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  A child's ball landed near them, raising a little cloud of dust. 'Look, a shell exploding!' cried the small boy, who was about seven years old. Where had he seen shells? At the cinema? The things a little European will think up in 1927!

  'There's one other contingency in which I might be prepared to marry. In the event of some catastrophe, war or bloody revolution. Then, since everything would be done for anyway, a little more, a little less hardly matters. If it's going to give so much pleasure to a damsel, we might as well call at the Registrar's before buckling on our swordbelt. If war broke out tomorrow, I might perhaps marry you.'

  The ground was scattered with bamboo husks (at least, that is what I call them), smooth, white, polished, made expressly for profound thoughts to be inscribed thereon. There was a bird ... (well, my little bird, do give me a nice simile! Ah yes ... ) a bird in the centre of a round tree, like the flame in the centre of a Venetian lantern. There was foliage drenched with sunlight, a blaze of foliage, and a man could be seen carrying it away in his arms. There were crows, self-important and cantankerous, not unlike humans. There was a sparrow gargling on the edge of the pool, and more sparrows lying in the dust like cattle. There was a sea-gull listening to its own cry (but was it really a sea-gull?). There were little frogs, the shape of whose bodies reminded one of the French athletes selected for the Olympic Games. Dead leaves covered the surface of the pond, under which the fish must have found it difficult to see, poor things. An artificial overhanging rock had been built for them to shelter under when it rained.

  to Pierre Costals

  Paris

  Solange Dandillot

  Paris

  28 July 1927

  Dear Friend,

  I have made up my mind to write to you, despairing of ever plucking up the courage to speak. When you are there, I feel paralysed, I lose all initiative, and yet our frequent meetings, the fact that we are seen together, the indiscrete (sic) gossip that may arise from this, make it essential to have things out with you as soon as possible. You must be indulgent with me if I cannot express my feelings any better in writing than by word of mouth.

  Surprising though it may seem to you, I am still a pure young girl. No doubt it's ridiculous, out-of-date, but there it is. If we are to continue to see each other, to go out together, people are bound to say that we're engaged (I refuse to envisage any other explanation). If it were your sister, what would you advise her to do? What would you think of a man who had adopted such an attitude towards her?

  What are we to do? Stop seeing each other? That would be very hard. Could we not find a way of reconciling your repugnance for marriage with my scruples? Why could we not try a sort of legalized relationship, with a civil ceremony only, and without informing anyone (except my mother and my grand-parents, naturally), a temporary marriage, since you cannot bear the idea of permanency? No religious ceremony; I have too much respect for the Church to involve it in a travesty of matrimony. And I promise you that I would go out of your life as silently as I came into it, as soon as you began to find me a burden. A two-four-six-year lease, nothing more.

  There! I don't know what else to say to you, and I shall await your reply with trepidation, though I feel certain that, honourable man that you are, you will not put it off too long. I leave you, my dearest friend, with the assurance of my tender affection.

  Solange

  Ever since her first meeting with Costals, at the Doignys' on the 1st of May, Mlle Dandillot had been thinking of marriage. She had never conceived of marriage except with a man who attracted her; on any other terms it seemed to her repellent. No one had attracted her up till then, and she awaited her Prince Charming with tranquillity. Usually, a woman starts by loving love, the universe, nature, God, and then she realizes that what she needs is a single human being. Solange had never loved anything, or anybody - except her mother. Neither her heart nor her senses being in need of sustenance, she was perfectly happy in this state, and quite prepared for it to last forever. But she saw Costals, and sensing that he was attracted to her and feeling drawn to him herself (oh! no question of love at first sight!), she thought to herself: 'Why not?'

