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  “What’s that mean?”

  “Secret. That’s how they do it when a big man marries a girl from nowhere.”

  “What for?”

  She was terribly hurt by the downgrading of their future marriage. He explained his reasons:

  “Listen, if they know I’m married, I’m through. Sunk. A big producer, he’s sort of a myth, see. All the girls go for him; they dream about how they’ll marry him, and while they’re waiting they bring around the angels, you know, the bankroll boys.”

  He felt he’d convinced her. He’d only hurt her worse. She started to cry, very softly, in her corner.

  “Oof.… What’s the matter now?”

  “You’ll cheat on me, with all those girls!”

  This was more insight than he could handle. He threw the blackest mark in the book at her:

  “Bourgeois!”

  They were just coming to Marly.

  With his foot planted on the wall, Julien, bending his body like a bow, pushed with all his strength. Suddenly, in one rush, the elevator door slid open.

  He stretched out his arm in the dark, to feel his way to freedom. His hand hit a cold, smooth surface. He lit his lighter. The tiny flame showed only a white blind wall before him.

  Chapter VI

  Geneviève outraced the maid and burst into the dining room unannounced.

  “Georges!” she cried. “Something terrible’s happened. Julien’s having an aff …”

  She stopped short. The children were gaping at her. Her brother’s spoon had stopped in mid-air. Jeanne, her sister-in-law, pushed her chair back and threw her napkin to the floor. Husband and wife exchanged glances. Georges lowered his eyes. A chill came over Geneviève.

  “No reason to barge in like that,” Jeanne said, her voice low and shaking. Then, turning to the children: “Say good evening to your aunt.”

  Geneviève kissed her nephews; she kept turning damp, urgent eyes on Georges. But he kept his head down.

  “Come into the living room,” he finally said, and got up.

  She followed him, shaking like a leaf. Jeanne turned away from her. The maid tried to excuse herself:

  “Madame told me …”

  “You may go,” Jeanne said shortly, “I’ll put the children to bed. Bernard! Jean—Paul! Off to bed!”

  They obeyed, without a word. There was a high charge of electricity in the air.

  In the living room, Geneviève finished her story. Georges listened to her, breathing quietly, frowning.

  “I saw her, Georges, d’you understand? Saw her … the little whore, getting into the car …”

  “My poor Geneviève,” Georges began, but he glanced towards the dining room, sighed, and cleared his throat: “And then what?”

  Not knowing what else to do, he filled his pipe and lit it.

  “Then what?” Geneviève said dramatically. “Julien’s having an affair, that’s what!”

  He motioned to her to lower her voice and said:

  “Poor Ginou, you’d think you’d be used to it by now …”

  “Georges!”

  It was a call for help, and his reaction was automatic; he threw out his arms and Geneviève fell into them, sobbing. He patted her shoulder, gently, dully:

  “Poor kid,” he said. “You know you can’t count on him … that’s the way he’s made.”

  It hurt him to see his sister cry. He’d always been more like a father than a brother to her. But, just now, he didn’t dare let himself go; he kept looking at the door out of the corner of his eye; his wife might come through it any minute.

  “He doesn’t love me, Georges! Nobody loves me.”

  “Oh, sure, come on,” he murmured, “you’re always like that. Nobody. Everybody! Never! Always. Come on, come on, you don’t want to dramatize everything, do you?”

  She moved away from him, and Georges heaved a sigh of relief, as if he’d avoided being caught in an immoral act. Geneviève sobbed on:

  “I never should’ve married a man younger than me …”

  “Well, you did … and Julien does love you, in his way.… You’ve just got to try to understand …”

  “No! No! I never should’ve married him!”

  “I believe it was mentioned to you at the time,” Jeanne said as she came in.

  They hadn’t heard her open the door: they turned their heads toward her. Georges looked distinctly guilty: his wife motioned to him, and he joined her on the sofa. She took his hand, as if to guide him through the conversation. She was still quite a beautiful woman her face barely marked by age, but with something willful and sad about it. Alone on her chair, facing them, Geneviève looked like a prisoner in the dock.

