Read Online David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) by Irène Némirovsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Irène Némirovsky
Tags: Irene Nemirovsky
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and oddly pained.
“Yes, when it’s raining, a funeral in Paris is never much fun. But it will happen to all of us one day. Good old Marcus, even on the last day we’ll ever have anything to do with him, he’s arranged for all of us to die of pneumonia. If he can see us now plodding about in the mud, it will make him so happy… He was pretty tough, wasn’t he? By the way, you’ll never guess what I heard yesterday.”
“What?”
“Well, I heard that the Alleman Company was going to bail out Mesopotamian Petroleum. Have you heard anything about that? You’d find that interesting, wouldn’t you?”
He stopped speaking and pointed with satisfaction at the umbrellas that were beginning to move in front of them. “Ah! It’s over at last, about time. Let’s get going…”
With their collars up, the mourners pushed each other to escape the rain as quickly as possible. Some of them even ran over the graves. Like everyone else, Golder held his open umbrella with both hands and hurried away. The storm was pounding down on the trees and gravestones, beating them with a kind of futile, savage violence.
“How smug they all look, the lot of them,” Golder thought. “One down, and now there’s one enemy less … And how happy they’ll all be when it’s my turn.”
They had to stop on the path for a moment to let a procession pass that was going in the opposite direction. Braun, Marcus’s secretary, caught up with Golder.
“I have some more papers on the Russians and Amrum which will be of interest to you,” he whispered. “Everyone seems to have been stabbing everyone in the back… Not a very nice business, Monsieur Golder.”
“You think so, young man?” replied Golder, with a sarcastic look on his face. “No, not very nice. Well, bring everything to me at the train station at six o’clock, to the train for Biarritz.”
“Are you going away, Monsieur Golder?”
Golder took a cigarette and crushed it between his fingers.
“Are we going to be here all night, for God’s sake?”
The line of black cars was still filing past, relentless and slow, blocking the way.
“Yes, I’m going away.”
“You’ll have wonderful weather. How is Mademoiselle Joyce? She must be even more beautiful now… You’ll be able to have a rest. You look nervous and tired.”
“Nervous,” grumbled Golder, suddenly furious, “no, thank God! Where do you get such rubbish? Now Marcus was another story … He was as jittery as a woman … And you can see where it got him…”
He pushed his way past two undertakers in shiny, dripping hats who were walking in the middle of the path, and fled, cutting through the funeral procession to get outside the gates.
It wasn’t until he was in the car that he remembered he hadn’t paid his respects to the widow. “Oh, she can go to hell!” He tried in vain to light his cigarette, but the rain had soaked it, so he spat the crushed tobacco out of the window. He huddled in the corner and closed his eyes as the car pulled away.
GOLDER DINED QUICKLY, drank some of the heavy Burgundy he liked, then smoked for a while in the corridor. A woman bumped into him as she passed by and smiled, but he looked away, indifferent. She was one of those little sluts from Biarritz… She disappeared. He went back into his compartment.
“I’m going to sleep well tonight,” he thought. He suddenly felt exhausted; his legs were heavy and painful. He raised the blind and looked out blankly at the rain streaming down the dark windows. The drops of water ran into each other forming little, wind-whipped rivers, like tears… He undressed, got into bed, and buried his face deep in the pillow. He had never felt so exhausted. He stretched his arms out with difficulty; they were stiff, heavy … The berth was narrow… even narrower than usual, it seemed. “A bad choice of compartment, of course … the idiots,” he thought vaguely. He could feel his bodyjolt as the wheels beneath him revolved with
“Yes, when it’s raining, a funeral in Paris is never much fun. But it will happen to all of us one day. Good old Marcus, even on the last day we’ll ever have anything to do with him, he’s arranged for all of us to die of pneumonia. If he can see us now plodding about in the mud, it will make him so happy… He was pretty tough, wasn’t he? By the way, you’ll never guess what I heard yesterday.”
“What?”
“Well, I heard that the Alleman Company was going to bail out Mesopotamian Petroleum. Have you heard anything about that? You’d find that interesting, wouldn’t you?”
He stopped speaking and pointed with satisfaction at the umbrellas that were beginning to move in front of them. “Ah! It’s over at last, about time. Let’s get going…”
With their collars up, the mourners pushed each other to escape the rain as quickly as possible. Some of them even ran over the graves. Like everyone else, Golder held his open umbrella with both hands and hurried away. The storm was pounding down on the trees and gravestones, beating them with a kind of futile, savage violence.
“How smug they all look, the lot of them,” Golder thought. “One down, and now there’s one enemy less … And how happy they’ll all be when it’s my turn.”
They had to stop on the path for a moment to let a procession pass that was going in the opposite direction. Braun, Marcus’s secretary, caught up with Golder.
“I have some more papers on the Russians and Amrum which will be of interest to you,” he whispered. “Everyone seems to have been stabbing everyone in the back… Not a very nice business, Monsieur Golder.”
“You think so, young man?” replied Golder, with a sarcastic look on his face. “No, not very nice. Well, bring everything to me at the train station at six o’clock, to the train for Biarritz.”
“Are you going away, Monsieur Golder?”
Golder took a cigarette and crushed it between his fingers.
“Are we going to be here all night, for God’s sake?”
The line of black cars was still filing past, relentless and slow, blocking the way.
“Yes, I’m going away.”
“You’ll have wonderful weather. How is Mademoiselle Joyce? She must be even more beautiful now… You’ll be able to have a rest. You look nervous and tired.”
“Nervous,” grumbled Golder, suddenly furious, “no, thank God! Where do you get such rubbish? Now Marcus was another story … He was as jittery as a woman … And you can see where it got him…”
He pushed his way past two undertakers in shiny, dripping hats who were walking in the middle of the path, and fled, cutting through the funeral procession to get outside the gates.
It wasn’t until he was in the car that he remembered he hadn’t paid his respects to the widow. “Oh, she can go to hell!” He tried in vain to light his cigarette, but the rain had soaked it, so he spat the crushed tobacco out of the window. He huddled in the corner and closed his eyes as the car pulled away.
GOLDER DINED QUICKLY, drank some of the heavy Burgundy he liked, then smoked for a while in the corridor. A woman bumped into him as she passed by and smiled, but he looked away, indifferent. She was one of those little sluts from Biarritz… She disappeared. He went back into his compartment.
“I’m going to sleep well tonight,” he thought. He suddenly felt exhausted; his legs were heavy and painful. He raised the blind and looked out blankly at the rain streaming down the dark windows. The drops of water ran into each other forming little, wind-whipped rivers, like tears… He undressed, got into bed, and buried his face deep in the pillow. He had never felt so exhausted. He stretched his arms out with difficulty; they were stiff, heavy … The berth was narrow… even narrower than usual, it seemed. “A bad choice of compartment, of course … the idiots,” he thought vaguely. He could feel his bodyjolt as the wheels beneath him revolved with
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