Chapter 10 Chapter Four

The father only showed a look of astonishment, and the waitress told him that Elsa had come to fetch the box, and left immediately.I don't know why she didn't tell him about our conversation.This was a native woman, very fanciful, and probably had very interesting ideas about our situation, and especially about the adjustments she had made to the room. Tormented by guilt, the kindness shown to me by my father and Anna was unbearable at first, but soon became pleasant.Anyway, even if it was my fault, I couldn't bear to see Cyril and Elsa arm in arm all the time, looking very intimate.I can no longer go rowing, but I can see Elsa passing by in the boat, with her hair blown about as before.When we met them, I had no trouble feigning indifference and indifference.We met them everywhere: in pine forests, in villages, on roads.Ana glanced at me, talked to me about something else, put her hand on my shoulder, and encouraged me.Did I mention she was kind?I don't know if her kindness is a tasteful way of her shrewdness, or, more simply, her indifference, but she always says the right thing and does the right thing.If I had to suffer, I couldn't have had a better person to lean on than her.

So I let myself go, not terribly disturbed, because, as I said, my father showed no sign of jealousy.This confirmed his love for Anna, and also proved my plan invalid, which made me unhappy.One day, he and I walked into the post office, and Elsa happened to pass us, she didn't seem to see us.My father turned his head to her, as if to a stranger, and whispered: "Hey, Elsa, she's much prettier." "Love works well for her," I said. He looked at me in surprise: "You seem to think she's better off with him..." "What do you want me to say?" I said, "they're about the same age, it's more or less fate."

"If it weren't for Anna, it wouldn't have been fated that he would be angry. "If I don't agree, don't imagine that a little urchin can poach a woman from me..." "Age plays a role after all," I said seriously. He shrugged.When I came back, I found him absorbed in his thoughts.He may have thought that Elsa and Cyril were indeed young, that by marrying a woman of their own age he was no longer one of those men without a date of birth.I couldn't help feeling a sense of victory.I hate myself when I see Anna's crow's feet around her eyes and the shallow wrinkles around her mouth. But I'm so impulsive and regret it later...

A week passed.Cyril and Elsa don't know how their affairs are going and probably wait for me every day.I dare not go to them.They might also force me to come up with some ideas, which I don't want to do.Besides, I went to my own room every afternoon, saying that I was doing my homework, but in fact, I didn't do anything: I found a book on yoga and read it very carefully, sometimes laughing like a maniac alone, but He dared not speak loudly, for fear that Anna would hear him.Indeed, I told her that I would study my lessons diligently.For her, I more or less played the role of a lovelorn woman.The love interest takes solace in the hope of someday earning a bachelor's degree.I feel like she respects me for that.So I sometimes mentioned Kant's name at the dinner table, which obviously irritated my father very much.

One afternoon, I wrapped myself in a towel and looked a lot like an Indian.I put my right foot on my left and stare into the mirror. This is not for self-appreciation, but to achieve the highest level of yoga practice.Then someone knocked on the door.I presume it is female poetry. Since she didn't care about anything, I called her in. Unexpectedly, it was Anna who came in.She stood at the door for a while, then smiled and asked me: "What game are you playing?" "Practice yoga," I said, "but it's not a game, it's an Indian philosophy." She approached the table and picked up my book.I began to feel uneasy.The book is open on page 100.The rest of the pages are filled with my input, things like "it won't work" or "it took a toll."

"You are very careful," she said. "How is that great treatise on Pascal, which you have spoken to us so many times in the past?" Indeed, at the dinner table I liked to comment on a line by Pascal, and pretended to have thought about it, and was writing my thesis.Naturally, I didn't write a single word.I froze.Ana stared at me, understood, and said: "You don't do your homework, you practice in a weird way in front of the mirror, that's all your fault! But it's even worse when you later lie to us—your father and me—for fun. Then again, you suddenly When I started doing my homework, I was also surprised..."

