Suite Francaise
by Irene Nemirovsky
1
War
Hot, thought the Parisians. The warm air of spring. It was
night, they were at war and there was an air raid. But dawn was
near and the war far away. The first to hear the hum of the
siren were those who couldn't sleep—the ill and bedridden,
mothers with sons at the front, women crying for the men they
loved. To them it began as a long breath, like air being forced
into a deep sigh. It wasn't long before its wailing filled the
sky. It came from afar, from beyond the horizon, slowly, almost
lazily. Those still asleep dreamed of waves breaking over
pebbles, a March storm whipping the woods, a herd of cows
trampling the ground with their hooves, until finally sleep was
shaken off and they struggled to open their eyes, murmuring, "Is
it an air raid?"
The women, more anxious, more alert, were already up, although
some of them, after closing the windows and shutters, went back
to bed. The night before—Monday, 3 June—bombs had fallen on
Paris for the first time since the beginning of the war. Yet
everyone remained calm. Even though the reports were terrible,
no one believed them. No more so than if victory had been
announced. "We don't understand what's happening," people said.
They had to dress their children by torchlight. Mothers lifted
small, warm, heavy bodies into their arms: "Come on, don't be
afraid, don't cry." An air raid. All the lights were out, but
beneath the clear, golden June sky, every house, every street
was visible. As for the Seine, the river seemed to absorb even
the faintest glimmers of light and reflect them back a hundred
times brighter, like some multifaceted mirror. Badly blacked-out
windows, glistening rooftops, the metal hinges of doors all
shone in the water. There were a few red lights that stayed on
longer than the others, no one knew why, and the Seine drew them
in, capturing them and bouncing them playfully on its waves.
From above, it could be seen flowing along, as white as a river
of milk. It guided the enemy planes, some people thought. Others
said that couldn't be so. In truth, no one really knew anything.
"I'm staying in bed," sleepy voices murmured, "I'm not scared."
"All the same, it just takes one . . ." the more sensible
replied.
Through the windows that ran along the service stairs in new
apartment blocks, little flashes of light could be seen
descending: the people living on the sixth floor were fleeing
the upper storeys; they held their torches in front of them, in
spite of the regulations. "Do you think I want to fall on my
face on the stairs! Are you coming, Emile?" Everyone
instinctively lowered their voices as if the enemy's eyes and
ears were everywhere. One after another, doors slammed shut. In
the poorer neighbourhoods there was always a crowd in the Métro,
or the foul-smelling shelters. The wealthy simply went to sit
with the concierge, straining to hear the shells bursting and
the explosions that meant bombs were falling, their bodies as
tense as frightened animals in dark woods as the hunter gets
closer. Though the poor were just as afraid as the rich, and
valued their lives just as much, they were more sheeplike: they
needed one another, needed to link arms, to groan or laugh
together.
Day was breaking. A silvery blue light slid over the
cobblestones, over the parapets along the quayside, over the
towers of Notre-Dame. Bags of sand were piled halfway up all the
important monuments, encircling Carpeaux's dancers on the façade
of the Opera House, silencing the Marseillaise on the Arc de
Triomphe.
Still at some distance, great guns were firing; they drew
nearer, and every window shuddered in reply. In hot rooms with
blacked-out windows, children were born, and their cries made
the women forget the sound of sirens and war. To the dying, the
barrage of gunfire seemed far away, without any meaning
whatsoever, just one more element in that vague, menacing
whisper that washes over those on the brink of death. Children
slept peacefully, held tight against their mothers' sides, their
lips making sucking noises, like little lambs. Street sellers'
carts lay abandoned, full of fresh flowers.
The sun came up, fiery red, in a cloudless sky. A shell was
fired, now so close to Paris that from the top of every monument
birds rose into the sky. Great black birds, rarely seen at other
times, stretched out their pink-tinged wings. Beautiful fat
pigeons cooed; swallows wheeled; sparrows hopped peacefully in
the deserted streets. Along the Seine each poplar tree held a
cluster of little brown birds who sang as loudly as they could.
