David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) by Irène Némirovsky Page A

short dress, all he did was to say ironically, “So you’re home? I didn’t expect you back so soon…”
    She jumped on him and kissed him, then fell back on to the chaise-longue and stretched herself out, crossing her arms beneath her neck and laughing as she looked at him through the long lashes of her half-closed eyes.
    Almost against his will, Golder slowly reached out his hand and placed it on her golden hair; it was moist, tangled from the sea. Though he seemed barely to be looking at her, his piercing eyes registered every change in her features, every line, every movement her face made. How she had grown … In just four months, she had become more beautiful, more of a woman. He was annoyed to see she was using more make-up. God knows she didn’t need to, at eighteen, with her lovely fair skin and her delicate, flowerlike lips, which she painted a deep blood-red. Such a shame. “Foolish girl,” he sighed, then added, “You’re growing up …”
    “And growing beautiful, I hope?” she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly then settling herself again with her legs tucked under her and her hands on her knees. She stared at him with her large, dark eyes; they sparkled with that haughty, arrogant look he so hated, the look of a woman who has been loved and desired her whole life. What was extraordinary was that, in spite ofthat look, in spite of make-up and the jewellery, she had retained the wildlaughter of a little girl and the awkward, gauche, almost brutal gestures of extreme youth, with its light, intense grace. “It won’t last,” he thought.
    “Get down, Joyce, you’re annoying me…”
    She lightly stroked his hand. “I’m happy to see you, Dad…”
    “So you need money?”
    She saw that he was smiling and nodded. “Always… I don’t know where it goes. It seems to run through my fingers…” she spread her fingers out and laughed, “like water. It’s not my fault…”
    Two men were coming up from the garden. Hoyos and a very handsome boy of twenty with a thin, pale face; Golder didn’t recognise him.
    “That’s Prince Alexis of…” Joyce quickly whispered in his ear, “You have to call him Your Imperial Highness.”
    She jumped down, then leapt on to the balustrade and straddled it, calling out, “Alec, come here! Where were you? I waited for you all morning, I was furious … This is Dad, Alec …”
    The young man went up to Golder, greeted him with a kind of arrogant shyness, then went over to Joyce.
    “And where did that little gigolo come from?” asked Golder as soon as he was out of earshot.
    “He’s good-looking, isn’t he?” Hoyos murmured nonchalantly.
    “Yes,” grumbled Golder, then repeated impatiently, “I asked you where he came from.”
    “He’s from a good family,” Hoyos said, looking at him and smiling. “He’s the son ofthat poor Pierre de Carelu who was assassinated in 1918. He’s the nephew of King Alexander, his sister’s son.”
    “He looks like a gigolo,” said Fischl.
    “He probably is. Did anyone say he wasn’t?”
    “Anyway, he’s with old Lady Rovenna.”
    “Just her? Such a nice young man? I’m surprised…”
    Hoyos sat down and stretched out his long legs, carefully placing his pince-nez, fine handkerchief, newspaper, and books on the wicker table. The way in which his long fingers delicately touched each object, as if he were caressing it, irritated Golderdeeply, and had done for years… Hoyos slowly lit a cigarette. It was only then that Golder noticed how the skin on the hand holding the gold lighter was all creased—soft and wrinkled like a withered flower. It was strange to think that even Hoyos, that handsome cavalier, had grown old. He must be almost sixty. But he was still as good-looking as ever, suave and slim, with his small, proud head, his silvery hair, his strong body, flawless face, and large, hooked nose. His nostrils flared with passion and life.
    Fischl indicated Alec with a sullen shrug. “They say he prefers men.