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Title: The Thibaults
Date of first publication: 1939
Author: Roger Martin du Gard (1881-1958)
Date first posted: Nov. 5, 2023
Date last updated: Nov. 5, 2023
Faded Page eBook #20231105
This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net
THE THIBAULTS
ROGER MARTIN DU GARD
Translated from the French by
STUART GILBERT
LONDON
JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
Nobel Prize for Literature, 1937
‘LES THIBAULT’
The first six parts comprised in the present volume were first published in Paris by Gallimard under the following titles:
LE CAHIER GRIS | 1922 |
LE PENITENCIER | 1922 |
LA BELLE SAISON (2 vols.) | 1923 |
LA CONSULTATION | 1928 |
LA SORELLINA | 1928 |
LA MORT DU PÈRE | 1929 |
‘Le Cahier Gris’ and ‘Le Penitencier’ were published in an English translation by Stephen Haden Guest in 1933, and ‘La Belle Saison’ and ‘La Consultation’ in the version of Stuart Gilbert in 1934 by John Lane The Bodley Head. ‘La Sorellina’ and ‘La Mort du Père’ are now published in translation for the first time.
This edition first published in 1939
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING
Je dédie
‘LES THIBAULT’
à la mémoire fraternelle
de
PIERRE MARGARITIS
dont la mort, à l’hôpital
militaire, le 30 octobre
1918, anéantit l’œuvre
puissante qui mûrissait
dans son cœur tourmenté
et pur.
R.M.G.
CONTENTS | ||
PART I | ||
PAGE | ||
1. | Jacques’ disappearance | 3 |
2. | Antoine visits Madame de Fontanin | 12 |
3. | Madame de Fontanin visits M. Thibault | 20 |
4. | Madame de Fontanin’s quest | 26 |
5. | Pastor Gregory | 35 |
6. | The grey exercise-book | 45 |
7. | The escapade | 54 |
8. | Antoine brings Daniel home | 81 |
9. | Jacques’ homecoming | 95 |
PART II | ||
1. | Antoine’s anxieties | 109 |
2. | Antoine visits the reformatory | 115 |
3. | Antoine takes Jacques for a walk | 137 |
4. | M. Thibault opposes Jacques’ return | 158 |
5. | The Abbé Vécard intervenes | 165 |
6. | Nicole takes refuge with Madame de Fontanin | 180 |
7. | Antoine moves into the ground-floor flat | 188 |
8. | Jacques returns to Paris | 201 |
9. | Lisbeth | 209 |
10. | A letter from Daniel | 221 |
11. | An afternoon at the Fontanins’ | 228 |
12. | The death-watch | 256 |
PART III | ||
1. | Jacques passes into the Ecole Normale | 267 |
2. | A night at Packmell’s Cabaret | 289 |
3. | Dédette’s accident and operation | 316 |
4. | Antoine’s lunch with Rachel | 344 |
5. | Jacques’ day at Maisons-Laffitte | 359 |
6. | Jacques and Jenny | 381 |
7. | Mme. de Fontanin at Amsterdam | 390 |
8. | The shadow-kiss | 407 |
9. | Sunday in Rachel’s room | 427 |
10. | Jenny’s confession | 442 |
11. | “In Darkest Africa” | 451 |
12. | Jerome and Rinette | 469 |
13. | Antoine and Rachel at Gué-la-Rozière | 484 |
14. | Rachel’s farewell | 504 |
PART IV | ||
1. | Consulting-day begins | 519 |
2. | Antoine pays his daily visit to M. Thibault | 526 |
3. | Dr. Philip | 532 |
4. | Antoine and Dr. Philip visit Héquet’s child | 537 |
5. | Huguette | 542 |
6. | Beau Rumelles | 551 |
7. | Antoine and Gisèle | 558 |
8. | Mary’s surprise visit | 567 |
9. | M. Ernst’s secret | 571 |
10. | M. Thibault’s two servants | 577 |
11. | Antoine visits the two boys | 581 |
12. | Antoine’s dispute with Studler | 586 |
13. | Antoine thinks things out | 593 |
PART V | ||
1. | M. Chasle makes bold | 609 |
2. | Antoine’s expedient | 618 |
3. | M. Thibault’s leave-taking | 632 |
4. | Professor Jalicourt gives Antoine a clue to Jacques’ whereabouts | 637 |
5. | La Sorellina | 650 |
6. | Antoine decides to go in quest of his brother | 676 |
7. | The meeting at Lausanne | 682 |
8. | Jacques and Antoine lunch together | 696 |
9. | Glimpses of Jacques’ life abroad | 703 |
10. | Jacques explains | 715 |
11. | Sophia | 727 |
12. | The return to Paris | 732 |
PART VI | ||
1. | M. Thibault faces death | 741 |
2. | M. Thibault’s fears are calmed | 744 |
3. | The two sons’ homecoming | 757 |
4. | The bath | 769 |
5. | Gise’s homecoming | 777 |
6. | The end | 782 |
7. | The body | 794 |
8. | Aftermath of death | 800 |
9. | Jacques in Gise’s room | 808 |
10. | The posthumous papers of Mr. Thibault | 818 |
11. | Gise in Jacques’ room | 841 |
12. | The funeral | 848 |
13. | Pilgrimage of Jacques to Crouy | 856 |
14. | Conversation between Antoine and Father Vécard | 870 |
As they reached the school-buildings at the corner of the Rue de Vaugirard, M. Thibault, who, throughout the walk, had not spoken a word to his son, suddenly halted.
‘No, Antoine, I won’t stand it. This time he’s gone too far.’
The young man made no reply.
It was nine o’clock in the evening and the school was closed. A night porter held the little wicket in the entrance-gate ajar.
‘Know where my brother is?’ Antoine asked in a peremptory tone.
The porter stared at him with a puzzled air.
M. Thibault stamped his foot angrily. ‘Go and fetch Abbé Binot,’ he said.
The porter escorted M. Thibault and his son to the waiting-room, drew a taper from his pocket and lit the gas.
Some minutes elapsed. M. Thibault, who was out of breath, had settled down heavily into a chair. ‘Yes, this time we’ve had enough of it,’ he muttered through his clenched teeth.
‘Excuse me, please.’ The Abbé Binot had entered without a sound. He was a small, mouse-like man, and now, to put his hand on Antoine’s shoulder, had to draw himself up to his full height. ‘And how is our young doctor to-day?’ he asked, adding at once: ‘But what’s the trouble?’
‘Where is my brother?’
‘Jacques?’
‘Jacques has not been home all day,’ M. Thibault exclaimed, rising excitedly from his chair.
‘Where can he have been?’ the priest enquired, but without much show of surprise.
‘Why here, naturally! He was kept in.’
The priest slipped his hands under his girdle. ‘Jacques was not kept in.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Jacques did not put in an appearance at school to-day.’
The plot was thickening. Antoine gave the priest a searching look, and with a jerk of his shoulders M. Thibault swung round on the little man his fat, puffy face, in which the eyes were almost always hidden by their heavy lids.
‘Jacques told us yesterday that he had four hours’ detention. He left home this morning at the usual time. Later on, at about eleven, it seems, while we were all at mass, he came back and found everyone out except the cook. He said he wouldn’t be back for lunch as he’d been given eight hours’ detention instead of four.’
‘Which was a pure invention,’ the Abbé put in.
‘I had to go out in the latter part of the afternoon,’ M. Thibault continued, ‘to hand in my monthly article to the Revue des Deux Mondes. It was the editor’s reception-day, and I didn’t get home till dinner-time. Jacques had not returned. At half-past eight, I began to get alarmed. I sent for Antoine, who was on duty at his hospital. So now we have come to you.’
The priest pursed his lips, as if in deep reflexion. Through his half-parted eyelashes M. Thibault flashed a keen look first at the Abbé, then at his son.
‘Well, Antoine, what do you make of it?’
‘Obviously, father,’ the young man said, ‘if he’s run away on purpose we can discard any theory of an accident—which is so much to the good.’
His attitude had a calming effect on M. Thibault, who drew up a chair and sat down again. His nimble mind was exploring several trains of thought, though his face, immobilized by its layers of fat, seemed perfectly expressionless.
‘Well,’ he repeated, ‘what’s to be done?’
Antoine reflected. ‘This evening, nothing. We can only wait.’
That there was no denying. But the impossibility of settling the business off-hand, by some drastic gesture, coupled with the thought of the Congress of Moral Science that was opening at Brussels in two days’ time, and the invitation he had received to preside over the French section of it, brought a flood of angry colour to M. Thibault’s temples. He stood up.
‘I’ll have the gendarmes on his track!’ he cried. ‘There is still a police service in France, isn’t there? And our criminals are sometimes caught, I suppose!’
His frock-coat flapped on each side of his paunch, the creases of his chin were nipped incessantly between the peaks of his stiff collar as he jerked his jaws forward like a horse chafing at the bridle. ‘The young ruffian!’ he was thinking. ‘If only he could be run over by a train!’ In a vivid flash of imagination he saw every difficulty smoothed out; no more trouble then about attending the Congress, of which, quite possibly, he might be given the vice-presidency. But then, almost immediately, he visualized the boy brought home on a stretcher, a small corpse laid out on a bed and a grief-stricken father—himself—beside it, surrounded by his sorrowing friends. And he was ashamed.
He turned to the priest again. ‘It’s a terrible thing—yes, terrible—for a father to have to spend a night of such anxiety, to go through such an ordeal.’
He began moving to the door. The Abbé withdrew his hands from his girdle.
‘One moment, please,’ he said, lowering his eyes.
The lamplight fell on a forehead half concealed by a fringe of black hair and a weasel-like face that narrowed sharply down towards the pointed chin. Two pink spots began to show up on his cheeks.
‘We had been wondering,’ he said, ‘whether we ought to apprise you at once of a most regrettable incident that took place a day or two ago, and which concerns your boy. But, as things are, it might throw some light on. . . . Can you spare us a few moments, Monsieur Thibault?’
The Picardy accent seemed to emphasize his hesitations. M. Thibault, without answering, went back to his chair and sat down heavily, closing his eyes.
‘During the last few days,’ the priest went on, ‘we have become aware of certain offences, of a very special character, committed by your son . . . yes, particularly serious misconduct. In fact we had to threaten him with expulsion. Oh, of course, that was only to frighten him. He hasn’t said anything to you?’
‘Don’t you know what a double-dealer the boy is? No, he has kept it to himself—as usual.’
‘The dear lad,’ the Abbé protested, ‘may have his faults, but he isn’t bad at heart. No, we believe that on this last occasion it was weakness more than anything; he was led astray. It was the evil influence of another boy, one of those unhappy, perverted youngsters—of whom, alas, there are so many in Paris. . . .’
From the corner of an eye M. Thibault shot an apprehensive glance at the priest.
‘These are the facts, Monsieur Thibault, in the order of their happening. Last Thursday . . .’ He reflected for a moment, then went on in an almost cheerful tone. ‘No, I made a mistake, it was Friday, the day before yesterday, Friday morning, during the morning prep. Just before noon we entered the class-room—abruptly, as we always do . . .’ He gave Antoine a mischievous wink. ‘We turned the handle noiselessly and flung the door open.
‘No sooner had we entered than our eyes fell on our little friend Jacques, whom we had placed just opposite the door on purpose. We went up to his desk and moved aside his dictionary. There it was—a book that had no business there! It was a novel translated from the Italian, by an author whose name we have forgotten. The book was called Les Vierges aux Rochers.’
‘Disgusting!’ M. Thibault exclaimed.
‘The boy was so perturbed that we concluded there was more behind it; we are used to that sort of thing. The luncheon bell was due to sound in a few minutes. When it rang we asked the master in charge to take the boys to the refectory. When they had gone we opened Jacques’ desk and found two more books there: Rousseau’s Confessions and something still more objectionable—I hardly like to name it—one of Zola’s abominable books, La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret.’
‘He’s dead to shame.’
‘We were about to close the desk when it occurred to us to feel behind the row of school-books, and we fished out an exercise-book in a grey linen binding, which at first sight looked innocent enough. But then we opened it and glanced through the first pages.’ The Abbé paused, his keen, ungentle eyes intent on M. Thibault and his son. ‘Well, we read enough then and there to make sure . . . We carried the book off to a safe place and, during the midday recreation, found time to study it at leisure. The books (they were in excellent bindings) had the initial “F” engraved on their backs. The grey exercise-book, the most damning piece of evidence, if I may put it so, contained a series of letters in different writings. There were letters from Jacques, signed “J,” and others in a writing we did not recognize, signed “D”.’ He continued in a lower voice. ‘I am sorry to have to say that the tone, the tenor, of the letters left no doubt as to the nature of the friendship. So much so, Monsieur Thibault, that for a while we took the firm, tall writing for that of a girl or, more likely, a somewhat older woman. But, presently, on studying the contents more carefully, we perceived that the unidentified script was that of a fellow-pupil of Jacques—not one of our boys here, thank God!—but some boy whom Jacques must have met at the Lycée. To make sure about it, we went that very same day to see the Principal, our worthy friend M. Quillard’—he turned towards Antoine as he gave the name—‘who is a man of the highest principles and knows only too well what goes on in boarding-schools. He recognized the writing at once. The miscreant who signed the letters with a “D” is a Third Form boy, a friend of Jacques’. His name is Fontanin, Daniel de Fontanin.’
‘Fontanin!’ Antoine exclaimed. ‘That explains it. You know, father, those people who spend the summer at Maisons-Laffitte; they’ve a house on the outskirts of the forest. Now that I come to think of it, several times this winter, when I got home, I’ve found Jacques reading books of poetry lent him by this Fontanin boy.’
‘What? Borrowed books? Wasn’t it your duty to let me know?’
‘Oh, I didn’t see much harm in them!’ Antoine glanced towards the priest as he spoke, as if to show that he was not to be intimidated. And suddenly his thoughtful face lit up with a quick smile that came and went, giving it a singularly boyish look. ‘It was only Victor Hugo,’ he explained, ‘and Lamartine. But I took away his lamp, to prevent him keeping awake till all hours.’
The priest’s lips had stiffened. Now he took his revenge.
‘But there’s worse to come. This Fontanin boy’s a Protestant!’
‘I knew! I knew it!’ There was an accent of despair in M. Thibault’s cry.
‘Quite a good pupil, however,’ the priest put in at once, as who should give the devil his due. ‘I can quote you M. Quillard’s exact words. “He’s one of the seniors and we all thought highly of him—in fact he thoroughly hoodwinked all those with whom he came in contact. His mother, too, produced an excellent impression on us.” ’
‘Oh, his mother!’ M. Thibault broke in. ‘They’re impossible people, for all their airs and graces. Why, at Maisons, nobody has anything to do with them; they’re hardly nodded to on the street. Yes, Antoine, your brother can hardly boast of his choice of friends!’
‘Dangerous friends!’ the Abbé sighed. ‘Evil communications . . . Yes, we know only too well what lies beneath the sanctimonious airs of Protestants.
‘Be that as it may, when we came back from the Lycée, we knew everything. And we had just decided to set a formal enquiry on foot when yesterday, at the beginning of preparation, our little friend Jacques burst into our study. Literally burst in. His teeth were clenched and he was very pale. He didn’t even say “Good-morning” but shouted at us from the threshold: “Somebody has stolen my books and papers from my desk!” We pointed out to him that it was most unbecoming, bursting in like that. He refused to listen. His eyes, which are usually quite pale, were black with anger. “It’s you who stole my exercise-book,” he shouted, “it’s you, I know it!” He even went so far as to say,’ the Abbé added with a rather vacuous smile, ‘that if we dared to read it, he would kill himself. We tried to appeal to his better feelings, but he would not let us speak. “Where’s my exercise-book?” he kept on asking. “Give it back. If you don’t I shall smash everything here!” Before we could stop him he picked up the crystal paper-weight on our desk—you remember it, Antoine? It was a souvenir some of our old boys had brought us from the Puy-de-Dôme—and threw it with all his might at the marble mantelpiece. Oh, that’s a mere trifle,’ the Abbé added hastily, noticing M. Thibault’s embarrassed gesture of regret. ‘I only mention this small detail to show you the state of excitement your dear boy was in. Next moment he dropped on the floor in a sort of hysterical fit. We managed to secure him and pushed him into a little retiring-room next the study, and locked him in.’
‘Yes,’ M. Thibault said, raising his clenched hands dramatically, ‘there are days you’d think he was “possessed.” Ask Antoine. How often we have seen him, when he’s been crossed over some trifle, fall into such furious fits of temper that we’ve had to let him have his way! His face turns livid, the veins in his throat stand out, you’d think he was going to suffocate with rage.’
‘Yes,’ Antoine remarked, ‘we Thibaults are a hot-blooded family.’ He seemed to regret it so little that the priest felt compelled to smile indulgently.
‘When we came to let him out an hour later,’ he continued, ‘he was sitting at the table, his head between his hands. He gave us a furious look; his eyes were tearless. When we bade him apologize, he did not answer. But he followed us quietly to our study. His hair was ruffled, his eyes were fixed on the ground and there was a stubborn look on his face. We got him to pick up the fragments of the ill-fated paper-weight, but nothing would make him utter a word. So then we took him to the chapel where we thought it fitting that he should remain for a while in solitary communion with his Maker. After an hour we came and knelt beside him. He looked as if he had been crying, but the chapel was so dark that we couldn’t be sure of it. We said a rosary in a low voice, and then we remonstrated with him, picturing to him his father’s grief at hearing that an evil companionship had endangered his dear son’s purity. He kept his arms folded and held his head high, his eyes fixed on the altar, as if he did not hear us. Seeing that there was nothing to be done with him, we told him to return to the preparation room. There he stayed till the afternoon was over, at his place, with his arms folded and without opening a book. We thought it best to take no notice of this conduct. At seven o’clock he left as usual, but without coming to say good-night.
‘So now you have the whole story, Monsieur Thibault.’ The priest gave him a glance of eager curiosity. ‘We had meant not to inform you of these facts till we knew what action has been taken by the Vice-principal of the Lycée against that wretched young fellow, Fontanin—summary expulsion, we presume. But, seeing you so upset . . .’
‘Monsieur l’abbé,’ M. Thibault broke in; he was as out of breath as if he had been running upstairs. ‘Monsieur l’abbé, I am horrified—but you can guess for yourself what my feelings are. When I think what the future may have in store for us, now that Jacques’ evil instincts have shown themselves—yes, I’m horrified,’ he repeated in a pensive voice, almost in a whisper. He sat unmoving, his head thrust forward, his hands resting on his hips. His eyes were closed and had it not been for the almost imperceptible quivering of his underlip, that shook the short white beard under the grey moustache, he would have seemed asleep.
‘The young blackguard!’ he burst out suddenly, with a forward jerk of his chin. The vicious glance that shot forth from between the grey eyelashes showed what a mistake it would have been to take his inertia at its face value. Shutting his eyes again, he swung round towards Antoine. But the young man was in a brown study, tugging at his beard, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘I shall go to the hospital,’ he said at last, ‘and tell them not to count on me to-morrow. The first thing in the morning I’ll go and see this Fontanin boy and put him through it!’
‘The first thing in the morning?’ M. Thibault repeated mechanically. He rose from his seat. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve a sleepless night before me.’ Sighing, he moved ponderously towards the door.
The Abbé followed. On the threshold M. Thibault extended to the priest a flabby hand. ‘It’s been a terrible blow,’ he murmured, without opening his eyes.
‘We will pray God to help us in our time of trouble,’ the priest replied in a polite tone.
Father and son walked a few steps in silence along the empty street. The wind had dropped and the night-air was mild. The month of May was beginning.
M. Thibault was thinking of the runaway. ‘Anyhow, if he’s sleeping out, he won’t find it too cold.’ Emotion made his legs go limp beneath him. He stopped and turned to his son. Antoine’s attitude made him feel less unsure of himself, and he felt drawn towards his first-born, and proud of him—especially so to-night, now that his younger son was more antipathetic than ever. Not that he was incapable of love for Jacques; to quicken his affection it would have been enough had Jacques provided some satisfaction for his pride. But the boy’s preposterous conduct and wayward impulses always galled him at his most sensitive point, his self-esteem.
‘Let’s only hope it doesn’t cause too much scandal,’ he muttered. Then he drew nearer to Antoine and his tone changed. ‘I’m delighted that you were able to get off duty to-night.’ The feeling he was trying to express made him feel almost bashful. Still more embarrassed than his father, the young man kept silent. ‘Yes, Antoine, I’m glad to have you with me to-night, dear boy,’ M. Thibault continued, and, for the first time perhaps, linked his arm with his son’s.
On that Sunday, Madame de Fontanin, when she came home at about midday, had found a note awaiting her in the hall.
‘Daniel tells me he’s been kept for lunch by the Bertiers,’ she told Jenny. ‘Then you weren’t here when he came back?’