From deep beneath the ground came the muffled noise everyone had
been waiting for, a sort of three-tone fanfare. The air raid was
over.
2
In the Péricand household they listened in shocked silence to
the evening news on the radio, but no one passed comment on the
latest developments. The Péricands were a cultivated family:
their traditions, their way of thinking, their middle-class,
Catholic background, their ties with the Church (their eldest
son, Philippe Péricand, was a priest), all these things made
them mistrustful of the government of France. On the other hand,
Monsieur Péricand's position as curator of one of the country's
national museums bound them to an administration that showered
its faithful with honours and financial rewards.
A cat held a little piece of bony fish tentatively between its
sharp teeth. He was afraid to swallow it, but he couldn't bring
himself to spit it out either.
Madame Péricand finally decided that only a male mind could
explain with clarity such strange, serious events. Neither her
husband nor her eldest son was at home: her husband was dining
with friends, her son was not in Paris. Charlotte Péricand, who
ruled the family's daily life with an iron hand (whether it was
managing the household, her children's education or her
husband's career), was not in the habit of seeking anyone's
opinion. But this was of a different order. She needed a voice
of authority to tell her what to believe. Once pointed in the
right direction, there would be no stopping her. Even if given
absolute proof she was mistaken, she would reply with a cold,
condescending smile, "My father said so . . . My husband is very
well-informed." And she would make a dismissive little gesture
with her gloved hand.
She took pride in her husband's position (she herself would have
preferred a more domestic lifestyle, but following the example
of our Dear Saviour, each of us has his cross to bear). She had
come home between appointments to oversee her children's
studies, the baby's bottles and the servants' work, but she
didn't have time to take off her hat and coat. For as long as
the Péricand children could remember, their mother was always
ready to go out, armed with hat and white gloves. (Since she was
thrifty, her mended gloves had the faint smell of stain remover,
a reminder of their passage through the dry-cleaners.)
As soon as she had come in this evening, she had gone to stand
in front of the radio in the drawing room. Her clothes were
black, her hat a divine little creation in fashion that season,
decorated with three flowers and topped with a silk pom-pom.
Beneath it, her face was pale and anguished, emphasising the
marks of age and fatigue. She was forty-seven years old and had
five children. You would have thought, to look at her, that God
had intended her to be a redhead. Her skin was extremely
delicate, lined by the passing years. Freckles were dotted over
her strong, majestic nose. The expression in her green eyes was
as sharp as a cat's. At the last minute, however, it seemed that
Providence had wavered, or decided that a shock of red hair
would not be appropriate, neither to Madame Péricand's
irreproachable morals nor to her social status, so she had been
given mousy brown hair, which she was losing by the handful
since she'd had her last child. Monsieur Péricand was a man of
great discipline: his religious scruples prohibited a number of
pleasures and his concern for his reputation kept him away from
places of ill repute. The youngest Péricand child was only two,
and between Father Philippe and the baby, there were three other
children, not counting the ones Madame Péricand discreetly
referred to as the "three accidents": babies she had carried
almost to term before losing them, so that three times their
mother had been on the verge of death.
The drawing room, where the radio was now playing, was enormous
and well-proportioned, with four windows overlooking the
Boulevard Delessert. It was furnished in traditional style, with
large armchairs and settees upholstered in golden yellow. Next
to the balcony, the elder Monsieur Péricand sat in his
wheelchair. He was an invalid whose advancing age meant that he
sometimes lapsed back into childhood and only truly returned to
his right mind when discussing his fortune, which was
considerable (he was a Péricand-Maltête, heir of the Maltête
family of Lyon). But the war, with its trials and tribulations,
no longer affected him. He listened, indifferent, steadily
nodding his beautiful silvery beard. The children stood in a
semi-circle behind their mother, the youngest in his nanny's
arms. Nanny had three sons of her own at the front. She had
brought the little boy downstairs to say goodnight to his family
and took advantage of her brief entry into the drawing room to
listen anxiously to what they were saying on the radio.
