Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'Oh, I need more than that,' she said with a smile. 'Besides, I can't wait.' (The mild-mannered cashier shrugged his shoulders wearily.)

  'In that case, Madame must assign shares as collateral, or else authorize an instruction to sell. (The young woman did not like the word collateral. It sounded as though it might be something complicated, involving lawyers and wills, that sort of thing.)

  'I'd prefer to sell,' she said, with a winning smile.

  'How much does Madame wish to sell?'

  To gain time, she asked how much her shares were worth in (she hesitated, for a true Auble never willingly allowed the graceless, sacred word to pass her lips) money. The cashier went away despondently and came back with the head of investment shares, a tanned and dynamic young man who greeted her somewhat less deferentially than usual.

  'Approximately, what you have currently in your portfolio comes to, comes to, comes to. (He opened the file and perused it rapidly while she wondered what on earth was this portfolio which she'd never heard of. Bankers probably kept customers' stocks and shares in handsome, large, leather-bound portfolios. One of these days she must ask the nice cashier to show her.) Comes to, comes to something in the region of two hundred thousand francs.'

  'I thought it was more,' she said timidly. 'Just a bit more.'

  The fact is, Madame, the estate of the late Mademoiselle d'Auble included a high proportion of French stocks, and even some Austrian and South American issues. (These last two adjectives were pronounced with considerable distaste.) Moreover, the Dow-Jones index has fallen dramatically these past few days.'

  'Oh I see,' she said.

  'So, two hundred thousand francs, in round figures. The markets are very unstable just now.'

  'Quite,' she said.

  'Do you wish to sell the whole lot?' (The cashier closed his eyes.)

  'Oh no, I shouldn't want that.'

  'Half?' asked the man of action. (This new generation, thought the cashier. No respect for anything.)

  She thought for a moment. It would be an excellent idea if she could get her hands on a sufficiently large sum so that she wouldn't have to be forever waiting for those miraculous receipts they were always going on about. Especially since it would be September soon, and she'd have to start thinking about her winter wardrobe. And after that . . . But she did not follow her train of thought, which trickled into the sand.

  'Half, Madame?' repeated the impatient young man.

  'A quarter,' said the cautious young woman.

  'In that case, we'll sell American Electric, Florida Power and Light, Campbell's Soup and maybe Corn Products, there aren't many of those. Is that your wish, Madame? (His voice was martial, almost gleeful. The cashier moved away so as not to witness the slaughter.) We shall also sell Nestle, Ciba, Eastman Kodak, Imperial Chemical and International Nickel! (His voice, in sacred ecstasy, rose in a hymn of victory.) Is that your wish, Madame?'

  'Yes. Of course. Thank you. Tell me what I have to do.'

  'Just sign the authorization to sell which I shall have drawn up. Do you stipulate a reserve or best price?'

  'Which is better?'

  'Now that all depends, Madame. According to whether you're in a hurry or not.' (She did not understand, but best price seemed more comforting.)

  'I'd rather best price.'

  'We shall also offload these South American bits and pieces and the Danube-Save-Adriatic. Is that your wish, Madame?'

  Moments later, she had signed the authorization and was feeling a little cross with herself for making a mess of her signature. Without bothering to count the notes, which plunged the cashier ever deeper into gloom, she stuffed the ten thousand francs which had been advanced on account into her handbag and left. In the Rue de la Cite she moved off slowly with a smile on her face. At nine o'clock, a date with the polestar. They would be together at nine this evening.

  CHAPTER 61

  Two days later, at four in the afternoon in the teashop where she was treating herself to a reward for a protracted session with Volkmaar, she was struck, just as she took her first sip of tea, by an absolute certainty. The jackets of both the suits she had just tried on were too tight! Dear God, both flannel suits, and she had particularly set her heart on them! Abandoning tea and toast, she rose hastily, knocked her cup over, scattered five francs on the table, and set off hotfoot back to the torture chamber, where the two jackets, still only half-finished, were tried on again, taken off, put back on, compared with the version modelled, and discussed. The outcome of a rather muddled conference was the lame conclusion which dressmakers are always hearing.

