Free Vertigo by Pierre Boileau Page A

interested in your bedroom stories!’
    What a fool!
    At eight o’clock he was still in his dressing-gown and slippers, his hair tousled, his eyes too bright. He hadn’t made up his mind to any course of action. He couldn’t telephone to Madeleine: she had forbidden him to, on account of the servants. Besides, what would be the use if she didn’t want to see him? Perhaps she was afraid to…
    He shaved and dressed, his thoughts elsewhere. Without it being in any way a conscious decision on his part, he knew he must see Gévigne as soon as possible. He suddenly wanted to be sincere, though at the same time making unavowed reservations. Why shouldn’t he be able to find a way of reassuring Gévigne so that he could go on seeing Madeleine? That thought broke through the fog in which he was floundering.
    With it, he noticed that the sun was shining outside, filtering in between the slats of the shutters, which he had forgotten to open. He switched off the electric light and flooded the room with sunshine. He was regaining confidence—just because it was a fine day, and because the war hadn’t yet turned nasty. He went out, left the key under the mat for the charwoman,and, at the bottom of the stairs, greeted the concierge with an almost cheery ‘good morning’. Yes, everything was going to turn out well after all. He could have laughed out loud at his qualms and terrors of an hour ago.
    But then, he had always been like that, a prey to that mysterious inner pendulum which swung from despair to hope, from misery to joy, from timidity to audacity. No respite. Never a day of real relaxation, of moral equilibrium. Though with Madeleine…
    No. He mustn’t think of her, or he’d get all muddled again. To distract his attention he looked about him. Paris shimmered like a mirage; never had the light been more tender, more sensually palpable. One would have liked to touch the tree-tops, touch the sky, and take the whole magic city to one’s bosom. Flavières went on foot, walking slowly. At ten sharp he entered Gévigne’s office, to find that the latter had just arrived.
    ‘Come in, old boy. Sit down… I’ll be with you in a moment. I must just have a word with my Paris manager.’
    Gévigne looked tired. In a few years he would have bags under his eyes, flabby, lined cheeks. He wouldn’t get past fifty unscathed. Flavières couldn’t help feeling secretly pleased. He had hardly settled down in his chair before Gévigne came back. He gave Flavières a friendly slap on the back as he passed.
    ‘You know, I envy you,’ he said. ‘I’d just love to spend my afternoon escorting a pretty woman about the place—particularly if it was my own wife… The life I lead! It’s no joke.’
    He sat down heavily, swivelled his chair round, so as to face Flavières.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Nothing. Nothing much. The day before yesterday we went to the Louvre. Yesterday I didn’t see her. I was expecting her to ring me up, and I confess that her silence—’
    ‘Nothing serious,’ said Gévigne. ‘Madeleine’s been a little out of sorts. When I got back this morning I found her in bed. Tomorrow she’ll be as right as rain again. I know her.’
    ‘Did she speak about our afternoon in the Louvre?’
    ‘She just mentioned it. She showed me some baubles she’d bought… a lighter, I think… She seemed all right to me.’
    ‘I’m so glad.’
    Flavières crossed his legs, threw an arm over the back of his chair. The sudden stab of relief was almost like a pain.
    ‘You know, I’m wondering whether there’s any use in my going on,’ he said.
    ‘What on earth are you saying? What an idea! You’ve seen for yourself what she’s capable of doing.’
    ‘Yes. Of course,’ said Flavières awkwardly. ‘But… Well, the thing is I’m beginning to find it a bit embarrassing going about with your wife. I look as if… Put it this way: it’s an equivocal situation.’
    Gévigne was fidgeting with a paper-knife.
    ‘And what about