La Chamade Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Françoise Sagan
bonds, and the sports car next to it seemed absurdly young and frail.
Lucile removed her make-up. She was totally exhausted and contemplated the tiny wrinkles that showed at her mouth and eyelids, wondered what they meant, who or what had caused them. They were not the lines of passion, of effort. They were probably the marks of facility, idleness, distraction, and for a moment she loathed herself. She ran her hand over her brow. She had felt disgust for herself frequently during the last year. She must see a doctor. A question of blood pressure, no doubt. She would take a few vitamins and she could gaily continue throwing, or dreaming, her life away. She heard herself call out rather angrily:
'Charles! Why did you leave me alone with Antoine?'
At the same time, she knew that what she really wanted was a scene, a scandal, anything but this quiet disgust. And it was Charles who would pay, Charles who would suffer. That she only liked extremes was one thing, that she made others support them was something else. But the question had already left, like a javelin, crossing her bedroom, the landing, to hit Charles as he undressed slowly in his own room. He was so tired that, for a second, he thought of dodging the query and replying: 'Really, Lucile, I had a cold.' She would not have been insistent: her search for truth never went very far. But he was too anxious to know, to suffer, he had lost forever the taste for security that had so skilfully closed his eyes to his mistresses' infidelities for the past twenty years. He answered:
'I thought you had a fancy for him.'
Instead of turning, he looked at himself in the mirror, and was surprised that he had not grown pale.
'Have you decided to throw me into the arms of all the men I fancy?'
'Don't be annoyed with me, Lucile. In this case, it's too bad a sign.'
But she had already crossed the room, she slipped her arms around his neck, murmuring pardons indistinctly. All he could see was the reflection of Lucile's dark hair on his shoulder, a long strand on his arm and he felt the same heartache, the same sorrow. 'She's all I love, she'll never really belong to me. She will leave me.' And at that moment, how could he possibly imagine loving another lock of hair, another human being? Love's strength probably lies in a sense of the irreparable.
'That's not what I meant,' said Lucile, 'but I wouldn't like it'.
'You wouldn't like me to be accommodating,' said Charles turning to her. 'Rest assured, I'm not. I just wanted to make sure of something, that's all.'
'What did you find?'
'Your expression as you entered the restaurant, your way of not looking at him. I know you. You're attracted to him.'
Lucile broke away from him.
'And so?' she asked. 'Is it really impossible to find a man attractive without making someone else suffer? Will I never be at peace? What are these laws? What have you done with liberty? With, with ...'
She was confused, she stammered, and she had the impression of having been misunderstood, as always.
'I've done nothing with my liberty,' said Charles with a smile, 'and you know that I'm in love with you. And it seems to me that you still have yours. As things stand, Antoine pleases you. It will turn into something or it won't, maybe I'll know and may be not. There's nothing I can do.'
He lay on the bed in his dressing-gown and Lucile stood facing him. He sat up on the edge of the bed.
'It's true,' she said dreamily. 'I think him attractive.'
They looked at each other.
'And if anything happens, will you be hurt?' asked Lucile.
'Yes,' said Charles. 'Why?'
'Because otherwise I'd leave you,' she said, half stretched on Charles' bed, head in hand, knees doubled up to her chin, her expression relaxed. Two minutes later, she was asleep and Charles Blassans-Lignières had trouble in giving each of them a fair share of the blankets.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He obtained her telephone number from Johnny and called her the next morning. They met at four o'clock in the
Lucile removed her make-up. She was totally exhausted and contemplated the tiny wrinkles that showed at her mouth and eyelids, wondered what they meant, who or what had caused them. They were not the lines of passion, of effort. They were probably the marks of facility, idleness, distraction, and for a moment she loathed herself. She ran her hand over her brow. She had felt disgust for herself frequently during the last year. She must see a doctor. A question of blood pressure, no doubt. She would take a few vitamins and she could gaily continue throwing, or dreaming, her life away. She heard herself call out rather angrily:
'Charles! Why did you leave me alone with Antoine?'
At the same time, she knew that what she really wanted was a scene, a scandal, anything but this quiet disgust. And it was Charles who would pay, Charles who would suffer. That she only liked extremes was one thing, that she made others support them was something else. But the question had already left, like a javelin, crossing her bedroom, the landing, to hit Charles as he undressed slowly in his own room. He was so tired that, for a second, he thought of dodging the query and replying: 'Really, Lucile, I had a cold.' She would not have been insistent: her search for truth never went very far. But he was too anxious to know, to suffer, he had lost forever the taste for security that had so skilfully closed his eyes to his mistresses' infidelities for the past twenty years. He answered:
'I thought you had a fancy for him.'
Instead of turning, he looked at himself in the mirror, and was surprised that he had not grown pale.
'Have you decided to throw me into the arms of all the men I fancy?'
'Don't be annoyed with me, Lucile. In this case, it's too bad a sign.'
But she had already crossed the room, she slipped her arms around his neck, murmuring pardons indistinctly. All he could see was the reflection of Lucile's dark hair on his shoulder, a long strand on his arm and he felt the same heartache, the same sorrow. 'She's all I love, she'll never really belong to me. She will leave me.' And at that moment, how could he possibly imagine loving another lock of hair, another human being? Love's strength probably lies in a sense of the irreparable.
'That's not what I meant,' said Lucile, 'but I wouldn't like it'.
'You wouldn't like me to be accommodating,' said Charles turning to her. 'Rest assured, I'm not. I just wanted to make sure of something, that's all.'
'What did you find?'
'Your expression as you entered the restaurant, your way of not looking at him. I know you. You're attracted to him.'
Lucile broke away from him.
'And so?' she asked. 'Is it really impossible to find a man attractive without making someone else suffer? Will I never be at peace? What are these laws? What have you done with liberty? With, with ...'
She was confused, she stammered, and she had the impression of having been misunderstood, as always.
'I've done nothing with my liberty,' said Charles with a smile, 'and you know that I'm in love with you. And it seems to me that you still have yours. As things stand, Antoine pleases you. It will turn into something or it won't, maybe I'll know and may be not. There's nothing I can do.'
He lay on the bed in his dressing-gown and Lucile stood facing him. He sat up on the edge of the bed.
'It's true,' she said dreamily. 'I think him attractive.'
They looked at each other.
'And if anything happens, will you be hurt?' asked Lucile.
'Yes,' said Charles. 'Why?'
'Because otherwise I'd leave you,' she said, half stretched on Charles' bed, head in hand, knees doubled up to her chin, her expression relaxed. Two minutes later, she was asleep and Charles Blassans-Lignières had trouble in giving each of them a fair share of the blankets.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He obtained her telephone number from Johnny and called her the next morning. They met at four o'clock in the
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