Free Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky

quietly. “Our life is our own business, it’s ours alone. It’s complicated enough without saddling ourselves with other people’s lives, with those of our brothers … especially yours, Alain. I’d like to point out that no one’s been helped and supported more than you. With your character, my poor fellow, marriage was the ultimate stupidity—almost a crime, in fact.”
    “But the day I want to get away from it …” Alain murmured bitterly.
    “Too late,” said Augustin, with unusual energy. “Even though it would be very convenient.”
    “Do you know what’s held me back? You know that Alix has no money, no family, no one else in the world apart from your wife. You do know I couldn’t abandon her to nothing.”
    “Yes, I do,” murmured Augustin.
    For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then closed his eyes wearily. Claire would never forgive him for contributing to Alix’s unhappiness! Coping with her reproaches would be beyond him. And not to speak of the conjugal loyalty; it was a greater and more inflexible duty, he felt, than brotherly solidarity. To cut the whole thing short, he stood up, saying, “I just don’t understand you, old man.”
    He was struck by the despairing look in his brother’s eyes. “His tragic face,” he thought with irritation and a strange feeling of remorse. He put his hand on Alain’s shoulder.
    “It’ll work out in the end, old man, everything always does.”
    They went to join the women, who were obviously wondering what had kept them. Martine and Bernadette were sitting at a small side table playing dominoes. Claire murmured, “The coffee’s cold …”
    They drank it in silence. They heard the clock ticking. Each of them tried desperately to think of some news their mother might like to hear. Sabine talked about her servants. For a few moments the women became animated, then the conversation petered out again. During the longer and longer intervals of silencethey could hear the gentle whispering of the rain pattering on the cobblestones and the occasional blast of a whistle from a barge on the Seine.
    They were all feeling the overwhelming tiredness that overcomes members of the same family when they have been together for more than an hour. They were staving off a desperate desire to yawn, or go to sleep, which would vanish once they were outside. Even Alain longed to be in bed, forgetting that his wife would be there, too. But even her presence, with her tears and reproaches, would be better than this gloomy silence.
    How impatiently they watched the hands on the clock slowly inching around! As soon as it got to ten o’clock they felt relieved and full of goodwill toward one another. Albert asked for more coffee, and drank it standing up.
    “Good night, Mama, we don’t want to keep you up … Good night … Good night.”
    She did not stop them. She was feeling tired herself. It was certainly a pleasure to see the children—these Sunday meals were a source of joy to her—but she did feel tired, especially tonight. She had caught a cold the previous day, and from time to time she shivered painfully. Then she felt stifled by the heat from the stove. She had once been used to living in the country for most of the year, in huge, cold rooms, and even here, when she was alone, she left all the windows open, in spite of the November rain; the smell of wet leaves, earth, and mistwafted up to her from the grounds of Sainte Perrine. But the children complained about the cold, and since midday the radiators had been spreading that dry warmth and strong whiff of paint characteristic of Parisian flats every autumn when the first fires were lit.
    Albert said, “I can’t take anyone with me. I’ve got to go and fetch the children. The car will be full.”
    “Of course, old man, that’s fine! Good night, my dear fellow,” said Augustin cheerfully.
    He kissed his mother again.
    “Don’t forget me, my child. Why don’t you come during the day sometimes—the days are