Jezebel by Irène Némirovsky

feel them shaking beneath her dress. Gladys was hunched over; Marie-Thérèse put her hand on her mother’s soft shoulder.
    ‘Poor Mama. Did you really think that all you had to do was make me wear my hair down and no one would ever notice I was a woman?’
    ‘Who is he?’ whispered Gladys.
    ‘Olivier Beauchamp, Mama. You really didn’t know?’
    ‘No,’ said Gladys. ‘No, it isn’t possible. You’re still a child. You can’t get married yet. You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Look at me. Look at your thin arms, your long hair, your little face. You’re too young; it isn’t possible. You’ve known Olivier since you were a child; you think you love him but you don’t. How could you know what love is when you haven’t even known life? Just wait a little …’
    ‘I do love him, Mama,’ said Marie-Thérèse harshly. ‘You must be able to understand that, at least. You must know what love is, don’t you? Or do you only see it on the faces of your friends, those old women? I’m the one who’s the right age for love, Mama, me, not them!’
    ‘Be quiet!’ shouted Gladys, sounding frightened and in pain. ‘I will not have it, do you understand, I will not have it! I said you must wait: it is too soon. You willobey me. You will wait. Not now, not now,’ she said over and over again, turning pale. She kissed Marie-Thérèse’s hands. ‘All right? You’ll wait until you’re more experienced, wiser. You know nothing, you’ve seen nothing of life yet. Just wait. In two or three years, if you still love Olivier, well, then, you’ll marry him. But not now, good God, not now,’ she murmured, and she held her daughter close to her, looked at her, beseeching her. She was so accustomed to having her own way that she couldn’t even imagine being refused anything. ‘You love me, don’t you, darling? You don’t want to hurt me, do you? And it does hurt me to hear you talk about love, to see you as a woman, already. It’s so natural, if you only knew … Oh, why are you a woman? If I’d had a son, he would have loved me more. You only think about yourself.’
    ‘But you only think about yourself as well! Look at the kind of life I have. Do you think that books and music and a pretty garden are enough for someone my age? I’ve had nothing else. You go out and enjoy yourself, go dancing, come home at dawn, but I should be enjoying all those things, Mama, me, even more than you!’
    ‘I never noticed you were growing up.’
    ‘Well, the damage is done now. I’m eighteen.’
    Gladys slowly wrung her hands. ‘Yes, yes, I know, but …’
    She could almost hear the other women, her rivals, sniggering: ‘Gladys Eysenach? She still looks pretty good. But she’s not young any more, you know. Her daughter just got married. Her lover left her. What can you do?She’s still beautiful, but … She’s still fairly young, but …’
    And perhaps one day soon they would say, ‘Do you really think she’s beautiful? But she’s old, you know. She’s a grandmother.’
    ‘Me?’ she thought, slowly stroking her face. ‘No, no, I must be dreaming. I was still a child myself only yesterday. I haven’t changed. Only yesterday I was a happy young girl, a domineering young woman. But Marie-Thérèse said, “You must have been loved so much …” And soon everyone will be saying, “How beautiful she must have been once …” No, no, it’s too soon. Two or three years more. That’s all I’m asking. That’s all I want. For her, it’s so little, but for me … In three years I’ll be old. My age will be written all over my face. I will resign myself to it then, like the others. I’ll think back to this night wistfully …’
    ‘Mama,’ whispered Marie-Thérèse, ‘answer me. What about me? You’re not listening to me.’
    ‘What do you want me to say? I’ve already said what I want. You must wait. What harm would it do you to wait? You’re so young … To you, the years are light and sweet; to