Authors: Albert Cohen
'One: the white crêpe, which actually is extra to requirements since I've got something similar already, so that was a bad move. Two and three: the two heavenly rustic linen outfits. Four: the little light-grey flannel suit, absolutely tickety-boo, I'll feel wonderful in it. Five: the charcoal-grey flannel, stuck with it because I couldn't say no, it's absolutely ridiculous because it's a winter weight, let's hope there'll be some cold days. The kiss on that first night, the kiss on his hand, set the tone for our love. I am his slave, that's what I am. I make myself sick loving him the way I do, but it's divine. Next the dresses I ordered to get myself off the hook for cancelling the gold lamé. Six or seven: the black velvet, can't make my mind up about it, we'll see. Seven or eight: the sporty affair, twelve wooden buttons all the way down the front and back, not bad. Eight or nine: the linen one that laces up, I love it, it's a sort of fine sailcloth almost, it'll be grand swanning around like a galleon. All right, so I dropped a few clangers, but there's always some waste. So let's see, how many outfits is that? Eight or nine? No matter, we'll see how they turn out at the fittings. What absurd lengths to go to, just so he'll find me attractive. Mustn't ever let up, have to go on being attractive all the time, what a comedown. Tomorrow you absolutely must open Adrien's letters. Quarter past midnight. Hooray, that's one day gone, only another ten to go. Yes, the people chosen of God. Shall I convert? Anyway, I shall have to ask him to forgive me for those two words, I'll write and say sorry, I couldn't possibly tell him to his face. O my love, come now, she sighed, throwing the covers back. See, my love, I am yours, completely yours, and ready.'
CHAPTER 60
Next morning, she walked through the patrician portals of the house of Saladin, de Chapeaurouge & Co., bankers to the Aubles for more than two centuries. After exchanging a few friendly words with the aged porter she liked because he kept a tame raven which had a taste for
café au lait,
she made for a till manned by a counter-clerk who, observing her come in, had already checked the state of the account of this niece of an old and valued customer recently passed away.
'How much money may I withdraw?'
'Exactly four thousand francs, Madame. There's nothing more to go in until the first of October.'
'That's fine,' she said, and she displayed her teeth for his benefit. 'Funny, really, because as it happens I have an account to settle which comes to exactly four thousand francs.'
She signed the slip, collected the cash, asked after the raven, listened with a delighted smile as she was told all about it, and left, while the counter-clerk with the long ears straightened the comforting carnation in the buttonhole of his jacket. He wore a fresh one every day. It made him feel like a gentleman.
In the street, she reflected that it would be ridiculous to pay money on account since she already knew how much the final bill would come to. Eight thousand five hundred francs in all, Mademoiselle Chloé had said, including the extra charges. Might as well pay the whole lot straight off and then she could put it out of her mind. Yes, trot along to de Lulle's, where she surely had bigger holdings than with Saladin etc. & Co. She'd need to squeeze four thousand five hundred francs out of them. On second thoughts, best ask for a bit more, since there were lots of other things she'd need to buy, given that her lord would be corning back soon.
'At least fifteen thousand and be on the safe side.'
As she proceeded up the olde worlde street, she smiled as she recalled something Tantlérie had often said to Uncle Gri: 'Of course, Agrippa, I have the fullest confidence in de Lulle's. They are a very good family and have for generations been sound members of the Consistory. But I do not feel at ease in their bank, which is too modern, too grand. It even has a lift, tsk, really.' Dear Tantlérie, so undemonstrative when she was alive but so affectionate in her will. She remembered the words: 'With the exception of my villa at Champel, which I leave to my dear brother Agrippa, I bequeath the whole of my estate to my beloved niece, Ariane, nee d'Auble, whom I commend to the protection of the Almighty.' Ariane, nee d'Auble, that is what unbending Tantlérie had said: even in her will she could not bring herself to recognize her ill-advised marriage.
