You, Cécile? What's the matter."
I signed to him not to talk so loudly. Suppose his mother were to come and find me in his room? She might think . . . anyone might think ... I suddenly felt panic-stricken and moved towards the door.
"But where are you off to?" he cried. "Come here, Cécile!"
He caught me by the arm and laughingly held me back. I turned round to him, and saw him grow pale, as I must have been myself. He let go my wrist, only to take me in his arms and draw me over to the bed. The thought that it had to happen sometime flashed through my confused mind.
I stayed with him for about an hour. I was happy, but bewildered. I was used to hearing the word love bandied about, and I had often
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