Free Belle De Jour by Joseph Kessel

all that showed she was alive. Gently but firmly Mme Anaïs pushed her toward the door.
    “No, no,” she burst out, “it’s no use, I’m not going in there.”
    “Listen, where the hell d’you think you are, honey?”
    Although Séverine was hardly conscious she shivered through and through. Never would she have thought that Mme Anaïs’ amiable voice could have become so inflexibile, or that her open face could suddenly have turned so tough—to the point of cruelty. But it wasn’t fear or anger that made Séverine tremble; it was a feeling she recognized, one that traveled deliciously, miserably, through her whole body. She’d lived her life in such a secure sense of dignity that no one had ever dared displease her. And here was the madame of a bordello putting her in line like some lazy maid-servant. A disturbed gleam of acknowledgement appeared in Séverine’s haughty eyes; and, so as to drink to the dregs this dose of humiliation, she obeyed.
    M Adolphe had not been wasting his time. He had folded his trousers and artistically arranged his suspenders over a table. He was just completing this task when Belle de Jour came back. Catching sight of the salesman in long underwear, she took such a definite step back that M Adolphe got between her and the door.
    “You’re really a wild one, aren’t you,” he said in a satisfied voice. “But look here, I’ve sent the others off. Now there’s only the two of us.”
    He came close to Séverine, who suddenly realized she was taller than he, and pinched her cheek.
    “So it’s true—first time with anyone outside yourlover. Need a little dough? No? You’re dressed well enough, but that doesn’t prove anything. What is it then, need a little sex …”
    Séverine was so revolted that she had to turn away to keep from slapping that pasty face.
    “You’re just shy,” whispered M Adolphe, “you wait, you’re going to like it all right.”
    He tried to take off Séverine’s jacket but she twisted away from him.
    “I’m not kidding around,” M Adolphe exclaimed, “you excite me, honey.”
    He took her full in his arms—and a fist in his chest sent him reeling. He was stunned for a second; then the frustrated passion of a man paying for his pleasure produced, in his insipid eyes and bland features the same transformation which Séverine had seen in Mme Anaïs’ face, and which had made her obey. He gripped the young woman’s wrists, shoved his furious and discolored face into hers and got out: “You’re crazy! Me, I like to play around all right, but not with your kind.”
    And the same hideous sensuality she had felt a few minutes before—but still stronger—made Séverine powerless before him.
    She eventually left, scarcely bothering to put her clothes on properly, ignoring Mme Anaïs’ recriminations. The pleasure the degradation had given her had vanished almost as soon as the man who caused it touched her. He had taken her dead.
    And now she fled the rue Virène, M Adolphe, her own actions, and especially the question of what she was going to do. She fled them down the damp eveningquays, down shining streets she didn’t recognize, through squares as huge as her despair, crawling with as many caterpillars as there were twisting through her brain. She couldn’t think of the future. The idea of returning home, finding everything as it was, seemed utterly impossible. She walked more and more quickly, paying no attention to where she was going, as if a mere multiplication of steps would serve to place an increasingly impassable space between her and her apartment. So she walked on, sometimes through dense crowds, sometimes down empty alleys, a hunted animal trying to escape being wounded by its mad career. Exhaustion finally stopped her. Seeking the shadows, she leaned against a wall. At once oppressive images streamed into her mind. To get rid of them she started off again. This time she was soon overcome by fatigue. Finally she surrendered to