Suite Francaise by Irène Némirovsky

Everything was finally ready. They’d eaten. Madame Michaud covered the bed with a big sheet to protect its slightly faded pink silk upholstery from the dust.
    “It’s time to go,” her husband said.
    “Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” she said, her voice faltering.
    He went out, leaving her alone. She went into Jean-Marie’s room. Everything was silent, dark, funereal behind the closed shutters. She knelt for a moment beside his bed, said out loud “Dear God, protect him,” then closed the door and went down.
    Her husband was waiting for her on the stairs. He drew her close, and then, without saying a word, hugged her so tightly that she let out a little cry of pain: “Maurice, you’re hurting me!”
    “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice husky.
    At the bank, the employees assembled in the large entrance hall, each one with a little bag on his knees, whispering the latest news to one another. Corbin wasn’t there. The manager was giving out numbers: they had to get into the car assigned to them when their number was called. Until noon, departures were carried out in an orderly fashion and in almost total silence. Then Corbin came in, impatient and sullen. He went down to the basement, into the room where the safes were kept, and came back up with a package which he held half hidden beneath his coat.
    “That’s Arlette’s jewellery,” Madame Michaud whispered to her husband. “He took out his wife’s two days ago.”
    “As long as he doesn’t forget us.” Maurice gave a sigh that was both ironic and anxious.
    Madame Michaud deliberately stood in Corbin’s way. “You’re still planning to take us with you, aren’t you, Monsieur?”
    He nodded yes and asked them to follow him. Monsieur Michaud grabbed their suitcase and the three of them went outside. Monsieur Corbin’s car was waiting, but as they got closer, Michaud narrowed his short-sighted eyes. “I see our seats have been taken,” he said quietly.
    Arlette Corail, her dog and her luggage were piled up in the back of the car. Furiously, she opened the door and shouted, “Are you going to throw me out on to the street, then?”
    The couple started bickering. The Michauds moved back a few steps, but could still hear every word.
    “But we’re supposed to meet my wife in Tours,” Corbin finally shouted, kicking the dog.
    It gave a little yelp and hid under Arlette’s legs.
    “You brute!”
    “Oh, do shut up, will you! If you hadn’t been gadding about the day before yesterday with those English pilots . . . two more I’d like to see at the bottom of the ocean . . .”
    “You brute! Brute!” she repeated over and over again, her voice growing shriller and shriller. Then suddenly, with the utmost calm, she said, “I have a friend in Tours. I won’t need you once we get there.”
    Corbin gave her a savage look but seemed to have made up his mind. He turned towards the Michauds. “I’m sorry, there isn’t enough room for you, as you can see. Madame Corail’s car was in an accident and she has asked me to take her with me to Tours. I cannot refuse. There’s a train in an hour. It will probably be a bit of a crush but it’s a very short journey . . . Whatever happens, make sure you manage to join us as soon as possible. I am counting on you, Madame Michaud. You are more energetic than your husband and, speaking of which, Michaud, you must really try to be more dynamic”—he stressed the syllables “dy-nam-ic”—“than recently. I will no longer tolerate your attitude. If you want to keep your job, take this as a warning. Both of you must be in Tours the day after tomorrow at the latest. I must have all my staff.”
    He waved them away, got into the car next to the dancer and drove off. The Michauds were left standing on the pavement, looking at each other.
    “Well, that’s the way to do it,” Michaud said, lightly shrugging his shoulders, his voice nonchalant. “Give the people you should be apologising to a good telling