The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,76

equilibrium depended. I was thus particularly attached to the immutable character of the house and quite attentive to every detail susceptible to change.

Trop bien élevé

[Too well brought up], 2007, by Jean-Denis Bredin*

… Bourgeoisie, wretched bourgeoisie, dear bourgeoisie! On my mother’s side, good taste reigned supreme. One loved fine furniture, rare books, great writers, music, pretty women: not from pleasure, but to satisfy the requirement for refinement. Virtue, intelligence, and social success were prized, of course, but these were secondary values when compared to good manners. Only distinguished people with “elegant” occupations mattered. Neither things nor animals escaped this rigorous selection. As a child, I didn’t dare bring home my little comrades for fear they would be judged inferior. Money revealed many things: this family claimed to use it with distinction and to good ends, while others, with stinginess or ostentation, put their money to mediocre use. And it was in order to behave “with distinction” under all circumstances that the adults in my mother’s family always smiled and, even at funerals, concealed the slightest sign of emotion. It was vulgar to cry, plebeian to complain, banal to laugh out loud. And so I have kept the memory of impassive faces, barely touched by chilly smiles, that all look alike. Few gestures. An almost uniform tone of voice. Neither imagination nor disorder ever disturbed that harmony. Everything was sacrificed to appearances. I knew this. And suffered, envisioning what might happen when they closed the doors of their bedrooms, removed their masks and, in the darkness, took off their clothes.

… On my father’s side, it was only virtue that counted: work, loyalty, seriousness. Refinement was suspect, a sign of frivolousness, a pretext for expense and licentiousness. This bourgeoisie wanted to ignore the fact that it was wealthy, spent only what was strictly necessary, loathed luxury, stayed mostly at home, and knew no other distractions besides family and friends. “Respectable people” were those who worked a lot, led regular lives, fulfilled all their duties. Doubtless they were bored. But boredom was like the furniture or the servants: unnoticed. The reasons for living and dying were obvious and eternal. Amusements were undertaken only in moderation. Any suffering was borne with discretion. Even death provoked no revolt, as long as one died with dignity.

… These two bourgeoisies ignored each other, and probably despised each other. The one claimed to be virtue incarnate, and the other, the embodiment of elegance. Each accused the other of being narrow-minded and annoying, or flighty and perverted. They never saw how similar they were, attentive only to appearances, so distrustful of life!

“What are those dreadful things?” I exclaimed, pointing to two tall glass cylinders of cloudy water, placed at either side of the couch on the veranda, in which bundles of lilies stood leaning like brooms in a closet.

My mother sighed. “Oh, spare me. It’s the new head butler. He finds this more elegant than our bouquets …”

“Ha! Well, he’s done quite a job on us!” Marie said sarcastically, noticing that our coffee tables now held plates of gravel bearing square vases filled with cacti and sticks of dark wood.

“You did say something to him, I hope?” I asked.

“Yes, but … the time it takes to fill a new order … He won’t be able to change the vases until Monday.”

“My poor Flokie,” Gay said cheerily, feeding a morsel of cake to Popsicle, “at least it’s a change from Roberto, who sprays all your bouquets with Visine!”

“With eyewash?” marveled Astrid Girault. “Whatever for?”

“Really, dear: to make them look dewy fresh!” Gay laughed.

“Gracious, I never would have thought of it!”

“And on top of that,” added my mother, “speaking of domestic problems, just imagine: the chef is marrying off his daughter tomorrow and has found us a replacement for the day.”

The Giraults then launched into the story of how they’d just bought a house in the hinterlands of Nice, but I was listening only distractedly to their tale, musing nervously about the imminent arrival of my guests as I watched squirrels clambering through the parasol pines, when my father startled me with a sudden question.

“So, girls, who are your clients?”

“Well, Nicolas Courtry is the only one I actually know,” I replied. “There will also be his wife Vanessa, and a friend of his, Alvin Fishbein, whom I’ve never met.”

“And speak of the devil!” announced Frédéric, who had detected the crunch of gravel out in the courtyard.

I soon heard a faint exchange between my guests and the butler who directed them to their