Jezebel (5 page)

Gladys may have been older and in decline, but she was still beautiful. Time had touched her reluctantly, with a careful, gentle hand. It had scarcely altered the shape of her face: her every feature seemed lovingly sculpted, tenderly caressed. Her long white neck remained untouched; only her eyes, which nothing could make younger, no longer sparkled as before. The expression in her eyes betrayed the anxious wisdom and weariness of age, but when she lowered them, everyone watching her could see the young girl who had danced for the first time at the Melbournes’ ball in London, one beautiful June evening so very long ago.

In the Melbournes’ reception room, with its pale wood panelling and hard window seats upholstered in red damask, narrow mirrors set into the panelling had reflected a slim young girl, still somewhat awkward and rather shy; she had golden hair that fell in a fringe on to her pale forehead and sparkling dark eyes. No one knew who she was: her name was Gladys Burnera.

She wore long gloves, a white dress whose skirt was decorated with chiffon, and a corsage of fresh roses; a
wide satin belt showed off her waist; when she danced, she looked as if happiness were lifting her off the ground, as if a gust of wind might carry her away; her hair, literally the colour of gold, was plaited and wound round her head in a crown; no doubt she was wearing it that way for the first time: she paused in front of every mirror, tilted her head and looked at her pale, slender neck, completely bare, without even a delicate gold chain. A little bouquet of small red roses, richly coloured and sweet-smelling, her favourite flowers, was tucked into her belt at the waist; every now and again she would close her eyes to breathe in their perfume, and she knew that she would never, ever forget that scent of roses in the warm ballroom, the feel of the night breeze on her shoulders, the brilliant lights, the waltz that lingered in her ears. She was so very happy. No, not happy, not yet, but it was the expectation of happiness, the heavenly desire and passionate thirst for happiness, that filled her heart.

Only yesterday she had been the powerless, sad child of a mother she detested. Today she looked like a woman, beautiful, admired, soon to be loved. ‘Loved,’ she thought and immediately felt profound anxiety: she believed herself ugly, poorly dressed, badly educated; her gestures became brusque and awkward: fearfully she looked around for her cousin, Teresa Beauchamp, who was sitting with the other mothers. But gradually, dancing made her feel giddy; her blood ran faster, burning through her veins; she turned her head, studied the trees in the private park, the warm, humid night illuminated by yellow lights, the white columns in the ballroom, as slender and elegant as the young women. Everything was bewitching; everything
looked beautiful to her, rare and enchanting; life took on a new flavour she had never tasted before: it was bittersweet.

Until she was eighteen years old, she had lived with her mother, a cold woman, harsh and virtually mad, an elderly painted doll who was sometimes frivolous and sometimes terrifying, who dragged her Persian cats, her daughter, her restlessness, all over the world.

As she danced that evening at the Melbournes’ home, she was haunted by the image of that small, dried-out, cold woman with her green eyes. The two months she could spend in London with the Beauchamps would pass so quickly … She shook her head; she dismissed such thoughts and danced more lightly, more quickly; her skirts swayed around her and their swaying light chiffon gave her a delightful feeling of giddiness.

She would never, ever forget that brief summer. Never would she recapture that unique feeling of joy. Deep within everyone’s heart there always remains a sense of longing for that hour, that summer, that one brief moment of blossoming. For several weeks or months, rarely longer, a beautiful young woman lives outside ordinary life. She is intoxicated. She feels as if she exists beyond time, beyond its laws; she experiences, not the monotonous succession of days passing by, but moments of intense, almost desperate happiness. And so she danced, she ran, through the Beauchamps’ gardens at dawn, and then suddenly she felt that she’d been sleepwalking, that she was already half awake, that the dream was over.

Her cousin, Teresa Beauchamp, did not understand such passion, such
joie de vivre
that at times was transformed
into moments of deep sadness. Teresa had always been more fragile, cooler. She was a few years older than Gladys. She was thin, slight; she had the physique of a fifteen-year-old girl, a delicate little head with skin pulled rather tightly across her temples, a yellowish complexion, beautiful dark eyes and a soft, wheezing voice that betrayed the early signs of the damage caused by the pulmonary condition from which she suffered.

She had married a Frenchman, but since she had been born and raised in England, she always spent time there; she owned a beautiful house in London. Teresa’s childhood had been happy, her adolescence exemplary; she had been introduced into high society gradually, but Gladys had been thrown into it suddenly, all at once. Teresa had never been as beautiful as Gladys; no man had ever looked at her the way they looked at this gauche young girl.

When they arrived at the Melbournes’, Gladys had grabbed Teresa’s hand and squeezed it like a terrified child. Now she was dancing; she moved past Teresa without seeing her, a sweet, triumphant smile on her beautiful lips. Teresa, who felt tired after just one waltz, looked enviously at Gladys, admiring the delicate frame that hid nerves of steel. Yet, whenever she was asked ‘Isn’t your little cousin beautiful?’ she would slowly nod her head with the surprised, weary gesture that made her look as graceful as an injured bird, then give a measured reply: ‘She has the makings of a great beauty’, for women do not see how the fleeting and almost terrifying radiance of beauty will fade from the faces of their peers.

‘Nous essayons de la distraire,’
she said, first in French. ‘We’re trying to give her a good time.’

