Free Belle De Jour by Joseph Kessel Page B

abandon she ended by feeling neither shame nor regret. She simply waited for morning and its justice. But the morning brought nothing. Certain as she felt that such a clumsy trick could never save her twice, Séverine again faked sleep and Pierre was again deceived.
    As the minutes passed and day-light grew, a dim hope rose within her. It still seemed impossible to escape, but at least she desired to do so. All morning she ceaselessly telephoned, inviting friends to lunch or dinner, getting herself asked out, making dates for every minute of the day—even filling many of her evenings. When she looked at her engagement book after these efforts she breathed again. She wouldn’t be able to spend a moment alone with Pierre for more than a week.
    He was surprised by Séverine’s sudden frenzy of gaiety, but as explanation she gave him such an imploring look that, without understanding, he was overcome and disarmed. That night they didn’t go home till Séverine absolutely tired out, nearly fell asleep in a nightclub. As soon as they got home she fell into a deep sleep which helped her avoid Pierre the following morning. The day was taken up with a dozen duties she’d imposed on herself. That evening was a repetition of the one before, and equally exhausting.
    Séverine gradually wore down her fears and even her memories. The hectic rush of her life thrust into the distance, reduced to unreality, that day she’d been tothe rue Virène. Soon she wouldn’t need a shield to guard her from Pierre.
    There now appeared in Séverine’s soul the phenomenon from which those governed by overly-strong instincts seldom escape. She was like a gambler who has weathered his first loss and who, now that the danger is over, begins to dream of the green tables, the look of the cards, and the ritual of the game; or like an explorer tired of his travels who is suddenly consumed by images of solitude, combat, and space; or like an opium addict who has kicked the habit but who, softly terrified, smells the fumes of the drug. Just so, Séverine was insensibly surrounded by memories of the rue Virène. Like all those ruled by forbidden desire, she was tempted, not by the satisfaction of that desire, but by the first-fruits with which satisfaction was surrounded.
    Mme Anaïs’ face, Charlotte’s lovely breasts, the ambivalent humility in that room, the smell she seemed to have carried off with her in her hair: all these images maddened Séverine’s lusting memory. At first they made her quiver with distaste; then she derived delight from them. Pierre and the powerful love she had for him stopped her for a while. But the stamp of her destiny, that fate inscribed within her, had to be fulfilled.

VI
    Having just shown out a good client, Mme Anaïs paused to consider the justness of her thinking. She simply had to find a partner for Charlotte and Mathilde. They were both attractive, but the house lacked variety; moreover, an empty room was a complete waste. All the same, Mme Anaïs hesitated to seek a replacement for Belle de Jour. That one would have fitted perfectly—so educated, so lady-like. And perhaps Mme Anaïs found it hard to forget the look that had brought them together for a second.
    Charlotte and Mathilde lay naked on the bed. Mathilde’s hair was paler than the shoulder on which it lay, and Charlotte tenderly stroked it.
    “Sorry to bother you, girls,” said Mme Anaïs, “but I have to talk to you about business. You still don’t know anyone who wants to come and work here?”
    Mathilde answered first, in that timid voice of hers, as if she’d done something wrong without realizing it, but everyone else knew about it:
    “It’s no good, I don’t know anyone, Madame. I work here, go home, and that’s it.”
    “What about you, Charlotte? One of your old friends?”
    “I can’t ask them. When I left the last place I told them I was going to be somebody’s mistress. Even if I should meet any of them again, I can’t let them