‘No, I didn’t see him,’ Jenny replied without looking up. She had just dropped on all fours, trying to catch her dog, Puce, which was hiding under an arm-chair. It seemed to take her a long time, but at last she caught the dog up in her arms and ran off with it to her room, hugging and petting the little animal.
She did not reappear till lunch-time.
‘I’m not a bit hungry,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got a headache. I’d like to go to my room and lie down in the dark.’
Her mother put her to bed and drew the curtains. Eagerly Jenny snuggled down between the sheets. But sleep would not come to her. The hours dragged on. Several times in the course of the day Madame de Fontanin came and laid her cool hand on the little girl’s forehead. Towards evening, in a sudden rush of affection and anxiety, Jenny caught hold of her mother’s hand and began fondling it, unable to keep back her tears.
‘You’re overstrung, darling. I’m afraid you must have a touch of fever.’
Seven o’clock struck; then eight. Madame de Fontanin was waiting for her son before beginning dinner. Never did Daniel miss a meal without telling her in advance; least of all would he have left his mother and sister to dine by themselves on a Sunday. Madame de Fontanin went out on to the balcony. The evening was mild, but at this hour there were few people about in the Avenue de l’Observatoire. The shadows were deepening between the dark masses of the trees. Several times she fancied she recognized Daniel by his walk, under a street-lamp. There was the roll of a drum in the Luxembourg Gardens. The gates were being shut. Now it was quite dark.
She put on her hat and hurried to the Bertiers’ house; they had been in the country since the day before.
So Daniel had lied!
Madame de Fontanin was not unused to lies of that sort; but that Daniel, her Daniel, should have lied to her was appalling. His first lie. And he was only fourteen!
Jenny had not gone to sleep yet; she was listening intently to every sound. She called to her mother.
‘Where’s Daniel?’
‘He’s gone to bed. He thought you were asleep and didn’t want to wake you.’ She tried to speak naturally; there was no point in alarming the child.
After glancing at the clock Madame de Fontanin settled down in an arm-chair, leaving the door on the corridor ajar, so as to hear the boy when he returned.
So the night passed; a new day came. . . .
Just before seven Puce started growling. The bell had rung. Madame de Fontanin ran into the hall; she preferred to open the door herself; the less the servants knew, the better. An unknown bearded young man stood at the door. Had there been an accident?
Antoine gave his name, saying he would like to see Daniel before he left for the Lycée.
‘I’m afraid . . . as it so happens, my son can’t be seen this morning,’ she stammered.
Antoine made a gesture of surprise. ‘Forgive me if I insist, Madame, but my brother, who’s a great friend of your son’s, has been missing since yesterday. Naturally, we’re very anxious.’
‘Missing?’ Her fingers tightened on the fabric of the light veil she had drawn round her hair. She opened the drawing-room door; Antoine followed her in.
‘Daniel, too, didn’t come home yesterday. And I’m feeling worried, too.’ She had lowered her eyes; she looked up as she added: ‘All the more so as my husband is away from home just now.’
There was a simplicity, a frankness, about her that Antoine had never seen in any other woman. Taken off her guard in this moment of anxiety, after a sleepless night, she made no effort to conceal her feelings from the young man; each successive emotion showed on her features in its natural colours. For a few moments they gazed at each other with all but unseeing eyes. Both were following the vagaries of their own thoughts.
Antoine had sprung out of bed with real detective zest. For he had not taken Jacques’ escapade tragically and only his curiosity was involved. So he had come here to put the other boy, Jacques’ accomplice, ‘through it.’ But now again it looked as if things would be more complicated than he had foreseen. And that by no means displeased him. Whenever, as now, he came up against the unforeseen, a steely look came into his eyes, and under the square-cut beard his chin, the strong Thibault chin, set like a block of granite.
‘What time yesterday morning did your son leave home?’ he asked.
‘Quite early. But he returned soon after.’
‘Ah! Was it between half-past ten and eleven?’
‘About that.’
‘Like his friend! Yes, they’ve run away together.’ His tone was brisk, he sounded almost cheerful about it.
At that moment the door, which till now had stood ajar, was flung wide open and a child’s body, clad only in a chemise, fell forward on to the carpet. Madame de Fontanin gave a cry. Antoine had already picked up the little girl—she had fainted—and was holding her in his arms. Madame de Fontanin showed the way, he carried her to her room and placed her on the bed.
‘Leave her to me, Madame. I’m a doctor. Some cold water, please. Have you any smelling-salts?’
After a few minutes Jenny came to. Her mother gave her an affectionate smile, but the child’s eyes were unresponsive.
‘She’s all right now,’ Antoine said. ‘All she needs is to have a sleep.’
Whispering ‘You hear, darling?’ Madame de Fontanin laid her hand on the child’s clammy forehead. Presently the hand slipped down over the eyelids and held them closed.
They stood for a while unmoving on either side of the bed. The fumes of sal volatile hovered in the air. Antoine, whose eyes had so far been fixed on the graceful hand and outstretched arm, now took stock discreetly of Madame de Fontanin. The lace wrapped round her head had come loose and he could see now that her hair was fair, sprinkled with strands of grey. He took her age for about forty, though her manner and the vivacity of her face were those of a much younger woman.
Jenny seemed on the point of sleeping; the hand that rested on her eyes withdrew, lightly as a feather. They went out on tiptoe, leaving the door ajar. Madame de Fontanin, who was walking in front, turned round.
‘Thank you,’ she said, holding out both hands towards Antoine. The gesture was so spontaneous, so masculine, that Antoine checked his first impulse courteously to press his lips to them.
‘She’s so nervous, poor child,’ Madame de Fontaine explained. ‘She must have heard Puce bark and thought her brother had come back. She hasn’t been at all well since yesterday morning; she’s had fever all night.’
They sat down. Madame de Fontanin slipped her hand inside her bodice and produced the note Daniel had written her on the previous day. As Antoine read it, she kept her eyes on him. In her relations with others she always let herself be guided by her first impressions, and from the very first she had felt that she could trust Antoine. ‘A man with a forehead like that,’ she thought, ‘is incapable of an unworthy act.’ He wore his hair brushed back and his beard came up rather high upon his checks; framed in dark auburn hair, the whole expression of his face seemed concentrated in the deep-set eyes and pale expanse of forehead. He folded up the letter and handed it back to her. He appeared to be turning its contents over in his mind; actually he was wondering how to break certain matters to her.
‘I think,’ he began tentatively, ‘we may infer a connexion between their flight and the fact that their friendship—well, their intimacy—had just been detected by their teachers.’
‘ “Detected”?’
‘Yes. The correspondence they had been keeping up, in a special grey exercise-book, had just been found.’
‘What correspondence?’
‘They used to write letters to each other during lessons. Letters, it seems, of a . . . a very special nature.’ He looked away from her. ‘So much so that the two offenders had been threatened with expulsion.’
‘ “Offenders”? Really I’m afraid I don’t follow. What was wrong about their writing to each other?’
‘The tone of their letters was, I gather, so very . . .’
‘ “The tone of their letters”?’ Obviously she still did not understand. But she was too sensitive not to have noticed Antoine’s growing embarrassment. Suddenly she shook her head.
‘Anything of that sort is out of the question,’ she said in a strained voice that shook a little. It was as if a gulf had suddenly opened out between them. She stood up. ‘That your brother and my son may have planned some sort of schoolboy prank together is quite possible, though Daniel has never uttered in my presence the name of . . .’
‘Thibault.’
‘Thibault!’ The name, it seemed, surprised her. ‘That’s curious. My little daughter had a bad dream last night and I distinctly heard her pronounce that name.’
‘She may have heard her brother speaking of his friend.’
‘No, I tell you that Daniel never . . .’
‘How else could she have learnt the name?’
‘Oh, these “supernormal” phenomena are fairly common, really.’
‘What phenomena?’
‘The transmission of thought.’ There was an intense, almost other-worldly look on her face.
Her explanation and the tone in which she spoke were so new to him, that Antoine looked at her curiously. There was more than earnestness on Madame de Fontanin’s face; it was illuminated, and on her lips there flickered the gentle smile of the believer who is used to braving the scepticism of the rest of mankind.
For a while they were silent. Then Antoine was struck by an idea that rekindled his detective enthusiasm.
‘May I ask you a question, Madame de Fontanin? You say your daughter spoke my brother’s name. And that all day yesterday she was suffering from an inexplicable attack of fever. Mayn’t that be because your son confided in her before going away?’
Madame de Fontanin smiled indulgently. ‘You’d realize that such a suspicion is absurd, Monsieur Thibault, if you knew my children and the way they behave with their mother. Never has either of them hidden anything from——’ She stopped abruptly, stung by the thought that Daniel’s recent conduct gave her the lie. ‘Still,’ she went on at once, but with a certain stiffness, moving towards the door, ‘if Jenny isn’t asleep you can ask her about it, yourself.’
The little girl had her eyes open. Her delicately moulded profile showed against the pillow; her cheeks were flushed. The black muzzle of the little dog peeped comically from between the sheets beside her.
‘Jenny, this is Monsieur Thibault—the brother of one of Daniel’s friends, you know.’
The child cast at the intruder a look that, eager at first, darkened with mistrust.
Antoine went up to the bed, took her wrist and drew out his watch.
‘Still too quick,’ he said. Then he listened to her breathing. He put into each professional gesture a rather self-complacent gravity.
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost thirteen.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought it. As a matter of principle one can never be too careful about these feverish attacks. Not that there’s anything to be alarmed about, of course,’ he added, looking at the child and smiling. Then, moving from the bedside, he said in a different tone:
‘Do you know my brother, Mademoiselle? Jacques Thibault?’
Her forehead wrinkled; she shook her head.
‘Really and truly? Your brother has never talked to you about his best friend?’
‘Never.’
‘But, Jenny,’ Madame de Fontanin insisted, ‘don’t you remember? When I woke you up last night you were dreaming that Daniel and his friend Thibault were being chased along a road. You said “Thibault” quite distinctly.’
The child seemed to be searching in her memory of the night. Then ‘I don’t know the name,’ she said at last.
‘By the way,’ Antoine went on after a short pause, ‘I’ve just been asking your mother about a detail she can’t remember; we’ve got to know it if we are to find your brother. How was he dressed?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then you didn’t see him yesterday morning?’
‘Yes, I did. Quite early—when he was having his coffee and rolls. But he hadn’t dressed then.’ She turned to her mother. ‘You’ve only to go to his wardrobe, and see what clothes are missing.’
‘There’s something else, Mademoiselle, something very important. Was it at nine o’clock, or ten, or eleven that your brother came back to leave the letter? Your mother was out then, so she can’t say.’
‘I don’t know.’
Antoine caught a hint of annoyance in Jenny’s voice.
‘What a pity!’ He made a gesture of disappointment. ‘That means we’ll have trouble in getting on his track.’
‘Wait!’ Jenny said raising her arm to make him stay. ‘It was at ten minutes to eleven.’
‘Exactly? Quite sure about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You looked at the clock while he was with you, I suppose.’
‘No. But that was the time when I went to the kitchen to get some bread-crumbs—for my drawing, you know. If he’d come before that, or if he’d come after, I’d have heard the door and gone to see.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He pondered for a moment. What use was it to tire her with more questions? He had been mistaken, she knew nothing. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘you must make yourself comfy, and shut your eyes, and go to sleep.’ He drew the blankets up over the little bare arm, smiling to the child. ‘A nice long sleep, and when we wake up we’ll be quite well again, and our big brother will be back at home.’
She looked at him. Never afterwards could he forget all that he read at that instant in her gaze; an inner life quite out of keeping with her years, such indifference towards all human consolation, and a distress so deep, so desperately lonely, that he could not help being shaken by it, and lowered his eyes.
‘You were right,’ he said to Madame de Fontanin, when they had returned to the drawing-room. ‘That child is innocence itself. She’s suffering terribly, but she knows nothing.’
‘Yes,’ she replied in a musing tone, ‘she is innocence itself; but—she knows!’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you think that? Surely her answers . . . ?’
‘Her answers?’ she repeated in a slow, meditative voice. ‘But I was near her and I felt it somehow. No, I can’t explain it.’ She sat down, stood up again at once. Her face was anguished. ‘She knows, she knows—now I’m certain of it.’ Then suddenly, in a louder voice: ‘And I’m certain, too, that she would rather die than betray her secret.’
After Antoine had left and before going to see M. Quillard, the Principal of the Lycée (as Antoine had advised her to do), Madame de Fontanin yielded to her curiosity and opened a ‘Who’s Who.’
‘Thibault (Oscar-Marie). Chevalier of the Légion of Honour. Some time Member for the Eure. Vice-president of the League for the Moral Welfare of the Child. Founder and President of the Social Defence League. Treasurer of the Joint Committee of Catholic Charities in the Diocese of Paris. Residence: 4A, Rue de l’Université, Paris VI.’
Two hours later, after her interview with the Principal of the Lycée, whom she had left abruptly, without a word, her cheeks aflame, Madame de Fontanin, not knowing where to turn, decided to go and see M. Thibault. Some secret instinct warned her against the visit, but she overruled it, as she often overruled such premonitions—prompted by a fondness for taking risks and a temperamental wilfulness that she mistook for courage.
At the Thibaults’ a regular family council was in session. The Abbé Binot had arrived at the Rue de l’Université at an early hour, but only a few minutes in advance of the Abbé Vécard, private secretary to His Grace the Archbishop of Paris. This priest was M. Thibault’s confessor, and a great friend of the family. A telephone-call had secured his attendance.
Seated at his desk, M. Thibault had the air of a presiding judge. He had slept badly and the unhealthy pallor of his cheeks was even more pronounced than usual. M. Chasle, his secretary, a grey-haired, bespectacled little man, was seated on his employer’s left. Antoine alone had remained standing, leaning against a bookcase. Mademoiselle, too, had been convoked, though it was the hour when normally she attended to her housekeeping. Her shoulders draped in black merino, she sat perched on the edge of her chair, silently observing the proceedings. Under the grey coils of hair looped round her yellow forehead the fawn-like eyes strayed constantly from one priest to the other. The two reverend gentlemen had been installed on each side of the fireplace, in high-backed chairs.
After laying before them the results of Antoine’s enquiries M. Thibault launched into a jeremiad. He liked to feel that he was being approved of by those around him, and the words that came to him, when depicting his anxiety, quickened his emotions. But the presence of his confessor urged him to examine his conscience once again; had he fulfilled all his duties as a father towards the miserable boy? He hardly knew what to answer. Then his thoughts took a new turning; but for that wretched little heretic nothing would have happened.
Rising to his feet, he gave rein to his indignation. ‘Should not young blackguards like that Fontanin boy be locked up in suitable institutions? Are we to allow our children to be exposed to such contamination?’ His hands behind his back, his eyelids lowered, he paced the carpet behind his desk. Though he did not refer to it, the thought of the Congress he was missing rankled bitterly. ‘For over twenty years I’ve been devoting myself to the problem of juvenile criminality. For twenty years I’ve been fighting the good fight, by means of pamphlets, Vigilance Societies and detailed reports addressed to various Congresses. But I’ve done more than that!’ He turned towards the priests. ‘Haven’t I created in my reformatory at Crouy a special department where depraved children belonging to a different social class from that of the other inmates are given a special course of moral re-education? Well, you’ll hardly believe it, but that department is always empty! Is it for me to force parents to incarcerate their erring sons there? I’ve moved heaven and earth to get the Ministry of Education to take steps about it. But,’ he concluded, shrugging his shoulders and letting himself sink back into his chair, ‘what do those fine gentlemen who are ousting religion from our French schools care about public morals?’
At that moment the parlour-maid handed him a visiting-card.
‘That woman!’ he exclaimed, turning to his son. Then, addressing the maid, he asked, ‘What does she want?’ and, without waiting for an answer, said to his son: ‘Antoine, you attend to this.’
‘You can’t very well refuse to see her,’ Antoine pointed out, after glancing at the card.
On the brink of an outburst, M. Thibault mastered his feelings and turned again to the two priests.
‘It’s Madame de Fontanin! What’s to be done? A certain consideration is due to a woman, whoever she may be, isn’t it? And we mustn’t forget, this one is a mother.’
‘What’s that? A mother?’ M. Chasle murmured, but the remark was only for himself.
M. Thibault came to a decision. ‘Show the lady in.’
When the maid brought the visitor up, he rose and bowed ceremoniously.
Madame de Fontanin had not expected to find so many people there. She drew back slightly on the threshold, then took a step towards Mademoiselle, who had jumped from her chair and was staring at the Protestant with horrified eyes. The softness had gone out of them and, no longer fawn-like, she looked like an outraged hen.
‘Madame Thibault, I presume?’ Madame de Fontanin said in a low voice.
‘No,’ Antoine hastened to explain. ‘This lady is Mademoiselle de Waize, who has been with us for fourteen years—since my mother’s death—and brought us up, my brother and myself.’
M. Thibault introduced the men to her.
‘Excuse me for disturbing you, Monsieur Thibault,’ Madame de Fontanin began. All the men’s eyes converging on her made her feel uncomfortable, but she kept her self-possession. ‘I came to see if any news. . . . Well, as we are both undergoing the same anxiety, Monsieur, I thought the best thing for us might be to . . . to join forces. Don’t you agree?’ she added with a faint smile, cordial if a little sad. But her frank gaze, as she watched M. Thibault, found no more response than a blind man’s stare.
She tried to catch Antoine’s eye; despite the slight estrangement that the last phase of their conversation on the previous day had brought about, she felt drawn towards the young man whose pensive face and forthright manners were so different from the others’. He, too, as soon as she entered, had felt that a sort of alliance existed between them. He went up to her.
‘And how is the little invalid now, Madame?’
M. Thibault cut him short. His impatience betrayed itself only in the way he kept on jerking his head to free his chin. Slewing himself round to face Madame de Fontanin he began addressing her with studied formality.
‘It should be unnecessary for me to tell you, Madame de Fontanin, that no one understands your natural anxiety better than myself. As I was saying to my friends here, we cannot think about those poor lads without feeling the utmost distress. And yet I would venture to put you a question: Would it be wise for us to “join forces” as you propose? Certainly something must be done, they have got to be found; but would it not be better for us to keep our enquiries separate? What I mean is: we must beware of possible indiscretions on the part of journalists. Don’t be surprised if I speak to you as one whose position obliges him to act with a certain caution as regards the Press, and public opinion. Not for my own sake. Anything but that! I am, thank God, above the calumnies of my adversaries. But might they not try to strike at the activities I stand for, by attacking me personally? And then I have to think of my son. Should I not make sure, at all costs, that another name is not linked with ours in connexion with this unsavoury adventure? Yes, I see it as my duty so to act that no one may be able in the future to throw in his face certain associations—quite casual, I grant you—but of a character that is, if I may say so, eminently . . . prejudicial.’ He seemed to be addressing the Abbé Vécard especially as, lifting for once his eyelids, he added: ‘I take it, gentlemen, that you share my opinion?’
During the harangue Madame de Fontanin had turned pale. Now she looked at each priest in turn; then at Mademoiselle, then at Antoine. Their faces were blank and they said nothing.
‘Ah yes, I understand!’ she cried. The words stuck in her throat, and she had difficulty in continuing. ‘I can see that M. Quillard’s suspicious. . . .’ She paused, then added: ‘What a wretched creature that man is, a miserable, miserable creature!’ A wry smile twisted her lips as she spoke.
M. Thibault’s face remained inscrutable. Only his flabby hand rose towards the Abbé Binot, as if calling him to witness, inviting him to speak. With the zest of a mongrel joining in a dog-fight, the Abbé flung himself into the fray.
‘We would venture to point out to you, Madame de Fontanin, that you seem to be dismissing the lamentable conclusions come to by M. Quillard, without even having heard the charges brought against your son.’
Madame de Fontanin cast a quick glance at the priest; then, relying as usual on her intuitions as regards the characters of others, she turned towards the Abbé Vécard, whose eyes met hers with an expression of unruffled suavity. His lethargic face, elongated by the fringe of scanty hair brushed up round his bald patch, gave her the impression of a man in the fifties. Conscious of the heretic’s appealing gaze, he hastened to put in an amiable word.
‘None of us here, Madame, but realizes how painful this conversation is for you. The trust you have in your son is infinitely touching . . . and laudable,’ he added as an afterthought. With a gesture that was familiar with him, he raised a finger and held it to his lips while he went on speaking. ‘But unfortunately, Madame, the facts, ah yes, the facts. . . .’
As if his colleague had given him the cue, the other priest took him up, and went on with greater unction. ‘Yes, the facts, there’s no denying it, are . . . crushing!’
‘I beg you,’ Madame de Fontanin began, looking away.
But now there was no holding the priest.
‘In any case, if you want proof of our assertions, here it is!’ Dropping his hat on to the floor, he drew from his girdle a grey, red-edged exercise-book. ‘Please cast a glance over this, Madame. However cruel it may seem to kill your illusions, we feel it our bounden duty, and we are convinced that you will yield to the evidence.’
