Ninety! How that woman must suffer, the hours of time-consuming toilet, in order to turn herself into this caricature. Urania said that everything was false, her hair and her neckline! And Cornélie felt revulsion at the prospect of living from now on with that woman, as if with something unworthy. Much of her energy had been drained by her happy love life, as if their twin happiness — Duco’s and hers — had made her less fit for further existential struggle and had softened her in its splendour, but it had refined and purified something in her soul and she was revolted by so much pretence for so petty and vain a purpose. And it was only pure necessity — the gradualness of life that impelled her and pushed her gently with its guiding finger along a lifeline that was now winding away into loneliness — necessity that gave her the strength to hide away her sorrow, her longing, her homesickness for all she had left behind, deep within her. She decided to say no more about it to Urania. Urania was so happy to see her, regarded her as a good friend, in the loneliness of her exalted life, in her isolation amid her aristocratic acquaintances. Urania had enthusiastically accompanied her to seamstresses and shops and helped her choose her new trousseau. It left her cold. She, the elegant woman, innately elegant, who in her appearance had always defended herself against poverty, who with a fresh ribbon was able to wear an old blouse gracefully, in the days of her happiness, was totally indifferent to everything she was now buying at Mrs Uxeley’s expense. It was as if it were not for her. She let Urania ask and choose, and went along with everything. She tried things on like an automaton. She was so upset to have to spend so much at a stranger’s expense. She felt demeaned, humiliated: all her haughty pride in herself had gone. She was afraid of what might be thought of her in Mrs Uxeley’s circle of acquaintances, unsure whether they would know of her liberal ideas, her relationship with Duco, and she was afraid of Mrs Uxeley’s opinion. Because Urania had had to be honest and tell her everything. It was only because of Urania’s warm recommendation that Mrs Uxeley was still prepared to employ her. She felt out of place, now she had to join in with all those people again, and she was afraid of showing her true colours. She would have to play-act, disguise her ideas, weigh her words, and she was no longer used to that. And all that for money. All because she did not have the strength to earn her living alongside Duco, and happily and independent, encourage him in his work, his art. Oh, if only she had been able and had found some way, how happy she would have been. If only she had not allowed to fester in her the wretched languor of her blood, her upbringing, her brilliant drawing-room education languor, which rendered her unfit for anything! In her blood she was both a woman of love and a woman of luxury, but more love than luxury: she could be happy with the simplest thing if only she could love. And now life had torn her from him, slowly but surely. And now she had luxury, dependent luxury, and it no longer satisfied her blood, because she could no longer satisfy her deepest need. Fatal discontent ran riot in that lonely soul. The only happiness she possessed were his letters, his long letters, letters of longing, but also letters of comfort. He wrote to her of his longing, but also wrote to give her courage and hope. He wrote to her every day. He was in Florence now and sought consolation in the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. He had not been able to stay in Rome, and the studio was now closed up. In Florence he was slightly closer to her. And his letters were like a book of love to her, the only novel she read, and it was as if she saw his landscapes in his style, the same haziness of intensely felt colour, the pearly white and dreamily hazy light distance: the horizon of his longing, as if his eyes were always straying to the horizon, where the night of their parting had disappeared as if into a peacock-grey sunset; a whiff of the sad Campagna. In those letters they were still living together. But she could not write to him in the same way. Although she wrote to him every day, she wrote concisely, always the same thing in different words: her longing, her dull indifference. She told him, though, how she loved his letters, which were like her daily bread.
She was now with Mrs Uxeley and occupied two charming rooms of the huge twelve-roomed villa, with a view of the sea and of the Promenade des Anglais. Urania had helped her arrange them. And she lived in an unreal dream of alienation, non-existence, of soulless being, of unfelt actions and gestures, in accordance with the will of others. In the mornings she would visit Mrs Uxeley in her boudoir and read to her: American and French newspapers, and sometimes an extract from a French novelette. Humbly, she did her best. Mrs Uxeley thought she read well, but simply said she should cheer up now, that her sad days were over. No mention was made of Duco and Mrs Uxeley acted as if he did not exist. The great boudoir, with its balcony doors open, looked out over the sea where the morning promenade was already beginning, with the colourful and patchy shapes of parasols, delicately garish against the deep-blue sea, a sea of luxury, water of wealth, wavelets that had an expensive look before charmingly consenting to break into foam. The old lady, already made up, with her wig on and a white lace cap over it against the draught lay on her chaise-longue piled with cushions in the black and white lace of her white silk peignoir. With her lorgnette, initialled in diamonds, in her wrinkled hand, she liked to peer at the brash patches of the parasols outside. Now and then a rheumatic twinge would suddenly make her wince so that her face became a single crumpled surface of wrinkles, beneath which the even sheen of her make-up almost cracked, like craquelé china. In daylight she seemed scarcely alive, she seemed an automaton assembled from desiccated limbs, which still spoke and gesticulated. She was always a little tired in the mornings, at night she never slept; after eleven she took a nap. She lived according to a strict regime, and her doctor, who called every day, seemed to breathe new life into her every time, enabling her to hold out till evening. In the afternoons she drove around, got out at the Jetée and made her calls. But in the evenings she revived, with a hint of real animation, dressed, put on her jewels, recovered her exuberance, her exclamations, and her poses … Then it was balls, parties, the theatre. Then she was not a day over fifty.
But those were the good days. Sometimes, after a night of unbearable pain, she stayed in her bedroom, the previous day’s make-up not retouched, a black lace shawl over her bald head, in a black satin morning coat, which hung round her like a comfortable sack, and she groaned, screamed, shouted and seemed to be begging for mercy from her torment. This went on for a few days and occurred at regular three-week intervals: then she gradually revived again.
Her hectic conversation was limited to a regularly recurring discussion of all kinds of family matters. She explained to Cornélie all the family relations of her acquaintances, American and European, but was particularly fond of expanding on the great European families that she included among her acquaintances. Cornélie could never bear to listen and immediately forgot the acquaintances. It was sometimes intolerable to listen for so long, and for no other reason, as if compelled, Cornélie found the strength to talk a little herself, tell an anecdote or a story. When she saw that the old woman was very partial to anecdotes, riddles, puns, especially with a slightly risqué edge, she collected as many as she could from the Vie Parisienne and the Journal pour Rire, and always had them to hand. And Mrs Uxeley found her amusing. Once, noticing Duco’s daily letter, she made an allusion, and Cornélie suddenly realised that she was dying with curiosity. So she calmly told the truth: her marriage, her divorce, her liberal ideas, her meeting and relationship with Duco. The old woman was a little disappointed that Cornélie should talk about this with such simplicity. Her only advice was that the proprieties should now be observed. What friends said about the past was less important. But there must be no offence given now. Cornélie meekly gave her word. And Mrs Uxeley showed her albums, her own portraits from when she was a young woman, and the portraits of all kinds of men. And she talked of this friend and that, and in her vanity hinted at a very turbulent past. But she had always observed the proprieties … That was her pride. What Cornélie had done was not good …