Inevitable (22 page)

“It’s damned nice here,” he said, approaching her with his glass in his hand. He emptied it.

“It’s almost time for the
pavane
,” she murmured.

And they went through the busy rooms to a long corridor outside, decorated with an avenue of camellia bushes. They were alone for a moment.

“This is where the dancers must assemble …”

“Let’s wait for them here then. It’s nice and cool here.”

They sat down on the bench.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “You were acting so oddly in the room.”

“Yes … I’m better …”

“Don’t you think it’s fun meeting your ex-husband again?”

“Rudolf … I don’t understand how you can talk like that, pursue me, tease me … After everything that’s happened …”

“Well that’s over and done with …”

“Do you think it’s a discreet … and tactful way to behave?”

“No. Neither discreet nor tactful. You know that those are simply the kind of charming things I never am; you’ve thrown that in my face often enough in the past. But if it’s not tactful, it’s certainly amusing. Have you lost your sense of humour? There’s a damned funny side to our meeting here … And listen to me a moment. We’re divorced, fine. In the eyes of the law that’s the
situation. But a legal divorce is only for the benefit of the law, good form and society. For money matters and such like. The two of us were too much husband and wife not to feel something for each other when we meet later, like here. Oh yes, I know what you’re trying to say. It’s simply not true. You were too much in love with me, and I with you, for everything to be dead. I still remember everything. And you must remember everything too. Do you remember that time when we …” He laughed, slid closer to her and whispered into her ear. She felt his breath trembling over her skin like a warm breeze. She blushed deeply and became nervous. And she felt with her whole body that he had been her husband, that she had him in her blood. His voice rang like molten bronze through the nerves of her ear, deep inside her. Her flesh shivered under the breeze of his breath. She knew him completely. She knew his eyes, his mouth, she knew his chest and his thighs. She knew his hands, broad, well manicured, with the large round nails and the dark signet ring—as they rested on his knees, tensing squarely in the curve of his black trouser leg. And she felt in a sudden wave of despair that she knew and felt him in the whole of her body. However rough he had been with her in the past, however he had abused her, punched her with his clenched fist, slammed her against a wall … she had been his wife. She had become his wife as a virgin, and he had made her a woman. And she felt as if he had left his imprint on her and made her his, she felt it in her very blood and marrow. She admitted to herself that she had never forgotten him. In her first loneliness in Rome she had longed for his kiss, had thought of him, called
up his manly image, convinced herself that with tact and patience she might have remained his wife …

Then the great happiness had come, the gentle happiness of complete harmony …

It all flashed through her in a second.

Oh, in her great, gentle happiness she had been able to forget everything, she had not felt the past in her. But now she felt that the past is always there, inexorable, ineradicable. She had been his wife and kept him in her blood.
Now
she felt it with every breath. She was indignant that he dared to whisper about the past, in her ear, but it had been as he said. Inexorable, ineradicable.

“Rudolf!” she implored him, folding her hands. “Have pity!!”

She almost screamed it, in a cry of fear and despair. But he laughed and with one hand took hold of both her hands folded in supplication.

“If you act like that, if you look at me so imploringly with those beautiful eyes, I won’t even have pity on you here and I’ll kiss you till …”

His words wafted over her like a hot wind. But laughing voices approached, and a pair of young girls, a pair of young people, already dressed as Henri IV and Marguerite de Valois for the
pavane
, came down the stairs.

“Where have the others got to?” they cried, looking back up the stairs. And they came cheerfully up to Cornélie, dancing. The dancing master also approached. She did not understand what he was saying.

“Where have the others got to?” she repeated after the girls automatically, in a hoarse voice.

“There they come … Now we’re all here …”

There was chatter, laughter and a buzz of voices around her. She summoned all her feeble strength, and gave some orders. The guests poured into the large ballroom, sat down on chairs at the front, jostled in the corners. The
pavane
was danced in the middle of the room, to the slow rhythm of an old melody: a gently winding arabesque with elegant steps, deep bows and satin shining like porcelain … the wave of a cape … the long, gleaming shape of a sword …

“U
RANIA,
I beg you, help me!”

“What is it?”

“Come with me …”

She had dragged Urania away from De Breuil by the hand and pulled her into one of the deserted rooms. The suite of rooms had been almost completely abandoned, the throng of people were packed along the sides of the large ballroom to see the
pavane
being danced.

“What is it, Cornélie?”