He moved towards Madame de Fontanin as if he were going to force the book on her. She got up from her chair.
‘I refuse to read a line of it. The idea of prying into the secrets of this child behind his back, in public, without giving him a chance to explain—it’s revolting! I have never treated him in such a manner, and I never will.’
The Abbé Binot gazed at her, his arm still holding out the book, a sour smile on his thin lips.
‘Have it your own way,’ he said at last, with a derisive intonation. He placed the book on the desk, picked up his hat and sat down again. Antoine felt a great desire to grasp him by the shoulders and put him out. His disgust was visible in his eyes, which, meeting Abbé Vécard’s eyes, found them in accord.
Meanwhile Madame de Fontanin’s attitude had changed; she raised her head defiantly and walked up to M. Thibault, who had not risen from his chair.
‘All this is beside the point, Monsieur Thibault. I came here only to enquire what you propose to do. My husband is away from Paris at the moment and I have to act alone. What I really came for was to tell you that in my opinion it would be a great pity to call in the police.’
‘The police!’ M. Thibault shouted, so exasperated that he rose from his chair. ‘But, my good lady, don’t you realize that the police in every Department of France are after them already? I telephoned myself this morning to the private secretary of the Chief of Police, asking that every possible step should be taken, with the utmost discretion, of course. I have also had a telegram sent to the Town Council at Maisons-Laffitte, in case the truants have had the idea of hiding in a neighbourhood they both know well. All the railway companies, frontier posts and ports of embarkation have been advised. And, Madame, if it weren’t for the scandal, which I want to avoid at all costs, I’d say it would be a very good thing to give those two young ragamuffins the lesson they need, and have them brought home in handcuffs, escorted by the police. If only to remind them that even in these degenerate days there’s still a semblance of justice in France, some deference to parental rights.’
Without replying, Madame de Fontanin bowed and moved towards the door.
M. Thibault regained his self-control.
‘Anyhow, Madame, you may rest assured that, if we get any news, my son will communicate with you at once.’
She acknowledged the remark with an almost imperceptible nod. Antoine and, after him, M. Thibault, escorted her to the door.
‘The Huguenot!’ Abbé Binot jeered, as soon as she was out of sight. The Abbé Vécard could not repress a gesture of reproach.
‘What? A Huguenot?’ M. Chasle stammered, and recoiled as if he had just trodden in some revolting offal from Saint Bartholomew’s shambles.
On her return Madame de Fontanin found Jenny lying half asleep in bed. Her fever showed no signs of going down. She lifted her head, gave her mother a questioning look, then shut her eyes again.
‘Please take Puce away, mother. The noise hurts me.’
As soon as Madame de Fontanin was back in her room a fit of dizziness came over her; she sank into a chair, without even taking off her gloves. ‘Am I, too, in for a spell of fever?’ she wondered. ‘Just when I most need to keep my head, to be strong and confident.’ She bowed her head in prayer. When she raised it, she had settled on her line of action; the great thing was to find her husband, bring him back.
Crossing the hall, she paused in front of a closed door, then opened it. The room was cool and had evidently not been used for some time; a faint bitter-sweet tang of verbena and citronella hovered in the air—a scent of perfumed soaps and hair-oils. She drew aside the curtains. A writing-desk occupied the centre of the room; a layer of fine dust covered the blotter. There were no papers lying about, no addresses, no clues. All the keys were in the locks. The man who used the room was certainly of a trusting nature. She pulled out a drawer in the desk and saw a number of letters, a few photographs, a fan and in a corner, screwed up in a ball, a shabby black silk glove. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. A memory floated up into her mind and, in her daydream, she seemed to be gazing at a half-forgotten scene.
One summer evening two years ago, as she had been going in a tram along the bank of the Seine, she had caught a glimpse of something that made her stiffen up abruptly. Yes, she had recognized Jerome, her husband, bending over a girl who was sitting on one of the benches on the riverside. The girl was crying. How often since then her fancy had cruelly enlarged on that brief glimpse, taking a sad pleasure in elaborating the details: the young woman shamelessly parading her grief, with her hat clumsily askew, and hastily extracting from her skirt a large, coarse handkerchief! And Jerome’s expression, above all! How sure she was of having guessed aright the feelings that possessed him then! A little pity, to be sure, for she knew that he was weak and easily moved; and a good deal of exasperation at being involved in such a scene in public; and, behind it all, cruelty. Yes, in his very attitude as he bent forward solicitously but without real tenderness, she could see only too clearly the shallow compunction of the lover who has ‘had enough of it,’ who is perhaps already in quest of new adventure, and who, despite his pity, despite a secret shame, has decided to exploit the woman’s tears to make the breach between them absolute. All this had been revealed to her in a flash of insight, and each time the haunting memory returned she felt the faintness she was feeling now.
She left the room hastily and locked the door.
A definite plan had suggested itself . . . that young maid she had had to dismiss six months ago—yes, she must see Mariette. Madame de Fontanin knew the address of her new place. Mastering her distaste, without further hesitation, she went there.
The kitchen opened on to a service staircase, on the fourth floor. It was the unsavoury hour of washing-up. Mariette opened the door. She was a bright little thing with golden curls and candid eyes—hardly more than a child. When she saw her former mistress, she blushed, but her eyes lit up.
‘It’s very nice seeing you again, ma’am. . . . Is Miss Jenny all right?’
Madame de Fontanin hesitated, an anguished smile on her lips.
‘Mariette—please tell me my husband’s address.’
The girl blushed scarlet; her large, puzzled eyes filled with tears. The address? She shook her head, she didn’t know—not where he was now. The Master hadn’t been living at the hotel where . . . No, he had dropped her almost immediately. ‘Then you don’t know, ma’am?’ she added innocently.
But Madame de Fontanin was moving away towards the door, with lowered eyes; she could not bear hearing any more. There was a short silence. The water in a saucepan was boiling over, hissing as it fell on to the range. Without thinking, Madame de Fontanin pointed to it.
‘Your water’s boiling over,’ she said. Then, still moving towards the door, she added: ‘Are you happy here, my dear?’
The girl made no reply. When Madame de Fontanin looked up, it seemed to her that there was something of the animal in the eyes and the keen teeth that showed between the young, parted lips. After a pause that seemed interminable to both, the girl brought herself to speak.
‘Couldn’t you ask . . . Ma-Madame Petit-Dutreuil?’ she stammered.
Madame de Fontanin did not hear the burst of sobbing that followed. She was hurrying down the stairs as if the house were on fire. That name had cast a sudden light on a number of coincidences she had hardly noticed at the time and had forgotten immediately. Now they all came back, and each fell into place in a chain of damning evidence.
An empty cab was passing; she jumped into it—the sooner she was home, the better. But, on the point of giving her address, an uncontrollable impulse gripped her—she fancied she was obeying a prompting from above.
‘Rue de Monceau,’ she told the driver.
A quarter of an hour later she was ringing at the door of her cousin, Noémie Petit-Dutreuil.
A fair-haired little girl of about fifteen opened the door. Her eyes smiled a greeting to the visitor.
‘Good-morning, Nicole. Is your mother at home?’
She was conscious of the child’s stare of astonishment.
‘I’ll go and fetch her, Aunt Thérèse.’
Madame de Fontanin waited in the hall. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she pressed her hand to her breast, and dared not take it away. She tried to bring her emotions under control. The drawing-room door was open and the sun was bringing out the sheen of the velvet curtains and the colours of the carpet. The room had the careless elegance of a bachelor’s ‘den.’ ‘And they said her divorce had left her penniless, Madame de Fontanin murmured. The thought reminded her that her husband had not sent her any money for two months; how was she to meet this month’s bills? And, following it, another thought crossed her mind: could Noémie’s unexpected opulence have come from—him?
Nicole did not return. Not a sound could be heard. More and more ill at ease, Madame de Fontanin entered the drawing-room and sat down. The piano was open, a fashion paper was lying on the sofa, there was a bunch of red carnations in a vase. The more she looked around her, the more disturbed she felt. What could it be?
Because he was here, and his presence filled the room. It was he who had pushed the piano at that angle to the window, exactly as in her own home. It was he who had left it open or, if not he, it was for his sake that music lay scattered on it. It was he who had insisted on that wide, low sofa and the cigarette-box within easy reach. And it was he whom she now pictured there, lolling amongst the cushions, spruce and debonair as usual, gay eyes flashing under the long lashes, an arm dangling over the sofa-edge, a cigarette between his fingers.
A soft, rustling sound made her start. Noémie had just entered, in a lace-trimmed dressing-gown, her arm resting on her daughter’s shoulder. She was a tall, dark and rather plump woman of thirty-five.
‘Good-morning, Thérèse; you must excuse me, I’ve had such a frightful headache all day, it’s laid me out completely. Nicole dear, will you pull down the blind.’
The sparkle of her eyes and the healthy pink cheeks gave her the lie. Her volubility betrayed the embarrassment she felt at Thérèse’s visit, an embarrassment that grew to alarm when the latter, turning towards the child, said gently:
‘There’s something I want to talk to your mother about, darling; would you leave us alone for a few minutes?’
‘Run off to your room, Nicole, and do your lessons there.’ Noémie turned to her cousin with a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. ‘Children of that age are so annoying—aren’t they?—always wanting to show off in the drawing-room. Is Jenny like that? I’m afraid I was just the same, do you remember? It used to drive poor mother to despair.’
The object of Madame de Fontanin’s visit had only been to get the address she required. But, now she was here, Jerome’s presence had made itself so strongly felt, the injury done her seemed so flagrant, and the sight of Noémie flaunting her rather vulgar beauty in this room offended her so deeply that once again she gave way to impulse and came to a sudden, desperate decision.
‘Do sit down, Thérèse,’ Noémie said.
Instead of sitting down, Thérèse walked towards her cousin and held out her hand. The gesture was not in the least theatrical; it was too spontaneous, too dignified for that.
‘Noémie, give me back my husband!’ The words came with a rush. The smile froze on Madame Petit-Dutreuil’s lips. Madame de Fontanin was still holding her hand. ‘You needn’t answer. I’m not blaming you—I know only too well what he is.’ She paused for a moment, breathless. Noémie did not take advantage of the moment to defend herself, and Madame de Fontanin was glad of her silence, not that it was tantamount to a confession but because it showed that she was not so hardened as to be able to parry such a home-thrust on the spur of the moment.
‘Listen, Noémie,’ Madame de Fontanin continued. ‘Our children are growing up. Your daughter . . . and my two children as well. Daniel’s over fourteen now. You know the terrible effects of bad examples, how contagious evil is. Things can’t go on like this any longer—I’m sure you agree. Soon I shan’t be the only one to watch him . . . and to suffer.’ A note of pleading came into her voice. ‘Yes, give him back to us, Noémie.’
‘But, Thérèse, I assure you. . . . Why, you must be off your head!’ The younger woman was recovering her self-composure, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes, and her lips were set. ‘Yes, you must be mad, Thérèse, to think of such a thing. It was silly of me to let you go on talking like that, but I couldn’t believe my ears. You’ve been dreaming—or else been listening to a lot of ridiculous gossip. Now I want you to explain.’
Madame de Fontanin gave her cousin a pensive, almost affectionate glance, that seemed to say: ‘Poor stunted soul! Still, your heart is better than your way of living.’ But then her eyes fell on the smoothly rounded shoulder, the soft voluptuous flesh that seemed fluttering, like a trapped dove, beneath the gauzy lace. And the picture that rose before her eyes was so realistic that she had to close them. A look of hatred, then of grief, flitted across her face. She felt her courage failing, and decided to put an end to the interview.
‘Well, perhaps I’m mistaken. But do, please, give me his address. No, not his address. I only ask you, let him know that I have need of him.’
Noémie stiffened up. ‘Let him know? Do you think I know where he is.’ She had gone very red. ‘Look here, Thérèse, I’ve had about enough of your nonsense. I admit Jerome comes to see me now and then. Why not? We make no secret of it. After all, we’re cousins. Why shouldn’t we?’ Instinct gave her the words that would cut deepest. ‘He’ll be so tickled when I tell him that you came and made this absurd scene. I wish you could be here then!’
Madame de Fontaine drew back. ‘You’re talking like a prostitute.’
‘Very well then, do you want to hear the truth?’ Noémie retorted. ‘When a woman’s husband leaves her, it’s her own fault. If Jerome had found in your company what he gets elsewhere, you wouldn’t have to go running after him, my dear.’
Madame de Fontanin could not help asking herself: Can it be true? Her nerves were at their breaking-point and she felt inclined to leave at once. But she could not face the prospect of being back at home again, without the address, without any means of getting in touch with Jerome. Her eyes softened once more.
‘Noémie, please forget what I said just now and listen to me. Jenny’s ill, she’s had a temperature for two days, and I’m alone. You are a mother, you must know what it is to watch at the bedside of a child who’s starting an illness. For three weeks now Jerome hasn’t been home, not once. Where is he? What’s he doing? He must be told his daughter’s ill; he must come back. Do tell him that.’ Noémie shook her head, wholly unmoved by the appeal. ‘Oh, Noémie, it’s not possible you’ve grown so heartless. Listen, I’m going to tell you everything; it’s true that Jenny’s ill and I’m dreadfully worried about her; but that’s not the worst.’ Her voice was humbler yet. ‘Daniel has left me; he’s run away.’
‘Run away?’
‘Yes. Enquiries will have to be made. I simply can’t remain alone at such a time—with a sick child on my hands. Surely you understand that? Noémie, do please tell him he must come back.’
For a moment Madame de Fontanin thought the younger woman was about to give way; there was a look of sympathy on her face. But then she turned abruptly away and cried, raising her arms to emphasize the words:
‘But, good heavens, what do you expect me to do about it? Didn’t I tell you just now I can’t help you in any way?’ And when Madame de Fontanin disgustedly refrained from answering, she swung round on her with blazing cheeks. ‘You don’t believe me, Thérèse, eh? So much the worse for you; now you shall know everything. He’s let me down again—bolted, I don’t know where! Run away with another woman. So now you know! Well, do you believe me?’
All the colour had left Madame de Fontanin’s face. Unthinking, she repeated: ‘Run away with another woman!’
‘Oh, if you only knew how he’s made me suffer! I’ve forgiven him too often, so he thinks I’ll go on forgiving him all the time. He’s greatly mistaken. Never again! The way he’s treated me is positively atrocious. Under my eyes, in my own house, he seduced a little slut of a maid I had here, a wretched brat of nineteen. She decamped, bag and baggage, a fortnight ago without giving notice or anything. And, would you believe it, he was waiting for her at the street-door, with a cab!’ Her voice grew shrill and she jumped up from the sofa. ‘In the street where I live, at my own door, in broad daylight, with my own servant. Did you ever hear of such a thing?’
Madame de Fontanin had gone to the piano and was steadying herself against it; she was feeling on the verge of collapse. A picture was taking form before her, of Mariette as she had seen her a few months earlier, of all the little things she had noticed then, their furtive contacts as they brushed against each other in the hall, her husband’s surreptitious expeditions up to the sixth floor, where the maid’s bedroom was; until that day when it had become impossible to overlook what was going on, when she had had to dismiss the girl who, overcome by remorse, had begged her mistress’s forgiveness. And she remembered the glimpse she had had of that little shopgirl in black, drying her eyes, beside the river bank. And now, looking up, she saw Noémie in front of her, and she averted her eyes. But her gaze drifted involuntarily back to the handsome woman sprawling across the sofa, the bare shoulder shaken by spasms of sobbing, and the gleam of white flesh under the filmy lace. And the picture that rose before her then was the most horrible of all.
Noémie’s voice was reaching her consciousness by fits and starts.
‘But it’s over now! I’m through with him. He can come back, he can go down on his bended knees, I won’t give him a look. I hate and despise him. I’ve caught him lying time after time without the faintest reason, just to amuse himself, because he’s built that way. He can’t open his mouth without lying. He doesn’t know what it means to tell the truth.’
‘You’re unjust to him, Noémie.’
The younger woman sprang up in amazement. ‘You of all people! You defend him!’
But Madame de Fontanin had regained her self-control; when she spoke again her voice had changed.
‘You haven’t got the address of that . . . that maid?’
Noémie reflected for a moment, then, bending towards her, answered with a confidential air:
‘No. But the concierge, perhaps. . . .’
Thérèse cut her short with a quick gesture, and began to move towards the door. To hide her discomfiture Noémie buried her face amongst the cushions and made as if she did not see her going.
In the hall, as Madame de Fontanin was drawing aside the front-door curtain, she suddenly felt Nicole’s arms hugging her passionately; the little girl’s face was wet with tears. She had no time to say anything to the child, who kissed her again, almost hysterically, and ran back into the flat.
The concierge was only too glad to gossip. ‘Yes, ma’am, I readdress her letters to the place in the country where she comes from. It’s Perros-Guirec, in Brittany; her folk send them on to her, I expect. If you’d like to know the address. . . .’ She opened a greasy, well-thumbed address-book.
On her way home Madame de Fontanin entered a post-office, and filled in a telegraph form.
Victorine Le Gad. Place de l’Eglise. Perros-Guirec.
Please inform M. de Fontanin that his son Daniel disappeared last Sunday.
Then she asked for a letter-card.
Pastor Gregory,
Christian Science Group,
2, Boulevard Bineau,
Neuilly-sur-Seine.
Dear James,
Daniel left home two days ago without saying where he was going. I have had no news from him and I am terribly worried. To make things worse, Jenny is ill; she has a high temperature, but we don’t know yet what’s wrong. And I cannot let Jerome know as I don’t know where he is.
I am feeling very lonely, my dear friend. Please come.
Thérèse de Fontanin.
Two days later, on a Wednesday, at six o’clock in the evening, a tall, ungainly, grotesquely thin man, whose age it was impossible to guess, made his appearance at the building in which Madame de Fontanin’s flat was situated.
The concierge shook her head. ‘The poor young lady’s dying, and the doctors are with her. They won’t let you see her.’
The pastor climbed the stairs. The door on the landing was open. The hall seemed full of men’s overcoats. A nurse came running up the hall.
‘I am Pastor Gregory,’ he said to her. ‘What’s wrong? Is Jenny . . . ?’
The nurse stared at him, murmured, ‘She’s dying,’ and turned off into one of the rooms.
He shook all over as if he had been dealt a blow. It seemed to him the air had suddenly become unbreathable, stifling. Going into the drawing-room, he opened both windows wide.
Ten minutes passed. People were moving to and fro in the passage; doors opening and shutting. There was a sound of voices. Madame de Fontanin appeared, followed by two elderly men in black. When she saw Gregory she ran towards him.
‘Oh, James! At last you’ve come! Please, please don’t leave me now.’
‘I only got back from London to-day,’ he explained.
She drew him aside, leaving the two doctors to their consultation. In the hall Antoine, in his shirt-sleeves, was plying a nail-brush over a basin the nurse was holding in front of him. Madame de Fontanin grasped the pastor’s hands. She had changed out of recognition; her cheeks were pale and haggard, her lips were quivering.
‘Please stay beside me, James. Don’t leave me alone. Jenny is . . .’
A sound of moaning came from the far end of the flat and, without ending the phrase, she hurried back to the bedroom.
The pastor went up to Antoine; his anxious look voiced an unspoken question.
Antoine shook his head. ‘I’m afraid there’s no hope.’
‘Come, come! Why talk in that way?’ Gregory sounded indignant.
‘It’s meningitis,’ Antoine said with a certain emphasis, raising his hand to his forehead. ‘What a rum bird!’ he was thinking, as he looked at the English pastor.
Gregory’s face was peaked and sallow; his long black hair, lustreless as a dead man’s, straggled over a high, straight forehead. He had a long, pendulous nose flushed an unhealthy red and the eyes, jet-black, almost without whites, deep-set beneath heavy brows, had an oddly phosphorescent glow. They brought to mind the eyes of certain monkeys; they had the same restlessness, the same melting softness combined with the same obduracy. Yet more unusual was the lower half of his face. He seemed to be perpetually laughing, but with a laugh that expressed no known emotion and twisted his chin into all sorts of unexpected shapes. The chin was no less odd; it was hairless, and drawn skin-tight over the bones like a wrapper of old parchment.
‘Was it sudden?’ the pastor asked.
‘The fever began on Sunday, but the symptoms became definite only yesterday morning. I arranged for a consultation at once. Everything possible has been done.’ His face grew earnest. ‘We shall hear what my colleagues have to say, but m my opinion—well, I’m afraid the poor child is . . .’
‘Don’t!’ the pastor exclaimed in English, in a hoarse, harsh voice. His eyes were fixed on Antoine’s; their indignation contrasted quaintly with the laugh that never left his mouth. As though the air had grown unbreathable, he raised an emaciated hand towards his collar, spreading out the fingers stiffly. The hand looked like some hideous spider resting on his throat.
