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Soon it will be Christmas. Sophie is still trying to come to terms with the future. With the fact or the idea? She doesn’t know what the future is. A pseudo-problem, she resolves, strolling through the courts of the Louvre, and not to be taken seriously. Anyway, time passes of itself, it runs without gasoline, it can’t stop.
As she walks along the sandy paths of the Tuileries, the possible relation between the force of gravity and the temporal flow whereby all this mass and spectacle, the Louvre included, was hurtling into the next instant is tantalizing her mind, when she notes that a man whom she had seen standing before a white Alfa Romeo at the Carrousel entrance of the garden when she entered is now standing at the rue de Rivoli gate, looking at her, on her way out. It is the same man in the same expensive cashmere camel’s-hair coat, tartan scarf, beret, pigskin leather gloves, the white Alfa Romeo parked visibly near the gate. He watches her approach: a civilized man’s predatory look. In a situation like this (not yet actually accosted but simply alerted to the strong probability), a woman disposes of a series of mysterious adjustments whereby she can, while maintaining her nonchalant pace, and without altering the diffuseness of her gaze or appearing to scrutinize...
...pleased to attract the attention of an obviously wealthy and well-built man still in his prime, and perhaps behind the clotheshorse—she suspects he has facials, and why not?—there is a soul. (More likely a drunk, looking for a woman with a soul.) Of course, once more she has been recognized by a dim-sighted worldling.
Where would she like to go? Urban setting is always a problem in these preliminaries, unless the man himself is the lure, but there is a place in the Bois de Boulogne she has eyed dreamily on Sundays with the children. Her capacity for self-deception goes only so far; it’s clear as she leans back on the leather cushion that she wouldn’t be interested to be with this man except as a partner in a pleasant journey; a walk along the beach might be just as nice—in the city it needs a fat wallet. He is delighted to be conducted to such a pleasant place; she looks out over the white tablecloth, and silver bowl of bouillon, at the bare branches. From the fine lines of branches threading into mist she draws her smile, which elicits some remark about her being un-parisienne, Nordic, her mystery— Fortunately the language barrier —her limited, his incomprehensible French—puts some restriction on inane conversation. Having begun as usual with jokes (Are you a model? Did you rent the car and outfit?) it’s a variant of the old story. Lives near Milan; owns some factories. Wife and children. Nice family; he just isn’t a family man. Doesn’t know what he is. Once interested in mountain climbing and Indian philosophy.
...go somewhere else for coffee and dessert? No, she will finish the wine, it’s marvelous. She must remember the name—no, it’s better not. It’s quite wonderful not to be Sophie Blind just now. It’s wonderful enough to be this someone else in the car. He asks why she is smiling. She answers with a new smile which turns into a kiss. She is thinking of what her aunt told her when she was twelve: Always be sure your underwear is clean even if you’re only going across the street; you never know when a car might hit you and people will see your underwear. While they wait at an intersection she hears him tell her about the garage; it’s three blocks from the hotel, does she mind walking? He could ask the doorman, but he doesn’t want n’importe qui to drive his car. She doesn’t mind walking; it’s right, his tenderness for his car, it’s such a delicate, sensitive, powerful beast—she’s in love with it herself. They talk about cars. He finds it unusual, her enthusiasm for machines, women don’t usually—she hasn’t had the opportunity of course. She chatters foolishly about typewriters, phonographs, a motor scooter she owned once. She wonders how long this euphoria will last. Whether it will last her through. In the elevator (perhaps just the stupid situation: sealed in this ascending coffin with him, a separate individual who doesn’t mean anything to her) the reflection that she is a bitch taints her euphoria; doesn’t interrupt her ease, only changes its color, which may be for the best. Undeluded, she walks with the same ease, it doesn’t spoil her pleasure. There is no regret when she awakes to herself, all the wine drained off in the act of pleasure, leaving her utterly lucid, alone, curiously purged; after a while, just empty and becoming restless. She recalls other rooms in other places...the men...It’s really quite nice, this elegant suite at the George V. Faïence knobs high in the wall so you don’t have to bend when you take a shower. Nice, the thin white blankets—Does she really have to go in half an hour? They could have an early supper served in the room. He is explaining about his trip to London: He would invite her to come along except that his brother-in-law will be waiting for him at the airport. But she could join him in a day or two, and they could drive through Scotland or fly off to—
She is dressed. He wants to know how he will find her. She smiles, her hand on the curved brass handle: Perhaps they’ll meet again some afternoon in the Tuileries...
Strolling out the carpeted lobby (a fleeting glance at the newspaper headlines reassures nothing has changed for better or worse), she is feeling rather good, the hot bath