She halted outside the de Lulle bank, fished out the telegram she had received that morning, looked at it, but did not read what it said. Everything was now settled. He would take the train on the twenty-fifth just as she had asked him to. He would get in at seven twenty-two and would be with her at nine. Hallelujah! And between now and then they both had an appointment with the polestar every evening, also at nine. No, don't read the wire again now, don't extract the last drop of juice. Tonight, in bed, after the polestar-gazing, she'd read both of them again, the one she'd got yesterday and the one that had come this morning.
She frowned as she walked into the silent de Lulle building. Yes, tomorrow without fail, open and read all of Adrien's letters. Now that's out of the way, just enjoy being happy. She smiled at the cashier, another old acquaintance, a long, ascetic vegetarian with a Jesus beard, of whom Tantlérie had greatly approved because he believed the Bible was the inspired word of God. Having dealt with a lady customer with a face like an old pekinese with eczema, who waddled away with one hand tragically gripping the opening of her handbag, he straightened his clip-on tie in honour of the Auble inheritance and gave her a friendly, welcoming look.
'How much money is there in my account?'
'Unless I am very much mistaken, approximately six thousand francs, Madame,' said the salt-of-the-earth cashier, who knew the current state of the accounts of all his high-class customers like the back of his hand.
'I shall need more than that,' she said, and she smiled. (Why did Ariane smile so much in her two banks? Because she was comfortable in banks, which were very pleasant places, they made a person feel so at home. Bankers were very nice people, always ready to be of service and give you all the money you wanted. For* Ariane, nee d'Auble, money was the only kind of goods which could be obtained free of charge. All it took was a signature.)
The cashier looked at her unhappily over his glasses. In addition to being saddened, as he always was, when a client asked him for sums greater than were justified by her 'receipts', he was afraid that this eccentric niece was about to ask him to sell some of her shares. He loathed receiving instructions to sell, especially from young, inexperienced women customers. Though only a humble, modestly paid counter-clerk, a man of ingrained habits and many scruples, he felt a curious affection for the daughters of the well-to-do who had inherited money. He longed for them to prosper, and grew dispirited when he sensed that they were on the way down. A sort of underfed watchdog, resigned to his modest station in life, his joy was to stand guard over the wealth of the wealthy. So he asked his heiress, who, though of eminently respectable family, had little understanding of money matters, if she could not possibly wait until October, when large receipts were due. He adopted his most persuasive tone to beg to inform her that at that time her account would contain more than ten thousand francs.
'Oh, I need more than that,' she said with a smile. 'Besides, I can't wait.' (The mild-mannered cashier shrugged his shoulders wearily.)
'In that case, Madame must assign shares as collateral, or else authorize an instruction to sell. (The young woman did not like the word collateral. It sounded as though it might be something complicated, involving lawyers and wills, that sort of thing.)
'I'd prefer to sell,' she said, with a winning smile.
'How much does Madame wish to sell?'
To gain time, she asked how much her shares were worth in (she hesitated, for a true Auble never willingly allowed the graceless, sacred word to pass her lips) money. The cashier went away despondently and came back with the head of investment shares, a tanned and dynamic young man who greeted her somewhat less deferentially than usual.
'Approximately, what you have currently in your portfolio comes to, comes to, comes to. (He opened the file and perused it rapidly while she wondered what on earth was this portfolio which she'd never heard of. Bankers probably kept customers' stocks and shares in handsome, large, leather-bound portfolios. One of these days she must ask the nice cashier to show her.) Comes to, comes to something in the region of two hundred thousand francs.'
'I thought it was more,' she said timidly. 'Just a bit more.'
The fact is, Madame, the estate of the late Mademoiselle d'Auble included a high proportion of French stocks, and even some Austrian and South American issues. (These last two adjectives were pronounced with considerable distaste.) Moreover, the Dow-Jones index has fallen dramatically these past few days.'
'Oh I see,' she said.
'So, two hundred thousand francs, in round figures. The markets are very unstable just now.'
'Quite,' she said.
'Do you wish to sell the whole lot?' (The cashier closed his eyes.)
'Oh no, I shouldn't want that.'
'Half?' asked the man of action. (This new generation, thought the cashier. No respect for anything.)
