Suite Francaise Read Online Free PDF Page B

eighteen, stood at the back. Some of them had the low brow, the thick hands of killers. As soon as he was in their presence, Father Péricand again felt a strange sensation of aversion, almost fear. He must overcome it at all costs. He walked towards them and they stepped back imperceptibly, as if they wanted to sink into the wall.
    “My sons, from tomorrow until the end of our journey, I shall be looking after you instead of the director,” he said. “You know that you are leaving Paris. Only God knows the fate in store for our soldiers, our dear country; He alone, in His infinite wisdom, knows the destiny of each of us in the days ahead. It is, alas, immensely likely that we shall all suffer dearly, for public misfortunes consist of a multitude of private misfortunes and this is the only time when, poor blind ungrateful creatures that we are, we feel the solidarity which unites us, forms us into a single being. What I would like to have from each of you is a gesture of faith in God. Our lips form the words ‘May His will be done,’ but deep in our hearts we cry out ‘May
my
will be done, oh Lord.’ Yet why do we seek God? Because we hope for happiness: it is man’s nature to desire happiness and if we accept His will, God can give us this happiness, right now, without making us wait for death and Resurrection. My sons, may each of you entrust yourself to God. May each of you seek Him as your father, place your life in His loving hands, so divine peace can fill your hearts.”
    He paused for a moment, looked at them. “Let us say a little prayer together.”
    Thirty shrill voices indifferently recited “Our Father”; thirty thin faces surrounded the priest. As he made the sign of the Cross over them they lowered their heads sharply, mechanically. Only one lad turned his eyes towards the window. He had a large bitter mouth and the ray of sun that slipped through the closed shutters lit up his delicate freckled cheek, his thin pinched nose.
    Not one of them moved or spoke. When the supervisor blew his whistle, they lined up and left the hall.
    5
    The streets were empty. People were closing their shops. The metallic shudder of falling iron shutters was the only sound to break the silence, a sound familiar to anyone who has woken in a city threatened by riot or war. As they walked to work, the Michauds saw loaded trucks waiting in front of the government buildings. They shook their heads. As always, they linked arms to cross the Avenue de l’Opéra to the office, even though the road, that morning, was deserted. They were both employees of the same bank and worked in the same branch, although the husband had been an accountant there for fifteen years while she had started only a few months earlier on a “temporary contract for the duration of the war.” She taught singing, but the previous September had lost all her students when their families took them to the country for fear of the bombings. Her husband’s salary had never been enough to pay their bills and their only son had been called up. Thanks to this secretarial job, they just about managed. As she always said, “We mustn’t ask for the impossible, my dear.” They had been familiar with hardship ever since they left their families to get married against their parents’ will. That was a long time ago. Traces of beauty still remained on her thin face. Her hair was grey. He was a short man, with a weary, neglected appearance, but sometimes, when he turned towards her, looked at her, smiled at her, a loving teasing flame lit up his eyes—the same, he thought, yes, truly, almost the same as before. He helped her across the road and picked up the glove she’d dropped. She thanked him by gently pressing her fingers over his as he handed it to her. Other employees were hurrying towards the open door of the bank. One of them came up to the Michauds and asked, “Well, are we finally leaving?”
    The Michauds had no idea. It was 10 June, a Monday. When they