She paced back and forth in the little room like a caged animal, looking at her face and her slender body in the mirror, imagining herself disfigured, diseased, distressed, stripped forever of her brash young healthiness, which in large part lay at the root of her joy in being alive-- and she started growing furious. At four o'clock she gave Antoine a call, but he sounded weary and troubled, and she just couldn't muster the courage to tell him of her fear. The truth was that at that moment, had he simply asked her to, she could easily have decided to keep the baby after all. But he seemed alien to her, unable to help her in any way, and all at once she felt a terrible yearning for someone, anyone who could protect her. She felt sad at having no female friend to whom she could turn for advice on these strictly female matters, to whom she could at least address her burning questions on crucial details that were terrifying to her. But she didn't know any women-- indeed, her sole female friend had been Pauline. And as she softly spoke that name, she reflexively thought of Charles-- Charles, the memory of whom she had squelched, since it gave rise to a lingering sense of remorse, since his was a name that could still make Antoine suffer. And in a flash, she knew for certain she was going to ask for his help, that no one could keep her from doing so, that he was the sole human being on earth capable of doing something to make this nightmare go away.
She went to the phone and dialed the old number of his office saying a friendly hello to the switchboard operator. Charles was there. She had a strange emotional reaction to the sound of his voice and it took her a moment to regain her breath.
Francoise Sagan, La Chamade
