Free The Fires of Autumn by Irène Némirovsky Page B

fooling?’
    On the other hand, however, the persistent bombardments did not concern Monsieur Brun. He would stand at the window in his nightshirt when the sirens began to wail. He felt a sort of pride during the air raids. This was history, something that had happened before, experienced by an entire race of people through him, a noble kind of danger.
    Thérèse was a nurse, along with Renée Détang. The two women worked in the same hospital. Renée often went out in the company of young American soldiers and laughed scornfully when Thérèse refused to go along.
    ‘You’re so middle class, such a homebody, my poor girl! And yet, you’re free. As for me …’
    She took a small mirror from her handbag and looked at her exquisite cat-like face with its tiny nose and wide green eyes; smallcurls of a harsh, metallic gold colour escaped from her nurse’s cap:
    ‘Well I think that life is short and you have to make the most of it. I’m not doing anything wrong.’
    ‘You’re not?’
    Whenever Thérèse made fun of someone, her eyes sparkled and her round face with its turned-up nose took on a bold, frank expression.
    ‘I’m just having a good time,’ said Renée.
    ‘That’s what I thought. You’re appalling.’
    ‘Do you think a life like yours is fun? The hospital, then back home to clean the floors with steel wool? Polishing the saucepans? For what? You’re not married any more. Making yourself a pretty collar on Sundays to put on your uniform? Why? You don’t have a lover. Aren’t you ever tempted at all, Thérèse?’
    ‘No,’ Thérèse said quietly. ‘No, never.’
    And yet, temptation wafted all around a woman in the words she heard spoken, in the very air she breathed. A tall, handsome lad in uniform smiles at you in the street and you think: ‘Tomorrow he’ll be gone. No one will know. Why not?’ Jewellery, perfume, clothes from a boutique on the Rue de la Paix when your hair reeks of idoform and blood, when you are wearing a starched uniform and a nurse’s cap that covers your forehead, when you have hardly any money. When you have become a soldier’s pen friend, when you have chosen a farmer who writes to you at Christmas: ‘Thank you so much, my dear benefactress, for the new sweater and the pipes. I told my wife how spoiled I am …’ and then you watch your friend going out with Americans … Temptation, and the most dangerous thing of all … missing being loved when your husband is dead … But that was nobody’s business.
    ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m always busy and I’m never bored. Cleaning the floors? Well, I like doing that! I like awardrobe that’s been polished and shines, the smell of stew that’s been slowly cooking, a new hat made out of two flowers and a ribbon.’
    ‘You’ll never find another husband if you stay hidden within your four walls.’
    ‘I’m not looking for a husband. But tell me, what about yours? Doesn’t he see anything?’
    ‘Nothing. And besides, he’s not the jealous type.’
    ‘That’s odd. I …’
    ‘You’d be jealous, Thérèse? Well, really! Holding on to a man against his will isn’t worth the trouble.’
    ‘Yes, but as far as I’m concerned, I enjoy taking the trouble.’
    ‘Like with the stew and the hat?’
    ‘Exactly. I like putting effort into things. It gives me pleasure. When I fall in love …’
    ‘So you will fall in love then?’
    ‘Why not? I’m twenty-two years old and was only married for two months. I sincerely mourned my husband. I cared for him a great deal but I was never in love with him. Love … But what you call love makes me feel ashamed and rather frightened.’
    ‘There is no other kind of love in 1918,’ said Renée, getting up.
    They said goodbye. They had been standing under a courtyard entrance waiting for the rain to stop. They went their separate ways. It was a stifling hot day. The brief shower had barely dampened the dust. Now it began rising again, casting a haze through