Marie Read Online Free Page A

that she has seen men do on the side of the road. She will make herself some hot coffee, she will read, for a long time, without anything to distract her from her book. She’ll spend the entire evening on her own, in a delicious state of solitude.
    She looks around her, around Jean and Marie’s apartment, letting her gaze wander over the furniture and the belongings. How odd everything seems; has something changed? No, the furniture and belongings have the same familiar, precious look about them, the same halo bestowed upon them by her heart, and her love is exactly as it has always been. Neither the belongings nor the feelings have changed – but they have been confronted.
    Resting her hands on her forehead, Marie closes her eyes. How hot it had been! How beautiful the mountain, and the smell of crushed mint beneath their bodies! This desire she felt inside her was so strong, so blissful, so right.
     
    THE ARRIVAL OF THE PUPIL having prevented Marie from finishing the housework, she fills the sink with hot water and begins to wash the dishes.
    A few days ago, a young woman in a linen skirt was sitting on a sunny beach. Today, a young woman plunges tanned hands into soapy water, goes down to the cellar to fetch the coal, cleans the floor, peels the vegetables. Marie thinks of other young women she knows and smiles at the astonishment they would feel if they could see her now. What did these other women think of Marie; why does she feel herself to be so different, and why has she never succeeded in really becoming their friend? Perhaps life is simpler if your world is like theirs, confined to choosing wallpaper or sofa covers, to a luxurious home, to the importance of having a maid, to immaculate receptions, to tea parties with friends where a few ideas are exchanged on the latest books. If they have a child, they love it not because it is flesh of their flesh but because it has finally given some point to their existence. They give the impression of being happy or, if they are not, they speak of happiness as an unusable, clearly defined object that need only be discovered and then hung in the apartment like a sprig of mistletoe.
    If Marie had a child she would love it with all her flesh and all her heart, but she feels neither regret nor joy at the fact that she does not have one. She doesn’t want a child as one wants an ideal, she likes neither luxury nor receptions, she has scarcely any friends, she hates choosing wallpaper,and she does not believe in happiness. Does this mean she loves nothing, awaits nothing?
    She has finished her household task and before going into another room to rest and read, she lingers in the kitchen for a while. Sitting at the table, head in hands, she hears the sound of her blood, beating loudly, powerfully, rapidly, at her temples. By separating her arms from her body she can even control the pulsations through that single sensation in her head. These muffled, rhythmical shocks are accompanied by an unusual sound, like a buzzing or a reverberation. She compares it to the sound of insects’ wings – smooth, shiny.
    What kind of a girl had she been? Very tall and slim, with reddish-blonde hair tied by a black ribbon at the nape of her neck, and two well-shaped breasts under her dress. Sixteen or seventeen years old; beautiful, supple, full of health and happiness; she was drunk with life, and with an overflowing heart.
    Are you there, Marie? If only she could never leave me … She is there, right next to me; I can feel her heart beating. She haunts me as if she were waiting to be reborn.
    If her friends were there at this moment, and asked her: ‘What are you thinking about, Marie?’, she couldn’t answer: ‘I am comparing the sound of my blood to the sound of insects’ wings.’ She’d smile, and say only: ‘Leave me be, I’m asleep.’ She’d appear weary, indifferent; she’d turn away to listen once more to the tumultuous pounding of her blood.
    Does Marie love nothing, await