The Selected Stories

THE THOUSAND FRANC BILL

”I’m fed up with being poor.”

She put on her old, worn-out coat and opened the door with a jerk. At the other end of the landing her neighbor was in the midst of waxing the parquet floor at the entrance to her apartment. It was too late when she realized: the woman had already seen her.

“You look really lovely. You’re even wearing eye makeup.” Still on her knees, the woman straightened up and looked at her in amazement, “And you’ve curled your hair. If I had your hair. . Will you be long?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to see my friend, Isabel, she’s very sick,” she said as she double-locked the door. On the street, the bright light surprised her — the afternoon was winding to an end. All of a sudden she felt weak in the knees, as if her will were about to abandon her, but her mind was made up. Nothing was going to stop her.

The first man to pass her whistled and came to an abrupt halt as he looked at her. “I’ve put on too much eye makeup. I must look like. . exactly what I want to look like!”

At that time of day only a few people were walking along Boulevard Rochechouart. As always, Zuzanne was at the corner of rue Dunkerque with the flower cart, wrapping carnations in transparent paper. “Don’t let her see me with so much makeup on.” Just as that thought came to mind, Zuzanne raised her head.

“Good afternoon. Any flowers today?”

She would have taken the whole cartful. The carnations must have just been picked, and the round bouquets of Parma violets seemed to be waiting for ladies dressed in gray with veils on their hats, who would take them away to die in crystal vases inside polished rooms with soft lights and velvet armchairs.

“Later, when I come back.

She held the empty wallet against her chest. Someone was following her. In a shop window she saw the man who had whistled and turned to look at her. She waited in front of another window to get a better view of him. She stopped, her heart pounding. How could she manage to look at him? Her eyes were bothering her. She had put on too much makeup.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

Despite the anguish, she noticed he was young and slender. He was wearing a trench coat and a bottle-green felt hat. Without replying she began walking again. When she reached Place Pigalle, she crossed to the center, glanced at the magazines at a kiosk, then headed toward the entrance to the métro. She stopped and leaned against the rail. Suddenly, when she thought she had lost the man who had whistled, she saw him cross the street. All the men were looking at her. She shook her hair energetically and heard a warm voice by her ear.

“You want to come with me?”

She looked at him steadily, calculated, and said in a low, determined voice: “Five hundred.”

A cold shiver ran up and down her body. She couldn’t see anything. A muscle in her leg was throbbing and her head hurt. He took her by the arm and murmured in a dark voice:

“You’re worth twice that. A thousand!”

•

She held the wallet against her chest. Her lips were pale, unpainted. With a sharp gesture she brushed the hair away from her forehead and said, looking at the violets, “One bunch. The one at the very back. It’s the prettiest.” Zuzanne smiled, “Take whichever one you want.”

Timidly she stretched out her hand and took it. It was beside two bunches of carnations. Zuzanne wrapped it in the transparent paper, making the flowers seem even more mysterious. She took the thousand franc bill out of her wallet. Zuzanne looked at it. “I don’t know if I have enough change.” The woman gave her the violets, took the bill, and left it lying on top of the flowers. She began to fumble through her wallet.

“No, I don’t have enough. I’ll go to the bakery, I’ll be right back.”

While she was waiting, a lady stopped at the flower cart.

“How much are the carnations?”

“I don’t know. If you’ll wait a moment, the florist went to look for change. She’ll be right back.”

She was middle-aged. Her cheeks were round, her makeup a tender, rose color.

“The flowers are fresh today. If the Parma violets had a nice smell, maybe I’d buy some, but you see my daughter is wild about carnations. Your bouquet is beautiful. . Was it very expensive?”

She was about to answer when Zuzanne arrived. Scratching her cheek with one finger while looking at the bill, she said, “Your bill is fake. Look at this. You can tell by the lines: they should be purple but they’re bluish. If you know who gave it to you, you can still give it back.”

She left the violets in the same place where she had picked them up, beside the large bunch of white carnations. “Don’t worry; you can pay me another day, take them,” Zuzanne told her.

“No, no. Thank you.”

She walked along quickly, the bill folded in her hand. A surge of liquid rose from her stomach to her throat, so sour it made her close her eyes. She breathed deeply, her mouth closed. She entered the apartment. There was a smell of tomatoes and onions frying: it was from the air shaft, no doubt. She put the bill inside an envelope, and with four thumbtacks nailed it underneath the last drawer of the wardrobe with the mirror. She raised her hand and touched her cheek: it was burning. She looked steadily at the wall: she had never realized that the branches on the wallpaper looked like a swan. The muscle in her leg began to throb again. “Now what?” Suddenly she leaned over, jerked out the thumbtacks and removed the envelope. When she had lit the gas, she moved an edge of the bill toward the flame and waited for it to burn. Her fingers hurt from grasping it so tightly. Then she went to the foyer, took off her coat, hung it up, and began preparing supper. Her husband would be home soon.