“Where have the others got to?” they cried, looking back up the stairs. And they came cheerfully up to Cornélie, dancing. The dancing master also approached. She did not understand what he was saying.
“Where have the others got to?” she repeated after the girls automatically, in a hoarse voice.
“There they come … Now we’re all here …”
There was chatter, laughter and a buzz of voices around her. She summoned all her feeble strength, and gave some orders. The guests poured into the large ballroom, sat down on chairs at the front, jostled in the corners. The pavane was danced in the middle of the room, to the slow rhythm of an old melody: a gently winding arabesque with elegant steps, deep bows and satin shining like porcelain … the wave of a cape … the long, gleaming shape of a sword …
XLVIII
“URANIA, I beg you, help me!”
“What is it?”
“Come with me …”
She had dragged Urania away from De Breuil by the hand and pulled her into one of the deserted rooms. The suite of rooms had been almost completely abandoned, the throng of people were packed along the sides of the large ballroom to see the pavane being danced.
“What is it, Cornélie?”
Cornélie was trembling all over and was clinging to Urania’s arm. She pulled her to the furthest corner of the drawing-room. It was empty.
“Urania,” she begged, in a paroxysm of nervousness. “Help me! What am I to do? I’ve met him unexpectedly. Don’t you know who? My husband. My ex-husband. I had already seen him a few times, in the street and on the Jetée. That time when I gave such a start, you remember, when I almost fainted … it was because of him. Now, here, just now he spoke to me. And I’m afraid of him. I don’t know what it is, but I’m afraid of him. He was very friendly, he needed to talk to me. It was so strange. Everything was over between us. We were divorced. And suddenly I meet him, and he talks to me, he asks how I’ve been in the meantime; he tells me I look good, that I’ve become beautiful. Tell me what I’m to do, Urania. I’m afraid. I’m feverish with fear. I want to get away. I’d like to leave at once, and go to Florence, to Duco. I’m so afraid, Urania. I want to go to my room. Tell Mrs Uxeley that I want to go to my room.”
She scarcely knew what she was saying. The words tumbled out in a delirious stream. Male voices approached. It was Gilio, De Breuil, the Duke di Luca and the young journalists, who were busy making a name for themselves.
“Where has Signora de Retz got to? She’s needed everywhere,” said the duke, and the journalists, in the shadow of these grand gentlemen, agreed: she was needed everywhere …
“Call Mrs Uxeley and ask her to come here,” Urania whispered to Gilio. “Cornélie is ill, I think … I can’t leave her alone. She wants to go to her room. It’s better if Mrs Uxeley knows, otherwise she might get angry.”
Cornélie joked nervously, feverishly merry, with the duke, De Breuil and the journalists.
“Would you prefer me to take you straight to Mrs Uxeley?” whispered Gilio.
“I want to go to my room!” she whispered imploringly in reply from behind her fan.
The pavane seemed to be over. A hubbub of voices approached, as if the guests were spreading back through the rooms.
“There’s Mrs Uxeley,” said Gilio.
He went over to her, and talked to her. First she fluttered, leaning on the gold knob of her walking stick. Then she frowned angrily. She came closer. Cornélie went on joking with the duke: the journalists found everything equally amusing.
“Aren’t you well?” whispered Mrs Uxeley who had come closer and was put out. “And what about the cotillon?”
“I’ll look after everything, Mrs Uxeley,” said Urania.
“Impossible, my dear princess: and I wouldn’t dare accept.”
“Introduce me to your friend, Cornélie!” boomed a deep voice behind her.
She felt the voice inside her like bronze. She turned round automatically. It was him. She seemed not to be able to get away from him. And beneath his gaze, strangely enough, she seemed to regain her strength. He seemed not to want her to be ill … She murmured.
“Urania, may I … introduce … a countryman of mine … Baron Brox … the Princess di Forte-Braccio.”
Urania knew his name and knew who he was.
“Dearest,” she whispered to Cornélie. “Let me take you to your room. I’ll look after everything.”
“It’s no longer necessary,” she said. “I’m much better. I’d just like some champagne. I’m much better, Mrs Uxeley.”
“Why did you run away from me?” asked Rudolf Brox with that smile of his and his eyes in Cornélie’s eyes.
She smiled and had no idea what she said.
“The ball has begun,” said Mrs Uxeley. “But who is going to lead my cotillon?”
“If I can be of service, Mrs Uxeley,” said Brox. “I have a modest talent for leading cotillons …”
Mrs Uxeley was delighted. It was agreed that De Breuil and Urania, Gilio and Countess Costi, and Brox and Cornélie would lead the figures in turn.
“Poor darling,” said Urania in Cornélie’s ear, “can you manage it?”
Cornélie smiled.
“Yes, of course, I’m better,” she whispered.
And she went off to the ballroom on Brox’s arm, watched by a flabbergasted Urania.
XLIX
IT WAS TWELVE o’clock when Cornélie woke next morning. With its swirling particles the sun pierced the gold slit of the slightly parted curtains. She felt exhausted. She remembered that after such a party Mrs Uxeley gave her a morning off to rest: the old woman also stayed in bed, although she did not sleep. And Cornélie lacked the strength to get up, and stayed in bed, weighed down with fatigue. Her eyes wandered about the messy room; her beautiful ball gown was draped helplessly over a chair, limply and immediately reminding her of yesterday. For that matter, all her thoughts were focused on yesterday, on her husband, with a fixed hypnotic concentration. She felt as if emerging from a nightmare, a hangover, a fainting fit. Only by drinking a glass of champagne had she been able to keep up appearances, to dance, with Brox, take their turn in leading a figure. But not only with champagne. His eyes too had kept her on her feet, prevented her from fainting, from bursting into sobs, from starting to scream and waving her arms like a madwoman. When he had said good-night, when everyone had gone, she had collapsed, and had been taken to bed. The moment she was no longer under his gaze, she had felt her wretchedness and her weakness and the champagne seemed to befuddle her instantly.
Now she thought of him in the bruised languor of her devastating morning fatigue. And it seemed to her that her whole Italian year had been a dream intermezzo. She saw herself back in The Hague; the young girl who went out a lot, with her nice face and flirtatious manners and her ever-ready quips. She saw their first meetings and the way she had immediately bent to his will and had not been able to flirt with him, because he laughed at her womanly defences. He had been too strong from the first. Then their engagement. He laid down the law to her and she rebelled, angrily, with violent scenes, not wanting to be controlled, offended as a pampered, fêted and spoiled young girl. And as if by the brute force of his fist — and always with that smile on his lips — he kept her down. Until they were married, until she made a scandal and ran away. At first he had not wanted a divorce, but had later given in, because of the scandal. She had freed herself, she had run away!