Antoine was studying the pastor with a professional eye. ‘Remarkably asymmetrical, that face,’ he was thinking, ‘what with that silent laugh, that vacant maniacal grimace and the rest of it.’
Gregory addressed him in a formal tone. ‘Might I know if Daniel has returned?’
‘No, and there’s no news of him.’
His voice grew tender. ‘Poor, poor lady!’ he murmured.
Just then the two doctors came out of the drawing-room. Antoine went up to them.
‘She’s dying,’ the elder of the two said in a nasal voice, placing his hand on Antoine’s shoulder. Antoine turned and glanced at the pastor.
The nurse came up and asked in a low voice, ‘Really, doctor, do you think there’s no . . .’
Gregory moved away so as to hear no more. The oppression in the air was more than he could endure. Through the half-open door he saw the staircase; he hurried down it into the open air. Crossing the avenue he began to run straight ahead under the trees, his hair fluttering in disorder, his spidery fingers splayed across his chest. Eagerly he inhaled the cool evening air, his mouth still gaping in a preposterous laugh. ‘Those accursed doctors!’
He was as devoted to the Fontanins as if they had been his own family. When he had landed in Paris, sixteen years before, without a penny in his pocket, it was Pastor Perrier, Thérèse’s father, who had befriended him. And he had never forgotten. Later on, during his benefactor’s last illness, he had thrown up his work to hasten to his bedside, and the old pastor had died with one hand in his daughter’s and the other in that of Gregory—his son, as the old man always called him. It all came back to him so poignantly at that moment that he turned on his heel and strode rapidly to the house. The doctors’ carriage was no longer standing in front of it. He ran upstairs.
The front-door had been left ajar. A sound of moans guided him to Jenny’s room. In the semi-darkness he could hear the child whimpering, gasping for breath. It was all that Madame de Fontanin, the nurse and maid could do between them to keep the little body still. It was twisting convulsively like a fish dying on a river bank.
For a few moments Gregory did not speak, but watched them with a surly look on his face, pinching his chin between his fingers. At last he bent towards Madame de Fontanin.
‘They’ll kill your child between them!’
‘Kill her? What ever do you mean?’ she exclaimed, as she clutched at Jenny’s arm, which kept on slipping from her grasp.
‘If you don’t drive them out’—he spoke with deep conviction—‘they’ll kill Jenny.’
‘Who will?’
‘Every one of them!’
She stared at him blankly—could she believe her ears? His sallow face bending above her looked terrifying.
One of Jenny’s hands was fluttering outside the sheets; he gripped it and, stooping over the bed, began talking to her in a low, crooning voice.
‘Jenny! Jenny darling! Don’t you know me?’
Her distraught eyes, that had been staring up at the ceiling, swung slowly round towards the pastor’s. Then, bending still nearer, he let his gaze sink deep into hers, and such was its insistence that the child ceased suddenly to whimper.
‘Stop holding her!’ he said to the three women, and, as none of them complied, he added, without moving his head, in a voice that admitted no denial: ‘Give me her other hand. All is well. Now, go!’
They moved away from the bed. Alone at the bedside, he bent over the dying child, mastering her with the hypnotic fixity of his eyes. The child’s arms struggled convulsively in his grip for a few moments, then gently sank towards the sheets. For a time the legs went on twitching, then they too relaxed. And, subdued at last, the tired eyes closed. Still bending over her, Gregory signed to Madame de Fontanin to approach.
‘Look,’ he murmured, ‘she’s quiet now, she’s calmer. Drive them away, I tell you, drive away those sons of Belial. Error alone dominates them, and Error had all but killed your child.’
He laughed, with the soundless laugh of a mystic who is in sole possession of the eternal verities, for whom the rest of the world is composed of madmen. Without shifting his gaze, still fixed on Jenny’s eyes, he went on in a lower voice:
‘Woman, I tell you There is no Evil. It’s you who bring it into being and give it its baneful power—because you fear it, because you admit its existence. Now, for instance—those men have given up hope. They all say: “She is . . .” And you think the same thing. You all but said it just now. “Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth; keep the door of my lips.” Poor little one, when I entered this room, there was nothing round her but the void, nothing but the Negative. . . . But I deny the Negative, I say: “She is not ill.” ’
The violence with which he spoke was so compelling that the women were carried away by his conviction.
‘She is well!’ he added. ‘But leave me alone with her now.’
With the dexterity of a conjuror, he gradually relaxed his hold on the child’s wrists, finger by finger; then gave a little backward jump, leaving her limbs free. She lay, relaxed and docile, on the bed.
‘Life is good!’ he chanted, ‘and all things are good. Good is wisdom, and good is love. All health is in Christ and Christ is in us all.’
He turned to the maid and nurse who had moved away to the far end of the room. ‘Please go, and leave me with her.’
‘Yes, go!’ Madame de Fontanin said. But Gregory had drawn himself up to his full height and his outstretched arm seemed to be hurling an anathema at the table with its medicine-bottles and compresses and the bowl of crushed ice. ‘First take these things away!’ he commanded.
The women obeyed.
No sooner was he alone with Madame de Fontanin than he cried cheerfully: ‘Now, open the window. Open it as wide as you can, my dear.’
Outside in the street a cool breeze was rustling in the tree-tops. Sweeping into the room, it seemed to hurl itself on the polluted air, driving it aloft in eddying flurries and in a final onslaught whirling it outside the window. And then it laid its cool caress on the sick child’s burning cheeks. She shivered.
‘Won’t she catch cold?’ Madame de Fontanin murmured.
A cheerful grin was his first rejoinder. At last he spoke.
‘Yes, you can shut it now. Yes, all is well. And now light all your lights, Madame Fontanin. We must have brightness round us, we must have joy. And in our hearts too we must have light, and joy abounding. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” ’ And, raising his hands, he added: ‘Thou hast granted me to come before the accursed hour.’
He drew up a chair to the bedside. ‘Be seated,’ he said. ‘You must be calm, perfectly calm. Hold on to the Personal Control. Listen only to the promptings of Our Lord. I say to you it is Christ’s will that she shall recover. Let us share His will. Let us invoke the mighty power of Good. Spirit is everything, everything is spirit. The material is dominated by the spiritual. For two days this poor child has been exposed to the influences of the Negative. With what disgust those men and women inspire me! Their minds are bent upon the worst, and they can evoke nothing but the powers of ill. And they think that “all is over” when they have come to the end of their wretched, puling little “certainties”!’
The moans set in again and Jenny began tossing about on the bed. Suddenly she threw back her head and her lips parted as if she were about to breathe her last. Madame de Fontanin flung herself on the bed, her body stretched above the child’s, and cried out passionately:
‘No, no! For pity’s sake!’
The pastor advanced on her, as if he held her responsible for the sudden crisis.
‘Afraid . . . ? So your faith has failed you? Fear is of the body only. In God’s presence there is no fear. Put aside your carnal being, it is not truly you. Hear what Saint Mark says: “What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.” Now, have done with fear and—pray!’ She knelt down. ‘Pray!’ he repeated sternly. ‘Pray first of all for yourself, oh doubting soul! May God restore to you trust and peace. It is in your perfect trust that the child will find salvation. Call on God’s Holy Spirit. I unite my heart with yours. Now, let us pray.’
He communed with himself for a while, then began the prayer. He was standing up, his feet together, his arms folded, his closed eyes turned heavenwards; wisps of hair straggled on his forehead like an aureole of black flames. At first it was only a faint murmuring, but gradually the words became distinct, and, like the deep, rhythmic drone of a church organ, the laboured breathing of the child accompanied the invocation.
‘Omnipotent, creative Breath of Life, Thou who art everywhere, in every tiny atom of all Thy creatures, I call upon Thee from the depths of my heart. Fill with Thy peace this sorely afflicted home. Drive far away from this couch all that is not a thought of life. Evil lies only in our weakness. O Lord, cast out of us the Negative.
‘Thou alone art Infinite Wisdom, and all Thou doest with us is according to the Law. Therefore this woman commends to Thee her child, on the threshold of death. She makes her daughter over to Thy Will; Thy Will be done. And if it must be that this young child be snatched from her mother, she bows to Thy decree.’
‘Oh, James, please don’t say that,’ she moaned. ‘Not that! Not that!’
Gregory did not move from where he stood, but she felt his hand fall heavily on her shoulder.
‘Oh, woman of little faith,’ he said, ‘can this be you, you on whose heart the heavenly spirit has breathed so often?’
‘Oh, James, these last three days have been more than I could bear. I can’t, I can’t bear any more!’
He stepped back a pace. ‘I look at her—and it is no longer she. I can no longer recognize her. She has let Evil enter into her soul, into the holy temple of the Lord. . . . Pray, poor soul, pray!’
The child’s limbs were twitching under the bedclothes, racked by violent discharges of pent-up nervous force. Her eyes seemed starting out of their sockets, as they roved round the room, staring at each lamp in turn. But Gregory paid no attention to her. Clasping the little girl tightly in her arms, Madame de Fontanin did her best to keep down the convulsions.
‘All-powerful Force,’ the pastor intoned, ‘Thou who art the Truth and the Life, Thou hast said: “Whosoever will come after Me, let him deny himself.” So be it. If this mother is to be bereaved of her child, she bows herself to Thy will.’
‘No, James, no!’
The pastor bent towards her.
‘Renounce! Renunciation is the leaven; as leaven works in dough, so does renunciation with all evil thinking, making the Good rise.’ He drew himself up. ‘And so, O Lord, if it is Thy will, take her daughter from her. She yields her child to Thee. And if Thou hast need of her son also . . .’
‘No! No!’
‘. . . and if Thou hast need of her son also, let him, too, be reft from her! May he never cross again his mother’s threshold!’
‘My Daniel! Oh, for pity’s sake!’
‘Lord, she yield’s her son to Thy wisdom, with her free consent. And, if her husband must be taken from her, let him be taken, too!’
‘Not Jerome. No. . . .’ Her voice was broken with emotion and she had sunk on to her knees.
‘May he, too, be taken from her!’ the pastor cried, his voice rising in a wild ecstasy. ‘May he be taken, without cavil, and in obedience to Thy Will alone, O fountainhead of Light, Source of all Good, Spirit Divine!’
For a while he was silent; then, without looking at her, he asked: ‘Well, have you made the sacrifice?’
‘Please have some pity, James. I can’t, I can’t . . . !’
‘Then pray.’ After some minutes had passed, he spoke again. ‘Well, have you made the sacrifice, the sacrifice of all you love?’
She made no answer but fell forward, fainting, on to the bed. . . .
Nearly an hour had passed. There was no movement from the bed; only the child’s swollen head kept tossing to and fro upon the pillow. Her cheeks were red and each intake of the breath seemed to rasp her throat. And her unclosing eyes had the blank stare of madness.
Suddenly, though Madame de Fontanin had not moved or spoken, the pastor gave a start as if she had called his name; then went and knelt beside her. She drew herself up, her features were less strained. For a long while she gazed at the young face lying on the pillow.
Stretching out her arms, she cried: ‘Not my will, but Thy Will be done, O Lord!’
Gregory had never doubted that these words would be spoken, at their due hour. His eyes were closed; with all his fervour he was invoking the grace of God.
The night wore on. At times it seemed as if the child were at her last gasp, that what little life remained to her was flickering out, as intermittently her eyes grew dim. Now and again her body was racked by spasms of pain; each time this happened Gregory took her hand in his and raised his voice in humble prayer.
‘We shall gather in our harvest. But prayer is needed. Let us pray.’
Towards five o’clock he rose, replaced a blanket that had slipped on to the floor and flung the window open. The cold night air poured into the room. Madame de Fontanin, who was still on her knees, made no movement to restrain him.
He went out on to the balcony. There was little sign of dawn as yet. The sky was still a dim metallic grey and the avenue a long tunnel of darkness. But, beyond the Luxembourg Gardens there was a faint sheen on the horizon, and wraiths of mist were drifting up the avenue, swathing the black tree-tops in fleecy vapour. To keep himself from shivering, Gregory stiffened his arms and clenched his hands on the balcony rail. Waves of coolness borne on the light breeze bathed his moist forehead and pale cheeks, on which the long vigil and the strain of fervent prayer had left their mark. Gradually the roofs were turning blue, and bright rectangles of venetian blinds taking form upon the drab, smoke-framed walls.
The pastor gazed toward the sunrise. From sombre depths of shadow a flood of light was surging up towards him, a rosy glow that slowly permeated all the sky. Nature was waking, millions of dancing atoms sparkling in the morning air. And suddenly his chest seemed swelling with a breath of new-born life, a preternatural energy penetrated him, filling him with a sense of incommensurable vastness. In a flash he grew aware of boundless possibilities; his mind controlled the universe, nothing was forbidden him. He could bid that tree, ‘Tremble!’ and it would tremble; say to that child, ‘Arise!’ and, lo, she would rise from the dead. He stretched forth his arm and suddenly, as if in answer to the gesture, the foliage of the avenue began to quiver and a cloud of birds rose twittering with joy into the brightening air.
He went back to the bed and laid his hand on the head of the mother, who was still kneeling at the bedside.
‘Now all things have been made clean, let us rejoice, my dear. Hallelujah!’
He moved to Jenny’s side.
‘The shadows are cast forth. Give me your hands, sweetheart.’
For two days the child had hardly understood a word, but now she gave her hands to him.
‘Look at me!’ he bade her, and the haggard eyes, which had seemed to have lost the faculty of seeing, gazed into his eyes.
‘ “For He shall redeem thee from death . . . and the beasts of the field shall be at peace with thee.” You are well, my little one. The shadows all have fled. Glory be to God! Now, pray!’
The light of understanding had come back to the child’s eyes, her lips were moving.
‘And now, darling, let your eyelids close. Quite softly. That’s right. . . . Now sleep, for all your troubles are over. Now you must sleep—for joy!’
Some minutes later—for the first time in fifty hours—Jenny fell asleep. Quiet at last, her head nestled upon the pillow, her eyelashes cast tranquil shadows on her cheeks, and through the parted lips her breath flowed in an even cadence. She was saved.
It was a school exercise-book bound in plain grey cloth which Jacques and Daniel had selected as being least likely to catch the master’s attention when they passed it to and fro. The first pages were filled with queries jotted down in haste.
What are the dates of Robert the Pious?
Which is it, rapsody or rhapsody!
What’s the trans. of eripuit?
And so forth. Then came some pages filled with notes and corrections, presumably referring to poems Jacques had written—on separate sheets.
Presently, however, the two boys settled down to a steady exchange of letters.
The first letter of any length was written by Jacques.
Paris, Lycée Amyot, Form IIIa, under the suspicious eye of QQ, alias Hogshair. Monday, March 17; the time being 3 hours, 31 minutes and 15 seconds P.M.
Is your prevailing mood one of indifference, of sensuality, or of love? I rather think it must be Number Three, which is more natural to you than the others.
Personally, the more I study my feelings, the more I realize that man’s a BRUTE, and love alone can rescue him from that state. That is the cry of my stricken heart and my heart speaks true! Without you, best beloved, I should be a hopeless fool, a dunderhead. If there’s a spark of understanding in me, I owe it to you alone.
I shall never forget the moments, too few, alas, and too brief, when we are entirely one another’s. You are my only love. I shall never love again; for a thousand memories of you would bar the way. Good-bye, I feel feverish, my forehead is throbbing, my eyes are going dim. Nothing shall ever separate us, promise me. Oh, when, when shall we be free? When shall we be able to live together, go abroad together? How I shall enjoy foreign lands! Think of travelling together, gathering our romantic first impressions and transmuting them into poems, while they are still fresh and fiery!
I hate waiting. Write to me as soon as you possibly can. I want you to be sure and answer this before four, if you love me as I love you.
My heart clasps your heart, as Petronius clasped his divine Eunice.
Vale et me ama!
J.
Daniel’s reply followed on the next page.
I feel that, were I to live alone beneath another sky, the utterly unique bond that links your soul and mine would somehow make me know what is becoming of you. And it seems to me that the lapse of time means nothing to our mutual affection.
It is impossible to tell you the pleasure your letter gave me. You were my friend already and you’ve become far more than that—the better part of me. Have I not helped to shape your soul, as you have helped to shape mine? Good God, how real I feel that is when I’m writing to you! I am alive then! And everything in me is alive—body, mind, heart, imagination—thanks to your devotion, which never shall I doubt, my true and only friend.
D.
P.S.—I’ve induced mother to get rid of my old boneshaker. Good biz! It was falling to pieces.
Tibi,
D.
Another letter from Jacques.
O dilectissime!
How do you manage to be so cheerful at times and so sad at others? Personally, even in my moods of maddest gaiety, time and again I feel myself the prey of sombre thoughts. And I know that never, never again shall I be able to be gay, light-hearted. Always there will rise up before me the spectre of an unattainable ideal.
Ah, sometimes I understand the ecstasy of those pale nuns with bloodless faces who spend their lives remote from this too, too real world! How pitiable to have wings if it is only to break them against prison bars! I am alone in a hostile universe; my father, whom I love, does not understand me. I am not so very old but already how many fair flowers of hope lie broken, how many dews have turned to floods of rain, how many pleasures have been frustrated, what despairs have embittered my life!
Forgive me, beloved, for being so lugubrious—I suppose my ‘character is being formed.’ My brain is in a ferment; my heart even more so, were that possible. Let us remain united for ever. Together we will steer clear of the rocks and reefs, and of the whirlpool men call pleasure.
Everything has turned to ashes in my hands; but there remains the supreme delight of knowing I am yours, and of our SECRET, O chosen of my heart!!
J.
P.S.—I end this letter in great haste as I have my recitation to learn by heart and I don’t know a word of it yet, drat it!
O my love, if I hadn’t got you, I really think I’d kill myself!
J.
Daniel had replied immediately.
So you are suffering?
Why should you, dearest of friends, why should you, who are so young, curse life? It’s sacrilege! You say your soul is tethered to the earth. Well then—work, hope, love, read books!
How can I console you for the sorrow that is preying on your soul? What remedy can I offer for your cries of despair? No, my friend, the Ideal is not incompatible with human nature. No, no, it is not a mere childish fancy, a phantom born of some poet’s dream. For me the Ideal (it’s hard to explain), for me it’s the mingling of what is greatest with the humblest earthly things; it is to bring greatness into all one does; it is the complete development of all those divine faculties that the Creative Breath has instilled in us. Do you understand me? That is the Ideal as I feel it in the depths of my heart.
And then, if you will but trust a friend who is faithful unto death, who has lived much because he has dreamed and suffered so much; if you will trust your friend who has never wished anything but your happiness, let me remind you once again that you don’t live for those who cannot understand you, for the outside world that despises you, poor boy, but for someone—it is I that ‘someone’—who never ceases thinking of you, and feeling like you, with you, about all things.
O my friend, may the sweetness of our wonderful love be like a holy balm on your wounds.
D.
Instantly Jacques had scribbled in the margin:
Forgive me! It is the fault of my violent, extravagant, fantastical nature, dearest love!! I pass from the depths of despair to the most futile hopes; one moment I am in the abyss and the next carried aloft into the clouds! Am I then never to love anything continuously? (If it be not you!!) (And my ART!!!) Yes, such is my destiny—let me confess it . . . to you!
I adore you for your generosity, for your flower-like sensitiveness, for the earnestness you impart to all your thoughts, to all your actions, even to the delights of love. All your tender emotions I share with you, at the selfsame moment as you feel them. Let us thank Providence that we love each other and that our lonely, suffering hearts have been able to mingle thus, indissolubly, flesh to flesh!
Never forsake me.
And let us both remember eternally that each has in the other
the passionate object of
HIS LOVE
J.
There followed two long pages from Daniel, written in a bold, firm hand.
Tuesday April 7.
My Friend,
To-morrow I shall be fourteen. Last year I used to whisper to myself; ‘Fourteen!’ It was like some lovely, impossible dream. Time passes and marks us. But in our depths nothing changes. We are always ourselves. Nothing has changed except that I feel weary and grown old.
Yesterday evening as I was going to bed I took up a volume of Musset. The last time I read it I began to tremble, at the first verse, and sometimes even wept. Yesterday for long sleepless hours I struggled to feel a thrill but nothing came. I found the phrases well-turned, harmonious. . . . Oh, what sacrilege!! Only at the end did the poetic emotion revive in me and, with a torrent of delicious tears, I felt that thrill.
Oh, if only my heart doesn’t dry up! I so fear that life may blunt my heart and senses. I am growing old. Already those great ideas of God, the Spirit, Love, are ceasing to make my bosom throb as once they did, and at times I feel Doubt gnawing at my heart. How sad it all is! Why can’t we live with all the might of our souls, instead of reasoning? We think too much! I envy the vitality of youth which blindly flings itself into every danger without taking thought. How I would love to sacrifice myself, with closed eyes, to a sublime Idea, to an ideal and immaculate Woman, instead of being always thrown back on myself. How dreadful they are, these longings which have no outlet!
