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Authors: Irène Némirovsky
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you, Madame?" he asked Colette.
Colette got up and came over to join us, for you can't insult your hosts by refusing to have a drink, especially during these big country get-togethers. The men were all mildly intoxicated in the heavy, morose way of farmworkers. Up before dawn, they could feel ten hours of work in their muscles and had wolfed down their food with giant appetites. The women busied themselves around the stove. They started teasing the young lad, who was sitting beside me. He replied with a kind of rude impudence that made everyone laugh. You could tell he was drunk in a bad way , looking for a fight-that state of intoxication where you can't hold your tongue, as we say around here. The heat in the room, the smoke from the pipes, the smell of the tarts on the table, the buzzing of the wasps around the overflowing jam pots, the loud, resonant laughter of the farmers, all this must have contributed to the dream-like state you float in when you can't hold your drink. And he never stopped staring at Colette.
"Don't you miss the Moulin-Neuf?" Francois asked him absent-mindedly.
"Hell, no, we're better off up here."
"Well, that's gratitude for you," said Colette, smiling uncomfortably. "Don't you remember the lovely jam sandwiches I used to make you?"
"'Course I remember."
"Well, that's good."
"'Course I remember," the lad said again.
He was turning his fork over and over in his heavy hand and continuing to stare at Colette in the most intense way. "I remember everything," he said suddenly. "Many people might've forgot, but not me, I remember everything." By chance, just as he spoke, all the other conversation stopped and his words resounded around the room so loudly that everyone was shocked. Colette went very white and quiet. Surprised, her father asked, "What do you mean, my boy?"
"I mean, what I mean is that if anyone here has forgotten how Monsieur Jean died, well, not me, I remember."
"No one's forgotten," I said, and I gestured for Colette to get up and move away from the table; but she stayed put. Francois saw something was up, but since he was miles away from imagining the truth, instead of making the kid shut up he leaned towards him and questioned him anxiously. "Do you mean you saw something that night? Tell me, please. This is very serious."
"Pay no attention," said Maluret. "You can see he's drunk."
Good Lord, I thought, they know, they all know. But if this imbecile doesn't talk, none of them will ever breathe a word. The farmers around here don't gossip and would rather walk through fire than get involved in other people's business.
But they knew; they all looked away, embarrassed. "Come on. Behave yourself," said Maluret brusquely. "You've had enough to drink. Back to work."
But Francois was upset and grabbed the boy by the sleeve. "Don't go. You know something we don't, I'm sure of it. I've often thought his death was odd; you don't fall from a bridge accidentally when you've been crossing it every day since you were a child and you know every step of the way. And Monsieur Jean had brought back a lot of money from Nevers that day. His wallet was never found. We all thought it had got lost when he fell and was carried away by the river. But maybe it was simply that he was robbed, robbed and murdered. So listen, if you saw something we don't know about, it's your duty to tell us. Isn't it, Colette?" he added, turning towards his daughter.
She didn't have the strength to reply, so she simply nodded.
"My poor darling, this must be very painful for you. Go outside, let me talk to this boy alone."
She shook her head. Everyone was silent. The lad seemed to sober up all of a sudden. You could see him trembling as he answered Francois's pressing questions. "All right, then, I saw someone shove him into the river. I told my grandma the same night, but she said I wasn't allowed to tell anyone."
"But look here, if a crime's been committed you have to go to the police, punish the culprit.
"These
Colette got up and came over to join us, for you can't insult your hosts by refusing to have a drink, especially during these big country get-togethers. The men were all mildly intoxicated in the heavy, morose way of farmworkers. Up before dawn, they could feel ten hours of work in their muscles and had wolfed down their food with giant appetites. The women busied themselves around the stove. They started teasing the young lad, who was sitting beside me. He replied with a kind of rude impudence that made everyone laugh. You could tell he was drunk in a bad way , looking for a fight-that state of intoxication where you can't hold your tongue, as we say around here. The heat in the room, the smoke from the pipes, the smell of the tarts on the table, the buzzing of the wasps around the overflowing jam pots, the loud, resonant laughter of the farmers, all this must have contributed to the dream-like state you float in when you can't hold your drink. And he never stopped staring at Colette.
"Don't you miss the Moulin-Neuf?" Francois asked him absent-mindedly.
"Hell, no, we're better off up here."
"Well, that's gratitude for you," said Colette, smiling uncomfortably. "Don't you remember the lovely jam sandwiches I used to make you?"
"'Course I remember."
"Well, that's good."
"'Course I remember," the lad said again.
He was turning his fork over and over in his heavy hand and continuing to stare at Colette in the most intense way. "I remember everything," he said suddenly. "Many people might've forgot, but not me, I remember everything." By chance, just as he spoke, all the other conversation stopped and his words resounded around the room so loudly that everyone was shocked. Colette went very white and quiet. Surprised, her father asked, "What do you mean, my boy?"
"I mean, what I mean is that if anyone here has forgotten how Monsieur Jean died, well, not me, I remember."
"No one's forgotten," I said, and I gestured for Colette to get up and move away from the table; but she stayed put. Francois saw something was up, but since he was miles away from imagining the truth, instead of making the kid shut up he leaned towards him and questioned him anxiously. "Do you mean you saw something that night? Tell me, please. This is very serious."
"Pay no attention," said Maluret. "You can see he's drunk."
Good Lord, I thought, they know, they all know. But if this imbecile doesn't talk, none of them will ever breathe a word. The farmers around here don't gossip and would rather walk through fire than get involved in other people's business.
But they knew; they all looked away, embarrassed. "Come on. Behave yourself," said Maluret brusquely. "You've had enough to drink. Back to work."
But Francois was upset and grabbed the boy by the sleeve. "Don't go. You know something we don't, I'm sure of it. I've often thought his death was odd; you don't fall from a bridge accidentally when you've been crossing it every day since you were a child and you know every step of the way. And Monsieur Jean had brought back a lot of money from Nevers that day. His wallet was never found. We all thought it had got lost when he fell and was carried away by the river. But maybe it was simply that he was robbed, robbed and murdered. So listen, if you saw something we don't know about, it's your duty to tell us. Isn't it, Colette?" he added, turning towards his daughter.
She didn't have the strength to reply, so she simply nodded.
"My poor darling, this must be very painful for you. Go outside, let me talk to this boy alone."
She shook her head. Everyone was silent. The lad seemed to sober up all of a sudden. You could see him trembling as he answered Francois's pressing questions. "All right, then, I saw someone shove him into the river. I told my grandma the same night, but she said I wasn't allowed to tell anyone."
"But look here, if a crime's been committed you have to go to the police, punish the culprit.
"These
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