Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky

but her sisters-in-law reassured her with a gentle shrug.
    “It’s a bad cold … It’s nothing.”
    “It’s the time of year for it,” said Sabine.
    “There’ll be a nurse here tonight, Mother.”
    “What for?”
    No one answered her. People don’t listen to the sick. The young women arranged the room for the night: they drew the curtains, dimmed the lamp, lit the fire, and arranged the medicine bottles on the mantelpiece, with their labels clearly visible.
    Then they all went home. But it was an anxious and sleepless night for everyone. They had telephoned the doctor before going home, and he had promised to come back the next day.
    “It’s flu, isn’t it?” Albert had asked.
    “Yes … but it’s gone to her lungs. I could hear a rattle through my stethoscope. Well, we’ll have to see how things are tomorrow.”
    Tomorrow … As they lay in bed, each of them closed their eyes, listened to the clock chiming, and gently stretched their legs between the icy sheets. It was a cold night. Occasionally Augustin would wake up with a start, muttering, “Wasn’t that the telephone?”
    “No, go back to sleep. Don’t worry so much!”
    At dawn he looked at his wife in the dim light coming through the shutters. She was sleeping peacefully, her wonderful dark hair spread over the pillow. “In spite of everything,” he thought, “I’m on my own. Claire sympathizes; she doesn’t suffer. But why shouldshe suffer? She’s looked after Mother well. She’s always made a point of saying, ‘Your mother’s not easy to look after.’ But now she’s sound asleep.”
    He felt almost afraid, as he thought how far away from him she seemed, how unfamiliar. It was probably because of his dreams—a jumble of daydreams and nightmares that had sent him back to the years not so long ago when she had not been there. What was that idiot Albert doing? And Alain? He thought about them with irritation and scorn, yet he wanted to see them.
    The second day went by very slowly. One by one they went into the room where the old woman was lying. She didn’t move. They said, “She’s sleeping,” and tiptoed away. But it seemed to them she was better. She woke up during the day and ate a little food; they all breathed more easily, although the women did not allow themselves to be distracted or deceived by hope.
    The women! How useful, rational, and practical they were! They spoke quietly, saying, “Poor Mama.” They telephoned the doctor. They grieved as you would over the death of someone you are fond of but who is unimportant to you. When, at four o’clock, her temperature rose again, they were the first to say, “We must have a second opinion.”
    The two doctors took a long time to arrive and, growing colder by the minute, the family waited in a mood of solemn impatience. It was late. None of them had had dinner. The sons were incredulous. “Mama, dying? Oh,come now.” They needed time to take in the idea of her death. But how quickly the women resigned themselves to it! They adopted a mourning attitude; they were intent on dispelling any hope, sighing, “She never looked after herself properly.” “At her age, it’s serious if you ignore a cold.” “When my own mother died …”
    They were troubled and upset, although they stayed very calm. What could be more natural, more to be expected, than the death of an old woman who was ill?
    At last the consultant arrived. He listened to the patient’s chest, questioned the nurse, then announced, “Bronchitis … not too serious.”
    He nodded at Albert and they left the room together. He said, “Look, it’s a bit worrying. I fear there may be complications with her heart. She’s getting pain and distress in the cardiac region. It’s worrying!”
    “It’s not serious, is it?” asked Albert, bending his large, anxious face toward the doctor.
    “If we manage to avoid complications in that area, I hope it won’t be serious, but … well, we’ll just have to wait, see