Free Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky Page B

time in the silence. She thought gloomily about her daughters-in-law. They had said this, done that … “Alix never says anything. She must make life difficult for Alain. Claire’s a good little thing, she gets along well with Augustin. But then who wouldn’t get on well with Augustin—the most intelligent and nicest of my children? Yet Claire herself … they never tell me anything. Do they think I wouldn’t understand? Well, it’s true, perhaps I wouldn’t understand …”
    She let out a deep sigh; her head felt heavy and she kept shivering. She must have caught a chill. She rang the bell for the maid, querulously reminding her that her hot water bottle was never hot enough, nor was her bed properly made. Yet she did not move away from the open window, enjoying the feel of the wind ruffling her gray hair as she breathed in the smell of wet leaves. Then she went to bed.
    Almost straightaway she felt the beginning of a fever. She had been ignoring her malaise since the previous day, but now it had taken hold. The first deep shudder, which seemed to come from the very marrow of herbones, was followed by a burning wave, which she accepted patiently and almost with a sense of well-being; it warmed her up, her mood mysteriously lightened, and she recovered some of her lost liveliness and her sense of humor. She thought about her children, especially Albert. On hearing that his mother was ill, his first thought would be, “That’s all I need.” Poor boy! He assumed that family illnesses and all of life’s misfortunes were deliberately sent to him by fate. She smiled. She imagined the reactions of Augustin, Alain, and Mariette. “They hoped I’d leave them alone until next Sunday.” Her mind, which had become dulled through the passage of years, now grew alert, mischievous, almost lighthearted. She hadn’t always been a bad-tempered old woman—the children had forgotten that—and she thought about them, not as she usually did with admiration, respect, and incomprehension, but with that indulgent and ironic tenderness a mother sometimes feels for her children while they are still small, not yet quite human beings, as comical as puppies. They were helpless, touching … How comforting illness and fever can be, as they spread throughout the body and let wisdom and a clearer understanding flourish in their warmth.
    Nevertheless, her teeth chattered as she endured the icy little waves that rippled through her; her elderly body was giving in to illness, accepting the rhythm of the fever. Soon her head seemed heavier and she felt a dull ache behind her eyes. She had difficulty breathing.It was as if the air was trapped in her chest, inside her ribs, and, moaning with the pain, she made an effort to drag it up from deep inside her. She wanted to move the pillow so that she could rest her cheek on the fresh linen of the bolster, but it was hot and heavy. All at once she realized how weak and tired she was. She closed her eyes, and the treacherous fever rose up like a slow, relentless tide of ice and fire, drowning her. There was nothing left in her now, no thoughts, no regrets, no desires. The images of the children grew faint. All that remained was an ill-tempered body, feebly fighting its illness. How long the night can be!
    By morning, her temperature had gone down. She arranged for her sons to be told. Each of them took an hour out of his day to go and see her, to sit by her bed, to say with dismay, “But yesterday you were perfectly fine!”
    The doctor came in during the morning. He said they would have to wait; it was too early to give an opinion one way or the other.
    The three daughters-in-law had taken up their positions, one by the bed, the others in the little parlor. Soon they sent their clumsy husbands away; the mother was left in the cool, calm hands of the wives, who gently tucked her in. Only Mariette went from one to the other with a drawn, frightened face. She went over to the bed to look at her mother,