Suite Française

by Irene Nemirovsky

  He heard nothing, saw nothing, but felt by a kind of sixth sense two boys silently rushing towards the château. It happened so quickly that at first he thought he was dreaming. He didn’t want to call out for fear of waking the other sleeping boys. He got up, brushed the grass and flowers off his cassock and headed for the château. The thick lawn hid the sound of his footsteps. He remembered now he had noticed one of the shutters had been badly secured and was slightly ajar. Yes, he was right! The moon lit up the front of the house. One of the boys was pushing the shutter, forcing it open. Before Philippe could shout at them to stop, a stone shattered the window and there was a rain of glass. The boys, as lithe as cats, leapt inside.

  “Oh, you little brats! Just wait till I sort you out!” Philippe said to himself.

  Hoisting up his cassock, he followed them through the window, and found himself in a drawing room with furniture covered by dustsheets and a large, cold parquet floor. He groped about in the dark for a few moments before finding the light switch. When he turned the lights on he saw no one. He hesitated, looked around (the boys were hiding or had run off): the sofas, the piano, the winged bergère chairs covered by billowing sheets, the flowered chintz curtains at the windows—all made good hiding places. Seeing some fabric move, he walked towards a bay window and yanked back the curtains. One of the boys was there. He was among the oldest, almost an adult with a blackish face, rather beautiful eyes, a low forehead and a strong jaw.

  “What are you doing here?” said the priest.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned round; another boy was in the room, standing right behind him; he too was about seventeen or eighteen. He had thin, contemptuous lips and his yellowish face looked wild, as if he were possessed. Philippe was on his guard but they were too fast for him. In a flash they attacked; one tripped him and knocked him down, the other grabbed his throat. But he managed to fight them off, silently, successfully. Catching hold of one of them by the collar, he tightened his grip so much that the boy was forced to let go. As the boy pulled away, something fell out of his pocket and rolled along the ground: it was some silver.

  “Congratulations, you’ve moved fast,” said Philippe, half choking, sitting on the floor, thinking to himself, “The main thing is not to make a big thing of it, just get them out of here and they’ll follow me like little puppies. Then we’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

  “That’s enough, now! Enough of this nonsense . . . get going.”

  He had barely finished speaking when once again they threw themselves on him, silently, desperately, savagely; one of them bit him, drew blood.

  “They’re going to kill me,” Philippe thought in amazement. They hung on to him like wolves. He didn’t want to hurt them, but he was forced to defend himself; they punched him, kicked him, he fought them off and they came back at him even more violently than before. They no longer looked human, they were demented, animals . . . Philippe would have proven the stronger in spite of everything but they hit him on the head with a pedestal table with bronze legs; he fell down and as he fell he heard one of the boys run to the window and whistle. He saw nothing else: not the twenty-eight teenagers suddenly waking up, running across the lawn, climbing through the window; not the rush towards the delicate furniture that was being ripped apart and thrown out on to the grass. They were frenzied, they danced around the priest as he lay sprawled on the floor, they sang and shouted. One of the youngest, with a girlish face, jumped with both feet on to a sofa whose old springs creaked under the weight. The older ones had discovered a liquor cabinet. They dragged it into the drawing room, kicking it to move it along; when they opened it, they saw it was empty but they didn’t need liquor to be drunk: the carnage was enough for them. They felt a terrifying kind of joy. Dragging Philippe by the feet, they threw him out of the window, so he fell heavily on to the lawn. At the edge of the lake, they swung him like a bundle . . . “Heave-ho! Kill him!” they shouted in their harsh, high-pitched voices, some of which still sounded childlike.

  When Philippe fell into the water he was still alive. Out of a sense of self-preservation, or a final burst of courage, he managed to remain at the edge of the lake; he clutched the branch of a tree with both hands and tried hard to keep his head above water. His battered face was red, swollen and grotesque. They were throwing stones at him. He held on at first, clinging with all his might to the branch that was swaying, cracking, giving way. He tried to get to the other shore but he was being bombarded. Finally he raised both arms, put them in front of his face, and the boys saw him sink straight down, in his black cassock. He hadn’t drowned: he’d got trapped in the mud. And that was how he died, in water up to his waist, head thrown back, one eye gouged out by a stone.

