Iron in the Soul by Jean-Paul Sartre

Author:Jean-Paul Sartre [Sartre, Jean-Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature
ISBN: 9780141186573
Amazon: 0141186577
Publisher: Penguin Books; Penguin Group
Published: 1949-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

‘But you hadn’t got a post.’

‘I was in charge of our block of flats,’ he said, and waved away any possible objection on her part. ‘It may sound silly, and I took on the job only because Champenois asked me to. All the same, even in that restricted field, I might have been useful. Besides, we ought to set an example.’

The look she gave him was utterly devoid of sympathy. Yes, yes, yes, of course you ought to have stayed on in Paris, and if you think I’m going to say you oughtn’t, you’re very much mistaken.

He sighed: ‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk. Life would be too easy if one were never confronted by a clash of loyalties. But I’m afraid I’m boring you, darling. These are masculine scruples.’

‘But I think I can understand them.’

‘Naturally, my dear, naturally.’ There was something lonely, something virile, in the smile to which he treated her. He took her wrist in his fingers. A note of reassurance came into his voice. ‘Nothing very much could happen to me: at the very worst, they might send all men of military age to Germany. Well, what of it? Mathieu is in the same boat—though, true, he hasn’t got this cursed heart of mine—remember when that damn’ fool of an M.O. turned me down?’

‘Yes.’

‘How wild I was! I’d have done anything to get taken on. Don’t you remember how angry I was?’

‘Yes.’

He sat down on the running-board of the car, rested his chin on his hands, and stared straight in front of him.

‘Charvoz stayed,’ he said, not shifting his gaze.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I ran into him this morning, at the garage. He looked surprised when I told him we were going.’

‘It’s rather different for him,’ she said automatically.

‘That’s true,’ he said, bitterly: ‘He’s a bachelor.’

Odette was standing beside him, on his left. She could see the glint of his scalp through the thinning hair. So that’s it! she thought.

His eyes were unfocused.

‘There was no one I could have trusted to look after you,’ he muttered.

She stiffened.

‘What?’

‘I said there was no one I could have trusted to look after you. I didn’t dare to let you go off to your aunt alone.’

‘Are you trying to tell me,’ she said—and her voice was trembling—’that you left Paris on my account?’

‘It was a case of conscience,’ he replied. He looked at her affectionately.

‘You’d been so nervous all those last few days. I was frightened about you.’

Amazement kept her silent Why had he got to say that? Why did he feel obliged to say that?

He went on with a sort of gaiety of manner. ‘You kept the shutters closed; we lived all day long in darkened rooms: you began hoarding food: there were tins of sardines all over the place, and I think you were worried about Lucienne. You weren’t the same after she left. She was frightened out of her wits, besides being as gullible as you make ‘em, only too ready to believe stories of rape and atrocities.’

I won’t

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