Jezebel (10 page)

‘But you only think about yourself as well! Look at the kind of life I have. Do you think that books and music and a pretty garden are enough for someone my age? I’ve had nothing else. You go out and enjoy yourself, go dancing, come home at dawn, but I should be enjoying all those things, Mama, me, even more than you!’

‘I never noticed you were growing up.’

‘Well, the damage is done now. I’m eighteen.’

Gladys slowly wrung her hands. ‘Yes, yes, I know, but …’

She could almost hear the other women, her rivals, sniggering: ‘Gladys Eysenach? She still looks pretty good. But she’s not young any more, you know. Her daughter just got married. Her lover left her. What can you do?
She’s still beautiful, but … She’s still fairly young, but …’

And perhaps one day soon they would say, ‘Do you really think she’s beautiful? But she’s old, you know. She’s a grandmother.’

‘Me?’ she thought, slowly stroking her face. ‘No, no, I must be dreaming. I was still a child myself only yesterday. I haven’t changed. Only yesterday I was a happy young girl, a domineering young woman. But Marie-Thérèse said, “You must have been loved so much …” And soon everyone will be saying, “How beautiful she must have been once …” No, no, it’s too soon. Two or three years more. That’s all I’m asking. That’s all I want. For her, it’s so little, but for me … In three years I’ll be old. My age will be written all over my face. I will resign myself to it then, like the others. I’ll think back to this night wistfully …’

‘Mama,’ whispered Marie-Thérèse, ‘answer me. What about me? You’re not listening to me.’

‘What do you want me to say? I’ve already said what I want. You must wait. What harm would it do you to wait? You’re so young … To you, the years are light and sweet; to you … In three years you’ll be twenty-one. You can do what you please then.’

‘I won’t obey you,’ said Marie-Thérèse, raising her pale, tense face.

‘You have to obey me. And you know it. You’re a child. You’re a minor. You have to obey me.’

‘But why? Why wait?’

‘Because you’re too young,’ Gladys said again, quietly, automatically, ‘and because these hasty marriages turn
out badly. I don’t want you to be unhappy. Yes, I know; you’re thinking right now that I’m the cause of your unhappiness. But it isn’t true. All I’m asking is a few months of a secret, delightful engagement that will light up your life and give you happy memories. You’re still a child, Marie-Thérèse, you don’t understand. There is only one thing that makes life worth living and that is the beginning of love, love that is timid at first, that then becomes desire, impatience, anticipation … I’m offering you all that and you’re holding it against me. I don’t want to make you unhappy,’ she said again, looking at her daughter in despair. ‘Oh, heaven forbid! If you and that young boy love each other, well, then, get married, be happy. I’ll be delighted to see you happy. I love you, Marie-Thérèse. But wait a little. Three years will go by quickly and you know very well that I have to consent. But while you wait, take pity on me. Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to, I don’t want to,’ she whispered, hiding her face in her hands. ‘It hurts so much. I want a little peace, a little happiness. Try to understand me. Be my friend …’

‘I don’t want to be your friend! You’re my mother! If you won’t give me your support, your help, your affection, then I don’t need you,’ Marie-Thérèse said quietly.

‘Oh! Marie-Thérèse, how cruel you are!’

‘Then give your consent, Mama. You know very well I’ll be happy! You’re stealing three years of happiness from me, that’s all there is to it.’

‘No, no, no,’ Gladys said weakly.

She was crying; slow, heavy tears flowed down her
cheeks. ‘Let me be!’ she begged. ‘Have pity on me! Don’t say anything else. Don’t you realise it’s pointless?’

‘Yes,’ said Marie-Thérèse, in spite of herself.

Gladys was holding her hands. Marie-Thérèse pulled away in disgust, pushed away the beautiful, soft white arms that tried to hold her back and ran out.

The very next day Olivier asked to see Gladys, but it was the same scenario at Sans-Souci as it had been at the Esslenkos’ house: he could only see Gladys with her friends present. That same evening he went to the Middletons’ home, where Gladys was invited to dinner.

When he got there the meal was over; a few couples were dancing to the music of a small orchestra. He saw Gladys waltz past in the arms of Georges Canning, Lily Ferrer’s lover. She was smiling and looked happy. When she saw him she looked startled and turned pale. He waited until the dance ended, then went up to her and asked to speak to her in private. She was fiddling with a long white glove she held in her hand, gently tapping it against her skirt.