You congratulate me on my earnestness. You are wrong; it is my curse, my evil destiny! I am not like the questing bee who goes to suck the honey from flower to flower. I am like the beetle that installs itself in the bosom of a single rose, in which it lives till the petals close about it and it dies suffocated in that last passionate embrace—the embrace of that one flower singled out from all the rest.
My devotion to you, my dear, is like that—faithful till death. You are that tender rose which, in the desolation of the earth, has opened its heart to me. In the depths of your loving heart bury my black despair!
D.
P.S.—You can write to my house without danger during the Easter hols. My mother never interferes with my letters (not that they’re anything very special!).
I have just finished Zola’s La Débâcle, I can lend it to you. I haven’t yet got over the emotions it produced. It has such wonderful power, such depth! I am going to begin Werther. There, my dear, we have at last the book of books. I have also taken Gyp’s Elle et Lui, but I shall read Werther first.
D.
Jacques replied in a severe tone.
For my friend’s fourteenth birthday.
In the universe there is a man who by day suffers unspeakable torments and who cannot sleep of nights, who feels in his heart an aching void that sensual pleasure cannot fill and in his head a fearful chaos of his faculties; who in the giddy whirl of pleasure, amongst his gay companions, feels, of a sudden, solitude with dark wings hovering above his heart. In the universe there is a man who hopes for nothing, and fears nothing, who loathes life and has not the strength to leave it; ’tis HE WHO DOES NOT BELIEVE IN GOD!!!
P.S.—Keep this. You will read it again when you are utterly forsaken and lift your voice in vain amid the darkness.
‘Have you been working during the hols.?’ Daniel asked at the top of another page.
Jacques’ answer followed.
‘I have just completed a poem in the same style as my Harmodius and Aristogeiton. It begins rather neatly.
Hail Caesar! Lo, the blue-eyed maid from Gaul
Dancing for thee the dance of her dear land,
Like a river-lotus ’neath the snowy flight of swans.
A shudder passes through her swaying form.
Hail Emperor! . . . See the huge blade flash
In the fierce sword-dance of her far-off home. . . .
And so on. . . . Here’s the end.
Caesar, thou growest pale! Alas, ah thrice alas!
Her sword’s fell point has pierced the lovely throat.
The cup falls from her hand, the blue eyes close,
All her white nakedness is red with blood,
Red in the pale light of the moon. . . .
Beside the great fire flaring on the lakeside
Ended is the dance
Of the white warrior maid at Caesar’s feast.
I call it ‘The Crimson Offering’ and I have a mimed dance to go with it. I would like to dedicate it to the divine Loie Fuller, and for her to dance it at the Olympia. Do you think she’d do it?
Still, some days ago I took an irrevocable decision to return to the regular metres and rhymed verse of our great classics. (Really I think I ‘despised’ them because they are more difficult.) I have begun an ode in rhymed stanzas on the martyrdom I spoke to you about. This is the beginning.
Ode to Father Perboyre, who died a martyr’s
death in China, Nov. 20, 1839, and was
beatified in January, 1889.
Hail, holy priest, at whose most cruel fate
All the world shuddered through its length and breadth!
Thee would I sing, to Heaven predestinate,
And faithful unto death.
But since yesterday I have come to think that my true vocation will be to write, not poems, but stories and, if I have patience enough, novels. A great theme is fermenting in my mind. Listen!
A young girl, the daughter of a great artist, born in a studio, and herself an artist (that’s to say, rather unstable in character and finding her ideal not in family life but in the cult of Beauty), is loved by a sentimental but bourgeois young man, whom her exotic beauty fascinates. But their love changes to bitter hatred and they part. He then marries a harmless little provincial girl, while she, heart-broken for lost love, plunges into debauchery (or dedicates her genius to God—I don’t yet know which). That’s my idea; what does my friend think of it?
The great thing, you know, is to produce nothing that’s artificial, but to follow one’s bent. Given the instinct to create, one should regard oneself as having the noblest and finest of missions there can be, a great duty to fulfil. Yes, sincerity is all that matters. Sincerity in all things, always. Ah, how cruelly that thought torments me! A thousand times I have fancied I detected in myself that insincerity of the pseudo-artist, pseudo-genius, of which Maupassant discourses in Sur l’Eau. And my heart grew sick with disgust. O dearest, how I thank God that He has given you to me, and how greatly we shall need each other, so as to know ourselves truly and never fall into illusions about the nature of our genius!
I adore you and I clasp your hand passionately, as we did this morning, do you remember? With all my being, which is yours, whole-heartedly, passionately!
Take care! QQ has given us a dirty look. He can’t understand that one may have noble thoughts and pass them on to one’s friend—while he goes mumbling on over his Sallust!!
J.
Another letter, almost illegible, seemed to have been dashed down without a pause.
Amicus amico.
Too full, my heart is overflowing! What I can capture of the flood, I commit to paper.
Born to suffer, love and hope, I hope and love and suffer! The tale of my life can be told in two lines: What makes me live is love, and I have but one love, YOU!
From my early youth I always felt a need to outpour the emotions welling up in my heart into another, into an understanding heart. How many letters did I write in those days to an imaginary person who matched me like a brother! But, alas, it was only my own heart, carried away by its emotion, speaking, or, rather, writing to itself!! Then suddenly God willed that this Ideal should become Flesh, and it took form in You, my love! How did it begin? There is no telling; step by step, I lose myself in a maze of fancies without ever tracing it to its origin. Could anyone ever imagine anything so voluptuous, so sublime as our love?? I seek in vain for comparisons. Beside our great secret everything else turns pale! It’s a sun that warms, enlightens our two lives. But no words can describe it. Written, it is like the photo of a flower.
That’s enough!
Perhaps you are in need of help, of hope or consolation, and here I am sending you not words of affection but the sad effusions of a heart that lives only for itself. Forgive me, my love! I cannot write to you otherwise! I am going through a crisis, my heart is more parched than the stones of a dry watercourse. I am so unsure about everything, unsure of myself; can crueller suffering be??
Scorn me! Write to me no more! Go, love another!! No longer am I worthy of the gift you make me of yourself!
What irony is in this implacable destiny that urges me . . . to what goal? To nothingness!!!
Write to me. If you were lost to me, I should kill myself!
Tibi eximo, carissime,
J.
The Abbé Binot had slipped in between the last pages of the book a note intercepted by the form-master, on the eve of their flight. It consisted of an almost illegible pencilled note from Jacques.
On all who accuse basely and without proof, on all those persons, shame!
Shame to them! Woe to them!
Their machinations are prompted by vile curiosity, they want to nose out the secrets of our friendship. What a foul thing to do!
No sordid truckling to them! We must face out the storm together! Death rather than defeat!
Our love is above calumny and threats!
Let us prove it!
Yours FOR LIFE,
J.
They had reached Marseilles on Sunday, after midnight. The first flush of their enthusiasm had waned. They had slept doubled up on the wooden seats of an ill-lighted carriage, and the noise of turntables and the sudden halt had waked them with a start. They had stepped on to the platform, blinking their eyes, dazed and apprehensive. The glamour had departed.
The first thing was to find somewhere to sleep. Opposite the station was a white globe of light inscribed ‘Hotel’; at the uninviting entrance the proprietor was on the watch for custom. Daniel, the more confident of the two, had boldly asked for two beds for the night. Mistrustful on principle, the man put them some questions. They had their story pat. At the Paris station their father had found he had forgotten a trunk, and had missed the train. He would be arriving in the morning without a doubt, by the first train. The hotel-keeper hummed and hawed, eyeing the youngsters. At last he opened a ledger.
‘Write your names there.’
He addressed Daniel not only because he seemed the older of the two—he looked sixteen—but, even more, because there was something distinguished in his looks and general demeanour that compelled a certain respect. On entering the hotel he had taken off his hat, not out of timidity, but because he had a way of taking off his hat and letting his arm drop to his side—a gesture that seemed to imply: ‘It isn’t specially for you I’m doing this, but because I believe in observing the customs of polite society.’ His dark hair came down to a neat point in the exact centre of his forehead, the skin of which was white as a young girl’s. But there was nothing girlish in the firmly moulded chin which, though quietly determined in its poise, had no suggestion of aggressiveness. His eyes had countered, without either weakness or bravado, the hotel-keeper’s scrutiny, and he had written without hesitation in the ledger: Georges and Maurice Legrand.
‘The room will be seven francs. We always expect to be paid in advance. The night train gets in at 5.30. I’ll see you’re up in time for it.’
They did not dare to tell him they were faint with hunger.
The furniture of the room consisted of two beds, a chair and a basin. As they entered a like shyness came over them both—they would have to undress in front of each other! All desire for sleep had fled. To postpone the awkward moment they sat down on the beds and began checking up their resources. Their joint savings came to 188 francs, which they shared equally between them. Jacques, on emptying his pockets, produced a little Corsican dagger, an ocarina, a twenty-five centime edition of Dante and, last of all, a rather sticky slab of chocolate, half of which he gave to Daniel. Then they sat on, wondering what next to do. To gain time, Daniel unlaced his boots; Jacques followed his example. A vague feeling of apprehension made them feel still more embarrassed. At last Daniel made a move.
‘I’ll blow out the candle,’ he said.
When he had done so, they hastily undressed and climbed into bed, without speaking.
Next morning, before five o’clock, someone started banging loudly on their door. Wraithlike in the pale light of the breaking day, they slipped into their clothes. The proprietor had made some coffee for them, but they refused it for fear of having to talk to him. Hungry and shivering, they visited the station bar.
By noon they had made a thorough exploration of Marseilles. With freedom and the broad daylight, their daring had come back to them. Jacques invested in a note-book in which to record his impressions; now and then he stopped to jot down a phrase, the light of inspiration in his eye. They bought some bread and sausages and, going to the harbour, settled down on a coil of rope in front of stolid, stationary liners and dancing yachts and smacks.
A sailor told them to get up; he needed the cable they were sitting on.
Jacques risked a question. Where were those boats going?
‘That depends. Which of ’em?’
‘That big one.’
‘Her? She’s off to Madagascar.’
‘Really? Shall we see her sail?’
‘No, she ain’t sailing till Thursday next. But if you want to see a liner going out, you’d best come back here this afternoon. The La Fayette there is sailing for Tunis at five.’
At last they had the information they wanted.
Daniel, however, pointed out that Tunis was not Algeria.
‘Anyhow it’s Africa,’ Jacques said, biting off a mouthful of bread. Squatting against a heap of tarpaulins with his shock of coarse red hair standing up, like a tuft of autumn grass, from his low forehead; with his angular head and protruding ears, his scraggy neck and queer-shaped little nose that kept on wrinkling, he brought to mind a squirrel nibbling beechnuts. Daniel had stopped eating. He turned to Jacques.
‘I say! Supposing we wrote to them from here, before we——!’
The glance the younger boy flashed at him cut him short.
‘Are you mad?’ he spluttered, his mouth half full of bread. ‘Just for them to have us arrested the moment we land?’
He scowled furiously at his friend. In the unprepossessing face, which a plentiful crop of freckles did nothing to improve, the blue, harsh, deep-set, imperious eyes had a curiously vivid sheen. Their expression changed so constantly as to make them seem inscrutable. Now earnest, and a moment later gay and mocking; now soft and almost coaxing, they would suddenly go hostile, almost cruel. And then, unexpectedly, they would grow dim with tears; though oftenest they were shrewd and ardent, seemingly incapable of gentleness.
On the brink of a retort Daniel checked himself. His face expressed a meek submission to Jacques’ outburst and, as if to excuse his last remark, he smiled. He had a special way of smiling; the small, pursed mouth would suddenly open on the left, showing his teeth, in a quaint, twisted grin that lent a charming air of gaiety to the pensive face.
On such occasions it seemed odd that the tall, mature-minded youngster did not rebel against the ascendency of his childish friend. His education and experience, the liberty he had enjoyed, gave him an uncontestable advantage over Jacques. Not to mention that, at the Lycée where they had met, Daniel had proved a good pupil, Jacques a slow-coach. Daniel’s nimble wits were always ahead of any demand that was made on them; Jacques, on the other hand, was a poor worker, or rather did not work at all. It was not that his intelligence was at fault. The trouble was that it was directed towards matters that had no connexion with his studies. Some demon of caprice was always prompting him to do the most ridiculous things. He had never been able to resist temptation and seemed quite irresponsible, to follow only the promptings of that inner voice. But the oddest thing was that, though he was at the bottom of his form in most subjects, his fellow pupils and even the masters could not help feeling a certain interest in him. Among the other youngsters, whose personalities were kept in somnolent abeyance by habit and discipline, among the sedulous masters, whose natural gifts seemed to have gone stale on them, this dunce with the unpromising face but given to outbursts of sudden candour and caprice, who seemed to live in a world of daydreams created by and for himself alone, who launched without a second thought into the most preposterous adventures—this odd little creature, while he thoroughly dismayed them, compelled their tacit admiration. Daniel had been amongst the first to feel the attraction of Jacques’ mind, less developed than his own but so fertile, so lavish of surprises, and so remarkably instructive. Moreover, he too had in him a strain of waywardness, a like bias towards independence and revolt. As for Jacques, a day-boarder in a Catholic school, the offspring of a family in which religious exercises bulked so largely—it had been for the sheer excitement of another evasion from the narrow life at home that he had gone out of his way to attract the Protestant boy’s attention; for even then Jacques had guessed that Daniel would reveal to him a world far different from his own. But, in a few weeks, their comradeship had blazed up into an all-absorbing passion, and in it both had found a welcome relief from the moral solitude from which both boys, unconsciously, had been suffering so long. It was a chaste, almost a mystical love, in which the two young souls fused their common yearnings towards the future, and shared all the extravagant and contradictory feelings that can obsess the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy—from a passion for silkworms or secret codes to the most intimate heart-searchings, even to that feverish desire for Life which seemed to intensify with every day they lived through.
Daniel’s silent smile had soothed Jacques down, and now he was munching away again at his bread. The lower part of his face was rather gross; he had the characteristic Thibault jaw, and an over-large mouth, with chapped lips. But, though ugly, the mouth was expressive and suggested a strong-willed, sensual nature. He looked up at his friend.
‘You’ll see, I know the ropes!’ he boasted. ‘Life’s easy in Tunis. Anybody who applies is taken on for the rice-fields. You can chew betel—it’s delicious. You earn wages right away and you get all the grub you want—dates and tangerines and so on . . . and, of course, lots of travelling.’
‘We’ll write to them from there,’ Daniel suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ Jacques corrected, with a toss of his red poll. ‘Once we’ve found our feet and they realize we can get on without them.’
They fell silent. Daniel had finished his meal and was gazing at the big black hulls, the busy scene on the sunlit wharves, and the luminous horizon glimpsed through the forest of masts. He was struggling against himself, trying to fix his mind on what he saw, so as not to think about his mother.
The great thing was somehow to get on board the La Fayette that evening.
A waiter pointed out to them the offices of the Messageries Line. The fares were posted up. Daniel went to the ticket-office window.
‘Please, my father has sent me to get two third-class passages to Tunis.’
‘Your father?’ The old clerk went on placidly with his work. All that could be seen of him was the top of his forehead, rising above a pile of papers. He continued writing for a while. Then, without looking up, he said to Daniel: ‘Very well, go and tell him to come here himself—and to bring his identity papers with him, don’t forget!’
They grew aware that the other people in the office were staring at them, and fled without another word. Jacques, who was boiling with rage, thrust his hands deep in his pockets. His imagination was suggesting to him a series of expedients. They might get taken on as cabin-boys, or as cargo—in crates well stocked with food; or hire a row-boat and go by easy stages along the coast to Gibraltar and thence to Morocco, halting each night at a port where they would play the ocarina and pass the hat round on the terraces of the little inns.
Daniel was pondering; that inner voice had once again made itself heard, warning him. He had heard it thus several times since they had run away. But this time he could no longer turn a deaf ear; he had to take heed of it. And there was no mistaking the disapproval manifest in that still small voice.
‘Why not lie low in Marseilles for a bit?’ he suggested.
‘We’d be spotted before two days were out,’ Jacques retorted scornfully. ‘Oh yes, you can be sure the hunt is up already: they’re on our tracks all right.’
Daniel pictured the scene at home: his mother’s anxiety as she plied Jenny with questions, and, after that, her visit to the Principal to ask if he knew anything about her son.
‘Listen,’ he said. He was breathing with an effort. Then he noticed a bench near by and made Jacques sit beside him. Taking his courage in both hands, he went on: ‘Now or never, we’ve got to think things out. After all, when they’ve hunted for us high and low for two or three days, don’t you think they’ll have been punished enough?’
Jacques clenched his fists. ‘No! I tell you! No!’ he shouted. ‘Have you forgotten everything so soon?’ Such was the nervous tension of his body that he was no longer sitting on the bench, but lying propped against it, stiff as a board. His eyes were aflame with rage against the school, the Abbé, the School, the Principal, his father, society, the world’s injustice. ‘Anyhow they’ll never believe us!’ he cried. His voice went hoarse. ‘They’ve stolen our grey letter-book. They don’t understand and they can’t understand! If you’d seen the priest, the way he tried to make me confess things! His Jesuit tricks, of course. Just because you’re a Protestant, he said, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do, nothing. . . . !’
Shame made him turn away. Daniel’s eyes dropped and a pang of grief shot through his heart at the hideous thought that their foul suspicions might have been imparted to his mother.
‘Do you think they’ll tell mother?’ he muttered.
But Jacques was not listening.
‘No!’ he exclaimed again. ‘No, I won’t hear of it. You know what we agreed on. Nothing’s changed. We’ve gone through enough persecution. Good-bye to all that! When we’ve proved by deeds the stuff we’re made of, and that we don’t need them, you’ll see how they respect us. There’s only one thing to do, and that’s to go abroad and earn our living without them. After that, yes, then we can write and say where we are, and state our terms, and tell them we intend to remain friends, and be free, because our friendship is for life and for death!’ He stopped, steadied his nerves, and went on in a normal tone. ‘Otherwise, as I’ve told you, I shall kill myself.’
Daniel gazed at him with a scared expression. The small pale face, mottled with yellow blotches, had a look of deadly earnest, exempt from any bravado.
‘I swear to you,’ Jacques continued, ‘that I’m quite determined not to fall into their clutches again. Before that happens I’ll have shown them what I am. Either we win our freedom or—see that?’ Raising the edge of his waistcoat, he let Daniel see the handle of the Corsican dagger that he had filched, on the Sunday morning, from his brother’s room. ‘Or this might be better.’ He drew from his pocket a small bottle done up in paper. ‘If you dared to refuse, now, to embark with me, I’d . . . I’d make short work of it. Like this!’ He made the gesture of drinking off the bottle. ‘And I’d drop down dead.’
‘What . . . what is it?’ Daniel murmured, terrified.
‘Tincture of iodine,’ Jacques replied, still watching Daniel’s face.
‘Look here, Thibault! Do please give me that bottle!’ Daniel pleaded.
Horrified though he was, he felt a thrill of love and admiration; once more he was carried away by his friend’s extraordinary charm. And again the project of adventure tempted him. Meanwhile Jacques had put the bottle back in his pocket.
‘Let’s walk,’ he said, scowling at Daniel. ‘One can’t think properly sitting down.’
At four o’clock they were back at the quay. The La Fayette was the focus of an animated scene. A steady stream of dockhands, with crates and boxes on their shoulders—like ants rescuing their eggs—was passing along the gangplanks. The two boys, Jacques in front, followed them. On the freshly scrubbed deck sailors were operating a winch above a yawning gulf, lowering baggage and cargo into the hold. A small, sturdy man with a beaked nose, hairy black hands and cheeks, and a smooth pink skin, was directing operations. He was wearing a bluejacket with gold braid on the sleeves.
At the last moment Jacques backed out.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Daniel began, slowly removing his hat, ‘are you the Captain?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’ the man enquired with a laugh.
‘I’ve come with my brother, sir. We’d like to ask you . . .’ Even before the end of the phrase Daniel was conscious he had taken a wrong line, that he’d bungled it beyond redress, ‘. . . to—er—take us to Tunis on your ship.’
‘All alone like that, eh?’ the man asked with a sort of leer. There was something in his bloodshot eyes—a glint of unsavoury effrontery, almost maniacal—that suggested more than the words conveyed.
Daniel realized that there was nothing for it but to go on with their preconcerted story.
‘We came to Marseilles to join our father; he’s been given a job in Tunis, on a rice-farm and—er—he has written to us to join him there. We have the money for our fares.’ That improvised addition to their story, he realized, once he had made it, sounded as lame as all the rest.
‘Right. Who are you staying with at Marseilles just now?’
‘With . . . with nobody. We’ve only just come from the station.’
‘You don’t know anyone at Marseilles?’
