sick. Would Yvette's friend be sad? Perhaps some betrayal?
That man must secretly wish to find a confidant. Unhappy lovers almost always need a confidant; happy lovers too, actually.
So, I get to know Yvette's friend. It's easy. We've been meeting at the mahogany trough for a while now.
Well! The story of Yvette's friend is not sentimental; it's even funny.
Before the departure of the beautiful girl, he was a self-satisfied big boy with a square businessman's head, a short toothbrush mustache, and a soft hat that was too small, according to the taste of most French people. Now, he has dull pupils and puffy eyes.
He talks to me about Yvette. She is in the South, on the Riviera. He just offered her a month on the French Riviera.
I inquire:
— And you didn't go with her?
— Business. You know. Oh! I didn't want to let her go alone there. But really...
He raises his robust shoulders with rage. He does well to raise them because his robust shoulders have noticeably slouched for some time now. He continues:
— Every day, sir, it was insinuations, then scenes, tears, a drama, you know!
" — I'm sick! I cough! I need the South! Just one month. Naturally, you don't want to. You'd rather keep me here, out of jealousy, and then for you... for your entertainment, damn it! How selfish men are!"
"In short, sir," explains Yvette's friend, "she was starting to bore me with her complaints. I was seriously thinking of leaving her. Did she guess? Women are so subtle, sir..."
Marie-Louise, who has just arrived, gives me a little sign of complicity and whispers behind Yvette's friend, "More