  “What is it this time?” Jeanne asked, her voice cold and impersonal.

  Geneviève’s head dropped. Georges answered for her:

  “She went to the office to meet her husband and she saw him leaving with a girl.”

  Geneviève was stunned. Summed up like that, there wasn’t anything more to say about it. A trivial, everyday occurrence. Nobody cared about the tragedy of her life.

  “But that isn’t all!” she shouted. “Just ten minutes before, he was so sweet to me on the telephone, you wouldn’t believe it … And I thought …”

  Her tears cut her off. Her sister-in-law said peacefully:

  “Classic. Some husbands are always sweet before. Some of them afterwards.” he gave her husband cold stare: he gave her a shamefaced smile. “Husbands like to ease their conscience … whenever it’s convenient. I know some who even give their wives presents as soon as they break up with a mistress.”

  The stem of Georges’ pipe broke between his teeth, neatly. Geneviève stared at the pieces through a curtain of tears. Jeanne got up to bring him another pipe from the rack, and went on coolly:

  “The really funny thing is when the size of the present matches the length of the affair. Very funny.”

  She sat down again, gazing fondly at a huge solitaire on her finger. Georges concentrated on filling his pipe again. But he couldn’t control himself.

  “You’re talking rot, Jeanne. If you’re trying to hurt Geneviève, she’s had enough today. If it’s me you’re talking about, you know damn well I’ve never been unfaithful to you… I don’t have the time!”

  Jeanne was completely unmoved.

  “There’s all sorts of ways of being unfaithful, dear. Some men get tied up in business, some get tied up in their family …”

  Georges shrugged. It was too much. What was the good of arguing all the time?

  “Look, Geneviève,” he said. “What d’you expect me to do? Track him down, bring him back by the scruff of the neck, give him a good talking-to? Eh?”

  “But I don’t know! I came here because you’re all I’ve got in the world! I can’t just wait at home until Julien gets through playing around and decides to come back!”

  “If he comes back,” Jeanne said quietly.

  “All right, stay here,” Georges suggested. “You can call up every now and then to find out if he’s home. Listen, maybe he’s there already; I’ll just make sure.”

  Glad of the chance to get away, he left the room.

  The women heard him turn the dial. Swiftly, Jeanne got up and stood over her sister-in-law.

  “Listen to me, Geneviève. I don’t want you getting Georges mixed up in any of your little crises from now on. No more. It’s enough. You know how much he loves you and you take advantage of it. You plague him to death, and he isn’t the same any more …”

  Geneviève shrank back in her chair. She was frightened. Jeanne’s voice rang in her ears, controlled and cruel. From the hallway, Georges’ bass chimed in:

  “No answer.”

  Geneviève sat up, ready to run to him for protection. But Jeanne didn’t move out of her way. Geneviève raised her voice instead:

  “The maid must be in the kitchen.…”

  “Keep ringing, dear,” Jeanne sai
d, “somebody must be there.”

  Then she bent toward Geneviève again:

  “We’ve got enough trouble as it is, Georges and I. You see? You’ve got your home, and I’ve got mine… But at least we try not to …”

  She swallowed hard.

  “… try not to be too jealous of you. Understand?”

  Her eyes were flashing. She seemed to be wondering whether she’d said too much. Geneviève stammered:

  “But what have I done, Jeanne? Jealous of me? But I’m so unhappy … I’ve got nothing. And you’ve got money, your home, your children, your husband; you love him and he loves you …”

  Jeanne drew her hand over her forehead, and shivered. Then she spoke, rapidly:

  “You’ve never suffered. Never worked. Everything’s just come to you. Georges and Julien have never let you want for anything. All you’ve ever had to do in life is milk it like a cow. That’s what I’m jealous of. I’ve had to fight for the least little thing, and most of the time I got nothing. I’ve gotten used to expecting the least from other people … and you’ve gotten used to demanding the most.”

