Fire in the Blood

by Irene Nemirovsky

  “No one ever knew where she came from.”

  “She was Mademoiselle Cécile 's illegitimate daughter,” someone said with a crude laugh.

  “I might have thought the same as you if I hadn't known Mademoiselle Cécile. The poor woman wasn't like that, that's for sure. She only ever left the house to go to church.”

  “Sometimes that's all it takes.”

  “Maybe, but not Mademoiselle Cécile … she didn't have an ounce of wickedness in her. No, the girl she took in was a charity case. Took her as a maid and then got attached to her, adopted her. Madame Declos isn't stupid.”

  “No, not stupid at all. Just look at how she got her way with the old man … Dresses and perfume from Paris, holidays. Anything she wanted. She knows what she 's doing. And not only in that way either. You've got to be fair. She knows about farming. Her tenants say you can't fool her. And she 's nice to everyone.”

  “She is. She may be proud of the way she dresses but she 's not proud when she talks to you.”

  “Still, people around here criticise her. She 'd do well to be careful.”

  Suddenly, Ohnet looks up. “Be careful about what?” he asks.

  Another silence. The men pull in their chairs, bringing them closer together and at the same time further away from Marc, to demonstrate their disapproval of everything they've guessed is going on, or think they've guessed.

  “Careful about her behaviour.”

  “I think,” says Marc, turning his empty glass between his fingers, “I think she couldn't care less about how people see her.”

  “Be reasonable, Monsieur Marc, be reasonable … Her land is hereabouts. She 's got to live in these parts. It wouldn't do for people to be pointing their finger at her.”

  “She could sell her land and leave,” one of the farmers says suddenly.

  It's old Gonin; his land is right next to Declos's estate. On his patient face appears the harsh, stubborn expression that betrays the men around here when they covet their neigh-bour's possessions. The others say nothing. I know the game; they've tried it on me. They use it against anyone who isn't from the area, or who's left it, or anyone whom, for some reason or another, they consider undesirable. They didn't like me either. I'd abandoned my heritage. I'd preferred other places to where I'd been born. As a result, everything I wished to buy automatically doubled in price; everything I wanted to sell was undervalued. Even in the smallest things I was aware of a malicious intent that was extraordinarily vigilant, always ready to pounce, calculated to make my life unbearable and force me out. I held my ground. I didn't leave. But my land, well, that they did get. I see Simon de Saint-Arraud sitting near me, the one who got my meadows, his large dirty hands resting on his knees, and Charles des Roches, who has my farms; while the house where I was born now belongs to the fat farmer with rosy cheeks and a tranquil, sleepy expression who says, with a smile, “Madame Declos would definitely be better off selling. She might know a fair bit about farming, but there 's some things a woman can't do.”

  “She 's young; she 'll get married again,” Marc replies defiantly.

  They've all stood up now. One of them opens his big umbrella. Another puts on his clogs and ties a scarf around his neck. When they are at the door, a voice calls out with feigned indifference, “So you think she 'll get married again, Monsieur Marc?”

  They're all watching him, their eyes wrinkling to hide mocking laughter.

  As for Marc, he looks from one to the other, as if he 's trying to guess what they're thinking, what they're not saying, as if he 's getting ready for a fight. He ends up shrugging his shoulders and saying wearily, with half-closed eyes, “How should I know?”

  “But of course you do, Monsieur Marc. Everyone knows you and the old man were pals. Cautious and mistrustful as he was, seems he let you come round any time you wanted, day or night, and sometimes you didn't leave until midnight. You must've seen the widow once or twice since he died, eh?”

  “Now and again. Not often.”

  “How upsetting for you, Monsieur Marc. Two houses where you were well liked and always welcome, then the man of the house dies in both.”

  “Two houses?”

  “Coudray and the Moulin-Neuf.”

  And, as if satisfied by the way he couldn't help but flinch (so badly that he dropped his glass on to the tiled floor where it shattered), the farmers finally leave. They make a big show of saying goodbye to us: “Goodnight to you, Monsieur Sylvestre. Everything going well for you? That's good. Good-night to you, Monsieur Marc. Say hello to Madame Declos for us when you see her.”

