David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (23 page)

“I don’t give a damn,” Antoinette stammered. “I don’t give a damn,” biting her hands so hard that her young, sharp teeth made them bleed.

“And as for
her,
she can do what she likes to me, I’m not afraid, I don’t give a damn!”

She looked out at the dark, deep courtyard below the window.

“I’ll kill myself, and before I die, I’ll say it’s all because
ofher,
and that will be the end of it,” she murmured. “I’m not afraid of anything, I’ve already had my revenge …”

She went back to looking out of the window. Her breath was making the glass misty; angrily she wiped it and pressed her face against it once again. Finally, out of frustration, she threw open both sides of the window. The night was fine and cold. Now, with the piercing eyes of a fourteen-year-old, she could clearly see the chairs lined up along the wall, the musicians around the piano. She stood without moving for so long that she could no longer feel her cheeks or bare arms. For a moment, she almost convinced herself that nothing had happened, that the bridge, the dark water of the Seine, the torn-up invitations carried off by the wind had all been a dream, that the guests would miraculously appear and the ball begin. She heard the clock strike three quarters of an hour, then ten o’clock. Ten o’clock… She shuddered and slipped out of the room.

She walked towards the reception room, like an amateur assassin drawn back to the scene of the crime. In the corridor, two waiters, heads thrown back, were drinking champagne straight from the bottle. She went into the dining room. It was empty, waiting—the great table in the centre, with its Venetian-lace cloth and floral decorations, weighed down with game, fish in aspic, oysters on silver platters, and two identical pyramids of fruit. Pedestal tables with four or six place settings were scattered around the room, laid with dazzling crystal, fine porcelain,
vermeil and silver. Looking back, Antoinette would never understand how she’d dared walk the entire length ofthat great room with its dazzling lights. At the door of the reception room, she hesitated for a moment, then noticed the large silk-upholstered settee in the adjoining antechamber. She dropped to her knees and crept between the back of the settee and the flowing drapes; there was just enough room for her if she hugged her knees to her chest, and, by leaning forward, she could see the reception room as if it were the stage of a theatre. She was trembling slightly, still frozen from her long vigil at the open window. At that moment, the apartment seemed silent, calm, asleep. The musicians were talking quietly. She could see a black man with brilliant white teeth, a woman in a silk dress, huge cymbals like at a fun fair, an enormous cello standing in the corner. The black man sighed, strumming a kind of guitar that gave off a low hum, like a moan.

“We start and finish later and later these days.”

The pianist said a few words that Antoinette couldn’t hear but that made the others laugh. Then Monsieur and Madame Kampf came in.

When Antoinette saw them, she instinctively flinched, as if trying to disappear into the floor. She crushed herself against the wall, buried her mouth in the fold of her bent arm, but she could hear their footsteps getting closer. They were standing right next to her. Kampf sat down in an armchair opposite Antoinette. Rosine walked around the room for a moment. She switched on the wall lights near the fireplace, then switched them off again. She was sparkling with diamonds.

“Sit down,” Kampf said quietly. “It’s idiotic to get yourself in such a state…”

Antoinette, who had opened her eyes and leaned forward so that her cheek was touching the wooden back of the settee, could see her mother standing in front of her. She was struck by the expression on her imperious face, an expression she had never seen before: a kind of humility—a mixture of eagerness and terror…

“Alfred, do you think everything will be all right?” she asked in a voice as quavering and innocent as a little girl’s.

Alfred had no time to answer, for the sound of the doorbell ringing suddenly echoed throughout the apartment.

Rosine clasped her hands.

“Oh my God, it’s beginning!” she whispered as if she were describing an earthquake.

The two of them rushed towards the open door of the reception room.

A moment later, Antoinette saw them come back, one on either side of Mademoiselle Isabelle, who was talking very loudly. Her voice was different from the one she normally used: it was oddly high-pitched and sharp, and interrupted by occasional peals of laughter that lit up her remarks like little sparks.

“I’d forgotten all about her,” Antoinette thought in horror.

Madame Kampf, radiant now, continued talking. She had reverted to her self-satisfied, arrogant expression; she winked maliciously at her husband, secretly indicating Mademoiselle Isabelle’s dress of yellow tulle and, around her long, dry neck, a feather boa that she flapped with both hands as if she were one of the ridiculous courtesans in a Moliere play. A silver lorgnette hung from an orange velvet band around her wrist.

