Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky Page A

miracle. I’ve even been waiting for Alix’s death to set me free. The only reason I’ve been able to get through the last eight years is that the other … this woman … was in France. Not in Paris, but in France. Sometimes she would come to see me, and I would escape for a coupleof days to go to see her and the boy. He belongs to another man, but I love him. I would spend the night in a train, kiss the boy, then come back the next day.”
    “Won’t she leave her husband?” Mariette asked quietly.
    “No. Because of money. Anyway he loves her, he loves the child. There’s no way out.”
    “Who is she?” asked Mariette.
    He did not respond. His brothers tried briefly to guess who the woman was but did not say anything, choosing not to intrude any further.
    Augustin stood up and walked slowly to the closed door. Through the glass pane he watched the women in the next room. Alain’s words had made him see his own life in a new light. He thought about his brother with that mixture of clear-eyed contempt, irritation, and the odd, almost primitive attachment that binds brothers together. Apart from one’s family, one’s own flesh and blood, there is no one else for whom one can feel that attachment, and even then, it is felt only rarely. “At least let him be happy. I’d prefer it if it were me, but if it can’t be me, then let him …”
    He came back to Alain and murmured, “It’s completely idiotic, your plan … But what the hell? At least you should have the life you want!”
    Albert raised his large, anxious face. “You won’t regret it, will you? You won’t blame us for anything?”
    “No,” Alain said dully.
    “Well, what do you need?”
    Alain looked up; he let out a faint sigh. “Do you mean it?”
    “I’ll do what you tell me to do,” said Albert.
    “I’ll speak to Alix myself,” said Augustin.
    They sat down again, huddled together in the dark. Each of them was feeling emotional. “After all, that’s the one thing we have among us, a bit of human warmth,” they thought.
    It was late. The night was passing. Mariette shivered as she thought about the rain outside and the bed that awaited her, in which she would sleep alone between cold sheets.
    Silently, half-asleep, they waited for morning.
    Alain threw himself onto the sofa. His long body looked suddenly weak and childlike. He whispered, “Call me if I’m needed.”
    He fell asleep almost at once. At first he sighed restlessly and moaned, but sleep had a soothing effect, taking away the sad, ironic expression that twisted his lips. From time to time first one and then another would wake, get up, and tiptoe to their mother’s bedside, watching her still face as in a dream you might look into a dark pool where a man is struggling, but you can’t reach out to help him.
    At last, at dawn, she seemed to come back to life.
    Augustin said softly, “I’m not sure, but she seems a little better.”
    At first she did not recognize him. She pushed him away, wanting to say, “The children … where are thechildren? Who’s looking after the children?” Then she saw the night nurse coming.
    “Are you feeling better? Do you feel any stronger?”
    The old woman’s lips moved, but no sound came out of them. Yet she had heard, and after a moment she understood and remembered. Better? As life returned to her, she felt thirsty, feverish and hot, and became aware of the weight of the blankets and the light hurting her eyes. Painfully, she turned her face away.
    The nurse touched her hand and smiled. “She’s feeling better.”
    Albert came to join them. They waited for the doctor. Gradually their mother’s face lost its look of repose: it twitched, and she muttered some indistinct words in a plaintive, querulous tone; her cheeks were still ash gray, but she was breathing more easily, and the dreadful whistling noise that had echoed through the room all night had stopped at last.
    Augustin laid his cool hands on her forehead. She found his