  'So, you will see to it that both jackets are neither too roomy nor too tight. (She pronounced the words as clearly as she could to be certain that her message was getting through. She was completely absorbed in the matter in hand, and invested these petty proceedings with great intensity and grimness of purpose, just as when she was a little girl she earnestly, with brows knit, built sandcastles on the beach.) Neither too roomy, then, nor too tight. Still, you could make them just a little bit roomy, though of course they mustn't be too roomy, I mean fairly close-fitting but not too tight, not cramped.'

  'Ease and elegance combined,' said Volkmaar, who was immediately rewarded with a doting look.

  'And as to length, we'll stick to what I said, two centimetres shorter than on the model. But I wonder if a centimetre and a half wouldn't be better. Yes, it would. Just a moment, I'll take a look, just to be absolutely sure.'

  She slipped on the jacket which had been modelled, turned the hem up a centimetre and a half, shut her eyes to virginize her retina, opened them, and bore down on the triple mirror, smiling a little to look natural, to appear in the jacket as she would appear to him, in the life. After this, she took a few steps backwards then again advanced towards the mirror as naturally as could be, staring at her feet and imagining that she was out for a walk, and then suddenly glancing up, hoping for a blinding, incontrovertible revelation, the shock of truth, forcing herself to forget the fact that the hem of the jacket was turned up, making herself ignore the fuzzy edge of her temporary alteration and imagine that she was wearing a jacket which was 'the finished article'. She decided with the utmost impartiality that it looked well, very well.

  'Shortening it by a centimetre and a half will be perfect,' she said. (Victorious, she filled her lungs with air, thoroughly convinced and satisfied. A centimetre and a half was an absolute, a figure decreed by God Himself.) 'So not two centimetres, is that clear? (Furrowed brow, head bent in thought, concentration, anxiety.) You don't think shortening it by one centimetre would perhaps be better? No, let's stick to one and a half.'

  'Absolutely,' said Volkmaar with a bow, having made up his mind to make the jacket two centimetres longer. 'Good-day, Madame.'

  She did not dare go back to the teashop, because of the cup she'd upset, and instead went into a cafe. When she had drunk her tea she sighed, for another worry had begun to gnaw at her. Piglet hadn't made a note of anything. He was bound to forget what had been decided. Horrible, unprincipled little man. She asked for something to write with and jotted down a summary of the alterations which had been decided. As a PS, she added: 'As agreed, the front edges of the two Cambridge jackets to be ever so slightly rounded. A sort of right angle with the corners just a little bit blunt. But I shall leave it to you if you think on the other hand that it might be better to make the corners perfectly round. In that case, please ignore the sketch below.'

  *

  But her note would get there too late if she sent it through the post. So bristle up your spirits and take it to the beast yourself. It wouldn't be much fun looking him in his little piggy eyes. But was she going to let herself be beaten? She put her best foot forward, swept through the doors, told Piglet she'd written a little note so that everything would be clear, held out her sheet of paper, and fled. Safely back in the street, she pulled a somewhat sheepish schoolgirl face to cover her shame, cast out her fear, and convince herself it was all over. S
he had done her duty. Now it was up to Piglet to get on with it. He had her note.

  However, an hour later she was hunched over a table in the post office in the Rue du Stand, writing to Volkmaar instructing him not to shorten the two Cambridge jackets but to leave them exactly the same length as the version which had been modelled.

  CHAPTER62

  'Thursday, 23 August, 9 p.m.

  'From Ariane, to my Beloved whom I love truly.

  'Beloved,

  'There is no point to this letter because you won't read it until you're back in the Ritz where I shall deliver it myself in the morning. But I needed to be doing something for you, to be with you. Even so, perhaps it's not entirely pointless after all, because this way I shall in a sense be there at the Ritz the day after tomorrow to welcome you home. I would have loved to meet you at the station but I know you don't like being met.