  The door opens on an autumn night; you can hear the rain falling, their wooden clogs on the damp ground and, further away, the rustling of a stream. In the grounds of the nearby château, water drips from the branches of enormous trees; the firs weep.

  I sit there, smoking my pipe, while Marc Ohnet stares into space. Finally he sighs and calls out, “Bartender! Another bottle of wine.”

  A FTER MARC OHNET LEFT this evening, a car full of Parisians arrived and stopped in front of the Hôtel des Voyageurs, just long enough for them to have a drink while a quick repair was made. They came into the café, laughing and talking loudly. A few of the women glanced at me with distaste; the others tried to fix their make-up using the cloudy mirrors that distorted their features, or went over to the windows and looked out at the rain drenching the little cobbled street and the sleepy houses.

  “It's so quiet,” a young woman said, laughing, then turning away.

  Later on their car overtook me on the road. They were going towards Moulins. How many peaceful little places they'll drive through tonight, how many sleepy villages … They'll pass silent, sombre country estates and will not begin to imagine the dark, secret life within—a life that they will never come to know. I wonder how Marc Ohnet will sleep tonight, and whether he will dream of the Moulin-Neuf and its green, foaming river.

  W E THRESH THE WHEAT around here. It's the end of summer, time to do the last of the heavy farm work for this season. A day of labour and a day to celebrate. Enormous golden flan cases bake in the oven; since the beginning of the week the children have been shaking plums off the trees so they can decorate them with fruit. There are a huge number of plums this year. The small orchard behind my house is buzzing with bees; the grass is dotted with ripe fruit, the golden skin bursting with little drops of sugar. On threshing day every household takes pride in offering their workers and neighbours the best wine, the thickest cream in the region. To go with them: pies crammed full of cherries and smothered with butter; those small, dry goat cheeses our farmers love so much; bowls of lentils and potatoes; and finally coffee and brandy.

  Since my housekeeper had gone to spend the day with her family to help with the meal, I went over to the Erard 's. Colette needed to go and visit one of her tenants with François, in a place called Maluret, not far from the Moulin-Neuf. They invited me to come with them. Colette 's little boy, who is now two, was to stay at home with his grandmother. Colette found it difficult to leave him. She feels a kind of anxious love for her child that is more a source of torture than joy. Before leaving, she gave Hélène and the maid a thousand instructions, insisting in particular that the child mustn't be allowed to run along the river's edge. Hélène nodded in her usual tender, reasonable way.

  “Don't let yourself worry so much, I beg you, Colette. I'm not asking you to forget poor Jean's accident, my darling, I know that's impossible, but don't let it poison your life and your son's life. Think about it. What sort of a man will you make of him if you raise him to be afraid of everything? My poor child, we can't live life for our children, even though we may want to sometimes. Everyone must live and suffer for himself. The greatest favour we can do for our children is to keep our own experiences secret. Believe me, believe your old mother, my darling.” She forced herself to laugh to lighten the seriousness of her words.

  Colette 's eyes, however, were full of tears. “But I wanted to have a life like yours, Mama,” sh
e whispered.

  Her mother knew what she really meant was: “I wanted to be happy like you.”

  Hélène sighed. “It was God's will, Colette.”

  She kissed her daughter, took the baby in her arms and went inside. I watched her walk away, through the garden, proud and beautiful still, despite her greying hair. It is astonishing how she has managed to keep her light, confident bearing all these years. Yes, confident; the confidence of a woman who has never chosen the wrong path, never run, out of breath, to a secret meeting, never stopped, never faltered beneath the weight of a guilty secret …

  Colette seemed to be thinking the same and put it into words. “Mama is like the evening of a beautiful day …” she said, taking her father's arm.

  He smiled at her. “Now, now, my darling … Your evening will have the same grace and serenity. Come on, hurry up now, we have a long way to go.”

