Service arrived, and the two eye-lines made shallow arcs that intersected on an agreement. She departed like a sailing ship in full moonlight.
Roy Strether, Mary Ford, Henry, and Jean-Pierre were all so buoyant with success they could not bear to sit down but stood hovering near the seated ones, and then, as Benjamin arrived, they suggested a trip to the delights of night-time Marseilles. Benjamin's eyes enquired of Sarah's, but she said she too needed to sleep. She reminded them they were meeting at eight — very well, then, nine. She walked firmly away.
She saw Bill move into the chair near Molly. If I were Molly, she thought, I would simply go across to his hotel, open his door, and get into his bed. He would certainly say, I am expecting my girlfriend, oh dear, I am so sorry. Would I then go quietly away? I'm damned if I would.
She sat by the window. She would have liked to go up and talk with Stephen, gently unwinding, as one does with a friend. Yesterday she would have gone.
She went to look in her glass. The ichors that flooded her body created behind the face of Sarah, the face she and everyone knew, a younger face, that shone out, smiling. Her body was alive and vibrant, but also painful. Her breasts burned, and the lower part of her abdomen ached. Her mouth threatened to seek kisses — like a baby's mouth turning and turning to find the nipple.
I'm sick, she said to herself. 'You're sick.' I'm sick with love, and that is all there is to it. How could such a thing have happened? What does Nature think it is up to? (Eyeball to eyeball with Nature, elderly people often accuse it — her? — of ineptitude, of sheer incompetence.) I simply can't wait to go back to my cool elderly self, all passion spent. I suppose I'm not trapped in this hell for ever? I'm going to be really ill if I can't stop this… and she watched her reflection, which was that of a woman in love, and not a dry old woman.
She said, 'Enough of this,' undressed quickly, and got into bed, where she murmured, as at some point she was bound to do, 'Christ that my love were in my arms… '
She did sleep. She woke to ghostly kisses of such sweetness they were like Julie's music, but surprisingly, the sounds that whispered in her head were not the 'troubadour' music, like blues or like fados, but the late music, cool, transparent, a summons to somewhere else. Perhaps the paradise we dream of when in love is the one we were ejected from, where all embraces are innocent.
Again she was up early. She dressed before it was light outside, thinking, Thank God there's that meeting and I'll be working hard all day. And I won't be with Bill; I'll be with Henry.
On the pavement, Stephen sat outside the still-closed cafe. He looked absently at Sarah, for his eyes were clouded with his preoccupation, looked again and said, 'You have been crying.'
'Yes, I have.'
'What can I say? I'm so sorry, I'm
Now this was the moment she could put things right. 'Stephen, you are wrong. It's not like that.'
He wanted so much to believe her, but looked grumpy and cross.
'Stephen, this is an absolutely ridiculous situation. Really, I promise you… '
He looked away, because he was so uncomfortable. His face was red. So was hers.
Communal life was rescuing them. While the players still slept, the managerial side were all up, in spite of their having jaunted around the coast so late. Here came Mary Ford, calm and fresh in white. After her came Henry, who at once took a chair near Sarah. He appeared to have staggered from some battlefront. Then Benjamin, impeccable in pale linen. He sat opposite Sarah, studying her from under serious brows. Here was Roy Strether, yawning, and with him Sandy Grears. The proprietor of Les Collines Rouges was opening his doors, and the aromas of coffee began their insinuations.
A sparky urchin in a striped blue and white apron appeared from the other side of the square, holding aloft balanced on one hand, several tiers of cakes and croissants, the other hand poised on his hip, for style. He too wafted delicious smells everywhere. He passed them gracefully, grinning, knowing they all waited for the moment when what he carried would leave the counters of the cafe for their breakfasts.
'Un moment,' reproved the cafe proprietor, though no one had said a word. 'Un petit moment, mesdames, messieurs.' He disappeared inside, with a stern air. Because of Sartre, they knew that he was playing the role of Monsieur le Patron, just as the urchin was playing his role.
Sarah could not prevent a pretty desperate look at Stephen and caught him examining her. Appalling. How could their friendship survive such a muddle of misunderstanding?
It was occurring to them all that everyone necessary for the meeting which would decide
With the British production there was really one problem — who would be available? Elizabeth had said the last week of August and the first of September would suit her, suit Queen's Gift, because by then the new building would be finished. She had pointed out that Julie could not be expected to be as popular in England as it was in France, but people were still talking about the evening of Julie's music, and that was a good sign. Stephen said, apologetically, that they mustn't think Elizabeth was a wet blanket. 'She has to be cautious, you see. She thinks I get carried away.'
His eyes met Sarah's — on a smile. Her heart lightened.
Roy said, 'Henry, you're the key to everything. If you're not free, we'll forget the whole thing. That means rehearsals through the first three weeks of August and then setting the production at Queen's Gift.'
'I'm doing
Up he jumped, took a stroll through tables beginning to fill up, kicked a carton into a refuse can — a perfect shot, and came back to fling himself down. They all watched him. 'Perpetuum mobile,' said Roy. 'How does he do it? How do you do it, Henry? I have to tell you all that this man was dancing and singing in the rain in Marseilles three hours ago in the water cart sprays. Right, Henry. You're booked for August.'
'But,' said Mary, 'the players. Bill is off to New York the day after this ends here to start rehearsal.
Mary was carefully not looking at Stephen, whose face had crumpled, if only for a moment. He recovered himself and looked at Sarah. The look was not unmixed with irony, so that was something.
'We need a new Julie and a new Paul,' said Roy. He yawned. It was the loud and unabashed yawn of a man who had been up most of the night.
To the people whose hearts were cracking open like eggs, the yawn sounded derisive. Mary Ford began to laugh and could not stop. She put out her hand in apology. Roy took it in a fist and shook it up and down, oblivious but matey.
Mary stopped herself laughing. 'Sorry. Show business. It's show business… anyway, I asked all the cast last night, and the musicians. They are all free.'
'All free except for the two important ones. Never mind; some of the Pauls and Julies we auditioned were very good.' Henry's eyes closed.
Benjamin seemed asleep. Mary's lids dropped. Roy yawned again. When the waiter finally arrived, Sarah ordered coffee and croissants for everyone but in a low voice, as if in a room full of sleeping children.
At this juncture Jean-Pierre arrived, with the air of a man not prepared to be apologetic, just because he was later than others who had no need to be early.
'Everything's just fine,' said Henry lazily to Jean-Pierre.
'I was also up very late,' said Jean-Pierre.
'Well, it doesn't matter; we've got everything sorted out,' said Mary maternally.
'But the meeting was not arranged until nine, I think?'
The coffee arrived. Smells of sunlight, coffee, hot dust, croissants, petrol, vanilla.
'There really isn't much left to decide,' said Roy.
'And may I enquire what has been decided?' said Jean- Pierre.
At the sound of his voice, full of wounded self-esteem, Mary sat herself up, sent Sarah a glance, sent Roy another, and remarked soothingly, 'What delicious coffee.' She smiled at Jean-Pierre, who was after all in love with her. He positively winced, and then shook off unfair, not to say corrupting, pressures.
Mary outlined what had been decided. 'And there you are,' she concluded.
At this Jean-Pierre presented himself as the traditional Frenchman confronted by the ineffable, however it chooses continually to offer itself, in this case as a barbarous lack of respect for proper form. He slightly lifted his