‘A word in private? My dear Olivier, can’t you come and see me at my house whenever you want? Why so formal?’

‘Because it is actually with regard to a rather formal matter,’ he said, smiling.

‘This is hardly the appropriate time or place …’

‘In that case, I am begging you to tell me when I can see you.’

She hesitated, then sighed. ‘All right, come with me.’

He followed her into a small adjoining sitting room. They were alone. She looked at his face; he looked so like Claude that she felt almost as if no time had passed at all. Like Claude, he had a long, delicate face, fair hair and a slim mouth that looked harsh and severe when closed, but very sweet when slightly open. She smiled shyly at him; he kept his eyes fixed on her, yet didn’t seem actually to see her.

‘I know that Marie-Thérèse spoke to you yesterday,’ he said, ‘and you told her you would agree to our marriage under certain conditions. We must wait … We must wait three years?’

‘That’s right,’ she murmured.

‘But why, Madame? You have known me for such a long time. My mother was your first cousin. You know everything about me. Everything a mother needs to know. You know my family, how wealthy I am, my state of health. Why impose such a delay, such humiliation?’

‘I don’t see anything humiliating about it,’ she said, lowering her head. ‘A long engagement is considered natural and very wise in many countries.’

‘If the engagement is official …’

She shuddered. ‘No, not now, no, not right away. Official – that’s ridiculous. All the congratulations, the visits, all the hideous bourgeois trappings, no, no, how horrible. Once it has been decided, you will get married straight away and then it will all be public …’

‘I love Marie-Thérèse.’

‘Marie-Thérèse is still a child and so are you. This is a childish whim …’

‘We love each other as a man and a woman,’ said Olivier quietly. ‘She is a woman, even though you may never have noticed it. And I’m not just talking about her age: she is courageous, affectionate and loyal the way a woman is. Let us take our chance to be happy. Life is so short …’

She started, upset. ‘That’s certainly true …’

‘Three years … Think about it: isn’t it terrible to miss three years of happiness, three years of life?’

‘You must learn how to deserve happiness,’ she said flippantly. ‘Be patient. Believe me, you’ll only love each other more. I imagine this isn’t the official way to reply to a request of marriage. I never thought it would be necessary this soon; I wasn’t expecting it. Good Lord, Marie-Thérèse is still just a little girl to me. How can you not understand that? Until now, I’m the only one she’s ever loved …’

He quickly shook his head. ‘No. Marie-Thérèse is a woman like any other, thank God. When she was a child, she loved you, of course. She had, and still has, great affection for you. But you know very well that the love of a child is nothing when true love comes along. You must have had the same experience yourself … like all men and women. So you shouldn’t be surprised that Marie-Thérèse loves me more, chooses me; if you continue to oppose our marriage, she will end up considering you an enemy.’

‘Oh, no!’ murmured Gladys. ‘That isn’t possible …’

Two distinct feelings tore at her heart: she couldn’t bear the idea of being hated by Marie-Thérèse, the way she had hated her own mother. But what upset her even more was the thought that, for the first time in her life, she was
standing face to face with a man who saw her only as his fiancée’s mother, the person standing in the way of his happiness.

‘I’m not a woman any more,’ she thought. ‘I’m just Marie-Thérèse’s mother. Me, me … Oh, I know very well that it happens to everyone. But death also happens to everyone and who thinks of death without horror? I love Marie-Thérèse, I do, with all my heart; I want her to be happy. But what about me? Me? Who will take pity on me? Of course I think I’m still young and beautiful, but I’m already old to other people, an old woman who will soon be laughed at. “She used to be beautiful,” they will all soon be saying. “So many men used to be in love with her.” And this young man …’

She would have liked him to find her attractive. Not so she could steal him from her daughter. The very idea that Marie-Thérèse might know the desire she felt filled her with shame. She just wanted to see herself in a better light, wanted to obliterate the cruel feeling of humiliation that filled her heart, the pain of wounded pride. She would have loved to make him desire her, even for just a moment …

‘I only want him to look at me once with desire, no, not even that, just admiration, the way a man looks at a woman; I want him to feel flustered, not know what to say, to fantasise, like so many men before him, and then I’ll give in, I’ll let him have my daughter, I’ll agree to everything, just so long as I know and feel that I’m still a woman. Otherwise, what’s the point of living?’

