Jezebel by Némirovsky Irène

Author:Némirovsky, Irène [Némirovsky, Irène]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Classics, Historical
ISBN: 9780307949868
Goodreads: 23278228
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1936-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

9

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.

In October Gladys received a letter from Beauchamp telling her that Olivier was dead, killed at the front. Gladys was alone that night. She sat on the little terrace for a long time, holding the letter. It was a calm evening with not a breath of wind. Finally she got up with a sigh and went and knocked on her daughter’s door. Marie-Thérèse was in bed. Gladys walked over to her and gently stroked her hair.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘are you asleep? I saw you switch off the light as I was coming in.’

‘I’m not asleep,’ said Marie-Thérèse.

She had pulled herself up on to her elbow and leaned against the pillow; she looked anxiously at her mother, pushing back the dishevelled hair that fell over her forehead.

‘Darling, my darling little girl, I have terribly sad news for you and I know you’ll feel so much pain that you’ll think it will never end, that you’ll never forget, but it will pass, my darling, you’ll see, it will pass. Poor dear Olivier is dead.’

Without a word, without a tear, Marie-Thérèse grabbed the letter

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