The door was slightly ajar and Madame Péricand could sense the
presence of the other servants outside. Madeleine, the maid, was
so beside herself with worry that she came right up to the
doorway. To Madame Péricand, such a breach of the normal rules
seemed a frightening indication of things to come. It was in
just this manner that the different social classes all ended up
on the top deck during a shipwreck. But working-class people
were highly strung. "How they do get carried away," Madame
Péricand thought reproachfully. She was one of those
middle-class women who generally trust the lower classes. "They're not so bad if you know how to deal with them," she
would say in the same condescending and slightly sad tone she
used to talk of a caged animal. She was proud that she kept her
servants for a long time. She insisted on looking after them
when they were ill. When Madeleine had had a sore throat, Madame Péricand herself had prepared her gargle. Since she had no time
to administer it during the day, she had waited until she got
back from the theatre in the evening. Madeleine had woken up
with a start and had only expressed her gratitude afterwards,
and even then, rather coldly in Madame Péricand's opinion. Well,
that's the lower classes for you, never satisfied, and the more
you go out of your way to help them, the more ungrateful and
moody they are. But Madame Péricand expected no reward except
from God.
She turned towards the shadowy figures in the hallway and said
with great kindness, "You may come and listen to the news if you
like."
"Thank you, Madame," the servants murmured respectfully and
slipped into the room on tiptoe.
They all came in: Madeleine; Marie; Auguste, the valet and
finally Maria, the cook, embarrassed because her hands smelled
of fish. But the news was over. Now came the commentaries on the
situation: "Serious, of course, but not alarming," the speaker
assured everyone. He spoke in a voice so full, so calm, so
effortless, and used such a resonant tone each time he said the
words "France," "Homeland" and "Army," that he instilled hope in
the hearts of his listeners. He had a particular way of reading
such communiqués as "The enemy is continuing relentless attacks
on our positions but is encountering the most valiant resistance
from our troops." He said the first part of the sentence in a
soft, ironic, scornful tone of voice, as if to imply, "At least
that's what they'd like us to think." But in the second part he
stressed each syllable, hammering home the adjective "valiant"
and the words "our troops" with such confidence that people
couldn't help thinking, "Surely there's no reason to worry so
much!"
Madame Péricand saw the questioning, hopeful stares directed
towards her. "It doesn't seem absolutely awful to me!" she said
confidently. Not that she believed it; she just felt it was her
duty to keep up morale.
Maria and Madeleine let out a sigh.
"You think so, Madame?"
Hubert, the second-eldest son, a boy of seventeen with chubby
pink cheeks, seemed the only one struck with despair and
amazement. He dabbed nervously at his neck with a crumpled-up
handkerchief and shouted in a voice that was so piercing it made
him hoarse, "It isn't possible! It isn't possible that it's come
to this! But, Mummy, what has to happen before they call
everyone up? Right away—every man between sixteen and sixty!
That's what they should do, don't you think so, Mummy?"
He ran into the study and came back with a large map, which he
spread out on the table, frantically measuring the distances.
"We're finished, I'm telling you, finished, unless . . ."
Hope was restored. "I see what they're going to do," he
finally announced, with a big happy smile that revealed his
white teeth. "I can see it very well. We'll let them advance,
advance, and then we'll be waiting for them there and there,
look, see, Mummy! Or even . . ."
"Yes, yes," said his mother. "Go and wash your hands now, and
push back that bit of hair that keeps falling into your eyes.
Just look at you."
Fury in his heart, Hubert folded up his map. Only Philippe took
him seriously, only Philippe spoke to him as an equal. "How I
hate this family," he said to himself and kicked violently at
his little brother's toys as he left the drawing room. Bernard
began to cry. "That'll teach him about life," Hubert thought.
The nanny hurried to take Bernard and Jacqueline out of the
room; the baby, Emmanuel, was already asleep over her shoulder.