  She had discussed it with her mother at once - yes, from the very first day, such was their mutual trust. Mme Dandillot was delighted: 'At last she's attracted to a man, and since that was all she was waiting for ... ' It was worth overlooking the drawbacks: the difference in age, the fact that Costals was a writer and so might draw Solange into a world to which she would not be entirely suited either by her tastes or her comparative lack of culture. Though not at all snobbish, Mme Dandillot had nonetheless been flattered by the fact that a famous man ... (and vanity had also played its part in her daughter's preliminary reaction, though it was soon to give way to the opposite feeling: regret that Costals was a writer, and regret that he was famous). Utterly remote from the literary world, and never having read anything of Costals', Mme Dandillot was unaware that he had a somewhat dubious reputation in sexual matters.

  On the way back from the Doignys', he had complimented her on her simplicity: 'That little girl's ring!' Solange was indeed simple and natural, but she had always taken it for granted. The following week, having been invited through Costals to the Piérards', and 'dressing up' more than she had done for the Doignys', since it was a much more elegant party given by people she did not know, she decided not to wear a handsome family brooch which normally went with this particular costume. And whereas at the Doignys' she had worn a little make-up, this time she used none, but simply bit her lips to bring the blood to them, and remained for a full minute on the landing with her head down (pretending to fix her stocking) before going into the flat. From then on she had always kept a close rein on this capacity for simulation, in big things as well as small. The advantage of this inconsistency of hers was that, having a little of everything in her nature, it was easy for her to externalize only what was pleasing to Costals, and to keep the rest in abeyance.

  In the box at the Opéra-Comique on May 11th, she had hardly opened her mouth she was so paralysed with shyness. But if Costals had made an advance it is doubtful whether she would have demurred. From then on she had ignored the impertinence of his first letter and his habit of treating her as a bit of a tart, partly because she was fond enough of him to put up with it, partly because she wanted to bind him to her, and partly because, like her mother, she was lacking in pride.

  She had not shown the letter to Mme Dandillot, for fear of the bad impression it might make, but had agreed with her the sense of her reply - that she should telephone her willingness to see him again. She pretended not to understand what he meant. But she understood perfectly well, though in a rather vague way: for she liked vagueness, like all women, who feel more at home in it.

  In these circumstances, Costals' advances during the concert, straightforward though they were, had come as a surprise to her. He had embraced her in public; he had kissed her thigh through her skirt, had lifted her skirt and stroked her naked thighs. This girl, who until then had never been kissed without putting the man in his place, who would never have tolerated even the mildest advance, had been bowled over by all this. On returning home that evening, it will be remembered, she had had a sort of nervous fit, and vomited: from that evening (16 May) she loved him. It had taken her a fortnight to work up to it.

  And so, in the Bois de Boulogne, on the evening of their first kisses (22 May), she was already entirely his, though a little shocked (contrary to what she told him later) by some of his caresses. She told her mother that he had kissed her, and kept quiet about the rest. It was from that moment that she decided on the policy she would adopt in order to get him to marry her: never to speak of marriage, but to wait until he did, so as always to be able to say to him: 'But who was the first to mention marriage?' She was ingenuous enough to have no doubt that he would do so one day - a day which she believed much closer than it was in fact - and knew herself to be patient enough by nature to be able to await that day without to
o much anxiety.

  As is usual in such cases, the two women waited as long as they could before breathing a word of all this to M. Dandillot. For a fortnight the name Costals was never mentioned in his presence, but eventually he had to be told that they were going out together. M. Dandillot pricked up his ears. Plans were discussed. Costals was invited to lunch.

  M. Dandillot had hit it off with Costals from the start, and given his blessing to the women's plans, but for various reasons said nothing about them to the writer during their two conversations. This born bachelor, who had married 'because everyone does' and who had had nothing but worries as a result, who moreover was by far the most intelligent of the three Dandillots, sensed that Costals was not the marrying sort. In addition, he had no great love for his daughter, who had been conceived by accident at a time when, being extremely worried about his son, he had sworn never to have another child. The fact was, he considered her stupid, which was untrue, or at best insignificant, which was equally untrue: no one is insignificant. If he had broached the subject of marriage to Costals, he would have said to him: 'First of all, you're not cut out for marriage. Secondly, even supposing you were, my daughter would be wrong for you. Thirdly, I shall be dead in a few weeks. My family have given me enough trouble for the past thirty years: I wash my hands of what happens after I've gone. My wife and my daughter want this marriage. You are old enough to know your own mind. You can sort it out yourselves.' This 'thirdly' had overridden the first two reasons, and so he said nothing.