  26

  At the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Nîmes, a Mass was celebrated every year for the deceased members of the Péricand-Maltête family. Since only Madame Péricand’s mother lived in Nîmes, this service was usually a brief affair in one of the side chapels, attended by the elderly lady herself—half-blind and obese, whose heavy breathing drowned out the priest’s voice—and a cook who had worked for the household for thirty years. Madame Péricand had been born a Craquant, related to the Marseilles branch of the Craquant family who had made their money in olive oil. This ancestry seemed extremely respectable to her, of course (and her dowry had been two million, at its pre-war value), but it paled in comparison with that of her new relations. Her mother, the elder Madame Craquant, agreed with this view of things and, having gone to live alone in Nîmes, she observed all the Péricand rituals with great fidelity, praying for the dead and sending letters of congratulations to the living on the occasion of marriages and baptisms, just as the colonial English raised solitary glasses on the day London was celebrating the Queen’s birthday.

  This Mass for the deceased was particularly agreeable to Madame Craquant because she would stop at a tearoom on her way home from the cathedral and have a cup of hot chocolate and two croissants. As she was extremely fat, her doctor made her follow a strict diet, but her early morning rise and the lengthy and, to her, very tiring walk from the great carved door of the cathedral to her pew allowed her to devour these fortifying foods without remorse. Sometimes when her cook, of whom she lived in fear, had her back turned and was standing rigid and silent near the door of the tearoom—their two prayer books in her hand, Madame Craquant’s black shawl over her arm—she would even draw a platter of little cakes towards her and, with affected nonchalance, pop a cream-filled choux bun into her mouth, or a cherry tart, or both.

  Outside, her carriage, drawn by two old horses and driven by a coachman almost as fat as Madame Craquant herself, waited, flies buzzing around in the heat.

  This year, everything was at sixes and sevens. The Péricands, who had fled to Nîmes after the events of June, had just learned of the deaths of the old Monsieur Péricand-Maltête and Philippe. News of the first had been conveyed by the Sisters in the nursing home where the old gentleman had had, according to Sister Marie of the Sacred Sacrament’s letter, “a good death, very comforting, very Christian.” She had even been so kind as to describe in the most minute detail the contents of his Last Will and Testament, which would be written up as soon as possible.

  Madame Péricand read and reread the final sentence of the letter and sighed, a look of anxiety spreading across her face, only to be replaced, a moment later, with the expression of contrition a good Christian feels when she learns that someone she loves has gone to find peace with the Good Lord. “Your grandfather is with Jesus, children,” she said.

  Two hours later, the second blow to strike the family was revealed, but in less detail. The mayor of a little village in the Loiret informed them that Father Philippe Péricand had been killed in an accident and sent them papers that confirmed his identity beyond a doubt. As for the thirty wards in his care, they had disappeared. Since half of France was looking for the other half, this surprised no one. There was mention of a truck which had fallen in the river, not far fro
m where Philippe had met his death, and his relations remained convinced that this had something to do with him and his unfortunate orphans. To cap it all, Madame Péricand was told that Hubert had been killed at the Battle of Moulins. This time the catastrophe was complete. The intensity of her sorrow caused her to cry out in proud despair.

  “I gave birth to a saint and a hero,” she said. “Our sons are making sacrifices for other people’s sons.” And she looked darkly at her cousin Craquant whose only child had managed to get a peaceful little post in the home guard in Toulouse. “Dear Odette, my heart is breaking. You know that I lived only for my children, that I was a mother, nothing but a mother” (Madame Craquant, who had been a trifle frivolous in her youth, lowered her head), “but I swear to you, the pride I feel makes me forget my bereavement.”

