Her Lover by Albert Cohen Read Free Book Online

Russian revolutionary"..
    'I don't exactly know what happened after I took all those veronal tablets. I must have opened the door of my room, because Adrien, returning to his, found me stretched out in the corridor. He picked me up and carried me back into my room. He saw the empty pillbox. Doctor. Stomach wash. Injected with all sorts of stuff. I gather I was at death's door for several days.
    'Convalescence. Adrien's visits. I talked to him about Varvara, about Éliane. He comforted me, read to me, brought me books and records. The only person in the whole world who cared about me. I was numb. The poison I'd swallowed had softened my brain. One evening he asked me if I'd marry him, and I said yes. I needed somebody who was kind, somebody to be on my side who thought a lot of me, though I fully realized that I had committed social suicide. Also that I had no money and was ill-equipped for life's battle, not trained for anything, not even fit to be a secretary. We were married before his parents arrived. His patience when I told him that I was scared of what goes on between a man and a woman.
    'Shortly after I got married, death of Tantlérie in Scotland. Summoned by her lawyer to his office. By the terms of her will, though it had been drawn up after my scandalous elopement, I inherited everything, except the villa at Champel, which went to Uncle Agrippa. Arrival of Adrien's parents. Trouble with my nerves. For weeks I stayed in my room in bed reading, with Adrien bringing me my meals. Then I decided I wanted to get away from Geneva. He requested several months unpaid leave. Our travels. His kindness. My moods. One evening I sent him away because he was there and not Varvara. I called him back. He came, so gentle, so sweet. I said that I was a horrible woman but all that was over and done with now, that I'd be nice in future and that he was to go back to his work. We returned to Geneva and I did my best to keep my promise.
    'When we got back, I invited my old girl friends round. They turned up with their husbands. That was the finish. Never heard from them again. They took one look at old Madame Deume and her pint-sized husband and that was that. True, my cousins, the Armiots and the Saladins in particular, invited me to things, but by myself, without a mention of my husband. Of course, I never went.
    'I simply must put in old Monsieur Deume, of whom I'm quite fond, as one character, and also have old Madame Deume as another - as Bogus Christian Lady given to Pious Posing. The other day, this nasty piece of work asked me about the state of my soul and said she was at my entire disposal if I should ever want to have a serious talk with her. In her vocabulary, a serious talk means a discussion about religion. Once she had the nerve to ask if I believed in God. I said not always. Thereupon, setting out to convert me, she explained that Napoleon believed in God and consequently I ought to as well. All this guff is just her way of trying to get the upper hand. I loathe her. She is no Christian. She's the very opposite. She's a cow and a cat too. Now Uncle Agrippa is a true Christian. Good through and through, a saint. People don't come any better than true Protestants. Long live Geneva! Tanderie was good too. Her faith was a bit Old Testamentish, but noble and sincere. And the way old Madame Deume talks is appalling. Instead of "lovely" she says "lervely". For "nice" she says "naice", for "middle" she says "middel" and "little" is "littel", and "perlease" for "please". And she sticks in unnecessary words whenever she can.
    'In my novel, I must talk about her talent for making barbed comments with a smile. She always clears her throat before she does this. When she clears her throat I know there's some piece of sugar-coated spite in the offing. For example, yesterday morning as I was coming downstairs I heard the awesome clacking of her heels! She was on the first-floor landing! Too late for me to escape! She took me by the arm,