She walked out.Wrapped in a towel, I was still dumbfounded.I don't understand why she calls this a "lie". I mentioned the thesis to please her.But suddenly she insulted me with contempt.I was used to her new attitude towards me, so her calm, insulting, contemptuous manner irritated me.I took off the towel, put on a pair of trousers and an old shirt, and rushed out.It was hot, but driven by rage, I ran.I was all the more annoyed because I wasn't sure I wasn't ashamed.I ran all the way to Cyril's house, stopped at the gate of the villa, and gasped for breath.In the heat of the afternoon the houses were strangely deep and silent, brooding on their secrets.I went up to Cyril's bedroom.The day we went to see his mother together, he showed me his bedroom.I pushed open the door and saw him lying on the bed, his cheek against his arm, asleep.I stared at him for a minute.For the first time in my eyes, he seemed calm and pitiful.I called him softly.He opened his eyes, saw me, and stood up immediately:

"Is that you? Why are you here?" I motioned him not to speak so loudly.If his mother came and saw me in her son's bedroom, she might think... besides, who wouldn't think... I felt frightened, and I started for the door. "Where are you going?" said Cyril. "Come back...Cecile." He grabbed my arm and pulled me back with a smile.I turned towards him and looked at him.He turned pale. Probably me too.He let go of my hand, but immediately took me in his arms and walked away.I was thinking in confusion: this thing is coming, this thing is coming.What follows is a ring dance of love: fear mingled with lust, tenderness, madness and sudden pain, and after that pain comes the joy of success.Since this day, I have had the good fortune - and Cyril has the requisite tenderness - to experience this joy.

I stayed with him for an hour, enchanted, amazed.I have always heard people speak of love as if it were an easy thing, and I speak of it myself with the ignorance of my age.I don't think I'll ever talk about it like this again, in such a rude, nonchalant way.Cyril lay next to me and said that she would marry me and hold me in her arms for the rest of her life. My silence disturbed him; I stood up, looked at him, and called him "my lover."He bent over.I put my mouth against the still pulsating veins in his neck and murmured: Oh dear, Cyril, my dear. "I don't know if my feelings for him at this time are called love. I am always fickle, and I don't make up my mind to think of myself as another kind of person. But at this moment I love him more than myself. For him, I could give my life away. As I set off, he asked me if I hated him. That made me laugh. Hate him for the happiness!

I ambled back into the pine forest, exhausted and numb.When we parted, I asked Cyril not to send me off, because it would be dangerous.I feared that others might see obvious signs of happiness in my face, in the dark undersides of my eyes, in my protruding lips, in the quivering of my body.In front of the house, Anna sits on a bench and reads a book.I had made up a perfect lie to explain my going out, but he didn't ask me a word.Don't ask me at all.I sat down beside her silently, only then did I remember that we had fallen out.I remained motionless, eyes half-closed, and concentrated on the rhythm of my breathing and the trembling of my fingers.From time to time, I think of Cyril's body, and when I think of some moments, I suddenly express tenderness.

I grabbed a cigarette from the table and struck a match.The match went out, and I struck a second one carefully.No wind, just my hands shaking.As soon as this match touched the smoke, it was lit immediately.I cursed in a low voice, and pulled out a third one.Then, without knowing why, it seemed to me that this match was of vital importance.Maybe Anna suddenly swept away her indifference and looked at me with a straight face and concern.At this moment, the time, the background, everything disappeared, only the match, the finger holding the match, the gray matchbox and Anna's gaze remained.I was flustered and my heart was pounding.I pressed my fingers hard, and the match caught fire, so I couldn't wait to bring my face closer, and the cigarette pressed on the fire, squashing it out.I closed my eyes and let go, letting the matchbox fall to the ground.Anna's stern, interrogating gaze fell on me.I'd love to beg someone to do something, if only the waiting would end.Anna's hands lift my face.I closed my eyelids tightly, lest she see my eyes.I feel tired, clumsy, happy tears streaming down my face.So, in an obscure, calm motion, she took her hand from my face and let me go, as if to give up all questions.Then, she lit a cigarette and stuffed it into my mouth, and buried herself in the book again. I give this gesture a symbolic meaning.I do my best to do so.Today, though, when I'm not striking a match, I think back to that strange moment, to my movements, to my own distance from Anna's stern gaze, to that empty surrounding, that tense emptiness. ...