  She drew herself up and, already imagining the black veil fluttering around her, showed her cousin to the door with pride and dignity.

  “You are a true Catholic.” Odette sighed humbly.

  “Just a good Frenchwoman,” Madame Péricand replied drily, turning her back.

  This conversation had lessened her sorrow slightly. She had always respected Philippe and in some way understood he was not of this world. She knew that, if he had renounced his dream of being a missionary, it was out of humility and that he had chosen to serve God in the way that was the most difficult for him: by subjecting himself to the most commonplace duties. She was certain her son was with Jesus. (When she said the same thing about her father-in-law, it was with a secret doubt for which she reproached herself, but there it was . . .) But Philippe . . . “I can see him as if I were there,” she thought. Yes, she could be proud of Philippe and the radiance of his soul reflected back on to her.

  Whereas when she thought of Hubert she felt a strange turmoil. Hubert, who failed miserably at school, who bit his nails, Hubert with his ink-stained fingers, his lovely chubby face, his wide young mouth, for Hubert to die a hero was . . . inconceivable . . . When she talked to her sympathetic friends about how Hubert had left (“I tried to stop him, but I saw how impossible it was. He was a child, but a courageous child, and he has given his life for the honour of France. As Rostand said, ‘It is even more beautiful because it is pointless.’ “), she found that she was rewriting the past. She actually believed she had said all these proud words, that she had sent her son off to war.

  Nîmes, which had looked upon her until now rather bitterly, felt a respect for this sorrowful mother that was almost affectionate.

  “The whole town will be there today,” old Madame Craquant sighed with melancholy satisfaction.

  It was 31 July. Their Mass for the Dead was due to be celebrated at ten o’clock, with three names tragically added.

  “Oh, Mother, what does it matter?” replied Madame Péricand, and it was impossible to tell if she was referring to the uselessness of such consolation or to the very poor opinion she had of her fellow citizens.

  The town gleamed beneath the blazing sun. In the poor districts, a dry and insidious wind rattled the bead curtains in doorways. The flies bit; you could smell a storm coming. Nîmes, normally sleepy at this time of year, was crowded with people. The refugees who had poured in were still there, unable to leave because of petrol shortages and the temporary closure of the border along the Loire. The streets and town squares had been transformed into parking lots. There was not a spare room anywhere.

  People had been sleeping in the streets; the ultimate luxury was a bale of hay to use as a bed. The citizens of Nîmes were proud of themselves for having done their duty, and more, towards the refugees. They had welcomed them with open arms, pressed them against their bosoms. There was not a single family who had not offered hospitality to these poor people. It was just a shame that this state of affairs was dragging on so unreasonably long. There was also the matter of provisions, and you can’t forget either, said the townspeople, that all these poor refugees, exhausted by their journey, would be susceptible to the most terrible epidemics. There were veiled hints in the press and more open, brutal demands from some quarters, urging the refugees to leave as soon as possible. But as yet, circumstances had prevented anyone from going anywhere.

  Madame Craquant, who had her entire family living with her and was therefore able, head held high, to refuse to donate even a pair of sheets, rather enjoyed all this hustle and bustle, which she witnessed through her half-closed Venetian blinds. She was having her breakfast, along with the Péricand children, before going to church. Madame Péricand watched them eat. She did not touch her own food even though, thanks to the stock of supplies accumulated in her mother’s enormous cupboards since war had been declared, it was more appetising than the usual rations.

  Madame Craquant was troubled by her daughter’s cold stare. A snow-white napkin covering her vast chest, she was polishing off her third piece of buttered toast when she felt a touch of indigestion. She put the toast down and looked at her daughter timidly. “I don’t know why I’m eating, Charlotte,” she said, “it’s not going down well.”

  “You’ll have to force yourself, Mother,” replied Madame Péricand ironically, her voice as cold as ice. And she pushed the full jug of hot chocolate towards the old lady.

  “All right then. Pour me another half-cup, Charlotte, but not more than half a cup now!”