She sat up even straighter on the hard cushions of the settee; she never leaned against the back of furniture; she never showed signs of impatience. She had unhealthily bright cheeks; she smiled nervously, wearily, and slowly fanned herself. It was getting late; she felt overwhelmed by profound sadness. At first it had given her pleasure to watch Gladys with the indulgent affection of the older woman; but now, she didn’t know why, it was painful to see her so beautiful, so full of life; at one point she felt as if she wanted to grab her by the arm and shout, ‘Enough. Stop. You are too dazzling, too happy.’

She had no idea that for many years to come Gladys would arouse the same envious sadness in the hearts of all women.

Teresa felt ashamed; she fanned herself more quickly. She was wearing a satin dress of a dullish bronze colour with a double lace skirt; its bodice was embroidered with chenille leaves and bronze pearls. She looked at herself in the mirror and thought she was ugly; she desperately, hopelessly envied Gladys’s simple white dress and golden hair. She reminded herself that she was married, happy, that she had a son, that this little Gladys was at the threshold of an uncertain future.

‘Go on then, my darling, you too will change one day … such daring, such youth: how quickly they are lost, and the triumphant way you look at everyone, that will also fade away. You’ll have children, grow old. You still don’t know what is in store for you, my poor darling.’

Suddenly she stood up and walked over to Gladys, who was standing in front of the red curtain of a window. She
touched her shoulder with her fan. ‘We have to go home now, darling, come along …’

Gladys turned towards her. Teresa was shocked by the change that a single hour of pleasure had made to this docile, quiet young girl. Gladys’s every gesture was made with great ease and sylphlike grace; her expression was triumphant, her laughter joyful and mocking. She seemed barely to hear what Teresa was saying.

‘Oh, no, Tess,’ she said, impatiently shaking her head, ‘no, please, Tess …’

‘Yes, darling …’

‘One more hour, just one.’

‘No, darling, it’s late; imagine staying up all night, at your age …’

‘One more dance then, just one more dance …’

Tess sighed; her breathing became more irregular, more painful, as always when she was tired or irritated; she was wheezing.

‘I was also eighteen once, Gladys,’ she said, ‘and not that long ago. I understand that you find the ball wonderful, but you must learn how to leave pleasure behind before it leaves you behind. It’s late. Haven’t you had a good enough time?’

‘Yes, but now it’s over,’ Gladys murmured in spite of herself.

‘Tomorrow you will be pale and tired because you didn’t want to go home when you should. This isn’t the last ball you’ll go to; summer isn’t over yet.’

‘But it will be over soon,’ said Gladys, and her wide dark eyes sparkled with desire and despair.

‘Well, then, that will be the time to cry, and you know
very well that everything must come to an end. You must learn how to resign yourself to things.’

Gladys lowered her head, but she wasn’t listening; a voice rose from deep within her heart, a primitive and passionate voice, blocking out all those pointless words, a cruel, powerful voice that shouted, ‘Leave me alone! I want my pleasure! Deny me a single one of my pleasures and I’ll hate you! If you interfere with a single second of happiness that God has granted me, I’ll wish you were dead.’

All she could hear was that intoxicating fanfare, the voice of youth itself. Was it possible that she would see this night end, watch it disappear into the void, the past? This night – so beautiful, so perfect – to others was nothing more than another summer’s ball in London, ‘a tiresome affair’, as Tess put it, no more than a few hours, soon to be forgotten …

‘Come along now, I say,’ Tess said, almost harshly.

Gladys looked at her with surprise.

‘I don’t feel well; I’m tired. We have to go home …’

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Gladys, taking her hand.

Her face had changed; once again it was childlike and innocent; the cruel passion in her eyes had disappeared.

‘Let’s go,’ said Tess, forcing herself to smile. ‘You’re a good, sensible girl. Come along …’

Gladys followed her without saying a word.

To Gladys, the last ball of that summer was a whirl of dancing, sound and colour that caught her up for a few hours then abandoned her, throwing her back down to earth feeling weary and disappointed. She had to leave the next day.

She returned to the Beauchamps’ house at dawn. A milky fog lit up London; the pale, glistening streets were empty; the morning was almost cold, and the breeze left the taste of rain and damp coal on the lips, though now and again wafts of scent filled the air from the roses blossoming in the parks.

Gladys slowly touched her face; her cheeks burned as if on fire. She could feel her heart beating quickly, anxiously, to the rhythm of the last waltz she had danced. She hummed it absent-mindedly, gently stroked her hair, leaned towards Tess and laughed, but she was sad. It was always the same: her joy suddenly disappeared and left her feeling deeply, bitterly melancholy. She dreamily thought about a handsome gentleman she had found attractive and with whom all the young women had fallen in love that summer. He was a young Polish man who
worked at the Russian Embassy; his name was Count Tarnovsky. She thought of all the beautiful women she had seen and the fortunate young girls whose lives were already mapped out for them, while she had barely any social status, she who was the daughter of divorced parents, the daughter of Sophie Burnera, ‘an unhappy woman, a wicked woman’, as Tess called her. She looked over at her cousin who was sitting beside her and felt sorry for her: she seemed so frail, so tired, so ill; every now and again she would cough painfully. Claude Beauchamp had closed the car window and turned towards the two women. She smiled at him shyly, but he didn’t seem to notice her.