Aimez-vous Brahms Read Online Free PDF

thought she heard an immense sigh, an immense chorus of "Already . . ."
    At two o'clock on that same Saturday, she decided to ring Mrs. Van den Besh. If, by some miracle, she weren't at Deauville, she might be able to spend the afternoon working with her. It was the only thing that appealed to her. Like those men, she thought, who go to the office on Sundays to avoid their families. Mrs. Van den Besh was having slight trouble with her liver, sounded distinctly bored and greeted her proposal with enthusiasm. She found Mrs. Van den Besh in a damask dressing-gown, a glass of mineral water in her hand, looking slightly blotchy. Paule momentarily reflected that Simon's father must have been very handsome to offset the banality of her face.
    "How is your son? You know we ran into him the other evening.''
    She did not add that she had lunched with him only the day before; she was amazed at her own reticence. At once she met with a martyred expression.
    "How should I know? He doesn't talk to me; he doesn't tell me about anything—except his money troubles, of course! What's more, he drinks. His father drank too, you know."
    "He hardly looks a dipsomaniac," smiled Paule. She thought of Simon's smooth face and flourishing English complexion.
    "He's handsome, isn't he?"
    Mrs. Van den Besh grew animated and produced albums portraying Simon as a child, Simon on a pony with ringlets flowing down his cheeks, Simon as a gaping schoolboy, etc. There were, no doubt, a thousand photographs of him and Paule secretly marvelled that he had become neither odious, nor a sodomite.
    "But there always comes a time when children grow away from you," sighed the aggrieved mother.
    And a moment later she became the rather flighty woman she must once have been.
    "I may say there's no lack of opportunities . . ."
    "I'm sure," said Paule politely. "Would you like to look at these fabrics, Madame? There is one here that. . ."
    "Do call me Teresa."
    She grew friendly, rang for tea, asked questions. Paule reflected that Roger had slept with her twenty years before, and searched her doughy face in vain for some remnant of charm. At the same time, she tried desperately to keep the conversation on a professional footing, but watched Teresa sink inexorably into womanly confidences. It was always the same. There was something fine and stable about her face which unleashed the deadliest torrents of words.
    "You are probably younger than I," began Mrs. Van den Besh (and Paule could not suppress a smile at the "probably"), "but you know what a difference surroundings can make . . ."
    Paule had stopped listening to her. The woman reminded her of someone. She realised that she merely bore out the imitation Simon had given the day before; he must, she thought, have a certain intuitive faculty, a certain cruelty which was obscured by his shyness. What was it he had said? I accuse you of letting love go by , of living on subterfuge and resignation: I sentence you to loneliness . Had he meant her? Had he divined something of her life? Had he said it on purpose? She felt a wave of anger at the thought.
    She had stopped listening to the ceaseless chatter at her side, and Simon's entrance made her jump. He stopped short at the sight of her and pulled a face to mask his pleasure. She was touched.
    "I picked the right time to come in. I'll give you a hand."
    "Alas, I must be going."
    She felt like rushing out, taking to her heels, escaping from the stares of mother and son, hiding herself at home with a book. At this hour she should have been on the road with Roger, flicking the radio on and off, laughing with him or quailing—for as a driver he was prone to blind rages which sometimes brought them close to death. She got slowly to her feet.
    "I'll see you out," said Simon.
    At the door she turned and looked at him for the first time since his arrival. He looked out of sorts and she could not help saying so.
    "It's the weather," he said. "May I come down with you?"
    She shrugged