She thought for a moment. It would be an excellent idea if she could get her hands on a sufficiently large sum so that she wouldn't have to be forever waiting for those miraculous receipts they were always going on about. Especially since it would be September soon, and she'd have to start thinking about her winter wardrobe. And after that . . . But she did not follow her train of thought, which trickled into the sand.
'Half, Madame?' repeated the impatient young man.
'A quarter,' said the cautious young woman.
'In that case, we'll sell American Electric, Florida Power and Light, Campbell's Soup and maybe Corn Products, there aren't many of those. Is that your wish, Madame? (His voice was martial, almost gleeful. The cashier moved away so as not to witness the slaughter.) We shall also sell Nestle, Ciba, Eastman Kodak, Imperial Chemical and International Nickel! (His voice, in sacred ecstasy, rose in a hymn of victory.) Is that your wish, Madame?'
'Yes. Of course. Thank you. Tell me what I have to do.'
'Just sign the authorization to sell which I shall have drawn up. Do you stipulate a reserve or best price?'
'Which is better?'
'Now that all depends, Madame. According to whether you're in a hurry or not.' (She did not understand, but best price seemed more comforting.)
'I'd rather best price.'
'We shall also offload these South American bits and pieces and the Danube-Save-Adriatic. Is that your wish, Madame?'
Moments later, she had signed the authorization and was feeling a little cross with herself for making a mess of her signature. Without bothering to count the notes, which plunged the cashier ever deeper into gloom, she stuffed the ten thousand francs which had been advanced on account into her handbag and left. In the Rue de la Cite she moved off slowly with a smile on her face. At nine o'clock, a date with the polestar. They would be together at nine this evening.
CHAPTER 61
Two days later, at four in the afternoon in the teashop where she was treating herself to a reward for a protracted session with Volkmaar, she was struck, just as she took her first sip of tea, by an absolute certainty. The jackets of both the suits she had just tried on were too tight! Dear God, both flannel suits, and she had particularly set her heart on them! Abandoning tea and toast, she rose hastily, knocked her cup over, scattered five francs on the table, and set off hotfoot back to the torture chamber, where the two jackets, still only half-finished, were tried on again, taken off, put back on, compared with the version modelled, and discussed. The outcome of a rather muddled conference was the lame conclusion which dressmakers are always hearing.
'So, you will see to it that both jackets are neither too roomy nor too tight. (She pronounced the words as clearly as she could to be certain that her message was getting through. She was completely absorbed in the matter in hand, and invested these petty proceedings with great intensity and grimness of purpose, just as when she was a little girl she earnestly, with brows knit, built sandcastles on the beach.) Neither too roomy, then, nor too tight. Still, you could make them just a little bit roomy, though of course they mustn't be too roomy, I mean fairly close-fitting but not too tight, not cramped.'
'Ease and elegance combined,' said Volkmaar, who was immediately rewarded with a doting look.
'And as to length, we'll stick to what I said, two centimetres shorter than on the model. But I wonder if a centimetre and a half wouldn't be better. Yes, it would. Just a moment, I'll take a look, just to be absolutely sure.'
She slipped on the jacket which had been modelled, turned the hem up a centimetre and a half, shut her eyes to virginize her retina, opened them, and bore down on the triple mirror, smiling a little to look natural, to appear in the jacket as she would appear to him, in the life. After this, she took a few steps backwards then again advanced towards the mirror as naturally as could be, staring at her feet and imagining that she was out for a walk, and then suddenly glancing up, hoping for a blinding, incontrovertible revelation, the shock of truth, forcing herself to forget the fact that the hem of the jacket was turned up, making herself ignore the fuzzy edge of her temporary alteration and imagine that she was wearing a jacket which was 'the finished article'. She decided with the utmost impartiality that it looked well, very well.
'Shortening it by a centimetre and a half will be perfect,' she said. (Victorious, she filled her lungs with air, thoroughly convinced and satisfied. A centimetre and a half was an absolute, a figure decreed by God Himself.) 'So not two centimetres, is that clear? (Furrowed brow, head bent in thought, concentration, anxiety.) You don't think shortening it by one centimetre would perhaps be better? No, let's stick to one and a half.'