‘N-no.’
‘And so you want to come on board to-day?’
Daniel was on the point of answering ‘No’ and bolting without more ado. But he answered feebly:
‘Well, yes, sir.’
‘See here, my young beauties,’ the sailor grinned, ‘you’re mighty lucky the Old Man didn’t find you here. He don’t have much time for jokers like you, that he don’t, and he’d have clapped you into irons and sent you off to the police, just to find out what your little game may be. And, now I think of it, I’m damned if that ain’t the best thing to do with little scallawags like you,’ he suddenly roared, catching Daniel by the sleeve. ‘Hi there, Charlot! You nab the little chap, while I . . .’
But Jacques, who had seen his gesture, took a wild leap over the packing-cases, dodged Charlot’s outstretched arm with a wriggle and was at the gangway in three strides. Slipping like a monkey between the dockers coming up it, he jumped on to the quay, turned left and started bolting for dear life. Then suddenly he remembered Daniel, and looked back. Yes, Daniel was escaping too. Jacques watched him thread his way between the antlike file of dockhands, dash off the gangway and swerve to the right, while the supposed captain, leaning on the bulwarks, roared with laughter at their panic. Jacques started running again. He and Daniel could meet later; for the moment the thing to do was to hide amongst the crowd and to get away, to get away at all costs!
A quarter of an hour later, out of breath, in a deserted street on the outskirts of the city, he stopped. At first he felt a cruel glee in fancying Daniel had been caught. If he had been, he deserved it. Wasn’t it his fault their plans had come to grief? He hated him now and was half inclined to make off into the country and carry on the escapade alone, without bothering about Daniel. He bought cigarettes and began smoking. However, after making a long détour through a modern quarter of the town, he found himself back at the quayside. The La Fayette was still there. From where he was he could just see the three decks lined with people, packed like sardines; the liner was getting under way. He ground his teeth and turned on his heel.
Then he began to look for Daniel, feeling he must vent his anger on somebody. After wandering through various streets, he entered the Cannebière, followed the stream of loiterers for a time, then turned on his tracks. The air was oppressive; a storm was brewing. Jacques was bathed in sweat. How was he to find Daniel amongst all those people? His desire to get in touch with his companion became more and more insistent, as his hopelessness of doing so increased. His lips, parched by the unaccustomed cigarettes and the fever in his blood, were burning. Without caring whether he attracted attention, or troubling about a distant growl of thunder, he started running desperately along the streets, peering in all directions till his eyes ached. Then a sudden change came over the city. The façades of the buildings stood out pale against a livid sky and a grey light seemed rising from the cobbles. The storm was rapidly approaching. Great drops of rain began to star the pavement. A violent clap of thunder, close at hand, set him trembling. He was walking past some steps, beneath a pillared entrance which he discovered was the porch of a church. The door was open; he ran in.
His steps echoed under the high roof and a familiar scent assailed his nostrils. Immediately he felt a vast relief, a sense of security. He was no longer alone, the presence of God was round him, sheltering him. But at the same moment a new fear gripped him. Since leaving home he had not once thought of God. And suddenly he felt hovering above him the unseen Eye that sees and penetrates the most secret places of the heart. He knew himself for a miserable sinner whose profanation of this holy place might well bring down on him God’s vengeance. Rain gushed down the roof, violent flashes lit up the windows of the apse, the thunder roared incessantly, echoing round him as he cowered in the incense-laden darkness; almost he fancied that the fires of heaven were seeking out the offender! Kneeling at a prie-dieu, Jacques humbled himself before the altar, with bowed head, and hastily recited a Paternoster and some Aves.
At last the crashes began to space out, a spectral light glimmered across the stained-glass windows; the storm was passing. All immediate danger was over. He had a feeling that he had cheated, had eluded just reprisals. Deep down in him the sense of guilt persisted, but tempered by a thrill of perverse arrogance at having escaped the hand of justice. And, though he had qualms about it, it gave him a certain pleasure. Night was closing in. Why was he lingering here? With the passing of his fear a curious apathy had come over him and, staring at the wavering candle-flames upon the altar, he was conscious of a vague feeling of dissatisfaction, almost of resentment, as though the church had been secularized. A sacristan came to close the doors. He fled like a thief, without the merest apology for a prayer, without a genuflexion. He knew well that he was not taking away with him God’s pardon.
A brisk wind was drying up the pavements. Few people were about. Jacques begun to wonder where Daniel might be. He pictured the mishaps that might have befallen him and his eyes filled with tears, blurring the road ahead. He tried to keep them back by walking more quickly. At that moment had he seen Daniel crossing the street and coming towards him, he would have swooned with joy and affection for his friend.
A clock struck eight. Windows were lighting up. Feeling hungry, he bought some bread; then continued walking straight before him, haunted by his despair, without so much as troubling to scrutinize the people he encountered.
Two hours later, thoroughly fagged out, he noticed a seat under some trees in a deserted avenue. He sat down. From the branches of a plane-tree heavy drops fell on his head. . . . A peremptory hand was shaking his shoulder. He realized he must have fallen asleep. He saw a constable examining him, and felt like fainting; his legs seemed giving way beneath him.
‘Get home now, my lad; and look sharp about it!’
Jacques fled into the darkness. He had ceased wondering about Daniel, had ceased thinking about anything. His feet were sore. Whenever he saw a policeman he slunk out of his sight. He made his way back to the harbour. Midnight was striking. The wind had fallen; coloured lights, two by two, were dancing on the water. The wharf was deserted. He all but fell over the legs of a beggar snoring in a nook between two bales. Stronger than his fears, there came on him an irresistible desire to lie down, to sleep, no matter where, at all costs. He took a few steps, lifted the corner of a big tarpaulin, stumbled over boxes smelling of sodden wood, fell down and was asleep at once.
Meanwhile Daniel was hunting high and low for Jacques. He had roamed round the station, round the hotel where they had slept and the offices of the shipping company; all in vain. He went back to the harbour. The La Fayette’s berth was empty, the port seemed dead; the storm was sending the loiterers home.
With lowered head he started back to the centre, the rain beating on his shoulders. After buying some food for Jacques and himself he took a seat at the café which they had visited in the morning. It was coming down in torrents in this part of the city. At every window the sun-blinds were being hauled in and the waiters at the café, with napkins on their heads, were rolling up the large awnings above the terraces. Trams sped past, their trolleys flashing vivid sparks along the wires against the leaden sky, their wheels cutting like ploughshares through the torrent on the road and throwing the water up on either side. Daniel’s feet were sopping, his temples throbbing. What could have become of Jacques? Even more painful to him than the fact that he had lost touch with the younger boy, was the thought of his anxiety and distress, all alone. He told himself that he would catch sight of him just over there, at that corner by the bakery, and watched intently. With his mind’s eye he pictured Jacques trudging through the puddles, his face ghastly white and his eyes desperately hunting for his friend in every direction. Time and time again he was on the point of calling out—but it wasn’t Jacques, only an unknown little boy dashing into the baker’s and emerging with a loaf tucked under his coat.
Two hours passed. The rain had stopped and darkness was falling. Daniel dared not go; he felt sure Jacques would turn up the moment he left the place where he was waiting. At last he made a move towards the station. The white globe above the door of their hotel was lit up. It was a badly lighted neighbourhood; would they be able to recognize each other, he wondered, if they met in this obscurity?
A voice cried: ‘Mummy!’ He saw a boy of his own age crossing the street and joining a lady, who kissed him. She had opened her umbrella to protect herself from the drips off the roofs. Her son linked his arm with hers; affectionately talking, they disappeared into the darkness. An engine whistled. Daniel felt too exhausted to fight down his depression.
Ah, what a fool he had been to follow Jacques! Only too well he knew it now; indeed, he had been conscious of it all the time, from the very start, since their early-morning meeting at the Luxembourg, when they had decided on the mad adventure. No, never for a moment had he been able to shake off the idea that if, instead of running away, he had hastened to explain things to his mother, far from reproaching him, she would have shielded him from everything and everybody, and no harm would have come to him. Why had he given way? He simply could not understand what had possessed him to act as he had done.
He saw himself again, that Sunday morning, in the hall. Jenny, hearing his footsteps, had run up to him. On the tray had lain a yellow envelope with the Lycée stamp—notifying his expulsion, he assumed. He had hidden it under the tablecloth. Silently Jenny had gazed at him with her keen eyes; she had guessed that some alarming event had happened, and followed him to his room. She had seen him pick up the wallet in which he kept his savings. Then she had thrown herself on him and clasped him in her arms, kissing him, holding him so tightly that he could hardly breathe. ‘What’s the matter? What are you going to do?’ He had confessed that he was running away, that he was in trouble at school, he was falsely accused and all the masters were leagued against him; that it was essential he should disappear for a few days. ‘Alone?’ she had asked. No, he was going with a friend. ‘Who is it?’ Thibault. ‘Take me with you!’ He had drawn her to him as he had used to do when they were little, and had asked in a low voice: ‘What about mother?’ She had burst into tears. Then he had said: ‘Don’t be afraid, and don’t believe anything they may say. In a few days I’ll write, and I shall come back. But swear to me, swear that you will never tell mother, or anyone else—never, never—that I came home and you saw me and you knew I was going away.’ She had given a quick nod. Then he had tried to kiss her, but she had run off to her bedroom, sobbing bitterly. Her last cry of utter, heart-rending despair still rang in his ears. . . . He stepped out more briskly.
Walking straight ahead, without looking where he was going, he soon found himself at some distance from the city, in the suburbs. The pavements were deep in slush, and street-lamps few and far between. Black gulfs of darkness yawned on either side: the entrances of yards and evil-smelling alleys. Children swarmed in the squalid tenement-houses, and in a sordid tavern a gramophone was grinding away. Turning, he walked for some time in the opposite direction. And now he realized that he was dead-tired. A lighted clock-tower showed up, and he knew that he was back at the station. The hands marked one. A long night lay before him; what was he to do? He looked round for some place where he could stop and take breath. A gas-lamp was burning at the entrance of a blind alley; crossing the tract of light, he crouched down in the darkness. A high factory wall rose on his left; resting his back against it, he closed his eyes.
A woman’s voice woke him with a start. ‘You don’t propose sleeping there all night, do you? Where do you live?’
She led him out under the light. He stared at her, tongue-tied.
‘I can see,’ she went on. ‘You’ve had a dust-up with your dad, and you daren’t go back home. That’s it, eh?’
Her voice was gentle. He saw no need to undeceive her.
‘Yes, Madame,’ he said politely, hat in hand.
‘ “Yes, Madame!” ’ she laughed. ‘That’s good! Well, well, you’ll have to go back home, there’s no two ways about it. I’ve been through it myself, and I know. And, as you’ll have to do it, what’s the use of waiting? The more you put it off, the worse it is.’ Puzzled by his silence, she asked in a lower voice: ‘Are you afraid of getting a hiding from your dad?’ Her manner of asking it was that of a fellow-conspirator, friendly but inquisitive.
He still said nothing.
‘Ain’t he a card!’ she laughed. ‘And that pig-headed he’d rather spend the night out in the street! Oh well, come along then. There’s no one at my place and I can give you a shake-down on the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to leave a poor kid out all night in the street.’
She looked decent enough, and he felt a vast relief at having someone to talk to at last. He would have liked to say, ‘Thank you, Madame,’ but he said nothing, and followed her.
They came to a low door. She rang the bell but the door was long in opening. The hall smelt of washing. He stumbled against the bottom step of a flight of stairs.
‘I’ll lead the way,’ she said. ‘Give me your hand.’
The lady’s hand was gloved and warm. He followed her meekly. The air, too, was warm inside the house. Daniel was glad to be no longer out-of-doors. They went up several flights of stairs; then she produced a key, opened a door and lit a lamp. He saw an untidy room, an unmade bed. He remained standing, blinking in the sudden light, worn out and half asleep. Without waiting to take off her hat, she pulled a mattress off the bed and dragged it into another room. Turning, she began laughing again.
‘Why, he’s half asleep already, poor kid. . . . Look here, you’d better take your shoes off, anyhow.’
He complied, with nerveless hands. His project of returning next morning to the station buffet, at exactly five, in the hope that Jacques might have the same idea, was haunting him, like an obsession.
‘Would you please wake me very early?’
‘Don’t you worry! I’ll see you’re up in time,’ she laughed.
He vaguely felt her helping him to take off his tie, and undress. Then he dropped like a log on to the mattress, and lost consciousness at once. . . .
When Daniel opened his eyes, it was already day. He thought at first that he was in his bedroom at home. Then he was struck by the colour of the light filtering through the curtains. A young voice was singing in the next room, the door of which was open. Then he remembered.
Glancing into the room, he saw a little girl (or so she seemed) washing her face over a basin. Turning, she saw him lying on the mattress, propped on an elbow.
‘Ah, so you’re awake. Good for you!’ she laughed.
Could this be the lady of the night before? In a chemise and short skirt, her arms and legs bare, she looked like a child. Now that she was not wearing a hat he noticed that she had short brown hair, cut like a boy’s and brushed vigorously back.
Suddenly a memory of Jacques appalled him.
‘Good heavens, and I’d meant to be at the buffet first thing!’
But the warmth of the blankets she had tucked round him while he was asleep made him disinclined to move. And anyhow he did not dare to get up while the door stood open. Just then she came in, carrying a steaming cup and a hunk of buttered bread.
‘Look here! Get your teeth into this, and then clear off. I don’t want to have your pa coming round and making trouble for me.’
He felt embarrassed at being seen by her half-dressed, in his shirt and with his collar open, and even more embarrassed at seeing her come towards him, for her neck, too, was bare and so were her shoulders. She bent towards him. Lowering his eyes, he took the cup and, to hide his bashfulness, began to eat the bread-and-butter. Shuffling her slippers and singing, she moved from one room to the other. He dared not lift his eyes from the cup, but, when she passed close by, he could not help noticing her naked, slender, blue-veined legs almost level with his eyes and, gliding above the deal floor, her reddened heels emerging from the slippers. The bread stuck in his throat. He felt unnerved, incapable of facing this new day, big with unpredictable events. It flashed across his mind that at home, at the breakfast-table his chair was empty.
A sudden burst of sunlight flooded the room; the girl had just thrown the shutters open, and her young voice trilled in the bright air like bird-song.
Ah, si l’amour prenait racine
J’en planterais dans mon jardin!
His self-control gave way. The sunshine, her careless joy—at the very moment when he was fighting down his despair! His eyes filled with tears.
‘Come along! Hurry up!’ she cried gaily, picking up his empty cup.
Then she saw he was crying.
‘Feeling low?’ she asked.
She had a kind, big-sisterly voice; he could not keep back a sob. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, slipped her arm round his neck and, with a mothering gesture of consolation—the final argument of women all the world over—pillowed his head upon her breast. He dared not make the slightest movement; he could feel, across her chemise, the rise and fall of her breast, and its soft warmth against his cheeks. He felt his breath failing him.
‘You silly boy!’ Drawing back, she hid her breast with her bare arm. ‘It’s seeing that, is it, that makes you go all funny! Why, I’d never have believed it of you—at your age! By the bye, how old are you?’
The lie came out automatically after his practice during the last two days.
‘Sixteen.’
‘Sixteen?’ She sounded surprised.
She had taken his hand and was examining it absent-mindedly. Pushing back the sleeve, she uncovered his arm.
‘My word, the kid’s skin is as white as a girl’s,’ she smiled.
She had raised the boy’s wrist and was fondling his hand with her cheek. The smile died from her face. Taking a deep breath, she dropped his hand. Before he realized what she was doing, she had unfastened her skirt.
‘I’m cold. Warm me up!’ she whispered, slipping between the blankets. . . .
Jacques had slept badly under the tarpaulin stiffened by the cold rain. Before dawn he crept from his hiding-place and began to wander aimlessly in the dim light of daybreak. ‘It’s certain,’ he mused, ‘that if Daniel’s free, he’ll have the idea of going to the station buffet as we did yesterday.’ He was there, himself, before five o’clock. At six he still could not make up his mind where to go.
What was he to think? What should he do? He ascertained where the prison was. Sick at heart, he hardly dared to raise his eyes to the closed entrance-gate.
CITY GAOL
There, perhaps, Daniel . . . He dared not complete the thought. He walked all round the endless wall, stepped back to judge the height of the barred windows; then, seized with sudden fear, he fled.
All that morning he scoured the town. The sun was blazing hot and the bright colours of the linen hanging out to dry made the crowded streets seem gay with bunting. On doorsteps gossips laughed and chattered in acrimonious tones. The sights of the street, its freedom and adventurous possibilities, gave him a brief exhilaration. But at once his thoughts harked back to Daniel. He held the bottle of iodine clutched in his hand, deep down in his pocket; if he did not find Daniel before the night, he would kill himself. He swore it, raising his voice a little to bind himself more strongly; inwardly he wondered if he would have the necessary courage.
It was not till nearly eleven, when he was passing for the hundredth time in front of the café where, the evening before, they had asked the way to the shipping office, that . . . Yes! There he was!
Jacques charged down oh him between the tables and chairs lining the terrace. Daniel, more self-controlled, had risen.
‘Steady on!’
People were staring at them. They shook hands, Daniel paid, and, leaving the café, they turned down the nearest side-street. Then Jacques clutched his friend’s arm and, clinging to him, hugged him passionately. Suddenly he began to sob, his forehead pressed to Daniel’s shoulder. Daniel was not crying, but he was very pale. He walked steadily on, his gaze untender and focussed far ahead, but he was pressing Jacques’ small hand to his side. His upper lip, drawn back across his teeth on one side of his mouth, was trembling.
Jacques described his adventures. ‘Just think, I slept on the quay like a thief, under a tarpaulin! What about you?’
Daniel was embarrassed. His respect for his friend and for their friendship was immense; yet now, for the first time, he was bound to conceal something from Jacques, something of vital importance. The enormity of the secret that had come between them overpowered him. He was on the point of letting himself go, of telling everything; but no, he could not. He remained ill at ease and tongue-tied, unable to expel the haunting memory of all that had befallen him.
‘What about you?’ Jacques repeated. ‘Where did you spend the night?’
Daniel made a vague gesture. ‘On a seat, over there. But most of the time I just mooned about.’
After a meal, they talked things over. To stay in Marseilles would be imprudent; their movements would be bound to arouse suspicion, sooner or later.
‘In that case . . . ?’ Daniel murmured tentatively.
‘In that case,’ Jacques replied, ‘I know what to do. We must go to Toulon. It’s only ten or twenty miles from here, over there on the left, along the coast. We’ll go on foot; they’ll think we’re schoolboys out for a walk. At Toulon there are any number of boats and we’ll manage somehow or other to get on board one.’
While he spoke, Daniel could not take his eyes off the loved face that he had found again, the freckled cheeks, the frail, almost transparent ears and the blue eyes in which pictures seemed to come and go of the things he was describing: Toulon and ships and the vast horizons of the sea. But, however great his desire to share Jacques’ fine tenacity of purpose, his common sense made him sceptical; he felt sure they would never set out on that voyage. . . . And yet was it really so impossible? At times almost he hoped he was wrong, that dreams might prove truer than common sense.
They bought some food and started for Toulon. Two women of the town stared at them, and smiled. Daniel blushed; their skirts no longer hid from him the secrets of their bodies. Fortunately Jacques was whistling, and noticed nothing. Daniel felt that that experience, the mere memory of which made his heart beat faster, would be from now on a barrier between them. Jacques could never now be his friend in the fullest sense; he was only a ‘kid.’
After passing through the suburbs they reached at last a road ribboning the windings of the coast like a line traced in pink chalk along the seashore. A slight breeze met them, with a tang that had an after-taste of brine. Their shoulders scorched by the sun, they trudged through the white dust. The nearness of the sea intoxicated them; they left the road and ran to it crying: ‘Thalassa! Thalassa!’ and reaching eager hands towards the sparkling blue waves. But the sea proved less easy of access than they had hoped. At the point where they approached it, the shore did not shelve down to the water’s edge along the reach of golden sand their eagerness had pictured. It overhung a deep gulf of equal width throughout, in which the sea was breaking over dark, jagged rocks. Immediately below them a mass of tumbled boulders projected like a Cyclopean breakwater; waves were charging furiously against the granite ledges, only to slip back in impotent confusion, foam-flecked, along its smooth, steep flanks. They had joined hands and, bending over the abyss, forgot everything in contemplation of the seething eddies faceted with broken lights. And in their wordless ecstasy there was a certain awe.
‘Look!’ Daniel said.
A few hundred yards out a boat, a miracle of dazzling whiteness, was gliding over the dark blue expanse. The hull was painted green beneath the water-line, the bright green of a young leaf, and the boat was moving forward to a strong rhythm of oars that lifted the bows clean out of the water and with each stroke displayed a streaming glint of green, vivid as an electric spark.
