Suite Francaise by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online

her gently on the cheek. “Yes, yes, I promise. Come along now.”
    The driver and the concierge passed them on the staircase as they went up to collect the elder Monsieur Péricand. He had been kept away from all the commotion until the very last minute. Auguste and the male nurse were just finishing dressing him. The old man had had an operation a short while ago. He was wearing a complicated bandage and, given the cold night air, a flannel girdle so big and so wide that his body was swaddled like a mummy. Auguste buttoned his old-fashioned boots and pulled a light but warm jumper over his head. As he put on his jacket, Monsieur Péricand, who until now had wordlessly let himself be manipulated like an old, stiff doll, seemed to wake up from a dream and mumbled, “Wool waistcoat . . .”
    “You will be too warm, Sir,” Auguste remarked, trying to pay no attention.
    But his master stared at him with his pale, glazed eyes and repeated more loudly, “Wool waistcoat!”
    He was given it. They put on his long overcoat, the scarf that went twice round his neck and fastened at the back with a safety pin. Then they sat him in his wheelchair and took him down the five flights of stairs. The wheelchair wouldn’t fit in the lift. The nurse, a strong, red-headed man from Alsace, went down the stairs backwards and took the brunt of the weight while Auguste respectfully supported from behind. The two men stopped on each landing to wipe away the sweat running down their faces, while Monsieur Péricand calmly contemplated the ceiling and quietly nodded his beautiful beard. It was impossible to imagine what he thought of this hasty departure. However, contrary to what they might have believed, he was fully informed about recent events. He had murmured while being dressed, “A beautiful, clear night . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if . . .”
    He seemed to have fallen asleep and only finished his sentence a few seconds later, at the doorstep: “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were bombed on the way!”
    “What an idea, Monsieur Péricand!” the nurse exclaimed with all the optimism befitting his profession.
    But already the old man had resumed his look of profound indifference. They finally got the wheelchair out of the house. The elder Monsieur Péricand settled in the right-hand corner of the car, well sheltered from any draughts. His daughter-in-law, hands trembling with impatience, wrapped him up in the Scottish shawl whose long fringes he liked to twist.
    “Is everything ready?” Philippe asked. “Good, get going.” If they make it out of Paris before tomorrow morning, they’ll have a chance, he thought.
    “My gloves,” said the old man.
    They gave him his gloves. It was difficult getting them to fit over his wrists, made thicker by the layers of wool. The elder Monsieur Péricand refused to leave a single button undone. Finally everything was ready. Emmanuel was wailing in his nanny’s arms. Madame Péricand kissed her husband and her son. She didn’t cry, but as she held them tight they could feel her heart beating fast against their chests. The driver started the car. Hubert got on his bicycle.
    The elder Monsieur Péricand lifted up his hand. “Just a minute,” he said in a calm, quiet voice.
    “What is it, Father?”
    But he made a sign that he couldn’t tell his daughter-in-law.
    “Did you forget something?”
    He nodded his head. The car stopped. Madame Péricand, white with frustration, leaned out of the window. “I think Papa has forgotten something?” she shouted in the direction of the small group left on the pavement, made up of her husband, Philippe and the nurse.
    When the car had reversed back and stopped in front of the house, the old man, with a small discreet gesture, called over the nurse and whispered something in his ear.
    “What is going on? This is madness! We’ll still be here tomorrow,” exclaimed Madame Péricand. “What do you need, Father? What does he want?” she asked.
    The