Olivier was thinking, ‘They’re all alike, these old women. They haven’t much time left to enjoy life. So
they take it out on us. They may not even be aware of it, but deep down inside they’re thinking, “I have so little time left to be happy. Well then, as long as it’s within my power, I’ll steal a few years of happiness from my children.” They tell themselves they are caring, prudent, wise, experienced. In reality they’re just plain jealous. They don’t want to share life with their children. They curse life, but they intend to hang on to it for themselves, for themselves and no one else. Poor naïve souls,’ he mused with pity. He slowly unfolded his long arms, felt the wonderful power of his muscles, the fire in his blood beneath his skin. He remembered how old she was and, suddenly, felt invincible. He looked at Gladys and smiled.

‘You know, Madame, three years will pass very quickly, and it will be just as hard as it is now …’

Gladys slowly brought her hand to her brow. ‘What am I doing? How could I even think of trying to seduce this young man whom Marie-Thérèse loves? How shameful …’

‘Go now, Olivier, I’m begging you,’ she murmured. ‘Listen, all I’m asking for is a few months, a few weeks … no time at all,’ she begged him in despair. ‘You must grant me that. I promise you, I swear to you that I’ll be good,’ she said, like a frantic child. ‘Yes. I’ll be a good old woman. Just give me one year. What do you say, one year? It’s not a lot. One year’s grace!’ she whispered. ‘Wait for one year. You’ll have your whole life to be happy, but what about me?’

‘You won’t prevent me from seeing Marie-Thérèse?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You won’t take her to the other end of the earth? I’m rather suspicious, you know,’ he said, forcing a laugh.

She shook her head. ‘No, no.’

‘Very well then,’ he murmured with a sigh. ‘Agreed!’

She stood up, walked to the doorway and gestured to Lily Ferrer as she passed by.

‘I want him to go!’ she thought, ‘I just want him to leave me alone …’

Lily Ferrer came over, briskly fanning herself. She was wearing a yellow dress and feathers in her hair; her face was a painted mask.

Olivier exchanged a few words with the two women and left.

‘He’s in love with you, darling,’ said Lily Ferrer, watching him walk away.

‘No, he’s not,’ said Gladys, shaking her head. ‘No one is in love with me any more, no one …’

She fell silent, holding back the tears with difficulty.

She kissed Lily. ‘I’m very fond of you, my dear …’

She walked out of the sitting room, crossed the reception room and went out on to the terrace. George Canning was watching her.

‘Maybe him?’ she thought in desperation.

She smiled at him. He lowered his head and she recognised the furtive expression of an impatient man who is intrigued by a woman, a man who thinks he’s the one who has chosen, that he’s the one who will win her over.

They walked together down into the garden …

At the beginning of the war Gladys and her daughter were in Paris, and the Beauchamps in Switzerland. Before leaving for the front, Olivier managed to get to Paris to see Marie-Thérèse. Winter came and Gladys returned to Antibes.

Never had the weather been so beautiful, the roses so sweet. Sans-Souci was deserted, the men servants away at war, the cars and horses requisitioned. Every day Gladys said with a sigh, ‘We have to leave … What are we doing here?’

But she stayed on because of George Canning. She was having an affair with him; he was handsome and she liked him. She had forgotten Mark, forgotten Beauchamp, forgotten in the way only women can: with difficulty, but completely. She had even forgotten Olivier, it seemed. At the beginning of the war Marie-Thérèse had spoken to her again about getting married, but Gladys refused to discuss it. She had quickly left Paris for Deauville and by the time she returned Olivier was already at the front. She barely noticed Marie-Thérèse. She spoke to her sweetly, as she had always done, using terms of endearment, but she looked through her without actually seeing her,
thinking only of Canning, herself and her own happiness. She loved her daughter; she had always loved her, but in the thoughtless, erratic way she loved everything. Her fickle affection was interspersed with long periods of indifference. She was grateful to her for no longer mentioning Olivier’s name, for not destroying the complex web of delusions without which she would not know how to go on living.

Nevertheless, it was only in her eyes that Marie-Thérèse could still pass for a child. Marie-Thérèse had changed since autumn: she had become more mature, more womanly, slimmer, and the way she moved was softer and less rushed; her young face had lost its look of innocence and boldness; her body was softer and paler; she wore her beautiful hair tied up.