  M. Dandillot had died without a word of any consequence to his wife or daughter; no supreme adjuration; no final piece of advice; no outburst of tenderness; no posthumous letter. Entrenched behind the solitude and silence into which he had withdrawn twenty years before, he had left no indication even as to the state of his affairs, so that it was only by chance, when going through his papers, that Mme Dandillot learnt of the existence of a safe-deposit box containing some gold. When Mme Dandillot had asked him two days before his death: 'Do you still agree to Solange's marrying Costals if he proposes to her?' he had simply said: 'She can do what she likes', just as, two days later, when she had begged him to agree to see a priest, he had merely raised his arms and let them fall back on the bed in a gesture of resignation, too weak to say a word.

  From the day of their first embraces in the Bois, through the day he had made her demi-vierge (25 May) and the day he had made her a woman (24 June), to the day at Bagatelle when we have just seen Costals, for the first time, admit that in certain circumstances (war or revolution) he might marry her, Solange had stuck to her policy of never mentioning marriage. She had been astute enough to grant him without fuss or affection everything a woman of easy virtue would have granted, while at the same time remaining what she was: a rather old-fashioned little thing. In this way she had satisfied not only Costals' sexual appetite but also his 'austerity'. She had shown herself to him in a dual role - tart and young lady - and people only interested him if they were dual (at the very least); she had presented herself to him as something of a contradiction, which was the best way of exciting him: he had thought of her as someone after his own heart.

  What she felt for him seems to have been not so much love as the possibility of love. Abhorring anything irregular or underhand, she was waiting, before giving free rein to her love, to see a path open out in front of her along which she could venture wholeheartedly. It was from the same sort of feeling that she had not been able to bring herself to say tu to him: she did not want to say tu to a man who might abandon her any day and become a complete stranger to her; she would not say tu to him until he had slipped the engagement ring on to her finger. She had given herself to him out of affection, and also in the hope that it would bind him to her. Which was wise of her, for if she had played hard to get in order to inflame him the more, he would have slid out of the whole thing: he was not the sort of man who allowed himself to be manipulated by women. At first she had experienced an overwhelming pleasure from his caresses, when they were more or less chaste, though the pleasure grew less intense when she realized that his tenderness was usually but the prelude and, as it were, the froth of desire. From the caresses of his sensuality she had experienced no pleasure at all: she was frigid by nature, being a young girl, and frigid by heredity, so to speak, since both her father and mother were frigid. Thus she kept her love as it were in abeyance. It was to some extent Costals' own attitude towards her at certain times, when he told himself that he would willingly become more ardent if she became more ardent too, or more indifferent than she if she chose to withdraw.

  She was convinced that the marriage would take place. Her mother had her doubts, being more experienced and having meanwhile read Costals' books. Not all of them, however, such is the frivolity of humankind. This woman was prepared to give her daughter to a writer, and yet did not take the trouble to read, and ponder with the utmost gravity, the entire literary output of this writer, who put the whole of himself into everything he wrote.

  'If he doesn't mention marriage, you'll have to do so first. Things can't go on like this. There's sure to be gossip sooner or later.'

  'Don't worry, he'll mention it.'

  'If he hasn't said anything by next week, I shall invite him round and ask him what his intentions are.'

  'No, please, don't interfere. In that case I'll write to him. But we must wait a little longer.'

  'And what if he answers your letter with a firm "no"? You'll have to stop seeing him.'