Holding Bernard's hand, she strode through the door, crying for
her three sons whom she imagined already dead, all of them.
"Misery and misfortune, misery and misfortune!" she said
quietly, over and over again, shaking her grey head. She
continued muttering as she started running the bath and warmed
the children's pyjamas: "Misery and misfortune." To her, those
words embodied not only the political situation but, more
particularly, her own life: working on the farm in her youth,
her widowhood, her unpleasant daughters-in-law, living in other
people's houses since she was sixteen.
Auguste, the valet, shuffled back into the kitchen. On his
solemn face was an expression of great contempt that was aimed
at many things.
The energetic Madame Péricand went to her rooms and used the
available fifteen minutes between the children's bath time and
dinner to listen to Jacqueline and Bernard recite their school
lessons. Bright little voices rose up: "The earth is a sphere
which sits on absolutely nothing."
Only the elder Monsieur Péricand and Albert the cat remained in
the drawing room. It had been a lovely day. The evening light
softly illuminated the thick chestnut trees; Albert, a small
grey tomcat who belonged to the children, seemed ecstatic. He
rolled around on his back on the carpet. He jumped up on to the
mantelpiece, nibbled at the edge of a peony in a large
midnight-blue vase, delicately pawed at a snapdragon etched into
the bronze corner-mount of a console table, then in one leap
perched on the old man's wheelchair and miaowed in his ear. The
elder Monsieur Péricand stretched a hand towards him; his hand
was always freezing cold, purple and shaking. The cat was afraid
and ran off. Dinner was about to be served. Auguste appeared and
pushed the invalid into the dining room.
They were just sitting down at the table when the mistress of
the house stopped suddenly, Jacqueline's spoon of tonic
suspended in mid-air. "It's your father, children," she said as
the key turned in the lock.
It was indeed Monsieur Péricand, a short, stocky man with a
gentle and slightly awkward manner. His normally well-fed,
relaxed and rosy-cheeked face looked, not frightened or worried,
but extraordinarily shocked. He wore the expression found on
people who have died in an accident, in a matter of seconds,
without having had time to be afraid or suffer. They would be
reading a book or looking out of a car window, thinking about
things, or making their way along a train to the restaurant car
when, all of a sudden, there they were in hell.
Madame Péricand rose quietly from her chair. "Adrien?" she
called out, her voice anguished.
"It's nothing. Nothing," he muttered hastily, glancing furtively
at the children, his father and the servants.
Madame Péricand understood. She nodded at the servants to
continue serving dinner. She forced herself to swallow her food,
but each mouthful seemed as hard and bland as a stone and stuck
in her throat. Nevertheless, she repeated the phrases that had
become ritual at mealtimes for the past thirty years. "Don't
drink before starting your soup," she told the children.
"Darling, your knife . . ."
She cut the elderly Monsieur Péricand's filet of sole into small
strips. He was on a complicated diet that allowed him to eat
only the lightest food and Madame Péricand always served him
herself, pouring his water, buttering his bread, tying his
napkin round his neck, for he always started drooling when he
saw food he liked. "I don't think poor elderly invalids can bear
to be touched by servants," she would say to her friends.
"We must show grandfather how much we love him, my darlings,"
she instructed the children, looking at the old man with
terrifying tenderness.
In his later years, Monsieur Péricand had endowed various
philanthropic projects, one of which was especially dear to his
heart: the Penitent Children of the 16th Arrondissement, a
venerable institution whose goal was to instil morals in
delinquent minors. It had always been understood that the elder
Monsieur Péricand would leave a certain sum of money to this
organisation, but he had a rather irritating way of never
revealing exactly how much. If he hadn't enjoyed his meal, or if
the children made too much noise, he would suddenly emerge from
his stupor and say in a weak but clear voice, "I'm going to
leave them five million."
A painful silence would follow.
