Suite Française

by Irene Nemirovsky

  “Even so,” he said out loud, “I just have to put that out of my mind, don’t I?”

  “What’s that? Do you need something?”

  He didn’t reply. Suddenly he didn’t recognise Cécile and Madeleine. They shook their heads, dismayed.

  “It’s his fever getting worse.”

  “And you made him talk too much!”

  “Are you having me on! He didn’t say a word. We were the ones talking the whole time!”

  “It wore him out.”

  Madeleine leaned down over him. He saw her pink cheek right next to his, caught its scent of strawberries and kissed it. She stood back blushing and laughing, fixing some locks of hair that had fallen down.

  “All right, all right now, you scared me . . . You’re not as sick as all that!”

  “Who on earth is this girl?” he thought. He had kissed her as if he were bringing a glass of cool water to his lips. He was on fire. His throat, the inside of his mouth seemed to crack from the heat, dried out by the intensity of the flames. This bright, soft skin quenched his thirst. At the same time he felt totally lucid, with the kind of lucidity that comes from sleeplessness and fever. He had forgotten the names of these young girls and his own. The mental effort it took to understand his present condition, in this place he didn’t recognise, was too difficult for him. He wore himself out trying, but in the meantime his soul drifted light and serene, like a fish in the water, like a bird blown along by the wind. He didn’t see himself, Jean-Marie, but someone else, a nameless soldier, defeated, but refusing to give up hope, a wounded young man who did not want to die, a desperate man who refused to despair. “Even so, we have to make it through . . . we have to get away, from this blood, from this mud dragging us down . . . We’re not just going to lie down and die . . . Are we, well, are we? That would be too ridiculous. We have to hang on . . . hang on . . . hang on . . .” he muttered, and when he came to, eyes wide open, clinging to his bolster, sitting up in bed, he gazed at the night with its full moon, the silent, sweet-smelling night, the sparkling night, so gentle after the heat of the day and which, for once, the farmhouse welcomed through its open doors and windows so it could refresh and bring peace to the suffering man.

  25

  When Father Péricand found himself forced to continue the journey on foot, the boys filing after him, each carrying a blanket and haversack and dragging their feet in the dust, he had decided to head away from the Loire, an area fraught with danger, towards the woods; but soldiers had already set up camp there and, since planes were bound to spot them from the air, the danger seemed just as great amid the trees as on the river banks. And so, leaving the main road, he took a path covered with stones, virtually a footpath, trusting his instinct to lead him to some isolated house, just as when, in the mountains, he led his group of skiers towards a refuge hidden by the fog or snowstorm. It was a beautiful June day, so brilliant and hot that the boys felt intoxicated. Silent until now and well-behaved, too well-behaved, they began jostling each other, shouting, and Father Péricand could hear laughter and snatches of whispered songs. He listened more closely and, hearing an obscene refrain mumbled behind him, as if through half-closed lips, he suggested they all sing a song together. He struck up, energetically enunciating the words, but only a few voices joined in. After some moments everyone fell silent. He too walked on without speaking, wondering what this sudden freedom might awaken within these poor children, what disturbing desires? What dreams? One of the younger ones stopped suddenly and cried, “A lizard, oh! A lizard! Look!” In the sunshine, between two rocks, agile tails appeared, disappeared; they could see their delicate flat heads; their throats pulsating in and out to a rapid, frightened beat. The boys watched, entranced. Some of them even knelt down on the path. The priest waited a few moments, then waved to them to move on. The children meekly got up, but at that very moment pebbles flew out of their hands with such dexterity, such surprising speed, that two of the lizards—the most beautiful, the biggest, their skin a delicate blue-grey colour—were killed on the spot.

  “Why did you do that?” the priest exclaimed, upset.

  No one replied.

  “Well, why? What a spineless act!”

  “But they’re like snakes, they bite,” said a boy with a long pointed nose and a pale, dazed expression.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Lizards are harmless.”

  “Oh! We didn’t know, Father,” he replied in a sly voice, with a feigned innocence that didn’t fool the priest.