  'I'm writing to you in my kingdom, that is, a little summer-house at the bottom of the garden at the back of the house where the gardener employed by the previous tenants used to lurk. I've turned it into my Dreamy-House. No one else is allowed in. I'll show it to you, I do so hope you'll like it. There are holes in the floor, which is worm-eaten, the paint is flaking on the ceiling, and the paper is peeling off the walls. I feel completely at home here. There are spiders' webs everywhere you look, but I leave them alone because I like spiders and wouldn't have the heart to spoil their delicate creations. I've also got my lovely little desk here, the one I had when I was in school, and at this moment I'm using it to write to you. I don't know if desk is the right word, perhaps I should say table. It's a kind of combination of the two, sloping desk-top and seat with a back all in one, if you see what I mean.

  'It was on this table affair that I used to do my homework with my sister Éliane. Two little girls in red slippers and identical little frocks. We giggled, played games, dressed up in the attic, quarrelled, got ever so cross, you're horrible, I shan't speak to you ever again, then we made up, you're not cross, Éliane? And that song I made up, when we were little girls maybe nine and ten, we used to put on dirgy voices and sing it as we walked along the road to school hand-in-hand on winter mornings. I think I told you about that song. "It's freezing hard the ice is on the pool And we two winkies are setting off for school."

  'Facing the table is the cupboard I've made into a shrine for my sister. On the top shelf I put photographs of her, which I can't bear to look at now, and the books she loved. Among them is the volume of poems by Tagore which we used to read for all we were worth, little mystics of fourteen and fifteen that we were. In the cupboard, which I've just opened, is one of Éliane's dresses on a hanger, her best, which I've never had the heart to give away. Perhaps it still carries traces of the fragrance of her beautiful body which was stopped in full flight.

  'Darling, last night I was reading a book and all of a sudden I realized I wasn't taking anything in but was thinking of you. Darling, I've had my little sitting-room and my bedroom redecorated. The men will be putting the final coat on tomorrow. I don't care if saying it makes me sound cheap, but I had it repainted for you. Also for you: a Persian carpet, a large Shiraz, I do hope you'll like it. The colours are green, pink and gold, all gloriously delicate and washed-out.

  'Darling, I'm in a complete tizz about the new clothes I ordered. I don't know if you'll like the ones which have turned out all right, because I know now that some of them haven't, but I didn't dare say anything to the man who runs the shop and just pretended I was satisfied. They need so many alterations that they won't be ready until Saturday, the day you get back. I'm trusting to Providence! Listen, darling, you must underline must tell me which dresses you don't like, don't hold anything back, then I'll know not to wear them, at least not when I'm seeing you. Thanks in advance.

  'Darling, I've a pain in my ankle because I went over on my foot the other day running to rescue your telegram, which I'd unforgivably left in a phone-box. But I wouldn't want you to think I've become some sort of cripple. So let me make it quite clear that my ankle is not swollen and I'm not limping. It'll be a thing of the past by the day after tomorrow and I shall have a perfectly normal ankle.

  'I realize I should try to be more feminine and not be forever saying how much I want to please you, not be forever telling you how much I love you. In fact I ought really to have sent you just a very brief wire, along the lines of OK for 25 August, as basic as that, or better still Not OK for 25 August. If I was a real woman, I wouldn't be sending this letter to you who never find time to write to me. But I'm not a real woman, I'm just a little girl who is no good at feminine wiles, your little girl who loves you. You see, I could never send you a telegram saying I haven't got time to write.

  'And now I shall tell you what I did yesterday and what I've done today. Wednesday afternoon, after my session at the dress-shop, I went over to Jussy to see some very nice people I've known for ages who have a farm there. I wanted to say hello but also to ask them to let me lead their cow to pasture, Brunette she's called, and I've known her since I was a little girl. They said I could and I got myself a great big stick, that's the way it's done. Giddy-up, Brunette! Then after, just as I was bending down to pick a few gorgeous mushrooms, I heard myself muttering, unconsciously, quite mechanically: "Oh my love." Brunette and I stayed out until seven o'clock.

