La chamade
Francoise Sagan, Robert Westhoff
Language: English
Pages: 91
ISBN: 0719512085
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
La Chamade is a 1965 novel by French playwright and novelist Françoise Sagan.
It was adapted into a 1968 movie starring Catherine Deneuve and Michel Piccoli.
Like many of Sagan's novels, this is a story of lost love
Théâtre, tome 3 : Rodogune; Héraclius; Nicomède; Œdipe; Tite et Bérénice; Suréna
Vathek and Other Stories (Penguin Classics)
case, far from me...' 'But tomorrow...' I've had enough of tomorrows,' he replied. 'You must understand that.' Lucile was silent. She tried unsuccessfully to look grave. Alcohol made her feel unreasonably happy. An unknown young man asked her to dance but Antoine curtly sent him away, much to her annoyance. She would have been glad to dance, talk, or even run away with someone else, she felt freed of every obligation, except that of enjoying herself. I've had a little too much to drink,' she
said plaintively. 'That's obvious,' answered Antoine. 'Perhaps you should have done the same, you're surely not amusing.' This was their first quarrel. She looked at his childlike, obstinate profile and softened. 'Antoine, you know very well...' 'Yes, yes, that you love me for keeps.' And he got up. Diane came back to their table. Charles seemed tired. He gave Lucile an imploring glance and asked Diane to excuse them: he had to be up early the next morning and the place was really too noisy
'but I'm afraid it's a bit too chilly this evening for it.' 'It's easier to catch bronchitis in Coco Dourède's dress than in yours,' said Johnny. 'I've never seen so little silk cover so large a surface. What's more, she told me that it could be washed like a handkerchief. It must take even less time.' Lucile glanced at Coco Dourède who was walking about half-naked under the garlands of electric lights. A deep, delicious smell of earth rose from the Bois de Boulogne. 'You don't seem very
listened to and hummed with Lucile. 'Ah, as long as I'm feeling miserable, I'm going to do it thoroughly,' he thought. Having won his boxing match with the drunkard, he played his record eight times, to everyone's dismay, and, being without enough money, he was obliged to leave his identity card with the barman. He reached home at three in the morning, exhausted and sobered by the fresh air. In short, he behaved like a young man. Sorrow sometimes gives a force, an enthusiasm, a vivacity equal to
half-child, that invalid, that irresponsible, his love, in his arms and whispered to her: 'Tomorrow morning, I'll pick up the plane tickets for Geneva.' CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Five weeks passed. The operation had been brief, well done, and on her return to Paris she had telephoned Charles to reassure him. But he was not there and, with a vague feeling of disappointment, she had left a message with the switchboard operator. Antoine was occupied with a new book series that had been confided to