  But he knew it was neither the time nor the place to insist; he just nodded briefly as if he were satisfied with the answer and added, “Well, now you know.”

  He organised them into lines to follow him. Until now he had let them walk as they liked, but he suddenly thought that some of them might try to run away. They obeyed him so perfectly, so mechanically—no doubt used to hearing the whistle blow, to standing in line, to being docile, to enforced silence—that it broke his heart. He glanced at their faces, which had suddenly became glum and lifeless—as closed as a house when the door is locked, the life within withdrawn, absent or dead.

  “We’d better hurry up if we want to find shelter tonight,” he said. “As soon as I know where we’ll be sleeping and after we eat (you’ll be getting hungry soon!) we can make a campfire and you can stay outdoors as long as you like.”

  He walked among them, talked to them about his young boys from the Auvergne, about skiing, mountain climbing, trying to interest them, to get closer to them. All in vain. They didn’t even seem to be listening; he realised that anything he said to them—encouragement, reprimands, information—would never sink in, for their souls were shut off, walled up, secret and silent.

  “If only I could look after them for longer,” he thought to himself. But in his heart he knew he didn’t really want to. He only wanted one thing: to be rid of them as soon as possible, to be relieved of his responsibility and this feeling of unease he felt weighing down on him. The duty of love which, until now, he had felt was almost simple, so great was the Grace of God within him, now seemed almost impossible to feel. “Even though,” he thought humbly, “it would mean that, for the first time perhaps, I would really have to try, it would be a true sacrifice. How weak I am!”

  He called over one of the younger boys who was always lagging behind. “Are you tired? Do your shoes hurt?”

  Yes, he had guessed correctly: the lad’s shoes were too tight and hurting him. He took his hand to help him, talking to him quietly and, since the boy was slouching—his shoulders stooped, his back round—the priest gently placed two fingers round his neck and pulled him up straight. The young boy didn’t resist. In fact, with a distant, indifferent look on his face, he leaned his neck against the hand that held it, and this light, insistent pressure, this strange, ambiguous caress (or rather this expectation of a caress) made the priest blush. He took the child by the chin and tried to look into his eyes, but his eyelids were lowered and he couldn’t see into them.

  He walked faster, trying to collect himself with an internal dialogue, as he always did at sad moments. It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a prayer. Often it wasn’t even a collection of words recognisable ashuman speech. It was a kind of intangible meditation from which heemerged bathed in joy and peace. But both abandoned him today. Thepity he felt was corrupted by a stirring of anxiety and bitterness. It wasonly too clear that these poor wretches were lacking Grace: His Grace.He wanted to be able to shower them with Grace, inundate their barrenhearts with love and faith. It would take but a sigh from our CrucifiedLord, the flutter of a wing from one of His angels to bring about themiracle, but nevertheless he, Philippe Péricand, had been chosen by Godto soften them, to unlock their souls, to prepare them to receive God. Hesuffered because he was incapable of bringing it about. He had beenspared the moments of doubt and the sudden hardening of the soul thattake hold of some believers, abandoning them, not in the hands of theprinces of this world, but in a terrible darkness halfway between Satanand
God.

  His temptation was different: it was a kind of impatience to be holy, the desire to gather liberated souls around him, a ripple of urgency which, once he had opened someone’s heart to God, propelled him towards other conquests, leaving him forever frustrated, dissatisfied, disappointed with himself. It wasn’t enough! No, Lord Jesus, it wasn’t enough! The old heathen who had confessed, taken Communion in his final hour, the sinful woman who had renounced vice, the pagan who had wanted to be baptised. Not enough, no, not enough! He recognised something similar in the way a greedy man hoards his gold. And yet, no, it wasn’t exactly like that. It reminded him of certain moments he’d spent at the river when he was a child: the quiver of joy every time he caught a fish (yet now he didn’t understand how he could have liked such a cruel game, and even found it difficult to eat fish; vegetables, dairy products, fresh bread, chestnuts and that country soup so thick the spoon stands straight up in it all by itself, these were all he needed to sustain him). But as a child he had been fanatical about fishing and he remembered his anguish when the sun began to set on the water, when he had hardly caught any fish and he knew the day was nearly over. He had been criticised for his excessive scruples. He himself feared they might not come from God but from an Other . . . Yet never had he felt that anguish as he did today, on this journey, beneath this sky where lethal planes sparkled, among these children whose physical bodies were the only thing he could hope to save . . .