  “You know it’s your third?”

  But Madame Craquant seemed suddenly struck deaf. “Yes, yes,” she said vaguely, nodding her head. “You’re right, Charlotte, we must fortify ourselves before the sad ceremony.” And she drank up the frothy chocolate with a sigh.

  Meanwhile, the doorbell rang and one of the servants brought in a package for Madame Péricand. It contained photographs of Philippe and Hubert: she had sent them to be framed. She looked at them for a long time, then got up, put them down on the sideboard, stood back to see how they looked, went into her bedroom, and came back carrying two black rosettas and two red, white and blue ribbons. As she draped them over the picture frames, they heard Nanny sobbing in the doorway, Emmanuel in her arms. Jacqueline and Bernard also started crying.

  Madame Péricand took the children by the hand, gently pulled them from their chairs and walked them over to the sideboard. “Just look at your two big brothers, my darlings! Ask the Good Lord to bless you so you might be like them. Try to be as good, as studious and obedient as they were. They were such good sons,” said Madame Péricand, her voice choking with pain, “and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if God has rewarded them by recognising them as martyrs. You musn’t cry. They are with the Good Lord; they are looking down on us, protecting us. They will be waiting for us in heaven, and in the meantime, here on earth, we must be proud of them, both as Christians and as citizens of France.”

  Everyone was crying now; even Madame Craquant had stopped drinking her hot chocolate and was looking for her handkerchief, her hands trembling. The photograph of Philippe was amazingly lifelike. It really captured his pure, intense expression, and he seemed to contemplate his family with that smile of his that was sweet, kind and loving.

  “And when you say your prayers, you musn’t forget,” Madame Péricand concluded, “those unfortunate children who died with him.”

  “But maybe they aren’t all dead?”

  “It’s possible,” Madame Péricand said vaguely, “very possible. Those poor children . . . On the other hand,” she added, “that charitable institution really is a great responsibility,” and her thoughts ran back to her father-in-law’s Will.

  Madame Craquant dried her eyes. “Little Hubert . . . he was so sweet, so funny. I remember one day when you were visiting, I’d fallen asleep in the sitting room after lunch, and that naughty boy goes and takes down the flypaper from the chandelier and quietly lowers it on to my head. I woke up and screamed . . . You certainly punished him that day, Charlotte.”

  “I don’t remember,” said Charlotte drily. “Now, come on, Mother, finish your hot chocolate; we have to hurry. The carriage is downstairs. It’s nearly
ten o’clock.”

  They went into the street, the grandmother first, puffing and leaning on her cane, then Madame Péricand, swathed in black crêpe, followed by her two children in black, Emmanuel in white, and a few of the servants, all in full mourning attire. The carriage was waiting. The driver was getting down from his seat to open the door when, suddenly, Emmanuel pointed a little finger towards the crowd. “Hubert! Look, it’s Hubert!”

  Turning automatically to look, Nanny blanched and let out a strangled cry: “Jesus, Blessed Virgin Mary!”

  A sort of hoarse howl came from the mouth of Madame Péricand; she threw back her black veil, took a few steps towards Hubert, then slipped on the pavement and collapsed into the arms of the driver, who had rushed forward just in time to catch her.

  It really was Hubert, a lock of hair in his eyes, skin as pink and golden as a nectarine, with no bags, no bicycle, no wounds, walking towards them with a huge grin on his face. “Hello, Mother, hello, Grandmother. How is everyone?”

  “Is it you? Is it you? You’re alive!” said Madame Craquant, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, my darling Hubert, I knew you couldn’t really be dead! Dear God, you’re too mischievous for that!”

  Madame Péricand came round. “Hubert? Is it really you?” she stammered weakly.

  Hubert was both pleased and embarrassed by this welcome. He took a few steps towards his mother and leaned over so she could kiss his cheeks (which she did, not knowing exactly what she was doing). Then he stood in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other just as he did when he failed Latin translation at school.