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

Is it true?”
    “Not for the moment, in any case,” murmured Hoyos. He stared at Joyce and Alec with a sardonic look on his face. “He’s so young, people don’t know what they like at that age … Say, Golder, you do realise that Joyce has got it into her head that she’s going to marry him, don’t you?”
    Golder didn’t reply. Hoyos gave a little snigger.
    “What did you say?” asked Golder sharply.
    “Nothing. I was just wondering… Would you let Joyce marry a boy like that who’s as poor as a church mouse?”
    Golder pursed his lips. “Why not?” he said finally.
    “Why not?” Hoyos repeated, shrugging his shoulders.
    “She’ll be rich,” Golder mused, “and anyway, she knows how to handle men. Just look at her…”
    They both fell silent. Joyce, straddling the balustrade, was talking to Alec; she spoke quickly and softly. Every now and then, she slid her hands through her short hair, pushing it back nervously. It looked as if she was in a bad mood.
    Hoyos got up and quietly walked towards them, winking. His dark, beautiful eyes were extraordinarily bright beneath his thick eyebrows, which were streaked with deep silver, like some rare fur. Joyce was whispering: “We could take the car if you like and go to Spain; I want to make love in Spain…”
    Laughing, she brought her lips up close to Alec’s mouth. “Would you like that? Well, would you?”
    “Andwhat about Lady Rovenna?” he objected, half-smiling.
    Joyce clenched her fists. “That old woman of yours. I hate her! No, you’ll go away with me, do you hear? You have no shame. Look…”
    She leaned forward and discreetly showed him a little bruise just above her eyelid. “Look at what you did…” She noticed Hoyos standing behind her. He gently stroked her hair. “Listen,
chica,
” he murmured:
Mama, I want to die of love, She shouted and cried out loud. That’s because this is your very first love, And the first is best, Madame.
    Joyce clasped her beautiful arms together, laughed, and said, “Isn’t love wonderful?”

    WHEN GLORIA GOT home, it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. They were all there: Lady Rovenna, in a pink dress; Daphne Mannering, one of Joyce’s friends, with her mother and the German gentleman who kept them; the Maharajah, his wife, his mistress, and his two daughters; Lady Rovenna’s son; and Maria-Pia, a tall, dark-haired dancer from Argentina who had sallow skin as rough and scented as an orange.
    The meal was served. It was drawn-out and magnificent. At five o’clock it finished, and more visitors arrived. Golder, Hoyos, Fischl, and a Japanese general started playing bridge.
    They played until evening. It was eight o’clock when Gloria sent her chambermaid to tell Golder that they were invited out to dinner at the Miramar.
    Golder hesitated, but he felt better; he went up to his room, changed, then, once he was ready, went in to see Gloria. She was standing in front of an enormous, three-panelled mirror finishing getting dressed; the chambermaid, kneeling in front of her, was having difficulty fitting her shoes. Slowly Gloria turned towards him; her ageing face was so covered in make-up it looked like an enamelled plate.
    “David, I’ve hardly seen you for five minutes today,” she murmured reproachfully. “Those cards… How do I look? I won’t kiss you—my make-up’s all done …” She stretched out her hand to him; it was petite and beautiful, weighed down by enormous diamonds. Then she carefully smoothed down her short red hair.
    Her full cheeks looked as if they had been inflated from inside, and were faintly lined with broken veins; her exquisite blue eyes were pale and severe.
    “I’ve lost weight, haven’t I?” she said. She smiled, and he could see the gold fillings shining in the teeth at the back of her mouth.
    “Well, David, haven’t I?” she repeated.
    She twirled around slowly, so he could see her better, proudly arching her body. It had remained very beautiful: