The time between eleven and twelve-thirty brought relief. The old woman regularly had a siesta at that time — her only sleep — and Urania would come to collect Cornélie. They drove round a little or walked along the Promenade or sat in the Jardin Public. It was the only moment when Cornélie appreciated some of her newfound luxury and to some extent flattered her vanity. Walkers looked round at the two beautiful young women in their immaculate linen outfits, whose fashionably hatted heads withdrew under the twilight of their parasols and they admired the gleaming victoria, the impeccable livery and the grey horses of the Princess di Forte-Braccio.
Gilio was diffident and modest in his dealings with Cornélie. He was polite, but at a courteous distance, if he joined the two ladies for a moment in the garden or on the Jetée. Since the night in the pergola, after the sudden flash of his angry dagger, she was afraid of him, partly because she had lost much of her courage and her pride. But she could not be any cooler to him in her replies than she already was, since she was grateful to him, as she was to Urania, for looking after her for the first few days, and for the tact with which they had not left her immediately to the mercy of Mrs Uxeley, but had kept her at their place where she had regained some strength.
On those mornings off, when she felt released from the caricature of her life, from the old woman — vain, selfish, insignificant, ridiculous — she felt herself, with Urania’s friendship, regaining her old self, became aware of being in Nice, saw the colourful bustle around her with clearer eyes and lost the sense of unreality of the first few days. And it was as if she were seeing herself again for the first time, in her light linen walking suit, sitting in the Garden, her gloved fingers playing with the tassels of her parasol. She could still scarcely believe in herself, but she could see herself. She kept her longing, her homesickness, her oppressive discontent, deep inside, hidden even from Urania. Sometimes she felt she would choke. But she listened to Urania and talked and joined in the laughter and looked up at Gilio with a laugh, as he stood in front of her posing on the toes of his shoes, his walking stick dangling in his hands, behind his back. Sometimes — as in a vision swirling through the crowd — she would suddenly see Duco, the studio, her past happiness fading away for a brief moment. And then placing her fingertips between the lace strips curling in front of her bolero she would feel his letter of that morning and crumpled the stiff envelope against her breast like something of his that caressed her. There was no escaping it: she saw herself, and Nice around her, and she felt her new life: it was not unreality, although for her soul it was not reaclass="underline" it was sad play-acting in which, dull, tired, weak and listless — she played a part. …
XLV
EVERYTHING WAS ARRANGED as if according to a strict regime, which excluded even the slightest variation: everything was fixed as if by law. The reading of the newspaper, her one and a half hours off; then lunch, after lunch the drive, the Jetée, the visits; every day the calls, afternoon teas; occasionally a dinner, in the evenings generally a ball, a soir é e, a play. She made scores of new acquaintances and immediately forgot about them, and when she saw them again could never remember whether she knew them or not. In general she was quite well treated in those cosmopolitan circles, as it was known that she was a close friend of Princess Urania. But like Urania herself, on the female side of the old Italian names and titles, who sometimes made their dazzling appearance in those circles, she experienced devastating haughtiness and contempt. The gentlemen were always introduced to her, but whenever she was occasionally introduced to their ladies, a vague, astonished nod of the head was the only response. It mattered little to her personally, but she felt sorry for Urania, for she saw clearly, at Urania’s own soirées, how they scarcely regarded her as the hostess, how they surrounded and fêted Gilio, but gave his wife only a minimum of politeness due to her as Princess di Forte-Braccio, without forgetting for a moment that she was Miss Hope. And such lack of respect was harder for Urania to endure than for her. She assumed her role of lady’s companion. She kept a constant watch on Mrs Uxeley, repeatedly joining her for a moment, fetching a fan that Mrs Uxeley had left behind from another drawing-room, constantly performing some small service or other. Then, alone in the hectic hubbub of the room, she sat down against the wall, looking indifferently ahead of her. She sat there, still elegant, in an attitude of graceful indifference and dull boredom. Tapping her foot, or opening her fan. She paid no attention to anyone. Sometimes a few gentlemen would come over to her, and she would talk to them or dance a little, indifferently as if she were bestowing a favour. Once, when Gilio was talking to her, she seated and he standing, and the Duchess di Luca and Countess Costi came up together and, still standing, began bantering exuberantly with him without giving her so much as a look or a word, she first sat and looked the ladies up and down with mocking irony, then slowly rose and taking Gilio’s arm said, giving them a piercing needle-like look from narrowed eyes:
“I’m sorry … you’ll have to excuse me if I steal the Prince di Forte-Braccio away from you; I need to speak to him privately for a moment …”
And with the pressure of her arm she forced Gilio two steps further, immediately sat down again, made him sit next to her and began whispering to him in a familiar tone, leaving the duchess and the countess standing two metres away open-mouthed at her impudence, and moreover spread her train wide between herself and the ladies and waved her fan as if to keep a distance. She was able to do this with such calm, such tact and hauteur, that Gilio was tickled to death, and giggled with her in delight.
“Urania should be able to act like that occasionally,” he said, grateful as a child for the amusement she had accorded him.
“Urania is too sweet to be so spiteful,” she replied.
She did not make herself popular, but people became afraid of her, afraid of her calm spitefulness, and henceforth were wary of offending her. In addition, the gentlemen found her beautiful and attractive, partly attracted by her indifferent hauteur. And without really wanting to, she gained a position, apparently with the greatest diplomacy and in reality, of course, a step at a time. While Mrs Uxeley’s egoism was flattered by her little attentions, which she remembered religiously and performed with a charming youthful maternal air, in contrast to which Mrs Uxeley delighted in posing as a young girl, she gradually gathered an entourage of gentlemen around her, and the ladies became cloyingly polite. Urania often told her how clever she thought her, what tact she had. Cornélie shrugged her shoulders: it all went of its own accord, and she did not really care. Still, slowly, she regained something of her cheerfulness. When she saw herself standing in the mirror opposite, she could not help but admit that she was more beautiful than she had ever been, as a young girl, as a newly married woman. Her tall slim figure had a line of pride and languor, which gave her a special grace; her neck was noble, her bosom fuller, her waist slimmer in these new outfits, her hips were heavier, her arms had become plumper and though she no longer had that sheen, that happiness across her face that she had had in Rome, her mocking laugh, the indifferent irony gave her a special attraction to those strange men, something that enticed and provoked more than the most outrageous flirting would have done. And Cornélie had not wanted this, but now it came of its own accord, she accepted it. It was not in her blood to refuse. And apart from that Mrs Uxeley was satisfied with her. Cornélie could whisper so sweetly to her, “Ma’am, you were in such pain yesterday. Shouldn’t you go home a little earlier tonight?” Whereupon Mrs Uxeley postured like a girl being warned by her mother not to dance too much that evening. She loved these niceties, and Cornélie, indifferent, gave her what she wanted. And they amused her more on those evenings but the amusement was mixed with self-reproach the moment she thought of Duco, of their parting, of Rome, of the studio, of past happiness that she had lost through her weakness.