Fire in the Blood by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online

burning in my fireplace, buckling beneath the power of the flames? I'm undoubtedly wrong to generalise; there are people who are sensible at twenty, but I'll take the recklessness of my youth over their restraint any day.
    I'VE HEARD THAT COLETTE WILL FOLLOW her father's wishes and look after her estate herself. She will be , according to Francois Erard, "her own manager." This will force her to see people, to go out, to fight sometimes in order to defend her son's interests. In an attempt to convince her, Helene is using the skilful, affectionate persuasiveness she uses on little Loulou when she takes his toys away from him so he can learn his lessons. It's the same for Colette ... Playtime is over.
    OLD DECLOS HAS DIED. He never made it to Christmas. He missed it by just a few weeks. His hear t s topped. His wife is rich now. When kind Cecile, who brought her up, passed away, all Brigitte had to her name was Coudray. That is to say, nothing. The house was falling to pieces; the land had been sold. Old Declos bought Coudray; that's when he fell in love with Brigitte. Little by little he restored the farm; he knocked down the old living quarters and built the most beautiful house in the region; and, to cap it all, he married the young woman. At the time we all thought how lucky she was, but I expect she would have said that Colette was more fortunate. Colette didn't have to marry an old man to be happy and pampered. But death has made them equal. I wonder if these two children know . . . or suspect . . . I doubt it: the young are concerned only with themselves. What are we to them? Fading shadows. And what are they to us?
    AT THIS TIME OF YEAR, when it rains every day, I go down to the village on Sundays. I pass close by the
    Erards' house without calling in. Sometimes, from outside the sitting-room window, you can hear Helene playing the piano. Other times I can see her in her clogs in the garden, picking the last of the roses, the ones people save to place on graves on All Saints' Day," or wild, fire-coloured dahlias. She sees me and waves; walks over to the fence and tells me to come in. But I say no; I haven't been feeling at all sociable lately. Helene and her family have the same effect on me as dessert wine: Muscat or that honey-coloured Frontignan. My palate is so used to old Burgundy, it can't deal with them any more. So I say goodbye to Helene and, beneath the trickle of light rain that falls from the bare trees, I walk into the village. It is silent, empty and melancholy; night falls quickly. I cross the Place du Monument aux Morts, where the image of a soldier stands guard, painted in the brightest pink and blue. Further along there is an avenue lined with lime trees, the n a ncient darkish ramparts where an arched doorway opens on to empty space and lets through a chill north wind, and finally the small square in front of the church. At dusk, you can just make out the round loaves of golden bread in the bakery window, lit up by a lamp with a paper shade. In the grey drizzle and fog, the signs hanging in front of the notary and shoemaker seem to float in the air: the shoemaker has a large clog carved out of light wood the size and shape of a cradle. Over the road is the Hotel des Voyageurs. I push open the door, making a little bell ring, and find myself in the dark, smoky cafe. A wood-burning stove glows like a red eye; mirrors reflect the marble tabletops, the billiard table, the torn leather settee and the calendar from 1919 with its picture of an Alsatian woman in white stockings standing between two soldiers. Every Sunday, eight farmers (always the same ones) come and play cards in this cafe. The same words are spoken. You can hear the sound of bottles of red wine being opened and the noise of heavy glasses on the tables. When I come in, voices greet me, one after the other.
    "Hello there, Monsieur Sylvestre."
    They speak in the slow, gravelly accent that this region has borrowed from neighbouring Burgundy.
    I