On the other hand, if he'd had a lovely meal and a good sleep in
his chair by the window, in the sunshine, he would look up at
his daughter-in-law with the pale, distant eyes of a small
child, or a newborn puppy.
Charlotte was very tactful. She never replied, as others might,
"You're absolutely right, Father." Instead, she would say
sweetly, "Good Lord, you have plenty of time to think about
that!"
The Péricand fortune was considerable, but it would be unjust to
accuse them of coveting the elder Monsieur Péricand's
inheritance. They didn't care about money, not at all, but money
cared about them, so to speak! There were certain things that
they deserved, including the Maltête-Lyonnais millions; they
would never manage to spend it all but they would save it for
their children's children. As for the Penitent Children of the
16th Arrondissement, they were so involved with this charity
that, twice a year, Madame Péricand organised classical music
concerts for the unfortunate children; she would play the harp
and was gratified to notice that, at certain passages, sobbing
could be heard in the darkened concert hall.
Monsieur Péricand followed his daughter-in-law's hands
attentively. She was so distracted and upset that she forgot his
sauce. His white beard waved about alarmingly. Madame Péricand
came back to reality and quickly poured the parsley butter over
the ivory flesh of the fish, but it was only after she placed a
slice of lemon at the side of his plate that the old man was
calm again.
Hubert leaned towards his brother and muttered, "It's not going
well, is it?"
"No," he replied with a gesture and a look. Hubert dropped his
trembling hands on to his lap. He was lost in thought, vividly
imagining scenes of battle and victory. He was a Boy Scout. He
and his friends would form a group of volunteers, sharpshooters
who would defend their country to the end. In a flash, his mind
raced through time and space. He and his friends: a small group
bound by honour and loyalty. They would fight, they would fight
all night long; they would save their bombed-out, burning Paris.
What an exciting, wonderful life! His heart leapt. And yet, war
was such a savage and horrifying thing. He was intoxicated by
his imaginings. He clutched his knife so tightly in his hand
that the piece of roast beef he was cutting fell on to the
floor.
"Clumsy oaf," whispered Bernard. He and Jacqueline were eight
and nine years old, respectively, and were both thin, blond and
stuck-up. The two of them were sent to bed after dessert and the
elder Monsieur Péricand fell asleep at his usual place by the
open window. The tender June day persisted, refusing to die.
Each pulse of light was fainter and more exquisite than the
last, as if bidding farewell to the earth, full of love and
regret. The cat sat on the window ledge and looked nostalgically
towards an horizon that was the colour of green crystal.
Monsieur Péricand paced up and down the room. "In a few days,
maybe even tomorrow, the Germans will be on our doorstep. I've
heard the High Command has decided to fight outside Paris, in
Paris, beyond Paris. No one knows it yet, thank goodness,
because after tomorrow there will be a stampede on the roads and
at the train stations. You must leave for your mother's house in
Burgundy as early as possible tomorrow morning, Charlotte. As
for me," Monsieur Péricand said rather proudly, "I will share
the fate of the treasures entrusted to my care."
"I thought everything in the museum had been moved out in
September," said Hubert.
"Yes, but the temporary hiding place they chose in Brittany
isn't suitable; it turns out it's as damp as a cellar. I just
don't understand it. A Committee was organised to safeguard
national treasures. It had three sections and seven subsections,
each of which was supposed to appoint a panel of experts
responsible for hiding works of art during the war, yet just
last month an attendant in the provisional museum points out
that suspicious stains are appearing on the canvases. Yes, a
wonderful portrait of Mignard with his hands rotting away from a
kind of green leprosy. They quickly sent the valuable packing
cases back to Paris and now I'm waiting for an order to rush
them off to somewhere even further away."
"But what about us? How will we travel? By ourselves?"
"You'll leave tomorrow morning, calmly, with the children and
the two cars, and any furniture and luggage you can carry, of
course. We can't pretend that, by the end of the week, Paris
might not be destroyed, burned down and thoroughly pillaged."
