One month went by. With Antoine's blessing, Lucile had returned to her old ways, but even so she felt uneasy replying 'Nothing'-- always just 'Nothing'-- when Antoine got home from work and asked her what she'd done. The truth was, he asked the question reflexively, without any resentment, but he did ask it every single evening. And every so often, she could make out in his eyes a sense of confused sadness, and a certain distrust of her. He made love to her in an intensely focused frenzy and wildness, but afterwards, when he was lying on his back and she was hunched over him, she had the distinct feeling that he was looking at her without seeing her, that he even saw, instead of her, a boat bobbing on the ocean, or a cloud at the mercy of the wind-- something moving, in any case, something that was slowly drifting towards oblivion. And yet he had never loved her so strongly, and he told her so. At such moments she would lie down tightly against him, close her eyes, and fall silent.
It's often said that people forget the power of language, but people also forget how powerfully silence can convey craziness, courageousness, and absurdity.
Francoise Sagan, La Chamade