Cornélie was trembling all over and was clinging to Urania’s arm. She pulled her to the furthest corner of the drawing-room. It was empty.

“Urania,” she begged, in a paroxysm of nervousness. “Help me! What am I to do? I’ve met him unexpectedly. Don’t you know who? My husband. My ex-husband. I had already seen him a few times, in the street and on the Jetée. That time when I gave such a start, you remember, when I almost fainted … it was because of him. Now, here, just now he spoke to me. And I’m afraid of him. I don’t know what it is, but I’m afraid of him. He was very friendly, he needed to talk to me. It was so strange. Everything was over between us. We were divorced. And suddenly I meet him, and he talks to me, he asks how I’ve been in the meantime; he tells me I look good, that I’ve become beautiful. Tell me what I’m to do, Urania. I’m afraid. I’m feverish with fear. I want to get away. I’d like to
leave at once, and go to Florence, to Duco. I’m so afraid, Urania. I want to go to my room. Tell Mrs Uxeley that I want to go to my room.”

She scarcely knew what she was saying. The words tumbled out in a delirious stream. Male voices approached. It was Gilio, De Breuil, the Duke di Luca and the young journalists, who were busy making a name for themselves.

“Where has Signora de Retz got to? She’s needed everywhere,” said the duke, and the journalists, in the shadow of these grand gentlemen, agreed: she was needed everywhere …

“Call Mrs Uxeley and ask her to come here,” Urania whispered to Gilio. “Cornélie is ill, I think … I can’t leave her alone. She wants to go to her room. It’s better if Mrs Uxeley knows, otherwise she might get angry.”

Cornélie joked nervously, feverishly merry, with the duke, De Breuil and the journalists.

“Would you prefer me to take you straight to Mrs Uxeley?” whispered Gilio.

“I want to go to my room!” she whispered imploringly in reply from behind her fan.

The
pavane
seemed to be over. A hubbub of voices approached, as if the guests were spreading back through the rooms.

“There’s Mrs Uxeley,” said Gilio.

He went over to her, and talked to her. First she fluttered, leaning on the gold knob of her walking stick. Then she frowned angrily. She came closer. Cornélie went on joking with the duke: the journalists found everything equally amusing.

“Aren’t you well?” whispered Mrs Uxeley who had come closer and was put out. “And what about the
cotillon
?”

“I’ll look after everything, Mrs Uxeley,” said Urania.

“Impossible, my dear princess: and I wouldn’t dare accept.”

“Introduce me to your friend, Cornélie!” boomed a deep voice behind her.

She felt the voice inside her like bronze. She turned round automatically. It was him. She seemed not to be able to get away from him. And beneath his gaze, strangely enough, she seemed to regain her strength. He seemed not to want her to be ill … She murmured.

“Urania, may I … introduce … a countryman of mine … Baron Brox … the Princess di Forte-Braccio.”

Urania knew his name and knew who he was.

“Dearest,” she whispered to Cornélie. “Let me take you to your room. I’ll look after everything.”

“It’s no longer necessary,” she said. “I’m much better. I’d just like some champagne. I’m much better, Mrs Uxeley.”

“Why did you run away from me?” asked Rudolf Brox with that smile of his and his eyes in Cornélie’s eyes.

She smiled and had no idea what she said.

“The ball has begun,” said Mrs Uxeley. “But who is going to lead my
cotillon
?”

“If I can be of service, Mrs Uxeley,” said Brox. “I have a modest talent for leading
cotillons
…”

Mrs Uxeley was delighted. It was agreed that De Breuil and Urania, Gilio and Countess Costi, and Brox and Cornélie would lead the figures in turn.

“Poor darling,” said Urania in Cornélie’s ear, “can you manage it?”

Cornélie smiled.

“Yes, of course, I’m better,” she whispered.

And she went off to the ballroom on Brox’s arm, watched by a flabbergasted Urania.

I
T WAS TWELVE
o’clock when Cornélie woke next morning. With its swirling particles the sun pierced the gold slit of the slightly parted curtains. She felt exhausted. She remembered that after such a party Mrs Uxeley gave her a morning off to rest: the old woman also stayed in bed, although she did not sleep. And Cornélie lacked the strength to get up, and stayed in bed, weighed down with fatigue. Her eyes wandered about the messy room; her beautiful ball gown was draped helplessly over a chair, limply and immediately reminding her of yesterday. For that matter, all her thoughts were focused on yesterday, on her husband, with a fixed hypnotic concentration. She felt as if emerging from a nightmare, a hangover, a fainting fit. Only by drinking a glass of champagne had she been able to keep up appearances, to dance, with Brox, take their turn in leading a figure. But not only with champagne. His eyes too had kept her on her feet, prevented her from fainting, from bursting into sobs, from starting to scream and waving her arms like a madwoman. When he had said good-night, when everyone had gone, she had collapsed, and had been taken to bed. The moment she was no longer under his gaze, she had felt her wretchedness and her weakness and the champagne seemed to befuddle her instantly.

