IX

CONCERNS

The door opened violently, in ran the porter, the curtains grinding, with a noise as if it was
being ripped, and a tall young woman, with her hair cut in a “garçonne” style, appeared in the
room with the freedom that was only allowed to a close friend.

“Still not ready, my dear!" exclaimed the newcomer in a reproachful tone.

Elena dropped the tweezers from the hand she was holding them in, and lazily raised her
head, smiling, to look at her friend.

“I got up late…”

“Are you sick?”

“No… fatigue… boredom… sadness, without knowing the reason…”

“From being closed in here when it is such a beautiful day. Get dressed soon. I have parked
the car at the door.”

“That is not possible.”

“Why not?

“Look.”

She pointed to her face, where her greasy, unequal eyebrows, one red and depopulated, the
other white and thick, grimaced like a full moon.

Renee laughed.

“But how did you do that to yourself?”

“I wouldn’t be able to put myself in anyone’s hands. I smear myself with Vaseline and a bit of
ether; that way they soften, and you don’t feel any pain. It’s easy to pluck the hair and do my
eyebrows as I please.”

“I’ll wait for you if you do not take too long…”

“About half an hour. You don’t know how important this is. I like eyebrows in empress
Eugenia’s style. A little thicker between the frown and decreasing in a very thin arc until they
end in a single hair… Those that start and end in a straight line are hateful.”

While she was talking, the tweezers continued pecking, and with light tugging they were
pulling out the excess hairs to achieve the desired eyebrow shape.

“If you want me to be honest, I like you better without doing that devilish thing to yourself,”
Renee assured. “You lose expression with the tight hairstyles and depopulated eyebrows. I
find something of a wax doll in women who look like this.”

“Greater ingenuity.”

“No... Nonsense... Women of our time don’t manage to pretend candor. All gestures, all
looks, all attitudes belie it. Even the type has changed. There are no longer women with broad
shoulders and hourglass bodies. We’re flat, skeletal, androgynous... we have very wise
mouths and rogue looks.”

Elena jumped.

“Hey, that doesn’t go with me.”

“No, you have a morbidity that can still be forgiven.”

She had crossed her legs with a very masculine air and lit a cigarette, showing a long, slender
hand with metallic nails as she brought it to her mouth, which gave the impression of being a
hard hand. She was looking at the young woman, letting a rare violet lightning flash in her
gray eyes.

Her close friend was a mystery even to Elena. She did not know if she was married, single or
widowed and in which region she had been born.

They had met in one of those salons through which all Paris walks by. They were introduced
by a friend they did not know who he was. They sympathized and had become inseparable.
But Renee had made no confidences of her life to Elena, nor had she wanted to receive any
from her.
“We women,” she said “have a story divided in three volumes: the first two are the same in
everything; days of innocence and a disappointment that, for one reason or another, doesn’t
forgive any of us. The third one is written by fatality and the ending is always unknown. I
don’t want to tell you anything that might threaten your friendship, nor know things that you
might later regret having said to me.”

With Renee, Elena returned to her old life.

She satisfied her taste for luxury and extravagant amusements. She accompanied her to
meetings, walks, theaters and dances. She appeared at her side in the boxes of the Opera, as if
her decadence served as a frame to highlight Elena’s youthfulness.

Far from feeling envious, she took pleasure in her friend’s triumphs. Her only regret was that
Elena, rich and independent, did not mix in gallant adventures.

She would often take her out of her refined surroundings to the cheap restaurants in the
Grenelle or Montmartre neighborhoods, in search of the contrast they offered.

They would go into rowdy dances, into rogue taverns and Renee would laugh at Elena’s fear,
who used to tell her:

“One night they’ll cut off our fingers and ears to take our rings and earrings.”

“Don’t think so,” she would say. “They don’t realize they’re real. The triumphs you achieve
here are the most disinterested.”

Leopold had wanted to prevent that friendship of her wife in the beginning, but he was soon
won over by the sympathy that Renee aroused.

Strong, determined, manly, she did not give the impression of a tomboy, but of a carefree
woman, with no other passion than living breathing deeply and laughing at the top of her
lungs.

