Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky Page B

touch gentle and soothing. As he lifted the strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes, he said in a low voice, “Well, Mama darling … are you feeling better?”
    Her lips smiled at him, but her eyes looked troubled and anxious, full of shadows. She managed to murmur, “Yes.”
    Augustin turned toward Albert, who was standing absolutely still.
    “Well, old man …”
    He did not finish his sentence. The brothers looked at each other and did exactly the same thing: they slowly inhaled, as if swallowing a mouthful of cold water, then quickly turned away. It was over. The night was over. Their mother was getting better. For a moment they were filled with a heavenly peace.
    But then straightaway they felt cold and exhausted. Augustin stretched and yawned nervously. In the gray light they looked with distaste at the dreary mess in the sickroom. The nurse went back to sleep. Each of them in turn touched their lips to the patient’s forehead and left.
    Augustin realized that he had not had any sleep and that he was hungry.
    Sighing deeply, Albert said, “That’s over, thank God, that’s over! What a night!”
    “You going home?”
    “Yes. I’m dead. A bath, then bed.”
    “You lucky bastard!” Augustin said, making a faint effort to smile.
    Alain seemed well rested. He had managed to sleep on the hard sofa without any sheets; although his face was pale, it was smooth and relaxed.
    “He’s younger than I am,” thought Augustin. “And in love, the fool!”
    “Mama should get some sleep now. We’ll come back this afternoon.”
    They went downstairs together. Augustin was shakingwith exhaustion. He waved at Alain and Albert as they went off, and got into a taxi. It was raining; a sharp wind blew in through the open window. He stopped at the Régence for a black coffee and was then driven to his office. He telephoned home: Claire had come back but was still asleep. Gradually he was overtaken by a deep sense of sadness. He thought about his mother, muttering vehemently, “Thank God, thank God.” But his heart was heavy. “Who dares admit that even the most devoted love contains a small amount of boredom and irritation?” he thought. At this time of physical exhaustion and mental upset, what did his mother’s recovery mean to him unless it was to reveal how vulnerable he was and how fragile and upset this made him feel? “All in all, what is there to be happy about? Life’s a fine thing … But what has she got to look forward to? All this business of Alain’s that she’ll have to cope with … Oh! I suppose she’s happy enough in the way old people can be, happy to know that we’re in good health and believing we’re happy. Because she does think we’re happy.”
    He was struck by a thought. “She can’t carry on like this … At her age she won’t recover fully from such a serious illness. She’ll be weak. She can’t go on living alone with Josephine. So the best thing would be for Mariette to go and live with her. I should think this would be the cheapest, the most sensible, and the pleasantest thing for both of them. Yes, that would be best,”he said to himself, with a feeling of relief. He made a mental note: “I’ll talk to them about it this evening.” Yes, arrange it all for the best, so that everything worked out well and they were all happy, then forget about anything to do with family for as long as possible.
    At lunchtime he went home. Claire was sitting in their bedroom doing her hair. She held out a cheek to him, which he touched with his lips.
    She asked gently, “Is she really better? It’s hard to believe … I’m so happy, my darling!”
    “When did you all leave this morning?” he asked.
    “It must have been about four o’clock. I could see, through the door, that Alain was asleep on the sofa, and you looked as if you were sleeping as well. I didn’t want to disturb you. When are you going back to Mother’s?”
    “Immediately after lunch.”
    They ate quickly and in