‘Ah, if only one could describe all that!’ Jacques murmured, crushing the note-book in his pocket between his fingers. ‘But you’ll see!’ he cried, with a jerk of his shoulders. ‘Africa is even more lovely! Come along!’
He dashed back, between the rocks, on to the road. Daniel ran beside him, and for the moment his heart was care-free, emptied of regret, all eagerness for adventure.
They came to a place where the road climbed and turned off at a right angle, to reach a group of houses. Just when they came to the bend, a terrific uproar made them stop abruptly; they saw charging down at break-neck speed towards them, zigzagging across the road, what seemed to be a confused mass of horses, wheels and barrels. Before they could make a movement to get out of the way, it had crashed, fifty yards off, against an iron railing. A large, heavily laden dray, coming down the slope, had not been braked in time. The momentum of its downward rush had swept the four horses drawing it off their feet and, rearing, struggling, tripping over each other, they had fallen at the turn. Wine was gushing out on to the road and an excited crowd of men, shouting and swearing and waving their arms, was gathering round a hideous, inextricable tangle of bleeding nostrils, hoofs and cruppers floundering in the dust. Suddenly across the thuds of steel-shod hoofs against the iron apron, the clank of chains, jangling bells, the neighing of the other horses and the imprecations of the drivers, there sounded a hoarse, grating cough that dominated all the other sounds. It was the death-rattle of the leader, a grey horse on which the others were trampling and which, its legs pinned under him, was suffocating, strangled by the harness. A man dashed in amongst the maddened horses, brandishing an axe. They saw him stumble, fall, and rise again; now he was holding the grey horse by an ear and desperately hacking at its collar. But the collar was of iron and he merely dinted the edge of his axe upon it. The man drew himself up, his features convulsed with helpless rage, and flung the axe against the wall, while the rattle rose to a strident gasping, that grew shriller and shriller, while a stream of blood gushed from the dying horse’s nostrils.
Jacques felt the world reeling around him. He tried to grasp Daniel’s sleeve, but his fingers went stiff and his nerveless legs gave way under him. People gathered round the boys; Jacques was helped to a seat in a little garden, beside a pump, and a kindly soul began bathing his forehead with cold water. Daniel was as pale as he.
When they returned to the road, the whole village was busy with the barrels. The horses had been extricated. Of the four only one had escaped unscathed; two, their forelegs broken, were kneeling on the road. The fourth was dead and lay sprawling in the ditch into which the wine was flowing, his grey head pressed to the earth, his tongue lolling, his glazed eyes half shut, and his legs neatly doubled up beneath him—as if, before dying, he had tried to make himself as portable as could be for the knacker. The utter stillness of the shaggy grey bulk, smeared with blood and wine and road-dust, was in striking contrast with the heaving flanks of the other horses, standing or kneeling, unheeded, in the middle of the road.
They watched one of the cartmen go up to the dead horse. The old, weathered face with the sweat-matted hair was convulsed with rage, yet had a certain gravity ennobling it and proving how much he took to heart the disaster. Jacques could not take his eyes off him. He watched him place between his lips a cigarette he had been holding, then bend over the fallen horse and feel the swollen tongue already black with flies, and insert his finger in the mouth, baring the yellow teeth. He remained for a few moments, stooping, running his fingers over the mottled gums. Then he straightened himself up and sought some friendly eye. His gaze met that of the two boys and, without troubling to wipe his hands, smeared with sticky froth in which flies were crawling, he replaced the cigarette between his lips.
‘He weren’t seven, that poor ’oss,’ he said with an angry jerk of his shoulders. Then he turned to Jacques. ‘The best ’un of the team, he were, the hardest worker of the lot. I’d give two of my fingers, these two, to have him back.’ He looked away, a wry smile screwing up his lips, and spat.
The boys began to walk away, and now their gaiety had given place to a profound dejection.
‘Have you ever seen a real corpse, a human being’s, I mean?’ Jacques suddenly enquired.
‘No.’
‘You’ve no idea, old chap, how strange it looks. . . . I’d been thinking about it for a longish while; then one Sunday, at catechism time, I rushed off there.’
‘Where?’
‘To the Morgue.’
‘What? By yourself?’
‘Of course. You simply can’t imagine, Daniel, how pale a corpse can be. Just like wax, or plaster of Paris. There were two corpses there that day. One had its face all gashed about, but the other looked almost alive. . . . Yes, it looked alive,’ he repeated, ‘but at the very first glance you couldn’t help knowing the man was dead. There was something about him—oh, I don’t know what. You saw that horse just now; well, it was just the same thing. . . . One day, when we’re free,’ he added, ‘some Sunday, you must come with me there, to the Morgue.’
Daniel had ceased to listen. They had just passed below the balcony of a house from which there came the tinkle of a piano; a child was playing scales. Jenny! And suddenly there rose before him Jenny’s delicately moulded features, the expression of her face when she had cried to him, ‘What are you going to do?’ while the tears welled up in her grey eyes, large with wonder.
‘Aren’t you sorry you haven’t got a sister?’ he asked after a while.
‘Yes, rather. An elder sister’s what I’d like. I have a—a sort of little sister.’ Seeing Daniel’s puzzled look, he added: ‘Mademoiselle is bringing up at home a little niece of hers, an orphan. Gise is ten. Her name’s Gisèle, but we call her Gise for short. She’s just like a little sister to me.’
Suddenly his eyes grew moist. Then his thoughts took a new turning. ‘You, of course, were brought up in a quite different way. For one thing, you’re an ordinary day-boy, you’re almost free, you have much the same life as Antoine. . . . But, then, you’re such a sensible chap—that makes all the difference.’ There was a hint of regret in his tone.
‘Meaning—you’re not a sensible chap?’ There was no irony in Daniel’s tone.
‘I “sensible”!’ Jacques’ eyebrows puckered. ‘Don’t I know that I’m . . . unbearable! And there’s nothing to be done about it. Sometimes I have fits of rage, you know, when I lose my grip on things completely—I storm about and break things, I shout most horrible words; when I’d be quite capable of jumping out of a window or knocking somebody down. I’d rather you knew everything about me, that’s why I’m telling you all this.’ It was evident that he took a morose pleasure in accusing himself. ‘I don’t know if it’s my fault or not. I rather think that, if I lived with you, I shouldn’t be like that. But I’m not so sure.
‘At home, when I come back in the evening—if you only could imagine what they’re like!’ he went on, after a while, staring into the distance. ‘Father has never taken me seriously. The Abbés tell him I’m a perfect terror at school; that’s to suck up to him, of course; to make out they’re having no end of trouble, bringing up the son of Monsieur Thibault, who has a lot of influence with the Cathedral people. But Papa is kind, you know,’—his voice took on a sudden fervour—‘awfully kind, really. Only—I don’t know how to explain it. He’s so wrapped up in his public duties, his committees, in his lectures and religion. And Mademoiselle, too; whenever something goes wrong with me, it’s always God who’s punishing me for my sins. Do you understand? After dinner Papa always shuts himself up in his study, and Mademoiselle hears my lessons—I never know them!—in Gise’s room, while she puts her to bed. She won’t even let me stay alone in my room. They’ve unscrewed my switch—would you believe it?—to prevent me using the electric light.’
‘What about your brother?’ Daniel asked.
‘Oh Antoine, he’s an awfully good sort; only he’s always out. I rather think, though he’s never said anything to me about it, that he, too, doesn’t much like being at home. He was quite grown up when mother died; he’s exactly nine years older than I—so Mademoiselle never managed to get much of a hold over him. It’s different for me, of course; she’s looked after me all my life.’
Daniel said nothing.
‘You can’t imagine what it’s like,’ Jacques repeated. ‘Your people know how to treat you: you’ve been brought up quite differently. It’s the same with books. You are allowed to read everything; all the bookshelves are open in your home. But I’m never allowed to read anything except rotten old picture-books, bound in red and gold, Jules Verne and all that sort of rubbish. They don’t even know I write poetry. It’s just as well. They’d make such a song about it, they wouldn’t understand. And very likely they’d ask the masters to keep an eye on me and give me a putrid time at school.’
There was a rather long silence. Swerving from the sea, the road began to climb towards a grove of cork-trees.
Suddenly Daniel drew nearer Jacques and took his arm.
‘Listen,’ he said, and his voice, which was just breaking, had a low, sonorous emphasis, ‘I’m thinking of the future. One never can tell. We might be separated from each other one day. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time; something that would . . . would seal our friendship, for always. Promise that you’ll dedicate your first book of poems to me. Oh, you needn’t put the name. Just, To my Friend. Will you, Jacques?’
‘I swear it,’ Jacques said, and it seemed to him that he had suddenly grown taller. . .
Entering the wood, they sat down under the trees. Over Marseilles the sun was setting in a blaze of fire. Feeling his ankles swollen and painful, Jacques took off his boots and socks and lay down on the grass. Daniel looked at him absent-mindedly; then suddenly he averted his eyes from the small bare feet with the reddened heels.
‘Look, there’s a lighthouse!’ Jacques exclaimed, pointing towards the horizon. Daniel gave a start. Far away, on the coast, an intermittent gleam raked the dusk. Daniel made no comment.
The air was cooler when they started off again. They had intended to sleep out under the trees, but it looked like being a bitterly cold night.
They walked on for half an hour without exchanging a word. Presently they came to a newly whitewashed inn, with arbours overlooking the sea.
The lights were on in the main room; it was apparently empty. They eyed each other doubtfully. A woman, who had seen them hesitating near the entrance, opened the door. She held up to their faces a glass lamp, the oil in which gleamed like a topaz. She was a short, elderly person, with two gold pendants dangling from her ears along her scraggy neck.
‘Excuse me, Madame,’ Daniel said, ‘could you let us have a room with two beds for the night?’ Without giving her time to put any questions, he went on. ‘My brother and I are on our way to meet our father at Toulon; only we left Marseilles too late to reach Toulon to-night.’
‘That’s a good one!’ the woman laughed. She had merry, surprisingly youthful eyes and gesticulated freely as she talked. ‘You were going to Toulon on foot, were you? Tell that to the marines, my lad! Anyhow, it’s all the same to me. Yes, you can have a room for two francs—cash down, of course.’ And, while Daniel was bringing out his note-case, she added: ‘I’ve some soup on the fire. Like a couple of platefuls?’
Both said ‘Yes.’
The room was an attic and there was only one bed, the sheets of which showed signs of having already been used. Prompted by the same unspoken motive, they rapidly took off their shoes and slipped into bed, fully dressed, back to back.
It was long before they fell asleep. The moon shone full through the window. Rats were scampering about in an adjoining loft. Jacques saw a hideous-looking spider crawling on the clingy grey wall and, as he watched it vanish into the darkness, vowed he would stay awake all night. Daniel’s mind was full of pictures of the sensual pleasure of the morning, and imagination was already adding its lascivious glamour to his memories. Sweating, thrilled with delight, disgust and curiosity, he dared not move.
Next morning, when Jacques was still asleep, Daniel was on the point of getting up, to get some respite from the phantoms of his imagination, when he heard a disturbance in the inn-parlour below. So vivid had been his nightlong obsessions that his first idea was that the police were coming to arrest him for his licentious conduct. And, no sooner did the door open (the bolt had broken off), than it was a policeman who appeared, accompanied by the proprietress. As he came in he hit his forehead on the lintel, and knocked off his képi.
‘The youngsters fetched up here last evening, covered with dust.’ The woman was still laughing, her ear-drops swaying to and fro. ‘They told me all sorts of fancy yarns—that they wanted to walk all the way to Toulon, and the good knows what else! And that young scamp’—she extended a long arm jingling with bangles towards Daniel—‘gave me a hundred-franc note to pay the four francs fifty for their room and supper.’
The gendarme was dusting his képi with an air of bored indifference.
‘Come along, me lads, up with you!’ he grumbled. ‘Now then, give me your surnames, Christian names, and the rest of it.’
Daniel hestitated. But Jacques jumped off the bed in his knickerbockers and socks, aggressive as a young fighting-cock. For a moment it looked as if he would try to lay out the tall, stalwart gendarme.
‘I’m Maurice Legrand!’ he shouted in the man’s face. ‘And this is Georges, my brother. Our father’s at Toulon. And you shan’t stop us going to meet him there, I defy you to!’
A few hours later they were entering Marseilles in a farm-cart, with two gendarmes and a miscreant in handcuffs beside them. The lofty prison-gate opened, then clanged-to behind them.
‘Go in there,’ a policeman told them, opening the door of a cell. ‘Now turn out your pockets. Yes, hand it all over. You’ll be left together till dinner-time, while we check up on your story.’
But long before then a sergeant came and took them to the Inspector’s office.
‘It’s no use denying it, my boys; you’re nabbed. We’ve been looking for you since Sunday. You’ve come from Paris; the big boy’s name is Fontanin, and you are Thibault. Fancy boys like you, from decent families, taking to the roads like little vagabonds!’
Daniel had assumed an air of outraged dignity, but inwardly he felt vastly relieved. Thank goodness, it was over! His mother knew by now that he was alive and safe, and she was awaiting his return. He would beg her forgiveness, and that would blot out everything—yes, everything!—even what he was thinking of with such horror at that moment. That, anyhow, he would never dare to confess to anyone in the world.
Jacques gritted his teeth and, remembering his bottle of iodine and the dagger, clenched his fists ragefully in his empty pockets. A host of schemes for vengeance or escape flashed through his mind. But just then the officer spoke again.
‘Your poor parents are in a terrible state.’
Jacques cast a furious glance around him; then suddenly his face seemed to crumple up and he burst into tears. He had pictured his father, Mademoiselle, little Gise. . . . His heart overflowed with affection and regret.
‘Now go and have a sleep,’ the Inspector went on. ‘We’ll fix things up for you to-morrow. I’m waiting for instructions.’
For two days Jenny had been in a comatose state; the fever had gone down, leaving her very weak. Standing at the window, Madame de Fontanin was keenly on the alert for every sound that came from the avenue. Antoine had gone to Marseilles to fetch the runaways and was due to bring them home that evening. Nine o’clock had just struck; they should be here by now.
She gave a start. That surely was a cab pulling up in front of the house!
In a flash she was out on the landing outside the entrance of her flat, clasping the banisters. The dog had run out after her and was barking to greet the homecomer. Madame de Fontanin leaned over the rail. There, suddenly, queerly fore-shortened by the height—there he was coming up the stairs! That was his hat, with the brim hiding his face; that was the way he had of moving his shoulders as he walked. He was in front; Antoine followed, holding his brother by the hand.
Looking up, Daniel saw his mother. The landing lamp, just above her head, made her hair seem snow white, and plunged her face in shadow, yet it seemed to him he had seen her every feature. With lowered eyes he continued on his way up the stairs, intuitively conscious that she was coming down to meet him. Suddenly he felt incapable of taking another step, and, just as he was taking off his hat, still not daring to raise his head and hardly daring to breathe, he found himself clasped in her arms, his forehead on her breast. Yet he felt little of the joy he had expected. He had longed so intensely for this moment that when it came he had no more feeling left, and when at last he freed himself from her embrace, his face was shamefast, tearless. It was Jacques, with his back against the staircase wall, who burst out sobbing.
Madame de Fontanin took her son’s face between her hands and drew it to her lips. Not a word of reproach; a long kiss. But the agony of mind she had endured during that terrible week made her voice tremble when she spoke to Antoine.
‘Have the poor children had any dinner?’
Before Antoine could reply, Daniel had murmured: ‘Jenny? How is she?’
‘She’s out of danger now; she’s in bed and you shall see her, she is waiting for you.’ Daniel freed himself at once and ran into the flat. She called after him: ‘Gently, dear! Don’t forget she’s been very ill. You mustn’t excite her.’
Jacques’ tears were quickly dried, and now he could not refrain from casting a curious glance around him. So this was Daniel’s home, this was the staircase he climbed each day when he came back from school; that was the hall he entered and this the lady he called ‘Mother’ with that strange tenderness in his voice.
‘What about you, Jacques?’ she smiled. ‘Will you kiss me, too?’
‘Speak up, Jacques!’ Antoine laughed, giving his brother a slight push.
She extended her arms towards him. Jacques slipped between them, pillowing his head where Daniel’s had lain a little while before. Pensively Madame de Fontanin stroked the boy’s red hair; then turning towards the elder brother, she tried to smile. As Antoine remained standing by the door, evidently anxious to leave, she held out to him, over the head of the boy whose arms were round her now, both her hands in token of her gratitude, and said to Jacques:
‘Go, my dear; your father, too, must be longing to see you.’
Jenny’s door stood open.
Kneeling at the bedside on one knee, his head resting on the sheets, Daniel was pressing his lips to his sister’s hands, clasped within his own. Jenny had been crying; to reach out towards him she had twisted herself sideways on the pillow, and the strain showed on her face. It was so emaciated as to seem expressionless, but for the eyes. In their look there still was something morbid, and a trace of hardness, almost obstinacy; they were almost the eyes of a grown woman, and they had a dark inscrutability, wise beyond her years, as if the light-heartedness of youth had long forsaken her.
Madame de Fontanin went up to the bed. On the point of bending down and gathering the two children in her arms she remembered that she must take care not to tire Jenny. She made Daniel get up and come with her to her own room.
The room was brightly lit and cheerful. In front of the fireplace Madame de Fontanin had set out the tea-table, with toast and butter and honey. Kept hot under a napkin was a mound of boiled chestnuts, one of Daniel’s favourite dishes. The kettle was purring, the room was very warm and the air so stuffy that Daniel felt almost nauseated. He waved away the plate his mother held out to him. A look of disappointment settled on her face.
‘What is it, dear? I hope you’re not going to deprive me of the pleasure of a cup of tea with you this evening?’
Daniel gazed at her. Something about her had changed; what was it? She was drinking her tea as she always did, in little scalding sips, and he could see her face with the light behind it smiling through the steam rising from her cup. Yes, for all its traces of exhaustion, it was the face that he had always known. But there was something in the smile, the lingering gaze—no, he could not bear its too-much-sweetness! Lowering his eyes, he helped himself to buttered toast and, to keep himself in countenance, pretended to be eating it. She smiled all the more, lost in her wordless happiness, and found an outlet for her rush of emotion in gently stroking the head of the little dog, that was nestling in the folds of her dress.
Daniel put down his toast. Without raising his eyes, he asked:
‘What did they tell you at the Lycée?’ His cheeks had gone pale.
‘I told them—it wasn’t true.’
At last Daniel’s brows relaxed. Raising his eyes, he met his mother’s gaze; there was trust in it but, none the less, a silent question, as if she sought for confirmation of her trust. And happily Daniel’s candid eyes confirmed it beyond all manner of doubt. Her face was shining with joy as she went up to him.
‘Why,’ she whispered, ‘oh why didn’t you come and tell me about it, my big boy, instead of . . . ?’
She left the question unended, and stood up. There was the jingle of a bunch of keys in the hall. She stood unmoving, looking towards the opening door. The dog began wagging its tail and ran, without barking, to meet the old friend who had entered.
It was Jerome.
He was smiling.
Wearing neither overcoat nor hat, he came in so naturally that one could have sworn he had just walked across from his own room. He glanced at Daniel, but went up at once to his wife and kissed her extended hand. A faint perfume of verbena and citronella hovered round him.
‘Well, darling, here I am! What’s been happening? Really, I’ve been dreadfully worried.’
Daniel went up to him delightedly. Little by little he had come to love his father, though, in early childhood, he had for many years displayed an exclusive, jealous affection for his mother. Even now he accepted with unconscious satisfaction the fact that his father was so often away and left them to themselves.
‘So you’re back, Daniel, after all? What’s all this they’ve been telling me about you?’ Jerome was holding his son’s chin and observing him frowningly.
Madame de Fontanin had remained standing. ‘When he returns,’ she had said to herself, ‘I shall refuse to let him stay.’ Her resentment had not weakened, nor her resolve; but he had surprised her unawares, had taken everything for granted with such airy unconcern that she was at a loss. She could not take her eyes off him; she would not admit to herself how profoundly she was affected by his presence, how touched she still was by the winning charm of his look, his smile, his gestures; would not admit that he was the one love of her life. The money problem had just crossed her mind, and she fell back on it to justify her weakness. That morning she had had to broach the remnants of her savings, and now was practically at her last penny. Jerome, of course, knew it; probably he was bringing the money needed to tide over the month.
At a loss how to answer, Daniel had turned to his mother, and just then he saw a look flitting across the calm, motherly face, a look of something—he could not have put it into words—something so significant, so intimate, that he turned away with a feeling of bashfulness. At Marseilles he had lost even the innocence of the eye.
‘Ought I to scold him, sweetheart?’ Jerome’s lips parted in an insinuating smile that showed his flashing teeth. ‘Must I play the heavy father?’
She did not reply at once. Then, with an undertone of bitterness, of a desire to punish him, she blurted out: ‘Do you realize that Jenny very nearly died?’
