Jezebel by Irène Némirovsky Page A

balcony doors. ‘It’s so light out …’
    Claude switched off the lamp. They went outside and stood on the stone balcony that ran round the entire house. It was a very beautiful morning, very quiet; they could hear birds singing in the garden next door, the sharp, joyous, intoxicating songs that welcome the sunlight.
    ‘Aren’t you tired?’
    ‘Not at all,’ she replied impatiently. ‘You too, Claude, all you ever talk about is being tired, getting some rest. Don’t you find that staying up all night makes you feel as light as air? It’s as if you’re no longer made of flesh and blood, as if a gust of wind could carry you away …’
    ‘Look,’ he said, ‘look at how that tree is swaying in the wind.’
    ‘Yes, it’s beautiful.’
    She leaned over the balcony, half closed her eyes to feel the morning wind brush against her eyelids. ‘This is the most beautiful time of day …’
    ‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her. ‘The only two moments of any real value, “worth considering”,’ he said in English, ‘are the birth and death of things, the beginning and the end.’
    ‘I don’t understand,’ Gladys said suddenly, her voice low and passionate, ‘I don’t understand why the old man in that book you like so much insists that he’s never once in his whole life been able to say, “Stand still!” ’
    ‘Oh, because he was an old fool, I imagine.’
    She smiled and breathed in the wind, tilted her lovely head, looked at her bare arm. ‘Time,’ she said softly, ‘stand still.’
    ‘Yes,’ he whispered.
    She laughed, but he was watching her with an intense, passionate expression. He seemed less to admire her than to fear and almost hate her.
    ‘Gladys …’ he said at last.
    He said her name again with a kind of astonishment, then leaned over and took her hand: it was still the hand of a child, thin and unadorned, hiding among the folds of her dress. He kissed it, trembling. He kissed her slim arm that still had traces of bumps and scratches, for she was sometimes rough, like a tomboy, and she loved difficult horses, obstacles, danger. He stood bowed before her, as humble as a child. Gladys would never, ever forget that moment, the intoxicating arrogance and divine satisfaction that filled her heart.
    ‘This,’ she mused, ‘this is happiness.’
    She didn’t pull away her hand; only her delicate nostrils flared slightly and her youthful face suddenly transformed into the face of a woman, a face that was cunning, greedy and cruel. How wonderful it was to see a man at her feet. Was there anything better in this world than the dawn of her power as a woman? It was this she had been waiting for, this she had sensed was about to happen for so many days now. Pleasure, dancing, success: all these things paled into insignificance before this stinging sensation, this kind of biting she felt within her now.
    ‘Is this love?’ she mused. ‘Oh, no! It was the pleasure of being loved … it was almost sacrilegious …’
    ‘I’m only a child,’ she said, ‘and you are Tess’s husband.’
    He looked up at her and smiled. They watched each other for a moment.
    ‘A child, yes …’ he said painfully, ‘but already a jaded, dangerous flirt …’
    His face had become impassive again. Only his hands were shaking. He wanted to leave, but she asked him quietly, ‘Are you in love with me, then?’
    He didn’t reply; his thin lips took the shape of that pale, straight line that cut across his face and which she knew so well.
    ‘He’ll give in,’ she thought and she felt a desire to recreate that sensation of sharp, strange, almost physical joy.
    ‘Answer me,’ she said, touching his hand. ‘Say it: “I love you”, even if it isn’t true. I’ve never heard anyone say those words. I want to hear them. I want to hear you say them, Claude. Tell me …’
    ‘I love you,’ he said.
    She pulled away from him with a weary, happy little laugh. That moment of piercing desire had passed; she felt a