The Wine of Solitude by Irène Némirovsky Read Free Book Online Page A

gently shaking them to force the blood back down her long veins so her skin could retain its paleness. She pushed back Hélène’s hair to reveal her ears, noted with a sigh of regret that they were small and well formed, then carefully arranged the curls over her forehead.
    ‘Don’t you find her French wonderful? She has no accent at all. Mademoiselle Rose is from Paris and it shows. She has good taste and nimble fingers. Your mama is lucky to have her. So you didn’t know that your father was going to live in St Petersburg? And you as well, of course. Hasn’t your mother told you anything?’
    ‘No, Madame. Not yet …’
    ‘She’ll be happy to see your father after so many years. Ah, how she must be looking forward to that. If I had to be apart from my darling husband … well, I can’t even imagine it,’ said Madame Manassé with feeling. ‘But not everyone has the same nature, thank goodness. It’s been two years, hasn’t it? Two years since your father left?’
    ‘Yes, Madame.’
    ‘Two years … You still remember him, I hope?’
    ‘Oh, yes, Madame.’
    Did she remember her father? ‘Of course,’ thought Hélène; her heart ached when she thought of him, recalling exactly how he looked when he used to come into her room each evening … ‘Yet this is the first time I’ve thought about him since he left,’ mused Hélène, her heart full of affection and remorse.
    ‘Mama isn’t too bored, is she?’ asked Madame Manassé.
    Hélène coldly studied the faces all around her, each one tense with eager curiosity. The young woman’s nostrilstrembled, releasing blue rings into the air. The men looked at each other and sniggered, saying ‘hm’ while tapping their dry, gnarled fingers on the table; they sighed, shrugged their shoulders and glanced at Hélène with irony and pity in their eyes.
    ‘No, she’s not bored …’
    ‘Ah hah!’ said one of the men, laughing. ‘Out of the mouths of babes, as they say. I knew your mother when she was barely older than you, Mademoiselle.’
    ‘Did you also know Safronov senior when he was at the height of his success?’ asked Madame Manassé. ‘When I came to live here he was already old.’
    ‘Yes, I did know him. He squandered three fortunes: his mother’s, his wife’s and his daughter’s, who had some money left to her by his wife’s father. Three fortunes …’
    ‘Quite apart from his own, I imagine.’
    ‘He never had a penny, which didn’t stop him from living the high life, I can assure you. As for Bella, she was just a schoolgirl when I first met her …’
    Hélène thought of the photograph of her mother when she was a child: she ’d been a chubby girl with a round face and hair worn up, with a comb to hold it in place. But she dismissed this image at once: to think that the mother she so feared and hated had once been a little girl like any other, that even
she
had the right to reproach her parents, would allow too many subtleties to seep into the cruel picture of her mother that Hélène had long ago secretly etched into her heart.
    ‘Hélène has beautiful eyes,’ murmured Madame Manassé.
    ‘She looks like her father; there’s no doubt about it!’ someone said disappointedly.
    ‘Oh, my dear …’
    ‘What! These things happen. But I know a particular person who has always been lucky …’
    ‘Ivan Ivanitch, you terrible gossip, stop it right now!’ said Madame Manassé. She laughed and glanced sideways towards Hélène as if to say, ‘The child will understand … It’s not her fault …’
    ‘How old are you, Hélène?’
    ‘Ten, Madame.’
    ‘She’s a big girl now. Her mother will soon start thinking about finding a husband.’
    ‘She won’t have any trouble doing that. Did you know that the way things are going, Karol will soon be a millionaire?’
    ‘Now, let’s not exaggerate!’ said Madame Manassé; she suddenly found it difficult to speak, as if the words burned her mouth as she spoke them.