Read Online Suite Francaise by Irène Némirovsky - Free Book Online

think, sighing with happiness. “It didn’t hit us, it’s aimed at someone else. We’re so lucky!”
    “What a night! What a terrible night!” Florence groaned.
    In a barely audible voice, which slipped through his clenched lips with a kind of whistle, Gabriel hissed at her as you would to a dog, “
I’m
not asleep, am I? Do what I’m doing.”
    “For heaven’s sake, we could have had a room! We had the unbelievable luck to find a room!”
    “You call that unbelievable luck? That disgusting attic, which reeked of lice and bad drains. Didn’t you notice it was right above the kitchen?
Me,
stay there? Can you picture me in there?”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gabriel, don’t be so proud.”
    “Leave me alone, won’t you! I have always felt it, there are nuances, there is a . . .” he was looking for the right word “. . . a sense of decency which you simply cannot feel.”
    “What I can feel is my painful arse,” shouted Florence, suddenly forgetting the past five years of her life and slapping her ring-covered hand vigorously against her thigh in the most crass way. “Oh, for goodness sake, I’ve had enough!”
    Gabriel turned towards her, his face white with fury, nostrils flaring. “Get the hell out! Go on, get the hell out! I’m throwing you out!”
    At that very moment a bright light lit up the town square. It was a missile shot from a plane. The words froze on Gabriel’s lips. The missile disappeared but the sky was filled with planes. They flew back and forth above the town square in a manner that seemed almost lazy.
    “What about
our
planes, where are ours?” people groaned.
    To Corte’s left was a miserable little car carrying a mattress on its roof, along with a heavy round gueridon table with vulgar bronze mounts. A man in a peaked cap and two women were sitting inside; one woman had a child on her lap and the other a birdcage. It looked as if they had been in an accident on the way. The car’s bodywork was scratched, the bumper hanging off and the fat woman holding the birdcage against her chest had bandages wrapped round her head.
    On his right was a truck full of the kind of crates villagers use to transport poultry on Fair days but which now were full of bundles of old clothes. Through the car window right next to his, Gabriel could see the face of an old prostitute with painted eyes, messy orange hair, a low angular forehead. She stared at him long and hard while chewing on a bit of bread. He shuddered. “Such ugliness,” he murmured, “such hideous faces!” Overcome, he turned round to face inside the car and closed his eyes.
    “I’m hungry,” Florence said. “Are you?”
    He gestured no.
    She opened the overnight case and took out some sandwiches. “You didn’t have dinner. Come on. Be sensible.”
    “I cannot eat,” he said. “I don’t think I could swallow a single mouthful now. Did you see that horrible old woman beside us with her birdcage and bloodstained bandages?”
    Florence took a sandwich and shared the others with the maid and driver. Gabriel covered his ears with his long hands so he couldn’t hear the crunching noises the servants made as they bit into the bread.
    10
    The Péricands had been travelling for nearly a week and had been dogged by misfortune. They’d had to stay in Gien for two days when the car broke down. Further along, amid the confusion and unimaginable crush, the car had hit the truck carrying the servants and luggage. That was near Nevers. Fortunately for the Péricands, there was no part of the provinces where they couldn’t find some friend or relative with a large house, beautiful gardens and a well-stocked larder. A cousin from the Maltête-Lyonnais side of the family put them up for two days. But panic was intensifying, spreading like wildfire from one city to another. They had the car repaired as best they could and set out once more, but by noon on Saturday it was clear the car could go no further without a thorough overhaul.