  'I got back here at eight. At five to nine I scooted out into the garden to look at the polestar. I hope you were watching. I had a feeling you were. Then I went for a walk in my forest. Got back quite late. Went to bed and reread your telegrams, but not over and over, so they wouldn't lose their freshness. Then I looked at a photograph of you, in segments, but did not let myself linger. I go easy on your photograph too, save it up, so it doesn't wear out. I put it under my pillow, to have it there while I was sleeping. But I was afraid it might get bent. So I took it out again and propped it up on my bedside table where it would be the first thing I saw when I woke up. By half past eleven I was feeling sleepy, but I kept my eyes open until midnight so it would be Friday and there'd only be one more day of waiting for you.

  'And now for what I did today. This morning, after bathing in water, I stayed bathing in the sun for ages in the garden, just by the wall, thinking about you because I wasn't wearing very much. Lying there, it was as if my body, which in the sun was as hot, as heavy, as dense, as hard as the wall, could no longer tell, as it felt the touch of the wind's fingers all over, in a wisp of hair or a quiver of thigh, where it ended and the wall began. That last sentence is a bit flowery, I realize that. Just an attempt, and a pretty feeble one at that, to please you. Poor Ariane, what a comedown. Next I went out and walked round town aimlessly. Stopped outside the window of a gunsmith's, my eye drawn by a pile of Spratts. I had this terrible urge to go in and buy dog-biscuits, I had this craving for them when I was little, they must be scrumptiously hard. But I resisted the temptation, because a person who happens to be the one you love does not go round nibbling dog-biscuits. So just a little bit further along I bought some liquorice laces. So I could eat them unobserved, I went behind an arch of the Pont de la Machine. They tasted awful, and I chucked the whole lot into the Rhone. As I was crossing the Quai Besançon-Hugues, I almost got knocked down by a car. The driver shouted at me and said I was a moron. I told him I didn't believe him.

  'What else did I do? Oh yes, the pen-and-paper cat (I mean the one in the stationer's) whose acquaintance I made the other day. I went back to see him, because he's a pet and ever so well-behaved. I thought he'd looked a bit down in the mouth that day, so I took him a packet of fortified granules made of liver and dried fish. He seemed to like them. After that, I went and stared at your hotel and the windows of your suite. And then I had this itch to have lunch in your hotel restaurant. I nearly fell as I went in, because I tripped over the carpet. The food was very good, and I ordered two puddings. All through the meal, a rather handsome man stared at me the whole time or very nearly!

  'Darling, I stopped writing briefly to draw you a p
icture of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor on the attached sheet. The red dot is the polestar. Keep it. You'll be able to take it with you when you go away on other official visits. As I left the restaurant, I stopped at the reception desk of the hotel and asked if I could look at one of their suites, supposedly so I could tell this girlfriend of mine who was due to arrive in Geneva any day now what they were like. Just as I thought, they said they didn't have any suites vacant at that moment.

  So rather cunningly I asked if I mightn't take a peek at a suite occupied by a guest who was away, hoping they'd show me yours. Alas, they said no. So my cunning plan didn't work. After that I thought I might like to go to the pictures, but the cinema was showing one of those soppy, romantic films. The leading man is never half as handsome as you, and it makes me cross to see the heroine turning all soppy over him. Besides, they go in for far too much kissing, and I find that very irritating. Instead I took a taxi and had myself driven to the Palais des Nations. I stayed watching the windows of your office. Then I went to the park to see our bench. But the most nauseating couple were occupying it, kissing for all the world to see. I beat a hasty retreat.

  'From there I went and mooched glumly through the streets, feeling more alone without you than ever, handbag swinging, down in the dumps. Bought a book of beauty hints and another about international politics so I shouldn't be an absolute duffer. Then I got a tram to Annemasse, which is a little town in France a stone's throw from Geneva, but of course you know that. I left both books on the tram! Now I'll tell you why I went to Annemasse! I went there to buy a ring! I never fancied wearing one before, but now I want to. I liked the idea of buying it in France, it was more secret, more of a private thing just between us two. Darling, I told the jeweller at Annemasse that the date of my wedding was fixed for the twenty-fifth of August!