She provided the actor with many small services; they sometimes played pool or checkers
games together, and Leopold noticed the beneficial influence applied on Elena’s nerves.
She became essential at home. She ate there every day; she had access to the cars and she
slept there quite often. The servants loved her and even Pedro tried to disguise the sympathy
he felt towards her to not displease Marta, who was the irreducible.

Renee seemed to not notice it. Although they did not know about her past, everyone
considered her a very distinguished woman; it was enough to look at her appearance and the
friendships she got to know she was not the only foreign.

Now Elena untangled her hair that had bright reflections of a feline power, like the one the
cat's skin develops when stroking them.

“It’s annoying” exclaimed while rubbing her hair, “I almost envy Marta, who brushes her hair
at the height of her knees.”

Renee laughed at the malefic phrase.

“Finish soon. Let’s go eat some cherries at the Island of the Forest.”

The comb slipped out of Elena’s hand, and she clapped her foot on the ground.

“Magnificent! Why didn't you say so before? You have some wonderful ideas. I don’t do my
hair anymore.”

It goes under his hat like that.

The luminous skein was tightened in a knot on the nape. He did not remember Marta or
anything.

Her melancholy was gone, with that ease with which she passed from one thing to another or
leaped from one idea to the opposite.

She ran down the stairs, afraid of being stopped, and rode lightly into the car, preferably
taking the seat without ceremony.

Renee sat next to her and put the amber nozzle in her purse.

“Have you smoked your cigarette yet?”

“No. I threw it away. I don’t like smoking in public, because no one forbids it and no one is
shocked. That is not “chic”. It’s very American.”
It gave off a strong smell of tobacco.

“Fortunately, because your cigars are unbearable.”

“What do you want them to smell like? To Divine Cream?”

“It would not be worth smoking. That stays for the men.”

The car was already running along the wide avenue of Champs-Élysées, meandering through
the multitude of cars running in both directions.

They were greeted by a tall, brunette lady, who was sprawled in her car with a delight that
denounced the premiere.

“It’s Albertina.”

“Yes, she has married her lover to a nice Norman girl, very wealthy, and as the godmother,
she rules the house. The woman is raising the kids and taking care of the cars.”

“And the husband?”

“He’s always with his fantastic business, traveling around the world and only showing up
occasionally to pay the bills.”

“She’s really lucky. It’s her husband’s head, and so old!”

“Idiosyncrasy of the family; the niece also has tamed her fat banker, who doesn’t dare to
approach her without bringing a prepared gift.”

Elena sighed.

“Yes. Men who are not too full of themselves love more.”

They had just gone through the Forest Gate. Even in the open air there reigned a lounge
atmosphere. The cars had moderated the march to show off the beautiful women who were
occupying them. Many horsewomen brought their horses to the pass and to one side and the
other, under the chestnut trees that seemed to tend with a Versailles gesture the great
pyramidal bouquets of their reddish flowers, there were well-dressed women and elegant
men, leaning on the armchairs, forming cheerful groups.
Among the benches were the far lawn-covered terraces, where the children were scattered in
the sight of their guardians, like flocks of chicks that peck the grass. Through them,
disregarding their jumps and their cackling, couples of lovers passed, so absorbed that they
seemed to step on them.

Sometimes, among the luxury cars, there appeared a runaway carriage, driven by an
apoplectic coachman, showing the bloody black pudding of his neck under the weight of the
enormous patent-coloured top hat. Slowly, asleep, with their rhythmical pace, they led
foreigners and provincials, with very watchful eyes, composed with great alertness and
satisfaction to be playing a great role.

Several people greeted them as they passed by. Elena had taken that gesture of it is me, in
which well-known women make up her face and her whole attitude when showing off.

He could make sure that all that chirping of intertwined conversations were scissors.

He crossed one of those huge agency bus cars, crowded of Italian tourists, gesticulating and
speaking out loud, while throwing incendiary glances at the bottom of the luxurious trains
where women went.

“It’s love that passes,” said Elena laughing.