  They had been walking for some time when they saw the first houses of a village. It was very small, intact, empty: its inhabitants had fled. However, before leaving, they had firmly secured the doors and windows; they had taken their dogs with them, carried the rabbits and chickens. Only a few cats were left behind, sleeping in the sunshine on garden paths or walking along the low roofs, looking replete and tranquil. It was the time of year when all the roses were in bloom, so above every doorway beautiful flowers opened their petals, generously, happily, inviting the wasps and bumblebees to drink from deep inside their hearts. This village abandoned by its people, where no footsteps, no voices could be heard and where all the sounds of the countryside were absent—the creaking of wheelbarrows, the cooing of pigeons, the clucking from the poultry yards—this village had become the kingdom of the birds, the bees and the hornets. Philippe thought he had never heard so many vibrant, joyous songs nor seen so many swarms all around him. Hay, strawberries, blackcurrants, the little sweet-smelling flowers in the borders, each flower bed, each lawn, each blade of grass gave off a soft buzzing sound, like a spinning wheel. All these small plots had been tended with loving care; all of them had an archway covered with roses, a tunnel where you could still see the last lilacs of the season, two iron chairs, a bench in the sunshine. The redcurrants were enormous, transparent and golden.

  “What a wonderful dessert they will make for us tonight,” said Philippe. “The birds will have to share with us—we won’t be harming anyone by picking this fruit. Now, you all have plenty of food in your backpacks, so we won’t go hungry. But don’t expect to be sleeping in a bed tonight. I don’t suppose sleeping under the stars for one night would frighten you, would it? You have good blankets. Let’s see, what do we need? A meadow, a natural spring. The barns and stables don’t appeal to you, I bet! Me neither . . . It’s so beautiful out. Come on, eat some fruit to keep you going and follow me, we’ll try to find a good spot.”

  He waited a quarter of an hour while the children gorged themselves on strawberries; he watched them carefully to make sure they didn’t step on the flowers and vegetables but he didn’t have to intervene, they were really very good. He didn’t blow the whistle this time, he just spoke loudly. “Come on, now, leave some for tonight. Follow me. If you don’t dawdle you won’t have to line up.”

  Once again they obeyed. They looked at the trees, the sky, the flowers, without Philippe being able to guess what they were actually thinking . . . What they really liked, he thought, what really touched their hearts, was not the natural world, but this intoxicating scent of fresh air and freedom they were breathing in, so new to them.

  “Do any of you know the countryside?” Philippe asked.

  “No, Father, no, Sir, no,” they all said, one after the other.

  Philippe had already noticed that he would only get a response from them after a few moments’ silence, as if they were making up a story, a lie, or as if they didn’t exactly understand what they were meant to do . . . Always the same feeling of dealing with people who were . . . not quite human . . . he thought. Out loud he said, “Come on, let’s get moving.”

  When they left the village, they saw a large, overgrown private park, a beautifully deep, clear lake and a house up on a hill.

  The château, without a doubt, thought Philippe. He rang the bell at the gate in the hope of finding someone at home, but the caretaker’s cottage was locked up and no one answered.

  “There’s a meadow over there that looks perfect for us,” said Philippe, pointing towards the banks of the lake. “We must make the best of it, boys! We’ll cause less damage there than in these beautiful little gardens; we’ll be better off than on the road and, if there’s a storm, we could take shelter in those little changing huts . . .”

  The park had only a wire fence round it; they got over it easily.

  “Don’t forget,” Philippe said, laughing, “that even though I’m breaking a rule, I still insist you treat this property with the utmost respect; I don’t want to see a single branch broken, papers left on the lawn, or any empty tins. Understand? If you behave then I’ll let you go swimming in the lake tomorrow.”

