The Age of Reason by Jean-Paul Sartre

was largely hidden by her fair curls, which she had brought right forward to her nose, and her fringe reached down to her eyes. In winter the wind blew her hair about, and exposed her large, pallid cheeks, and the low forehead that she called ‘my Kalmuck forehead’ — revealing a broad face, pale, girlish, and sensual, like a moon between clouds. Today Mathieu could see no more than an artificially narrow and ingenuous countenance which she wore like a triangular mask over the real one. Mathieu’s young neighbours eyed her: they were obviously thinking: What a pretty girl. Mathieu looked at her affectionately: he was the only one among all those people who knew that Ivich was plain. She sat down, composed and gloomy. She was not made up, because make-up spoiled the skin.
    ‘And what will Madame have?’ asked the waiter.
    Ivich smiled at him, she liked being called Madame: then she turned to Mathieu with a hesitant air.
    ‘Have a peppermint,’ said Mathieu, ‘you know you like it.’
    ‘Do I?’ she said with amusement ‘All right. What is it?’ she asked, when the waiter had gone, ‘It’s green mint.’
    ‘That green, gluey stuff I drank the other day? Oh, I don’t want that, it makes my mouth all sticky. I always take what I’m given, but I oughtn’t to listen to you, we haven’t got the same tastes.’
    ‘You told me you liked it,’ said Mathieu, rather irritably.
    ‘Yes, but then I remembered the taste.’ She shuddered, ‘I’ll never touch it again.’
    ‘Waiter!’ cried Mathieu.
    ‘No, no, never mind, he’ll bring it, and it’s nice to look at. I won’t touch it, that’s all: I’m not thirsty.’
    She said no more. Mathieu did not know what to say to her: so few things interested Ivich: besides he didn’t feel like talking. Marcelle was there: he could not see her, he did not utter her name, but she was there. Ivich he saw, he could call her by her name or touch her on the shoulder: but she was out of reach, with her frail figure and her fine, firm throat: she looked painted and varnished, like a Tahitian woman on a canvas by Gauguin, and not meant for use. Sarah would be telephoning very soon. The commissionaire would call out, ‘Monsieur Delarue’. And Mathieu would hear a dark voice at the end of a wire: ‘He won’t take a penny less than ten thousand francs.’ Hospital, surgery, the reek of ether, money difficulties. Mathieu made an effort and turned towards Ivich; she had closed her eyes, and was passing a finger lightly over her eyelids. She opened her eyes again: ‘I have the feeling that they keep open by themselves. But I shut them now and again when they get tired. Are they red?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It’s the sun. I always have trouble with my eyes in summer. On days like this one oughtn’t to go out until it gets dark: otherwise one gets into a wretched state, the sun pursues you everywhere. And people’s hands are so clammy.’
    Mathieu felt the palm of his own hand under the table: it was quite dry. No doubt the tall shiny-haired young man had clammy hands. He looked at Ivich without emotion: he felt both remorseful and relieved because he was less attracted by her.
    ‘Are you annoyed because I made you come out this morning?’
    ‘I couldn’t have stayed in my room, anyhow.’
    ‘Why not?’ asked Mathieu in astonishment.
    Ivich looked at him impatiently.
    ‘You don’t know what a woman students’ hostel is like. The young ladies are very thoroughly looked after, especially at examination time. Besides the superintendent has taken a fancy to me, she invents all sorts of pretexts for coming into my room, and she strokes my hand: I loathe being touched.’
    Mathieu was scarcely listening to her: he knew that she was not thinking of what she was saying. Ivich shook her head with an air of irritation.
    ‘The old party at the hostel likes me because I’m fair. But it makes no difference, she’ll detest me in three months: she’ll say I’m sly.’
    ‘So you