The Mandarins. Simone Beauvoir de

and China. In every place in the world Henri would drive cars again, would fly planes. The blue-grey air was great with promises; the future stretched away to infinity.

      Suddenly a silence fell over the room. Henri saw with surprise that Paula was sitting down at the piano. She began to sing. It had been a very long time since that had happened. Henri tried to listen to her with an impartial ear; he had never been able to form a true opinion as to the value of that voice. Certainly it wasn’t mediocre; at times it even sounded like the echo of a bronze bell, muffled in velvet. Once again he asked himself why, exactly, she had given up singing. At the time, he had looked upon it as a sacrifice, an overpowering proof of her love for him. Later he was surprised to find that Paula continually avoided every opportunity that would have challenged her, and he had often wondered if she hadn’t used their love simply as a pretext to escape the test.

      There was a burst of applause; Henri applauded with the others.

      ‘Her voice is still as beautiful as ever,’ Anne said quietly. ‘If she appeared in public again, I’m certain she’d be well received.’

      ‘Do you really think so?’ Henri asked. ‘Isn’t it a little late?’

      ‘Why? A few lessons …’ Anne looked hesitantly at Henri. ‘You know, I think it would do her good. You ought to encourage it.’

      ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said.

      He studied Paula, who was smiling and listening to Claudie de Belzunce’s gushing compliments. No doubt about it, he thought. It would change her life. Being without anything to do was not doing her any good. And wouldn’t it just simplify things for him. And, after all, why not? Tonight everything seemed possible. Paula would become famous, she would devote herself to her career. And he would be free, would travel wherever he liked, would have brief, happy affairs here and there. Why not? He smiled and walked over to Nadine; she was standing next to the heater, gloomily chewing gum.

      ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’

      She shrugged her shoulders. ‘With whom?’ she asked.

      ‘With me, if you like.’

      She was not pretty. She looked too much like her father, and it was disturbing to see that surly face on the body of a young girl. Her eyes, like Anne’s, were blue, but so cold they seemed at once both worn-out and infantile. And yet, under her woollen dress, her body was more supple, her breasts more firm, than Henri had thought they would be.

      ‘This is the first time we’ve danced together,’ he said.

      ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You dance well, you know.’

      ‘And that surprises you?’

      ‘Not particularly. But not one of these little snot-noses here knows how to dance.’

      ‘They hardly had the chance to learn.’

      ‘I know,’ she said. ‘We never had a chance to do anything.’

      He smiled at her. A young woman is a woman, even if she is ugly. He liked her astringent smell of eau de Cologne, of fresh linen. She danced badly, but it didn’t really matter; there were the youthful voices, the laughter, the trumpet taking the chorus, the taste of the punch, the evergreens with their flaming, sparkling blossoms reflected in the depths of the mirrors, and, behind the curtains, a pure black sky. Dubreuilh was performing a trick; he had cut a newspaper into small pieces and had just put it together again with a sweep of his hand; Lambert and Vincent were duelling with empty bottles; Anne and Lachaume were singing grand opera; trains, ships, planes were circling the earth, and they could be boarded.

      ‘You dance pretty well yourself,’ he said politely.

      ‘I dance like a cow. But I don’t give a damn; I hate dancing.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Jitterbugs, jazz, those cellars that stink of tobacco and sweat, do you find that sort of thing entertaining?’

      ‘From time to time,’ he replied. ‘Why? What do you find entertaining?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      She spoke the word so fiercely that he looked at her with growing curiosity. He wondered if it was pleasure or disappointment that had thrown her into so many arms. Would true passion soften the hard structures of her face? And what would Dubreuilh’s head on a pillow look like?

      ‘When I think that you’re going to Portugal … well, all I can say is that you have all the luck,’ she said bitterly.

      ‘It won’t be long before it’s easy for everyone to travel again,’ he said.

      ‘It won’t be long! You mean a year, two years! How did you ever manage it?’

      ‘The French Propaganda Service asked me to give a few lectures.’

      ‘Obviously no one would ever ask me to give lectures,’ she muttered. ‘How many?’

      ‘Five or six.’

      ‘And you’ll be roaming around for a month!’

      ‘Well,’ he said gaily, ‘old people have to have some rewards.’

      ‘And what if you’re young?’ Nadine asked. She heaved a loud sigh. ‘If something would only happen …’

      ‘What, for instance?’

      ‘We’ve been in this so-called revolutionary era for ages. And yet nothing ever seems to change.’

      ‘Well, things did change a little in August, at any rate,’ Henri replied.

      ‘As I remember it, in August there was a lot of talk about everything changing. And it’s just the same as ever. It’s still the ones who work the most who eat the least, and everyone goes right on thinking that’s just marvellous.’

      ‘No one here thinks that’s marvellous,’ Henri protested.

      ‘Well, anyhow, they all learn to live with it,’ Nadine said irritably. ‘Having to waste your time working is lousy enough, and then on top of it you can’t eat your fill … well, personally, I’d rather be a gangster.’

      ‘I agree wholeheartedly; we all agree with you,’ Henri said. ‘But wait a while; you’re in too much of a hurry.’

      Nadine interrupted him. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘the virtues of waiting have been explained to me at home at great length and in great detail. But I don’t trust explanations.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Honestly, no one ever really tries to do anything.’

      ‘And what about you?’ Henri asked with a smile. ‘Do you ever try to do anything?’

      ‘Me? I’m not old enough,’ Nadine answered. ‘I’m just another butter ration.’

      Henri burst out laughing. ‘Don’t get discouraged; you’ll soon be old enough. All too soon!’

      ‘Too soon! There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year!’ Nadine said. ‘Count them.’ She lowered her head and thought silently for a moment. Then, abruptly, she raised her eyes. ‘Take me with you,’ she said.

      ‘Where?’ Henri asked.

      ‘To Portugal.’

      He smiled. ‘That doesn’t seem too feasible.’

      ‘Just a little bit feasible will do fine,’ she said. Henri said nothing and Nadine continued in an insistent voice, ‘But why can’t it be done?’

      ‘In the first place, they wouldn’t give me two travel orders to leave the country.’

      ‘Oh, go on! You know everyone. Say that I’m your secretary.’ Nadine’s mouth was smiling, but her eyes were deadly serious.

      ‘If I took anyone,’ he said, ‘it would have to be Paula.’

      ‘But