  The whole way there, Colette seemed more cheerful than she 'd been since Jean had died. François was driving. She was sitting next to me, in the back of the car. It was a lovely warm day, with just a hint of autumn in the air. Beneath the blue sky, colder and crisper than in August, only a scattering of crimson leaves and the occasional breeze foretold the end of summer. After a while, Colette began to laugh and talk excitedly, something she hadn't done in a very long time. She recalled the long outings she 'd been on with her parents, along this very road, when she was a child.

  “Do you remember, Papa? Henri and Loulou hadn't been born yet. Georges was the youngest and he was left at home with the maid, which made me feel so happy and proud. What a treat! Goodness, I'd had to wait for it, though, sometimes as long as a month. Then we 'd get the picnic baskets ready. Oh, all those lovely cakes … They just don't taste the same any more. Mama kneaded the pastry, her arms covered in flour up to the elbow, remember? Sometimes friends came along, but we often went alone. After lunch, Mama made me lie down on the grass to rest, while you read. That's right, isn't it? You read Verlaine and Rimbaud, and I so wanted to run about … But I'd just lie there, half listening, thinking about my toys, about the long afternoon that was drifting away, and savouring the … the perfect happiness I felt then.”

  As she talked, her voice grew deeper and lower, and you could tell she 'd forgotten her father and was talking to herself; she fell silent for a moment, then continued, “Do you remember, Papa, the time the car broke down? We had to get out and walk, and because I was so tired, you and Mama asked a farmer who was passing by with his cart full of lopped branches if I could ride with him. I remember he made a kind of roof out of the foliage to shelter me from the sun; you walked behind the cart and the farmer led his horse. Then, because you thought no one could see you, you stopped and kissed … Do you remember? I suddenly popped my head out from underneath the branches of my little house and shouted, 'I can see you!' And you both started to laugh. Do you remember? And it was that evening we stopped at a big house where there was very little furniture, no electricity and a great brass candelabrum in the middle of the table … Oh, it's so funny, I'd forgotten about that, and now it's coming back to me. Maybe it was just a dream.”

  “No it wasn't,” said François. “That was Coudray, your old Aunt Cécile's house. You were thirsty and crying, so we stopped to ask for some milk for you; your mother didn't want to, I can't recall why, but you were screaming so much that in the end there was no other way of keeping you quiet. You were six then.”

  “Wait a minute … I remember it all very well now. There was a spinster with a yellow shawl round her shoulders and a young girl of about fifteen. The girl must have been her ward.”

  “Yes, that was your friend, Brigitte Declos, or should I say Brigitte Ohnet, since she 's about to marry that young man.”

  Colette fell silent and stared pensively out of the window. “Are they definitely getting married, then?” she asked finally.

  “Yes, I've heard their banns are being published on Sunday.”

  “Oh.”

  Her lips were trembling but she spoke quite calmly. “I hope they'll be happy.”

  She didn't say another word until François was about to take the long way round to Maluret, to avoid passing the Moulin-Neuf. She hesitated for a moment, then touched his shoulder. “Papa, please don't think it will be painful for me to see the mill again. Quite the opposite. You see, I left the day poor Jean was buried, and everything was so solemn and sad that it left me with a very disturbing memory of the place … and … it's not fair, somehow … Not fair for Jean. I can't explain it, but … He did everything he could to make me happy, to make me love the house. I'd like to exorcise the memory,” she added, her voice low and strained. “I'd like to see the river again. Maybe it would cure me of my fear of water.”

  “That fear will disappear by itself, Colette. What good would it do to … ?”

  “Do you think so? Because I often dream about the river and it seems sinister to me. To see it again, in the sunlight, would do me good I think. Please, Papa.”

  “If that's what you want,” François said as he turned the car back.

  We passed Coudray (Colette looked sad and jealous as she glanced towards its open windows), then we took the road through the woods and crossed the bridge. I saw the mill up ahead. Some farmers noticed us go by, but since they didn't acknowledge us I asked Colette if they were the tenants I'd met, the ones who'd sent their farmhand to Coudray the night of the accident.

