Jezebel by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online

murmur ran through the press box and the people standing in the public gallery: ‘Five years in prison …’
    The spectators filed out of the doors of the ancient Law Courts. As they walked outside, everyone stopped at the entrance to breathe in the cool wind; it was raining again, in large, irregular drops.
    ‘It’ll rain again tomorrow,’ someone said, pointing at the sky.
    ‘Let’s go for a beer,’ said someone else.
    Two women were talking about their husbands. The wind carried their words towards the dark, peaceful Seine.
    Just as people forget the actors as soon as a play is over, so no one gave Gladys Eysenach another thought.She had played her part. It had been a rather banal part, in the end. A crime of passion … A somewhat modest sentence … What would become of her? No one cared about her future; no one cared about her past.

1
    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; awide 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; everythinglooked 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