Now she thought of him in the bruised languor of her devastating morning fatigue. And it seemed to her that
her whole Italian year had been a dream intermezzo. She saw herself back in The Hague; the young girl who went out a lot, with her nice face and flirtatious manners and her ever-ready quips. She saw their first meetings and the way she had immediately bent to his will and had not been able to flirt with him, because he laughed at her womanly defences. He had been too strong from the first. Then their engagement. He laid down the law to her and she rebelled, angrily, with violent scenes, not wanting to be controlled, offended as a pampered, fêted and spoiled young girl. And as if by the brute force of his fist—and always with that smile on his lips—he kept her down. Until they were married, until she made a scandal and ran away. At first he had not wanted a divorce, but had later given in, because of the scandal. She had freed herself, she had run away!

The women’s movement, Italy, Duco … Was it a dream? Was the great happiness, the precious harmony a dream and was she now awaking from a year’s dreaming? Was she divorced or not? She had to force herself to remember the formalities: yes, they were legally divorced. But
was
she divorced, was everything over between them? And was she really no longer his wife?

What had been the point of his searching for her once he had seen her in Nice? Oh, he had told her, during the
cotillon
. That endless
cotillon
! He had become proud of her when he saw how beautiful and chic and happy she seemed in the victoria of Mrs Uxeley or the princess—and he had grown jealous. She, that beautiful woman, had been his wife! He had felt he had a right to her, despite the law! What was the law? Did the law make her 
a wife, or had he made her a wife? And he had made her feel that right, together with the irredeemability of the past. It had been irredeemable, ineradicable …

She looked around her, at her wit’s end. And she began to cry, sob … Then she felt something in her strengthen, resistance cry out in her like a spring that finally tensed again now she was resting and was no longer under his gaze. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want to feel him in her blood. If she met him again, she would speak to him more calmly, curtly, and order him to leave her, she would show him the door, have him thrown out … Her fists clenched in fury. She hated him. She thought of Duco … And she thought of writing to him, telling him everything. And she thought of returning to him as soon as possible. He wasn’t a dream: he existed, though he lived far away, in Florence. She had saved some money; they could find happiness again in the studio in Rome. She would write to him and she wanted to leave as soon as possible. With Duco she would be safe. Oh, she longed for him, to lie so softly and luxuriantly in his arms, against his chest, as if in the embrace of a single wondrous happiness. Had it been true, their happiness, their love and harmony? Yes, it had existed, it wasn’t a dream. There was his portrait; there on the wall a couple of his watercolours: the sea at Sorrento and the skies above Amalfi, produced in those days that had been like poetry. She would be safe with him. With Duco she would not feel Rudolf, her husband, in her blood … She felt Duco in her soul, and her soul would be stronger! She would feel Duco in her soul, in her heart in the whole of her deepest being and from him would gather her supreme
strength, like a bundle of gleaming swords! Even now, when she thought of him with such longing, she could feel herself growing stronger. She could have talked to Brox now. Yesterday he had taken her by surprise, wedged her between himself and the mirror, till she had seen him double and had no longer known what to do and was lost. That would never happen again. It had simply been the surprise. If she talked to him again,
she
would triumph with what she had learned and as a woman who had stood on her own feet. And she got up, and opened the windows and put on a
peignoir
. She looked at the blue sea, at the colourful movement on the Promenade. And she sat down and wrote to Duco. She wrote everything, the first startled encounters, her surprise and defeat at the ball … Her pen raced across the paper. She did not hear a knock at the door or Urania cautiously entering, expecting to find her still asleep and anxious to know how she felt. She read a portion of her letter excitedly and said she was ashamed of her weakness of yesterday. How could she have behaved like that: she did not understand herself.

No, she didn’t understand herself. Now she felt somewhat rested, was talking to Urania, who reminded her of Rome, with a long letter to Duco in her hand … now she did not understand at all herself and asked what was a dream: her Italian year of happiness or yesterday’s nightmare?