  “No,” she said. “That was the family of Jean's nanny. After my husband's death, she was unhappy here. Their lease expired in October and they didn't want to renew it. They've gone to Sainte-Arnould.”

  As she spoke, she touched her father's shoulder to get him to stop. As I've said, it was a lovely day, but so nearly autumn that, as soon as you were out of the sun, it felt cold and everything looked suddenly dismal. That never happens at the height of summer, when even the shade gives off a secret warmth. As we were looking at the Moulin-Neuf, a cloud hid the sun; the light that played on the river disappeared. Colette sank back and closed her eyes. François restarted the engine. After driving for a few moments he whispered, “I shouldn't have listened to you.”

  “No,” Colette replied softly, “I don't think I'll ever be able to forget …”

  At Maluret they were finishing their meal, their “four o'clock,” as they call it here, before going back to work. Everyone was in the main room. Maluret is a château that used to belong to the de Coudray barons. Aunt Cécile's Coudray was also part of the estate a hundred and fifty years ago. That was when the bankrupt baron's family left the region and their land was split up. Jean Dorin's grandfather built the Moulin-Neuf and bought the château, but he hadn't worked out the costs properly, or perhaps, blinded by his desire to own it, hadn't seen what a sorry state the house was in. He soon realised that he wasn't rich enough to restore it and turned it into a tenanted farm, which it has remained to this day. It looks both proud and pitiful, with its great courtyard, now home to the henhouses and rabbit hutches, its terrace, cleared of chestnut trees and hung with washing, and its high gate topped by the crumbling family coat of arms, shattered during the Revolution. The people who live here (their name is Dupont, but they're called the Malurets: it 's a custom in these parts to confuse the person with his land to such an extent that they become one and the same), these people are far from friendly. They have a suspicious, almost primitive nature. Maluret is surrounded by extensive woods (the former seigneurial park, which has run wild) and is far from the village. In winter the farmers can go six or eight months without seeing a soul. Not that they have anything in common with our rich, slick-talking landowners whose daughters wear silk stockings and put on makeup on Sundays. The Malurets have no money and are even stingier than they are poor. Their sullen nature is a perfect match for the rickety old château with its bare rooms. The floorboards creak beneath your feet; stones fall from the great wall and bluish slate tiles from the roof. The pigs are kept in the former library; woollen fleeces cure inside the ho
use. The fireplaces are so enormous that fires are never lit: they would devour the entire forest. There is one exquisite little room with a painted alcove and a window at the back; the alcove contains their stock of potatoes for the winter and around the window are strung golden garlands of onions.

  François says it's particularly difficult to do business with the Malurets. I can't now remember exactly why he 'd come to see the head of the household; in any case, they both went out to look at the roof of a barn that had caught fire. The rest of the Malurets, along with the servants, friends and neighbours who'd come to help with the threshing, continued slowly to eat their meal. The men kept their hats on, as was the custom. Colette went to sit in the arch of the large sculpted fireplace and I sat down at the big table. I knew a few of the people there, but many were unfamiliar, or perhaps they simply seemed so and, in fact, they had just grown old, like me—so old they looked like strangers. Among them were the farmers who had once been tenants of the Moulin-Neuf, the ones who left after Jean died. I asked after their old mother, Jean's nanny: she had died. There were ten or twelve children, something like that; among them was the young lad who'd come to tell Brigitte about the accident. He was sixteen or seventeen and for the first time, no doubt, he was drinking like a man. He seemed tipsy; his eyes were red and swollen, and his cheeks burned scarlet. He was watching Colette with a strange intensity. Suddenly he called out to her from the end of the table, “So, that's it, then, you don't live up there no more?”

  “No,” said Colette, “I've gone back to live with my parents.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but François came in, so he kept quiet. He poured himself another large glass of wine.

  “You'll have a drink with us, won't you?” asked Monsieur Maluret, gesturing to his wife to get out a few more bottles.

  François accepted.

  “And 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.