And Renee, she replied philosophically. “Who knows!”

The car stopped by the lake. The driver, dressed in white, with a Cuban farmer type, came to
open the door and the two girls jumped off.

The fresh, green island, with its massif of tall trees, looked like a freshly watered pot.

The great boat drew near, and the oarsmen docked at the pier, with all the solemnity of those
preparing a long journey.

“Beware,” exclaimed Elena, seeing that the boat was swaying, rocking like a cradle with the
weight of her friend. “You’re going to make us crumble.”

“Don’t be careful”, replied Renee making one of those deep inspirations in which all
sensuality seemed to burn. “I can swim very well.”

They were already on the other side of the shore without having had scarcely time to sit
down.
The restaurant servant was there, like a pole, waiting if they wanted to lean on him to
disembark, but not daring to touch them.

Almost all the tables were occupied; those who had already eaten strolled through the interior
of the islet. Many had sat on the grass and taken pictures, with automatic machines allowing
those who prepared them to be part of the group.

The two went to sit on one end, under the willow that formed an awning at the table with its
twigs Pendant. There was that melancholy note that they put the weepers, with the ordeal of
the insatiable thirst, that makes them stretch out their branches towards the water.

Elena felt a thread shaking her marrow. She had a gesture of sheltering herself inside.

“My pores were beginning to feel the need of the caress of the water”, she said sitting on the
same shore of the lake. “I have something that must be similar to the thirst of plants. I’m
going to escape to the Coast of Silver the best day.”

“Won’t you accompany your husband to Spain?”

“What role would I have on that tour? The one to bring her luggage? No, I’m not going.”

“Do you think he’ll let you?”

“He won’t have a choice. If he doesn’t drag me along. We’ll go to the sea. To a beach”. She
had her friend before consulting her.

“It’d be better to stay in Paris. The mornings on the island and the afternoons at Bagatella are
very beautiful. Paris in summer is lovely.”

“Don’t say that, Paris with the sun is very ugly. It becomes vulgarised. It’s the Paris for
people who only travel during summer. I cannot conceive it without the patina of gray mist
that covers it in the winters. The sun is lovely in the sea when it mirrors the waters and brings
out the toasted bread tone of the sands. In the big cities it reveals too much of its misery.”

While she was talking, Renee had made the menu without consulting her.

When the waiter showed up with the food, Elena clapped.

“I’m hungry! Eggs with gelatin…! You guessed my taste! The bad thing is that I’m going to
put on two kilos.”
She devoured the eggs imprisoned in its transparent nest of jelly which glistened like those
glassine papers that have flowers inside.

“What else have you ordered?”

“Chicken with oysters.”

“Good! I’m tired of the invariable Chateaubriand and the chicken to the Marengo. I don’t
think that to commemorate heroism you have to swallow a bad sauce; but Leopoldo loves
those two dishes… It was what he used to eat in his youth in the days of…”

Big party… and our cook finds it too easy to repeat them that he does not know how to do
anything else.

Once her appetite was satisfied, Elena’s fantasy, which made her dislike everything,
reappeared.

“After all, it’s not so nice here… Waiter, bring me a tool for my feet… What else have you
chosen?... Sole… No, for God’s sake… I’m sick of sole… and after the fish… That is not
elegant. Bring me prosciutto… nice and dry… What table water is there?”

The waiter, who was waiting with the little book open and the pencil in his hand, took the list
from another table and handed it to her…

“What a despair! All the vulgar waters Wi-Chy, Evans…! Nothing new. As if there were no
other springs in the world.”

“You can have better wine, Renee pointed out.”

“I get too red. But you take it… I don’t know which one to choose for you… Champagne,
Jerez, Oporto… The usual…”

The waiter continued with his pencil ready.

“But, my God! Haven’t you brought the ham yet! Hurry up… And any sprinkling wine, as
long as it is not the eternal Champagne.”

Renee smiled with narrowed eyes as if she was intensely enjoying her friend’s whims. As
soon as Elena had served herself the ham, she asked her:
“Didn’t I say to bring sea crabs?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Yes, we were talking about the sea. It’d be impossible for me to eat anything else if there are
no sea crabs…”

She interrogated the waiter.

