Jezebel by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online Page A

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 transformedinto 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