Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan Page A

little, perhaps he was thinking of Elsa.
    "Is she sleeping?" he asked Anne.
    "As peacefully as a baby. She didn't behave badly on the whole, did she?"
    They were silent for a while, then I heard his voice again:
    "Anne, I love you; only you. Do you believe me?"
    "Don't tell me so often, it frightens me."
    "Give me your hand."
    I almost sat up to protest: 'For heaven's sake, not on the Corniche!', but I was too drunk, and half asleep. Besides there was Anne's perfume, the sea breeze in my hair, the tiny graze on my shoulder which was a reminder of Cyril; all these reasons to be happy and keep quiet. I thought of Elsa and Cyril setting off on the motor cycle which had been a birthday present from his mother. I felt so sorry for them that I almost cried. Anne's car was made for sleeping, so well sprung, not noisy like a motor bike. I thought of Madame Webb lying awake at night. No doubt at her age I would also have to pay someone to love me, because love is the most wonderful thing in the world. What does the price matter? The important thing was not to become embittered and jealous, as she was of Elsa and Anne. I began to laugh softly to myself. Anne moved her shoulder to make a comfortable hollow for me. "Go to sleep," she ordered. I went to sleep.
     
     
    8
    The next morning I woke up feeling perfectly well except for a slight ache in my neck. My bed was flooded with sunshine as it was every morning. I threw back the sheets and exposed my bare back to the sun. It was warm and comforting, and seemed to penetrate my very bones. I decided to spend the morning like that, without moving.
    In my mind I went over the events of the evening before. I remembered telling Anne that Cyril was my lover. It amused me to think that one can tell the truth when one is drunk and nobody will believe it. I thought about Madame Webb. I was used to that sort of woman: in her milieu and at her age they often become odious through their self-indulgence; Anne's calm dignity had shown her up as even more idiotic and boring than usual. It was only to be expected; I could not imagine anyone among my father's friends who would for a moment bear comparison with Anne. In order to be able to face an evening with people like that, one had either to be rather drunk, or be on intimate terms with one or other of them. For my father it was more simple: Charles Webb and he were libertines: "Guess whom I'm taking out tonight? The Mars girl, the one in Saurel's latest film." My father would laugh, and clap him on the back: "Lucky man! She's almost as pretty as Elise." Undergraduate talk, but I liked their enthusiasm.
    Then there were interminable evenings on Café terraces, and Lombard's tales of woe: "She was the only one I ever loved, Raymond! Do you remember that spring before she left me? It's stupid for a man to devote his whole life to one woman." This was another side of life.
    Anne's friends probably never talked about themselves, perhaps they did not indulge in such adventures. Or if they spoke of them, it must be with an apologetic laugh. Already I almost shared Anne's condescending attitude towards our friends: it was catching. On the other hand, by the age of thirty, I could imagine myself being more like them than like Anne, and by then her silence, indifference and reserve might suffocate me. There was a knock at the door. I quickly put on my pyjama top and called "Come in!" Anne stood there, carefully holding a cup.
    "I thought you might like some coffee. How do you feel this morning?"
    "Very well," I answered. "I'm afraid I was a bit tipsy last night."
    "As you are each time you go out," she began to laugh. "But I must say, you were amusing. It was such a tedious evening."
    I had forgotten the sun, and even my coffee. When I was talking to Anne, I was completely absorbed; I did not think of myself, and yet she was the only one who made me question my motives. Through her I lived more intensely.
    "Cécile, do you find people like the Webbs and the