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“Come now, Claire. It’s not a reproach.”

There was so much gentleness in his voice and eyes that I felt ashamed I was so defensive.

He held me by the shoulder and leaned in to give me a friendly kiss, but I quickly pushed him away.

“What a chip on your shoulder!” he said, and pinched my cheek.

“Nice, Claire,” Annette cried out with a burst of laughter. “You play mommy to his son and wifey with him! …”

Fortunately, she didn’t see the look of hatred I gave her. No, you imbecile, I’m not playing. I am mother and wife in everything but name. Might you be jealous of me for once? You took the ground out from under me once without my being able to say even a word in self-defense. I pushed you into Jean Luze’s arms on purpose only to test my power. He will never love you. Do you get it? Never. Keep telling yourself that my role seems merely secondary. I exist only for him, anyone can see that. Or would you like me to prove it to you by making advances to him too? I am still superior to you in that respect. Our intimacy often invites me into scenarios worthy of you, but I decline. I don’t wish to seduce him like some manipulative sex kitten. I want more than his body. I am demanding and picky. I know that certain kinds of conduct would be unforgivable in a woman my age. At forty you can persevere, but it’s too late to make your debut. At least, that’s true more or less. I know this and I am patiently biding my time.

Honesty is a truly difficult thing to learn! Besides, where does honesty begin and where does it end? In obvious bad faith, I refuse to see myself clearly. Certain thoughts, once born, are to be regretted as much as certain words. Sometimes, in my feverishly imagined love scenes, I get panic attacks. This panic is often triggered by the sudden memory of my father, who is whipping me with his belt. If Jean Luze were to burst into my room just then and take me in his arms, I would struggle, cry out and defend myself as if my life were threatened. Do I just like the idea of love? Have I not willingly chosen this unreal situation because I feel unable to go all the way? This is my challenge. I am going to belong to Jean Luze. He alone can help me. I have to know what I am made of.

More and more I have the feeling that my imaginary affair with Jean Luze is an ersatz substitute I have chosen on purpose because of its power and corrosiveness. How much longer will I be able to fool myself?

He’s mine, this kid I didn’t carry in my womb! I have made his first pants. He crawls around on all fours and stands with some help. He has eight teeth that came in without too much trouble. He is a stout little guy, very lively, and welcomes his father by holding his arms out to him. Although I keep whispering it to him, he hasn’t managed to say “mama” yet. I want to be the first he calls by that name. His presence in my room seems to soothe my feelings. His innocence is so disarming and his purity so contagious that I even feel shame when I am naked in front of him. That is why yesterday I burned everything that reminded me of the past, the doll, the pornographic postcards, etc. I am done with these old substitutes. I am nothing but mother and wife. I have moved up a notch.

“Call Jean for me,” Félicia sometimes asks. “I am so sick I don’t have the strength to love him.”

Without jealousy I watch him sit beside her and kiss her hand or stroke her hair. I have never caught him touching her as if he were in love with her. Despite himself, he treats her like a sick child. He pities her, not me.

“It’s the pregnancy,” he says to comfort her, “you have to wait a bit. It will be over soon. You’re already four months along …”

Such tenderness!

“Jean is nothing but an ethereal being,” Annette told me yesterday. “I bet he’s a shabby lover. I would definitely cheat on him if I were his wife. And I am grateful that life has worked out the way it has.”

I don’t believe a word of what Mme Audier and Father Paul say about Jane. Even though Félicia frowns on it, I visit her and Dora regularly. Dora and those crazed eyes of hers!