“Are there sea crabs?”

“Yes, madam. They have just arrived alive. “Well… well then… don’t bring them yet, I
prefer fruit. Cherries.”

“Berries for me”, Renee interjected. The waiter placed two huge baskets full of fruit on the
table. They were the famous small and fragrant strawberries and the famous cherries, which
were only there as if they had the secret of a mysterious forest where extraordinary trees
existed.

Elena deliciously dug her little white teeth into the tasty pulp, already completely to the new
voluptuousness that possessed her.

A giggle from her friend distracted her.“Why are you laughing?”

“From watching you eat with such gluttony”. “They’re delicious.”

“You look like a glutton little girl, and you’re attracting the attention of an illustrious
neighbor.

She rolled her eyes to the side to indicate a direction without pointing.

Elena looked.

“To whom? To that sharp gentleman who looks like a portrait of Richelieu?”

“Yes…”

“It’s true… He looks at me with an insistence that makes me want to stick my tongue out and
grimace at him.”
“You’d do wrong. He’s one of the most important men in France and, above all, the most
splendid.”

“So, who is he?”

“The prince of Tronny.” Elena became serious, her instinct of conquest awakened.

She had heard of the prince, who had reputed to be rich and foolish, like one of those Sultans,
Marajhas or Sahs, who went to Paris and squandered their fortunes on the lucky girls who
knew them.

“It’s a pity that you’re married”, said Renee “because the prince’s conquest is a fabulous
fortune.”

“Maybe he’s stingy.”

“Don’t think so. He’s the man that no matter how much he spends, he cannot be ruined.”

“Is he that rich?”

“He doesn’t even know what he has. He’s a descendant of Luis XV and his constant
obsession is to hold with his luxury his ancestors’ greatness. He has a lavish life.”

“Tell me.”

René traced the silhouette of the aristocrat. He was the man who had the best table in Paris,
the richest cellar, where bottles of rare and mature wine were listed as volumes in a
bookstore.

Sick to his stomach, he hardly ate or tasted alcohol, but he was proud that his friends enjoyed
his hospitality. In the same way, without being a lover, he always had as a mistress the most
beautiful and luxurious woman.

“He doesn’t know of the history of France more than the names of Gabrielle d’Estrées, Diane
de Poitiers, Louise de La Vallière or Madame du Barry, Madame de Maintenon or Madame
de Montespan.”

“He wish he could bring them back to life.”

Elena laughed at the portrait.

“What he never tolerates in a woman” continued the other “is a lack of distinction or coquetry
that makes him look ridiculous.” He ended up with a Circassian, who was the most divine
woman you can imagine because he knew she cared to save on her expenses. He disdains
money to the point of never carrying a single coin in his pocket. He is pleased to take out his
pencil, write an amount on any piece of paper and let the magic of his signature become a
banknote.

“How are you so aware of all that?”

“I deal a lot with one of his friends”

“He knows you”

“Yes”

“You haven’t greeted him”

“It’s better he doesn’t see me”

“Why?”

“He looks at you too much. It can be seen that he likes you… and if he falls in love… he’s
too bold”

“What would be wrong with that? I’d have fun”

“You’re the lady of Marigny.”

“But that doesn’t matter for you to introduce me to him”

Renee stumbled. She would have pleased her friend if at that moment the little boat had not
reached the shore. Two women came out of it. One of them was tall, brunette, with an
Algerian type. Elena did not see from her any better than the magnificent necklace, which
went round and round covering her exaggerated neckline and which shone in the sun, when
the prince kissed her hand, the scar slipped.

“She’s the prince’s lover”

“Let’s go”, Elena exclaimed.

She felt annoyed that she was being relegated to second place and that the attention she had
attracted was now being focused on the newcomer. Would it be more important to be the
prince’s mistress than the wife of the great actor? She hurried out, not looking, but as she
passed near the aristocrat’s table she seemed to feel the warmth of a penetrating gaze on the
back of her neck.