“Have you ever been in this room, Isabelle?”

“Well, no, it’s very pretty. Who chose the furniture for you? Oh, look at these little vases, they’re just delightful. So you still like the Japanese style, Rosine?
I’m
always standing up for it. Why, just the other day, I was defending it to the Block-Levys, the Salomons, do you know them? They were criticising it as looking fake and typically ‘nouveau riche,’ to use their expression. ‘Well, say what you like, I think it’s cheerful, lively, and then, the fact that it’s less expensive than the Louis XV style, for example, is hardly a defect, quite the contrary…’”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Isabelle,” Rosine protested crossly. “Chinese and Japanese antiques are fetching ridiculously high prices… This period vase decorated with birds, for example…”

“Rather late in the period…”

“My husband paid ten thousand francs for it at the Drouot Auction House … What am I saying? Twelve thousand, not ten thousand, isn’t that right, Alfred? Oh, I scolded him! But not for
long. I myself have a passion for seeking out little ornaments. I just adore it.”

“You’ll have a glass of port, won’t you, ladies?” interrupted Kampf, gesturingto the servant, who hadjust come in. “Georges, bring us three glasses of Sandeman port and some sandwiches, caviar sandwiches…”

Mademoiselle Isabelle had walked away; with the help of her lorgnette she was examining a golden Buddha embroidered on a velvet cushion.

“Sandwiches!” Madame Kampfwhispered quickly. “Are you mad? You’re not going to ruin my beautiful table just for her! Georges, just bring some plain biscuits from the china tray, do you understand, from the china tray.”

“Yes, Madame.”

He came back a moment later with the tray and Baccarat decanter. The three of them drank in silence. Then Madame Kampfand Mademoiselle Isabelle sat down on the settee where Antoinette was hiding. By reaching out her hand, she could have touched her mother’s silver slippers and her teacher’s yellow satin court shoes. Kampf was pacing up and down, glancing furtively at the clock.

“So tell me, who will be coming tonight?” asked Mademoiselle Isabelle.

“Oh,” said Rosine, “some charming people, and some old fogeys too, like the Marquise de San Palacio, whose invitation I’m returning. But she does enjoy coming here so … I saw her yesterday. She was meant to be going away but she said to me, ‘My dear, I have put off my trip to the Midi for a week because of your ball: everyone always has such a good time with you…’”

“Oh, so you’ve already given some balls?” Mademoiselle Isabelle asked, pursing her lips.

“No, no,” Madame Kampf hastened to reply, “just some afternoon tea parties. I didn’t invite you because I know how busy you are during the day…”

“Yes, I am. Actually, I’m considering giving some concerts next year.

“Really? What an excellent idea!”

They fell silent. Mademoiselle Isabelle once again studied the walls of the room.

“It’s charming, absolutely charming, such taste …”

Once again, silence. The two women coughed now and again. Rosine arranged her hair. Mademoiselle Isabelle carefully adjusted the skirt of her dress.

“Haven’t we had beautiful weather these past few days?”

Kampf broke in. “Well really, are we going to sit around with our arms folded all night? People do come so late! You did put ten o’clock on the invitations, didn’t you, Rosine?”

“I see I’m very early …”

“Not at all, my dear, what an idea. It’s a terrible habit, arriving so late, it’s deplorable …”

“Why don’t we have a dance,” said Kampf, clapping his hands cheerfully.

“Of course, what a very good idea! You may begin playing,” shouted Madame Kampf to the orchestra. “A Charleston.”

“Do you know how to Charleston, Isabelle?”

“Well, yes, a bit, like everyone …”

“Well, youwon’t be short ofpartners. The Marquis d’Itcharra, for example, a nephew of the Spanish ambassador. He wins all the competitions in Deauville, doesn’t he, Rosine? While we’re waiting, let’s open the ball.”

The two of them walked away from the settee, and the orchestra started playing in the empty drawing room. Antoinette saw Madame Kampf get up, rush to the window, and press her face— “Her as well,” thought Antoinette—against the cold glass. The clock struck ten thirty.

“Good Lord, what are they doing?” whispered Madame Kampf impatiently. “I wish that old bag would go to hell,” she added, almost loud enough to be heard, and then immediately gave a round of applause and called out, laughing, “Oh, how charming, just charming! I didn’t know you could dance like that, Isabelle.”

“She dances like Josephine Baker,” Kampf replied from the other end of the drawing room.

When the dance was over, Kampf called out, “Rosine, I’m taking Isabelle over to the bar, don’t be jealous now!”

“What about you, my dear, won’t you join us?”

“In a minute. I just have to have a word with the servants and I’ll be with you …”

“I warn you, Rosine, I’m going to flirt with Isabelle all night.”

Madame Kampf found the strength to laugh and shake her finger at them; but she didn’t say a word, and as soon as she was alone, she once again threw herself against the window. She could hear the sound of cars in the street below. When some of them slowed down in front of the building, Madame Kampf leaned out of the window and strained to look down into the dark winter street. But then the cars drove off, the sound of their engines growing fainter as they disappeared into the night. The later it got, however, the fewer cars there were, and many long minutes went by without a single sound coming from the street. It was as deserted as a country lane; there was only the noise of the nearby tramway, and the muted hooting of car horns, far away.

Rosine’s teeth were chattering, as if she had a fever. Ten forty-five. Ten fifty. In the empty drawing room, a little clock struck the hour with a hurried little chime, like silvery bells; the one in the dining room gave an insistent reply, and from the other side of the street, the bell of a large clock on the front of a church rang slowly and solemnly, growing louder and louder as it marked the time that had passed.

“Nine, ten, eleven…” cried Madame Kampf in despair, raising her diamond-covered arms to heaven. “What’s wrong? What’s happened, dear sweet Jesus?”

Alfred came back with Isabelle; the three of them looked at each other without speaking.

Madame Kampf laughed nervously. “This is rather strange, isn’t it? Unless something’s happened…”

“Oh, my poor dear, perhaps there’s been an earthquake,” said Mademoiselle Isabelle, triumphantly.

But Madame Kampfwas not prepared to give up just yet.

“Oh, it doesn’t mean a thing. Just imagine that the other day, I was at the house of my friend, the Countess Brunelleschi: the first guests didn’t start arriving until nearly midnight. So … “

Madame Kampf fiddled with her pearls. Her voice was full of anguish.

“It’s very annoying for the lady of the house, very upsetting,” Mademoiselle Isabelle murmured softly.

“Oh, it’s… it’s just one of those things you have to get used to, isn’t it?”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Alfred and Rosine rushed to the doorway.

“Start playing,” Rosine called out to the musicians.

They started playing a lively blues number. No one came in. Rosine could stand it no longer.

“Georges, Georges, someone rang the bell, didn’t you hear it?”

“It was the ice cream being delivered from Rey’s.”

Madame Kampf couldn’t contain herself.

“But I’m telling you, something terrible must have happened, an accident, a misunderstanding, a mistake in the date or the time, I don’t know, something! Ten past eleven, it’s ten past eleven,” she said again in despair.

“Ten past eleven, already?” exclaimed Mademoiselle Isabelle. “So it is, but how right you are, time passes so quickly when you entertain, my compliments … Why, I do believe it’s a quarter past, can you hear the chimes?”

“Well, it won’t be long now before people start arriving!” said Kampf loudly.

They all sat down again; no one said anotherword. They could hear the servants in fits of laughter in the butler’s pantry.

“Go and tell them to be quiet, Alfred,” Rosine said finally, her voice shaking with fury. “Go on!”

At eleven thirty, the pianist came in.

“Do you want us to wait a while longer, Madame?”

“No, just go away, all of you, just go!” Rosine roared. She seemed on the verge of a breakdown. “We’ll pay you and then just go away! There won’t be any ball, there won’t be anything at all. It’s an insult, a slap in the face, a plot by our enemies to humiliate us, to kill me! If anyone comes now, I won’t see them, do you understand?” she continued, more and more violently. “You are to say that I’m not at home, that someone in the house is very ill, or dead, say whatever you like!”

“There, there, my dear,” Mademoiselle Isabelle hastened to
say, “it isn’t completely hopeless. Don’t upset yourself like this, you’ll make yourself ill… Of course, I understand how you must feel, my dear, my poor darling. But people can be so cruel, alas… You should say something to her, Alfred, look after her, console her.