  Geneviève shook her head.

  “If you think life’s easy with Julien …”

  “You’ve made him the way he is. You. All by yourself. With your whims, and your sob stories, and your whining for money, and your irresponsibility. If it hadn’t been for you, Julien might’ve …”

  She stopped and sat down, calm and aloof again; Georges’ step echoed from the hallway. He came in, cheerfully, unconvincingly:

  “Doesn’t seem to be back yet. But I imagine he’ll be in any minute now, don’t you?”

  He glanced at his watch, put an arm around his wife and another around his sister.

  Seven-thirty. Listen, girls, why don’t the three of us take in a movie?”

  Jeanne forced a smile.

  “That’s a marvelous idea,” she said. “But you two go if you like; I’d rather stay with the children.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” Georges asked.

  “Oh … a bit of a headache, that’s all. Why don’t you freshen up, Geneviève, and go out with your brother? Julien will come home while you’re at the movies, and you can make him wait for a change.”

  Geneviève chewed on her handkerchief. Her fear had vanished; there was something else in its place. Frustration. She had a right to be consoled, and she hadn’t been. Tears, ready for the shedding, were flooding her chest, stifling her. She had to say or do something, anything, to smash their indifference.

  “I want a divorce!” she screamed.

  One step took Jeanne between brother and sister. She hissed:

  “It’s not true. You want us to fuss over you, that’s all, and you don’t care how you do it.”

  But Geneviève wasn’t listening. She turned to her brother. His skin was always thinner.

  “Georges, this time I’m serious. I mean it. I never want to see his face again. I’ve been hurt once too often.”

  She hid her face in her hands, pumping out a new flood of tears. Georges was about to give in, but his wife’s eyes held him to the line. He recognized the look: four days of trouble. He slumped.

  “All right, Ginou, you want a divorce.… But it’s Saturday night. On Monday, I’ll take care of the whole thing.”

  Geneviève slowly raised her head:

  “You’re not going to help me?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, at the end of his rope, “I’ll help you, of course; only what the hell d’you expect me to do now?”

  She got up, shattered. She walked, with infinite dignity, to the doorway. Her brother and his wife followed her to the hall. Then she stopped. There was too much rage bottled up inside her. She wanted an ally against Julien, immediately, on the spot. She couldn’t carry her hatred alone, she had to share it.

  There was still one card up her sleeve: she played it.

  “Yes, I want to divorce Julien—but it’s not for my sake, Georges, it’s for yours. I have to tell you, it’s been on my conscience too long …”

  Georges sighed:

  “Julien’s like most businessmen … what he’s had to do under pressure doesn’t …”

  “You see?” Geneviève crowed. “You don’t know a thing!”

  Running to him, she hung on his neck, delighted at finding the chink in his armor.

  “You remember the two million he borrowed from you last year? You remember he didn’t pay it back on time?”

  Georges took a step backward. She’d hit home. Geneviève stripped off her gloves; all of her great sorrow had gone out the window, she was smelling success. She laughed: Jeanne stared at her, helpless.

  “You needed the money to pick up an option, right? You came to our house to explain it to Julien, right? Something or other, I can’t remember … a cargo at Valparaiso.”

  “The sponges?” Jeanne suggested.

  He nodded yes.

  “Georges, he had the money,” Geneviève said. “But he told you he didn’t have a sou. The truth is, he was looking for something to invest it in.”

  Georges felt it was getting a bit dark. He nervously lit the lamp on the mantel.

  “Well, Georges, you’d just told him about the best investment of the year. He bought up your sponges. With your money. And never told you a word. Do you understand?”

  Georges went white. His heart missed a beat and he put his hand to it, automatically. Jeanne rushed to him.

  “Darling, don’t upset yourself, please!”

  “Leave me be,” Georges said hoarsely.