  'Obviously ... But I assure you that even if he does answer "no" it won't be a firm "no". The main thing is not to pester him. If one does, he digs his heels in, and then.... He likes to make people fume with rage. He reminds me of Gaston (her brother) at the age of fifteen. You think he's serious because he writes books and all that. He's a kid. He does things only kids do, like running his hand along railings or shop-fronts. The sort of thing you only see errand-boys do, not men. In fact, there's a guttersnipe side to him which is what I like least about him.... '

  That 'obviously' of Solange's took a great weight off Mme Dandillot's mind. How sensible her little girl still was, after all!

  Mme Dandillot did not interrogate Solange too closely.

  'You've been to his flat?' 'Yes.' She knew quite well that if she added: 'Have you slept with him?' looking her straight in the eye, Solange was not the sort of child who would say no if it was in fact so, or at any rate would persist in the lie. And she loved and respected her too much to want to make her tell lies. Nevertheless she had been unable to resist asking her: 'You know there are certain precautions to be taken?' - to which Solange had answered 'Yes' without raising her eyes.

  Since she had no girl-friends, and since Mme Dandillot could not for a moment imagine her seeking enlightenment on such matters from books, it must have been Costals who had instructed her. For the future? For the present? Mme Dandillot was fairly sure that her daughter was the writer's mistress, and let it go at that, being a woman of her time and of her country, not to mention her social position. In fact she thought to herself: 'If he gives her a child, he'll marry her.' Be it noted that not the slightest suggestion of blackmail crossed her mind.

  Holding that the notion of ambivalence is the key to psychology, Costals had spotted at once that in these two women honesty was mixed with a certain amount of calculation. Yet, though capable of a just appreciation of the general picture, time and again he found himself debating whether in such and such an action they were being true or false, and often proved to be mistaken. And this uncertainty was to be one of the factors in the mistrust which he never ceased to entertain towards the plans of the Dandillot family.

  'I received your letter. It surprised me a little. But before tackling the main issue, as they say in the law-courts, I should like to make one observation. You tell me you are a "pure young girl". Words must after all have some meaning. I might call you a pure young girl because as a writer I am entitled to some poetic licence. But you, when you tell me that you'r
e a pure young girl.... I really cannot understand how anyone could put that in a serious letter. Now let's get to the point.

  'My first objection is that you have raised this dilemma much too early. I hardly know you, I haven't had time to put you to the test. And how could you yourself agree to marry a man you've only known for three months? You need to know a man for three years.

  'Let us assume that there's one chance in a hundred thousand that I might marry you. By breaking with me now, on the grounds that I haven't made up my mind at once, you would lose that chance. And that chance does after all exist, infinitesimal though it is. You talk of breaking off, whereas, on the contrary, the more we see of each other the better I shall get to know you and therefore the better basis I shall have for making a decision.

  'Like you, I should like to reconcile "my repugnance and your scruples". But the solution you propose is not at all, whatever you may say, a "travesty of marriage". You know perfectly well that it makes no difference whether the Church comes into it or not. It is the civil ceremony that makes a marriage, and there's no way out of it except by divorce. If I want a divorce without having any complaint against you legally speaking, and if on the other hand you refuse to accept divorce, there's nothing I can do about it, I'm trapped.

  'A word about your "respect for the Church". You "respect" the Church "too much" to wish to involve it in what you call a travesty of marriage. In my opinion that "too much" is very little, and you don't respect the Church at all, since you're prepared to dispense with it in order to get married.

  'Briefly, what I suggest to you is this: that our relationship should continue as before, but with greater regard for secrecy than in the past: absolute secrecy, in fact. (If I have not kept it as secret as I might have done up to now, it's because I thought you might acquire some reflected glory from showing me off a bit.) Let me make you happy in an atmosphere of liberty, spontaneity and vigour, which is my natural element when nothing trammels me, and not in the atmosphere of the kitchen sink. After a certain time, when I have tested your feelings and mine, I shall consult a man of law and get him to work out how one of the parties to a marriage can get out of it without the other's consent.'