"You are amazing!" exclaimed Charlotte. "You talk about it so
calmly!"
Monsieur Péricand turned towards his wife, his face gradually
returning to its normal pinkish colour—a matte pink, the colour
of pigs who have been recently slaughtered. "That's because I
can't really believe it," he explained quietly. "Here I am,
speaking to you, listening to you; we've decided to flee, to
leave our home, yet I cannot believe that it is all real.
Do you understand? Now go and get everything ready, Charlotte.
Everything must be ready by tomorrow morning; you could be at
your mother's in time for dinner. I'll join you as soon as I
can."
Madame Péricand's face wore the same resigned, bitter look as
when the children were ill and she was forced to put on an apron
and nurse them; they all usually managed to be ill at the same
time, though with different maladies. When this happened, Madame
Péricand would come out of the children's rooms with a
thermometer in her hand, as if she were brandishing the crown of
martyrdom, and everything in her bearing seemed to cry out: "You
will reward your servants on Judgement Day, kind Jesus!"
"What about Philippe?" was all she asked.
"Philippe cannot leave Paris."
Madame Péricand left the room, head held high. She refused to
bow beneath the burden. She would see to it that the entire
household was ready to leave in the morning: the elderly
invalid, four children, the servants, the cat, plus the silver,
the most valuable pieces of china, the fur coats, food and
medicine in case of emergencies. She shuddered.
In the sitting room, Hubert was pleading with his father.
"Please let me stay. I can stay here with Philippe. And . . .
don't make fun of me! Can't you see that if I went and got my
friends we could form a com- pany of volunteers; we're young,
strong, ready for anything . . . We could . . ."
Monsieur Péricand looked at him. "My poor boy!" was all he said.
"It's all over? We've lost the war?" stammered Hubert. "Is . . .
is it true?"
And suddenly, to his horror, he felt himself burst into tears.
He cried like a baby, like Bernard would have cried, his large
mouth twisted, tears streaming down his face. Night was falling,
soft and peaceful. A swallow flew by, lightly brushing against
the balcony in the dark night air. The cat let out a frustrated
little cry of desire.
3
The writer Gabriel Corte was working on his terrace, between the
dark, swaying woods and the golden green setting sun fading over
the Seine. How peaceful everything was around him! Beside him
were his well-trained faithful friends, great white dogs who
were awake yet motionless, their noses pressed against the cool
paving stones, their eyes half closed. At his feet his mistress
silently picked up the sheets of paper he dropped. His servants,
the secretary, were all invisible behind the shimmering windows;
they were hidden somewhere in the background of the house, in
the wings of his life, a life he desired to be as brilliant,
luxurious and disciplined as a ballet. He was fifty years old
and had his favourite games. Depending on the day, he was either
Lord of the Heavens or a miserable writer crushed by hard work
and labouring in vain. On his desk he had had engraved, "To lift
such a heavy weight, Sisyphus, you will need all your courage."
His fellow writers were jealous of him because he was rich. He
himself bitterly told the story of his first candidature to the
Académie Française: one of the electors implored to vote for him
had sarcastically replied, "He has three telephone lines!"
He was handsome, with the cruel, languid movements of a cat,
expressive soft hands and a slightly full Roman face. Only
Florence, his official mistress, was allowed to remain in his
bed until morning (the others never spent the night with him).
Only she knew how many masks he could put on, this old flirt
with dark circles under his eyes and thin arched eyebrows, too
thin, like a woman's.
That evening he was working as he normally did, half-naked. His
house in Saint-Cloud had been specially built to be hidden away
from prying eyes, right down to the vast, wonderful terrace,
planted with blue cinerarias. Blue was Gabriel Corte's favourite
colour. He could only write if he had a small glass bowl of deep
lapis lazuli beside him. He would look at it now and again, and
caress it like a mistress. What he liked best in Florence, as he
often told her, were her clear blue eyes, which gave him the
same feeling of coolness as his glass bowl. "Your eyes quench my
thirst," he would murmur. She had a soft, slightly flabby chin,
a contralto voice that was still beautiful and, Gabriel Corte
confided to his friends, something cow-like in her expression. I
like that. A woman should look like a heifer: sweet, trusting
and generous, with a body as white as cream. You know, like
those old actresses whose skin has been softened by massage,
make-up and powder.