  “He paid you later, with part of the profits. But that’s not all. The insurance. You know, the shipments he got insured for you …”

  “He had a friend in a broker’s office, cleared the whole thing for me.… He got his cut from the broker, didn’t cost me a franc extra.”

  “Poor Georges. He really pulled the wool over your eyes.”

  “For God’s sake,” Georges burst out, “I held the policies right in my hand, not once, ten times!”

  “Sorry. The eleventh time, he lowered the boom. Nine hundred thousand francs.”

  “The American tractors?” he whispered.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “What’re you talking about? He paid up for damaged cargo when they came in!”

  “What’re you talking about, Georges? Damage came to ninety thousand and small change; he didn’t care.”

  Georges let himself fall into a chair.

  “All right, but … if there’d been a wreck, if I’d lost the shipment …”

  “You’d have lost your shirt!” she screamed. “Your skin! He never insured your precious tractors.…”

  Georges’ forehead broke out in a sweat. Nine hundred thousand francs.… Anger began to rise up in him, like a spring tide. He hit his fist into his palm.

  “The dirty swine!” he roared.

  He snapped to his feet. His eyes were rolling.

  “My God! The nerve! Just last week he asked me to lend him five million more!”

  “Five million?” Geneviève cried.

  “Yes! Him! Me! Christ, he doesn’t give a damn about anything!”

  “But what did he want it for?”

  “How the hell would I know? He told me some cockeyed story …” He reassured his wife: “Don’t worry, I didn’t give him a sou. But, listen, he’s not going to get away with it just like that! Believe you bloody well me he isn’t!”

  He tore out of the hallway, out of the apartment, possessed. Geneviève and Jeanne stood stock still. For different reasons.

  “Happy now?” Jeanne asked quietly. “You finally made him pay attention.”

  “But … where’s he going?”

  “What d’you want me to tell you?”

  Jeanne turned away; she was terribly tired, defeated.

  “When he loses his temper like that, there’s no telling what he’ll do. He’s probably gone out to find Julie
n and break his neck.”

  Suddenly Geneviève was really afraid.

  “No!”

  It was her turn to rush out of the apartment, calling her brother’s name at the top of her lungs.

  Chapter VII

  With a pocketknife, Julien had managed to pry up a square of linoleum from the floor. He lifted it, his hands shaking with impatience. Every elevator had a trap door, for maintenance of the wires and cables. He’d gone over the ceiling carefully with his fingertips. Nothing. It had to be in the floor.

  A piece of luck. The trap door was right underneath. He felt around the edges, grinning with hope. He found the catch, pulled it toward him. The door swung open. A wave of stale air blew into the elevator.

  Kneeling, bent over, leaning on one hand, he reached into nothing with the other, searching for the elevator cable to the main floor. His finger found—more nothing. He became desperate. He lay down on the floor with his shoulder in the opening, swinging his arm. No luck. He was keeping a tight grip on his nerves, but it took all he had—little by little, they were giving way. Now, no need to panic. The cables must run along the wall, he just couldn’t reach them from there.

  The thought of freedom, even at the risk of his life, gave him his second wind. Striking his lighter, he tried to get a look at the shaft.

  A black, endless, bottomless hole, where his tiny flame cast more shadow than light. He gasped. He knew he’d never make it, he didn’t have the physical courage. He threw himself backward, his body shivering in seven directions, with a high, helpless laugh that echoed back from the walls of the pit.

  The Frégate stopped under a feebly lit sign: AUX LILAS. HOTEL. RESTAURANT.”

  “Suit you?” Fred asked. “Does what suit me?”

  “Why, spending the week end here, at the Lilac Inn. Doesn’t look bad to me.”

  Through the muddy windshield, she made out the shape of an iron gate. She didn’t want to get out.

  “It’s closed,” she said.

  “You’re nuts. These places are open all year round. C’mon, let’s go.”

  He started to open the door. She touched his arm.

  “Fred! Wait a minute.… Couldn’t we … just go back?”

  His eyes widened with surprise.