The Wine of Solitude by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online

riding crops. The snow hadn’t yet had a chance to freeze and go hard; it was moist and heavy, with the lingering bitter smell of rotting earth, of rain, of autumn.
    The two little Manassé boys were chubby, pale, blond, lethargic and docile. Hélène sent them off to build a shelter out of branches and dried leaves in a corner of the shedwhile she remained huddled in the darkness of the balcony, silently observing what the Manassés and their friends were doing and saying inside. They were calmly playing cards beneath the lamplight, but in her imagination they symbolised the Russian and Austrian High Command on the eve of the Battle of Austerlitz. The Manassé boys were Napoleon’s formidable army, barely visible in the distance; the hut they were building was a fortress: whoever took control of it would win the battle. Sitting in a circle round the green table, the Manassés were the perfect picture of the Austrian command bent over their maps and plans; she herself, outside in the darkness, in the snow and wind, was the brave young captain who had risked his life to cross the line of defence and penetrate the very heart of the enemy camp.
    In this peaceful town, where books and newspapers were always abandoned half-finished, where no one ever dared bring politics into the conversation, while private matters were as tranquil and harmless as the calm waters of a river, flowing peacefully from honest mediocrity to honest simplicity, where people gave their blessing to adultery so that time transformed love affairs into a second, honourable marriage respected by everyone, including the husband – in this world, human passions were hidden behind playing cards and bitterly disputed small winnings. The days were short, the nights long; people spent their time playing cards, Whist or Whint, taking it in turns to go to each other’s houses.
    Madame Manassé was sitting on a wing-backed armchair; she was fat, with a face the colour of flour and hair dyed gold piled high on her head; her ample bosom fell over her stomach, which in turn rested on her knees; her chubby cheeks shook like jelly. On one side of her was her husband,who wore glasses and had cold, pale hands; on the other her long-standing lover, who was even older, fatter and balder than her husband. A young woman with dark hair worn up in a long roll above her forehead sat opposite the window. She chain-smoked and talked incessantly so that a thin stream of sweet-smelling smoke flowed from her nostrils, like the Oracle of Delphi in a trance. It was she who raised her head and noticed Hélène’s pale face pressed against the window.
    ‘How many times have we told those children not to go out in such weather,’ said Madame Manassé, shaking her head reproachfully. She opened the window.
    Hélène slipped through and jumped into the room. ‘Don’t scold your boys, Madame. They didn’t want to disobey you; they stayed in their room,’ she said, looking up at Madame Manassé with bright, innocent eyes. ‘And as for me, well, I’m wrapped up warm and not afraid of the cold.’
    ‘What am I going to do with these children!’
    As soon as she had been reassured that her own children were safely inside, however, she just smiled and stretched out her hand – it smelled of almond soap – to feel Hélène’s curls. ‘What beautiful hair you have,’ she said.
    But because it really was too much for her to compliment Bella Karol’s daughter she added, ‘You hair’s not naturally curly, is it?’ Her lips were so pursed that the words came out in a kind of soft whistle, like the sound of a flute.
    ‘Jealous bitch,’ thought Hélène.
    ‘Is your father going to be living in St Petersburg now?’
    ‘I don’t know, Madame.’
    ‘She speaks French so well!’ said Madame Manassé.
    She continued to gently stroke Hélène’s curls; her hands were pale and fat, and the curls straightened as they ranthrough her fingers. Every now and again she would raise her hands,