  The grass was so high it came up to their knees and they crushed flowers underfoot. Philippe showed them the flowers associated with the Virgin, stars with six white petals, and St. Joseph’s flowers, pale lilac, almost pink.

  “Can we pick them, Sir?”

  “Yes. You can pick as many of those as you like. They just need a bit of sun and rain to grow back again. Now those must have taken a lot of time and effort,” he said, pointing to the flower beds planted all around the château.

  One of the boys next to him raised his small square face towards the large shuttered windows. “There must be some great stuff in there!”

  He had spoken quietly but with such muted envy that the priest was troubled. When he didn’t reply, the boy persisted: “Don’t you think, Father, there must be some great stuff in there?”

  “We ain’t never seen a place like that,” said another.

  “Of course, there must be some very beautiful things inside, furniture, paintings, statues . . . but many of these houses are just ruins and you would probably be disappointed if you expected to see amazing things,” Philippe replied cheerfully. “But I suppose you are most interested in the food. I should tell you that the people from around here seem to have planned ahead and taken everything away with them. And since we wouldn’t have the right to help ourselves to anything that didn’t belong to us in any case, it’s better not to think about it and just make do with what we have. Now, I’m going to put you into three groups: the first will find some dead wood, the second will get some water, the third will lay out the food.”

  They followed his orders, working quickly and efficiently. They lit a big fire at the edge of the lake; they ate, they drank, they picked some wild strawberries. Philippe wanted to organise some games but the children seemed gloomy and restrained; there was no shouting, no laughter. The lake no longer shone in the sunlight, just faintly glimmered, and they could hear frogs croaking on the banks. In the light of the fire the boys sat motionless, wrapped up in their blankets.

  “Do you want to go to sleep?”

  No one answered.

  “You aren’t cold, are you?”

  Silence again.

  They can’t all be asleep, thought the priest. He got up and walked between the rows. Sometimes he bent down, covered someone up who was thinner, frailer than the others, with limp hair, ears that stuck out. Their eyes were closed. The
y were pretending to be asleep, or perhaps sleep really had overcome them. Philippe went back to read his Bible next to the fire. Now and again he raised his eyes to look at the reflections in the water. These moments of silent meditation took away all his cares, made up for all his pain. Once again, love entered his heart like rain falling on dry ground, first drop by drop, fighting to carve a path through the pebbles, then in a long cascade straight to his heart.

  These poor children! One of them was dreaming and letting out a long plaintive moan. The priest raised his hand in the darkness, blessed them, murmured a prayer. “Pater amat vos,” he whispered. He liked to say this to his catechism students when he was urging them to repent, to be submissive, to pray. “The Father loves you.” How could he have believed they were lacking divine Grace, these poor wretches? Might he not perhaps be less loved than them, treated with less indulgence, less divine affection than the most insignificant, the most lowly of them? Oh Lord Jesus, forgive me! It was a moment of pride, a trap set by a demon! What am I? Less than nothing, dust beneath your dear feet, Lord! Yes, without a doubt, I whom you have loved, whom you have protected since I was a child, whom you have led towards you—you have the right to ask anything of me. But these children . . . some will be saved . . . the others . . . The Saints will redeem them . . . Yes, all is well, all is goodness, all is Grace. Lord Jesus, forgive me my sorrow!

  The water gently rippled, the night was peaceful and solemn. This presence without whom he could not live, this Breath, this watchful Eye was upon him in the darkness. A child sleeping in the dark, pressed against his mother’s heart, has no need of light to recognise her cherished features, her hands, her rings! He even laughed softly with pleasure. “Jesus, you are here, with me once again. Please remain by my side, my cherished Friend!” A long pink flame shot up from a black log. It was late; the moon was rising, but he wasn’t tired. He took a blanket, stretched out on the grass. There he remained, eyes wide open, a flower brushing lightly against his cheek. There wasn’t a single sound in this little corner of the world.