Free Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky Page A

very long.”
    “Of course I will, Mama,” he murmured with impatient affection, not listening to her. “Claire will look in, or I will, one of these days. Anyway, we’ll see you on Sunday, won’t we? See you then.”
    As soon as they were outside they all went their separate ways. When Augustin and Claire were alone, she took his arm.
    “Well?”
    He shrugged. “Well, he won’t go, of course. How can he go without any money? He’s not going to leave Alix and the children on the streets. And he knows now that he can’t expect anything from us.”
    This insane dream of Alain’s had brought them closer together than usual; they talked in a remarkably similar low, rapid, affectionate tone.
    “What does Alix say about it?”
    “What can she say? He wants a separation without any tears or arguments. This ridiculous departure is just a pretext. What did he say to you?”
    “He says he doesn’t want to live in Europe any longer, that he can’t put up with his office job, that he hates it and is not suited to it. He may be right, but why can’t he just go off camping or fishing, instead of this? Abandoning his family, leaving them on our hands, no, absolutely not! We all have to manage our own lives! He’s responsible for Alix and the children. I think it’s outrageous that he’s trying to get rid of them by dumping them on us,” Augustin said angrily.
    They fell silent as they walked in step together; their faces wore the same indignant expression. Each of them was thinking, “If it were only about money … but he’s asking for our time, our peace of mind, our happiness.” They would have to console Alix, calm down old Mme. Demestre. They loved them dearly, of course, as you do love your own flesh and blood. You want them to be happy, but you don’t want to be forced to look after them.
    Huddled together under one umbrella, they went toward the metro station: rarely had they felt so close to each other. They had reached that state of perfect understanding between husband and wife that meant that each could speak without listening to the other, at the same time knowing instinctively that their words were a response not just to the other’s words but to theirmost secret, hidden, unformulated thoughts. They were soothed by this brisk walk in the dark and the soft rain. Wearily, Augustin said, “I don’t want to talk about Alain anymore.”
    They stopped and sniffed the breeze blowing in off the Seine.
    Claire murmured, “Poor Alix.”
    Then they went back to their own life: their plans, their worries, a chair in the flat that needed reupholstering, all those little preoccupations of daily life that unite married couples more strongly than love.
    Meanwhile, their mother had closed the door after Alain and Alix, who were the last to leave. Alone, she went from one room to another, opening all the windows. How quiet it was! She did not usually hear the silence, but tonight, after her sons’ steps had faded away and all the young voices had gone, it overwhelmed her. It was that terrible silence of old age, when everything seems to come to an end at the same time: the noise of life lived beyond her four walls, the inner excitement of youth celebrating its joy …
    She moved slowly around the room, feeling a sort of self-pitying but benign anger as she tried to disguise her frightful boredom. “Men are lucky,” she thought. “Even when they’re old they have things to interest them—politics, war and peace, world events—and they have clearer and more vivid memories. Women are left with nothing apart from knitting or a game of patience. Oh!What happy sounds there used to be in this house: children’s voices, slamming doors, the sound of laughter and quarrels.” All she could hear tonight were the maid’s footsteps in the kitchen as her slippers brushed almost noiselessly across the floor, then a sigh, or the faint sound of a plate being placed gently on the sideboard, with a chink that echoed for a long