Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online Page A

patron does his own cooking. I hope you enjoy good food.”
    “Who knows,” thought Ginette. “Some love affairs do start like this. He seemed a bit stingy, as men are when you first meet them. But he liked me. I look good today, and I know it doesn’t take much, just the least glimmer of hope. One can change so quickly.”
    She opened her bag, and through a light cloud of perfumed powder looked smilingly at her parted lips and shining eyes reflected in the little mirror.
    “It was that girl yesterday who brought me luck,” she said to herself, happily picturing Christiane’s face to herself. “If it hadn’t been for her … I was at the end of my tether …”
    She crossed the Seine. As she glanced down at the water, she realized with surprise that she walked past this spot four times a day but had never had the courage to plunge into the dark, swirling water. The pale yellow sun was now disappearing behind a mass of clouds. She thought about her unhappiness the day before and how she had walked aimlessly through the cold, empty streets, thinking about the inevitable approach of the night when she would end up on one of those benches inthe freezing darkness, alone, lost, useless, doomed. But that young thing had listened to her, had said sweetly, “Happy New Year, Ginette,” so genuinely, and had stretched out her hand, as if to a friend. She gave a hoarse little sigh.
    “My God, the things one can survive! It’s only when it’s over that you’re surprised you had the strength to get through it. That girl … I knew she felt for me. The way she said, ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Ah, I’d like to be able to do something for her, but what? At that age, one does such silly things … If there had been someone around when I was young to teach me about life, I wouldn’t have ended up like this. Life … that’s something I know about. I’ve seen a few things. I could advise her, stop her from making mistakes, prevent years of unhappiness, who knows? She’s rich, of course, and only twenty. Twenty,” she thought sentimentally, with just a touch of bitterness. “As the song goes, ‘I’d like to be that age once more, and know what I know now.’”
    And she imagined Christiane, a few years on, coming to visit her in secret, treating her as a mentor and confidante. She would never breathe a word to anyone about the visits. She would listen to her, suggest what she should do. She would say, “No my child, don’t do that. This man you’re telling me about, this friend of your husband’s, I don’t trust him. You must believe me, my child, I know about life, I could be your mother.”
    “Yes, I could have been her mother,” she sighed,thinking sadly about the passing of the years. But she imagined herself handing on love letters, or arranging meetings, always being discreet, reliable, and loyal. She thought how wonderful it would be if there were someone in the world who needed her, whom she could help, who might owe her, yes, might owe Ginette, the worn-out old tart, her happiness.
    She hummed to herself as she climbed the stairs of the Hotel de Berne and went into her dark, stuffy room; then she stretched out on her bed and fell peacefully asleep.
    At that very moment the first white engagement bouquets were beginning to arrive at Christiane’s home. Boehmer was nervously rubbing his pale, dry hands together as he waited for the wealthy old aunt whom Gérard had asked to make the formal request for Christiane’s hand. Mme. Boehmer, her heavy features flushed with heat, emotion, and indigestion, was wiping her eyes with a tear-stained handkerchief as she talked to her sister Hortense Vallier, of the Vallier de l’Orne family.
    “She told us this morning. Not a word to me, or her father … ‘I’ve decided … Gérard and I … I’ll do this, I’ll do that …’ Parents are apparently only useful to pay the bills. Well, we’ll see if they’ll be happier and cleverer than us. Poor child, I hope