He stretched his delicate fingers in the air and clicked them
like castanets. Florence handed him a lemon, then an orange and
some glacé strawberries; he consumed an enormous amount of
fruit. She gazed at him, almost kneeling before him on a suede
pouffe, in that attitude of adoration that pleased him so much
(though he couldn't have imagined any other). He was tired, but
it was that good tiredness which comes from doing enjoyable
work. Sometimes he said it was better than the tiredness that
comes after making love.
He looked benevolently at his mistress. "Well, that's not gone
too badly, I think. And you know, the midpoint." (He drew a
triangle in the air indicating its top.) "I've got past it."
She knew what he meant. Inspiration flagged in the middle of a
novel. At those moments, Corte struggled like a horse trying in
vain to pull a carriage out of the mud. She brought her hands
together in a gracious gesture of admiration and surprise.
"Already! I congratulate you, my dear. Now it will go smoothly,
I'm sure."
"God willing!" he murmured. "But Lucienne worries me."
"Lucienne?"
He looked at her scornfully, his eyes hard and cold. When he was
in a good mood, Florence would say, "You still have that killer
look in your eye . . ." and he would laugh, flattered. But he
hated being teased when in the throes of creativity.
She couldn't even remember who Lucienne was.
"Of course," she lied. "I don't know what I was thinking!"
"I don't know either," he said in a wounded voice.
But she seemed so sad and humble that he took pity on her and
softened. "I keep telling you, you don't pay enough attention to
the minor characters. A novel should be like a street full of
strangers, where no more than two or three people are known to
us in depth. Look at writers like Proust. They knew how to use
minor characters to humiliate, to belittle their protagonists.
In a novel, there is nothing more valuable than teaching the
lesson of humility to the heroes. Remember, in War and Peace,
the little peasant girls who cross the road, laughing, in front
of Prince Andrei's carriage? He speaks to them, directly, and
the reader's imagination is at once lifted; now there is not
just one face, not just one soul. He portrays the many faces of
the crowd. Wait, I'll read you that passage, it's remarkable.
Put the light on," he said, for night had fallen.
"Planes," Florence replied, looking up at the sky.
"Won't they leave me the hell alone?" he thundered.
He hated the war; it threatened much more than his lifestyle or
peace of mind. It continually destroyed the world of the
imagination, the only world where he felt happy. It was like a
shrill, brutal trumpet shattering the fragile crystal walls he'd
taken such pains to build in order to shut out the rest of the
world.
"God!" he sighed. "How upsetting, what a nightmare!"
Brought back down to earth, he asked to see the newspapers. She
gave them to him without a word. They came in from the terrace
and he leafed through the papers, a dark look on his face. "All
in all," he said, "nothing new."
He didn't want to see anything new. He dismissed reality with
the bored, startled gesture of a sleeping man awakened abruptly
in the middle of a dream. He even shaded his eyes with his hand
as if to block out a dazzling light.
Florence walked towards the radio. He stopped her. "No, no,
leave it alone."
"But Gabriel . . ."
He went white with anger. "Listen to me! I don't want to hear
anything. Tomorrow, tomorrow will be soon enough. If I hear any
bad news now (and it can only be bad with these c**** in
government) my momentum will be lost, my inspiration blocked.
Look, you'd better call Mademoiselle Sudre. I think I'll
dictate a few pages!" She hurried to summon the secretary.
As she was coming back to the drawing room, the telephone rang.
"It's Monsieur Jules Blanc phoning from the Presidential Office,
wishing to speak to Monsieur Corte," said the valet.
Excerpted from Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky Copyright © 2006 by Irene Nemirovsky. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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