He let go his son and took a step towards her and such was the consternation on his face that she was ready to forgive him on the spot, if only to wipe out the distress that she had deliberately caused him.
‘But she’s much better now. The danger’s past!’ she exclaimed.
She forced herself to smile, so as to reassure him the sooner, and the smile was tantamount to a capitulation. She was aware of it. Everything seemed to be conspiring against her dignity.
‘Go and see her,’ she added, noticing that Jerome’s hands were shaking. ‘But please don’t wake her.’
Some minutes passed. Madame de Fontanin sat down. Jerome came back on tiptoe, shutting the door very carefully. His face was radiant with affection; no trace of apprehension remained. He was laughing again, and his eyes twinkled.
‘Ah, if you’d seen her just now! Charming! She’s lying on her side, her cheek resting on her hand.’ His fingers sketched in air the graceful outlines. ‘She has grown thinner, but that’s almost a good thing, really; it makes her all the prettier, don’t you think so?’
She did not answer. He was staring at her with a puzzled air.
‘Why, Thérèse, you’ve gone quite white!’
She rose, and almost ran to the mirror above the mantelpiece. It was true; in these two days of anxiety, her hair that till then had been fair, with a light silver sheen, had turned completely white over the temples. And now Daniel understood what, since his homecoming, had seemed to him different, inexplicable. Madame de Fontanin scanned her reflected self, uncertain of her feelings but unable to stifle a regret. Then, in the mirror, she saw Jerome’s face smiling towards her and unwittingly she found a consolation in his smile. He seemed amused, and lightly touched a vagrant silver lock that floated in the lamplight.
‘Nothing could suit you better, sweetheart; nothing could better set off—what shall I call it?—the youngness of your eyes.’
When she answered, the words, seemingly an excuse, served to mask her secret pleasure.
‘Oh Jerome, I’ve been through some awful days and nights! On Wednesday we’d tried everything, and we’d lost hope. I was all alone. I was so frightened!’
‘Poor darling!’ he cried impulsively. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, I could so easily have come back. I was at Lyons on that business you know about.’ He spoke with such assurance that for a moment she began to search her memory. ‘I’d completely forgotten that you hadn’t my address. And besides, I’d only gone away for twenty-four hours; I’ve even wasted my return ticket.’
Just then it flashed across his mind that he had given Thérèse no money for a long while. Annoying! He had no money coming in for another three weeks. He reckoned up what he had on him and unthinkingly made a grimace—which, however, he promptly explained away.
‘And to think that all my trouble was practically wasted—I just couldn’t put that deal through! I went on hoping till the last day, but here I am back again, with empty pockets! Those fat Lyons bankers are infernally hard to deal with, an unbelieving lot.’ He launched into a story of his experiences, letting his fertile imagination run away with him, without a trace of embarrassment; he had the born story-teller’s delight in his inventions.
Daniel, as he listened, felt for the first time a sort of shame for his father. Then, for no reason, without any apparent relevance, he thought of the man the woman at Marseilles had told him about, her ‘old boy’ as she had called him—a married man, in business, who always came in the afternoon, she had explained, because he never went out in the evening without ‘his missus.’ In the face of his mother, who was listening too, there was something that baffled him. Their eyes met. What did the mother read in her son’s eyes? Did she see far within, into thoughts to which as yet Daniel himself had given no definite form. When she spoke there was an abruptness in her tone that betrayed her annoyance.
‘Now run away to bed, my dear; you’re absolutely tired out.’
He obeyed. But just as he stooped to kiss her, a picture rose before him of his mother so cruelly forsaken while Jenny was on her death-bed. And his affection was enhanced by a realization of the distress he had caused her. He embraced her tenderly, murmuring in her ear:
‘Forgive me.’
She had been waiting for those words since his return, and now she could not feel the happiness she would have felt, had he uttered them sooner. Daniel was conscious of this, and inwardly blamed his father for it. Madame de Fontanin, however, could not help feeling a grievance against her son; why had he not spoken sooner, while they were alone together?
Half in boyish playfulness, half out of mere gluttony, Jerome had gone up to the tray and was examining the ‘spread’ with comically pursed lips.
‘My word, and who are all these nice things for?’
His laughter never sounded quite natural; he would throw back his head, slewing round his pupils into the corners of his eyes, and then emit in quick succession three rather theatrical Ha’s: ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’
He had drawn up a stool to the table and was already busy with the tea-pot.
‘Don’t drink that tea, it’s almost cold,’ Madame de Fontanin said, and lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle. When he protested, she added, but unsmilingly: ‘No—I insist!’
They were alone. To attend to the tea, she had come up to the table and the bitter-sweet perfume of the lavender and verbena scent he used came to her nostrils. He looked up at her with a half smile; his look conveyed at once affection and repentance. Keeping his slice of buttered toast in one hand, like a hungry schoolboy, he slipped an arm round his wife’s waist with a free-and-easy deftness that showed long experience in the amorous art. Madame de Fontanin freed herself abruptly; she knew her weakness, and dreaded it. When he withdrew his arm she came back to finish making the tea, then moved away once more.
She wore a look of dignity and sadness; but somehow his complete insouciance had taken the sting out of her resentment. She studied his appearance, surreptitiously, in the mirror. His amber-coloured skin, his almond eyes, the graceful poise of his body, the slightly exotic refinement of his dress and his languid airs gave him an Oriental charm. She remembered having written in her diary, during their engagement: My Beloved is beautiful as an Indian Prince. And even to-night she was seeing him through the same eyes as in those far-off days. He was sitting slantwise on a stool that was too low for him, and stretching his legs towards the fire. Daintily his fingers, tipped by well-manicured nails, were taking up slices of toast, one after the other, and gilding them with honey. As, bending above the plate, he ate them, his white teeth flashed. When he had finished eating, he drank his tea at a gulp, rose with a dancer’s suppleness and ensconced himself in an arm-chair. He behaved exactly as if nothing had happened and he were living here now just as he had always done. The dog jumped on to his knee and he began patting it. His left ring-finger bore a large sardonyx ring left him by his mother, an ancient cameo on which the milk-white figure of a Ganymede rose from a deep black background. The gold had worn down with the years and the ring kept on slipping to and fro as he moved his hand. His wife watched all his gestures intently.
‘Do you mind if I light a cigarette, sweetheart?’
Incorrigible he was—but how charming! He had a way of his own of pronouncing that word ‘sweetheart,’ letting the syllables flutter on his lips, like a kiss. His silver cigarette-case shone between his fingers, she recognized so well the little brittle click it made, and, yes, he had still that habit of tapping his cigarette on the back of his hand before putting it to his mouth. And how well she knew them, too, those long, veined hands that the lighted match changed suddenly to two transparent, flame-red shells!
She steeled herself to calmness as she cleared the tea-table. This last week had broken her, and she realized it just at the moment she needed all her courage. She sat down. She knew no longer what to think; she could not clearly discern what the Spirit wished of her. Was it God’s will that she should stay beside this sinner who, even in his worst lapses, always remained amenable to the promptings of his kindly heart, so that she might guide him one day towards a better life? No, her immediate duty was to safeguard the home, the children. Little by little she was vanquishing her weakness, and it was a relief to find herself more resolute than she had foreseen. The decision she had come to during Jerome’s absence—when, after prayer, a still small voice within had counselled her—held good.
Jerome had been watching her for some time with meditative eyes. Now his face took on an expression of intense sincerity. Only too well she knew that seeming-timid smile, that look of circumspection; and they dismayed her. For, though she had a knack of deciphering at any moment, almost without conscious effort, what lay behind her husband’s frequent changes of expression, all the same her intuition always ended by being held up at a certain definite point, beyond which lay a quicksand of uncertainties. How often she had asked herself: What kind of man is he really, under the surface?
‘I see how it is.’ There was a touch of rather perfunctory regret in Jerome’s voice. ‘I can see you judge me severely, Thérèse. Oh, I understand you—only too well. If another man behaved like that, I’d judge him as you do. I’d think of him as being a scoundrel. Yes, a scoundrel—why mince words? Ah, how on earth can I make you understand . . . ?’
‘What’s the good?’ she broke in miserably, casting him a naïvely beseeching look. Never, alas, could she conceal her feelings!
He was smoking, lying well back in the arm-chair; he had crossed his legs, and the ankle of the leg he was indolently swinging was well in evidence.
‘Don’t worry, Thérèse; I’m not going to argue about it. The facts are there, and the facts condemn me. And yet . . . perhaps there are other explanations for it all than the all too obvious ones.’ He smiled sadly. He had a weakness for expatiating on his faults, and invoking arguments of a moral order—a procedure which perhaps appeased what was left of his Protestant upbringing. ‘Often,’ he said, ‘a bad deed springs from motives of a different kind. One may seem to be out merely to gratify, quite shamelessly, one’s instincts, but sometimes, indeed quite often, one is actually giving way to an emotion that is not a bad one—to pity, for instance. When one causes suffering to someone whom one loves, the reason sometimes is that one’s sorry for someone else, someone who’s in trouble, or of a lower walk of life—to whom a little kindness might mean salvation.’
A picture rose before her of the girl she had seen sobbing by the riverside. And other memories took form, of Mariette, of Noémie. . . . Her eyes were held by the movement of his patent-leather shoe, swinging to and fro, now lit up by the lamplight, now in shadow. She remembered the early days of their marriage—those ‘business dinners,’ so urgent and so unforeseen, from which he had come back at dawn, only to shut himself up in his room and sleep till evening. And all the anonymous letters she had glanced through, then torn up, burned, or ground under her heel, but without being able to stamp out their rankling maleficence. She had seen Jerome seduce her maids, and turn the heads of her friends, one by one. He had made a void around her. She remembered the reproaches which at first she had ventured to address to him, and the many occasions on which, without making any ‘scene,’ she had spoken to him frankly but with indulgence—only to find herself confronted by a being at the mercy of his every impulse, self-centred and evasive, who began by denying everything with puritanical indignation and, immediately after, vowed smilingly that he would never do it again.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he was saying, ‘I’ve treated you abominably. Abominably! Don’t let’s be afraid of words. And yet I love you, Thérèse, with all my soul, I look up to you and I’m sorry for you. There’s been nothing in my life, nothing which at any time, even for a moment, could stand beside my love for you, the only truly deep and permanent love I’ve ever felt.
‘Yes, my way of living is disgusting, I don’t defend it, I’m ashamed of it. But indeed, sweetheart, you’re doing me an injustice; yes, for all your sense of justice, you’re unfair if you judge me by my acts. I admit my . . . my lapses, but they aren’t all of me. Oh, I’m explaining myself badly, I know; I feel you aren’t listening to me. It’s all so terribly complicated, far more so than I can ever explain, in fact. I only get glimpses of it myself, in flashes. . . .’
He fell silent and leant forward, his eyes focussed on the void, as if he had worn himself out in a vain effort to attain for a moment the uttermost truth about his life. Then he raised his head and Madame de Fontanin felt his gaze lingering on her face, that careless glance of his, seemingly so light, but endowed with a strange power of fascination for the eyes of others. It was as if his gaze drew their eyes towards it, and held them trapped unescapably for a moment, then released them—like a magnet attracting, lifting and letting fall a weight too heavy for it. Once again their eyes met and parted. She was thinking: Yes, very likely you are better than the life you lead. But she merely shrugged her shoulders.
‘You don’t believe me?’ he murmured.
‘Oh, I’m quite ready to believe you.’ She tried to speak in a detached tone. ‘I’ve done it so many times before . . . but that isn’t the point. Guilty or not, responsible or not, Jerome, you have done wrong, you are doing wrong every day, and will go on doing so. And that state of things can’t be allowed to last. Let us part for good.’
The fact that she had been thinking it over so assiduously during the last four days imparted to her voice an emphasis and harshness that Jerome could not ignore. Seeing his amazement and distress, she hastened to add:
‘It’s the children I’m thinking of. So long as they were small, they didn’t understand, and I was the only one who . . .’ On the point of adding ‘suffered,’ a sense of shame prevented her. ‘The wrong you’ve done me, Jerome, no longer concerns me only and my . . . personal feelings. It comes in here with you, it’s in the very air of our home, the air my children breathe. I will not allow this state of things to go on. Look what Daniel did this week! May God forgive him, as I’ve forgiven him for hurting me so cruelly. He is sorry for it; his heart is still uncorrupted.’ Her eyes lit with a flash of pride that was almost a challenge. ‘But I’m sure it was your example that led him astray. Would he have gone off so light-heartedly without a thought for my anxiety, if he hadn’t seen you so often going away from us . . . on “business”?’ She rose, took an uncertain step towards the fireplace and saw in the mirror her white hair; then, bending a little towards her husband, without looking at him, she went on speaking. ‘I’ve been thinking deeply about it, Jerome. I have suffered a great deal this week and I have prayed and pondered. I’ve not the least wish to reproach you. In any case, I’m feeling so dreadfully tired to-night, I don’t wish to talk about it. I only ask you to face the facts. You’ll have to admit I’m right, that there’s no other way out. Life in common’—she caught herself up—‘what remains to us of our life in common, little though it is, is still too much. Yes, Jerome, too much.’ She drew herself erect, rested her hands on the marble mantelpiece and, stressing each word with a movement of her head and shoulders, said gravely: ‘I will not bear it any longer.’
Jerome made no answer but, before she could retreat, had slipped to her feet and pressed his face against her knee, like a child pleading to be forgiven.
‘How could I possibly separate from you?’ he murmured abjectly. ‘How could I live without my children? I’d rather blow my brains out!’
She felt almost like smiling, so naïvely melodramatic was the gesture with which he aimed his forefinger at his forehead. Thérèse’s arm was hanging at her side; grasping her wrist, he covered it with kisses. Gently she freed her hand and listlessly, hardly knowing what she was doing, began to stroke his forehead with her finger-tips. The gesture, seemingly maternal, was one of utter, unchangeable detachment. He misinterpreted it and raised his head; but a glance at her face showed him how grievously he was mistaken. She moved away at once, and pointed to a travelling-clock on the bedside table. ‘Two o’clock. It’s terribly late. No more to-night, please. To-morrow, perhaps. . . .’
He glanced at the clock and from it to the double bed with its solitary pillow, made ready for the night.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have trouble in finding a cab,’ she said.
He made a vague, puzzled movement; obviously the idea of going out again that night had never entered his head. Was it not his home here? His bedroom was, as ever, awaiting him, just across the passage. How often had he returned like this, in the small hours, after a five or six days’ escapade! On such occasions he would appear next morning at the breakfast-table in pyjamas, but very spick and span, joking and laughing rather loud, so as to quell his children’s unspoken mistrust, which he felt but did not understand.
Used to his ways, Madame de Fontanin had followed on his face the trend his thoughts had taken; but she did not waver, and opened the door leading into the hall. He walked out, inwardly discomfited, but heroically keeping the appearance of an old friend saying good-bye to his hostess.
While he was putting on his overcoat, it occurred to him again that his wife must be short of money. He would have handed over to her such little money as he had, readily enough—though he was not in a position to put himself in funds again. But the thought that such an incident might create an awkward situation, that, after taking the money, she might no longer feel at liberty to show him out so firmly, offended his sense of delicacy. Worse still, Thérèse might suspect him of an ulterior motive.
‘Sweetheart,’ he said simply, ‘I have a great deal more to say to you.’
A thought flashed through her mind, first of her intention to break with him, then of the money she needed. Hastily she answered:
‘To-morrow, Jerome. I’ll see you to-morrow, if you’ll come here. We’ll have a talk.’
There was nothing for him but to take his leave, and he did so with good grace, clasping her hand and pressing his lips to it. Even then both hesitated for a moment. But she quickly withdrew her hand and opened the door of the flat.
‘Well, au revoir, sweetheart. Till to-morrow!’
Her last glimpse of him as he began going down the stairs was his smile and courteous gesture as he raised his hat, bowing towards her.
The door closed. Left to her solitary musings, Madame de Fontanin leaned her forehead on the door-jamb; the clang of the closing street-door jarred the whole building and she could feel the vibration in her cheek. A light-coloured glove was lying on the carpet almost under her eyes. Without thinking she picked it up and pressed it to her lips. Across the smell of leather and tobacco smoke she seemed to detect a subtler, familiar perfume. Then, seeing her gesture reflected in a glass, she blushed, let the glove fall again, switched off the lights almost angrily, and, freed from her own reproachful gaze by the kindly darkness, groped her way hastily to the children’s rooms, and stayed a little while in each, listening to their tranquil breathing.
Antoine and Jacques were back in the cab. The horse’s hoofs rattled on the roadway like castanets, but they made slow progress. The streets were in darkness. A smell of musty cloth pervaded the rickety old vehicle. Jacques was crying. Utter weariness and the kiss he had just received from the lady with the mothering smile had at last filled him with contrition. Whatever was he going to say to his father? He felt at his wits’ end; unable to conceal his anguish, he sought consolation from his brother, pressing himself against his shoulder. Antoine put his arm round him. For the first time the barrier of their mutual shyness was withdrawn.
Antoine wanted to say something, but could not overcome his distaste for effusion, and when he spoke there was a forced heartiness in his voice that made it sound almost gruff.
‘Now then, old man! Buck up! There’s no need to get into such a stew about it, you know. It’s all over now.’
For a moment he pressed the boy to him affectionately, without speaking. But he was unable to restrain his curiosity.
‘What came over you, Jacques?’ His voice was gentler now. ‘What really happened? Did he persuade you to run away?’
‘Oh no. He didn’t want to a bit. It was all my idea.’
‘Then why . . . ?’
No answer. Antoine fumbled for his words as he continued.
‘You know, Jacques, I know all about these school . . . intimacies. You needn’t mind telling me. I know how it is; one lets oneself be led on.’
‘He’s my friend, that’s all,’ Jacques whispered, still pressing against his brother’s shoulder.
‘But,’ Antoine ventured, ‘what exactly . . . what do you do together?’
‘We talk. He consoles me.’
Antoine did not dare to ask more questions. ‘He consoles me!’ Jacques’ tone cut him to the heart. He was on the point of saying: ‘Are you so unhappy, old man?’ when Jacques burst out, almost truculently:
‘Well, if you want to know “everything”—he corrects my poems.’
‘Good for you!’ Antoine smiled. ‘I’m delighted to hear that. Do you know, I’m very glad you’re a poet!’
‘Honour bright?’ the boy asked.
‘Yes, honour bright. I knew it anyhow. I’ve seen some of your poems; you left them lying about, you know, and I had a squint at them. I never spoke about it to you. As a matter of fact, we never do seem to talk together, I can’t think why. Some of your poems struck me as damned good, d’you know! You’ve quite a gift for that sort of thing, and you must make the most of it.’
Jacques nestled up to his brother.
‘Yes, I’m awfully keen on poetry,’ he whispered. ‘There are some poems that I love more than anything else in the world. Fontanin lends me books—but you won’t tell anyone, will you? It’s thanks to him I’ve read Laprade and Sully-Prudhomme and Lamartine and Victor Hugo and Musset. Musset’s wonderful! Do you know this one, I wonder?
Pâle étoile du soir, messagère lointaine
Dont le front sort brillant des voiles du couchant. . . .
‘And this one:
Voilà longtemps que celle avec qui j’ai dormi,
O Seigneur, a quitté ma couche pour la vôtre,
Et nous sommes encor tout mêlés l’un à l’autre,
Elle à demi vivante et moi mort à demi.
‘And Lamartine’s Le Crucifix, do you know it?
Toi que j’ai recueilli sur sa bouche expirante,
Avec son dernier souffle et son dernier adieu. . . .
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? So . . . so wonderfully limpid. Each time I read that, the beauty of it almost hurts me.’ And now he poured out his heart without reserve. ‘At home they don’t understand a thing; I’m certain I’d be plagued if they knew that I write poems. You’re not like them’—he pressed Antoine’s arm against his breast. ‘Somehow I’ve felt you weren’t, for ages. Only you never said anything, and, besides, you’re not often there. Oh, if you only knew how happy I am! I feel that now I’m going to have two friends instead of one.’
Antoine recited, smiling, a line of one of Jacques’ own poems.
Hail Caesar! Lo, the blue-eyed maid from Gaul . . .
Jacques moved away suddenly, exclaiming: ‘You’ve read our exercise-book!’
‘But, old chap, why ever . . . ?’
‘Has father read it too?’ So piteous was the cry that Antoine dared not tell the truth.
‘I don’t really know. A page or two, perhaps.’
Before he could say more Jacques had recoiled to the far end of the cab; he sat there rocking himself to and fro, his head between his hands.
‘It’s foul! That Abbé is a Jesuit, a filthy beast! I shall tell him so, I’ll shout at him in the middle of the class-room, I’ll spit in his beastly face. They can expel me, I don’t care a damn, I’ll run away again. I’ll kill myself!’
His whole body was shaking with fury. Antoine dared not breathe a word. Suddenly the boy stopped shouting and sank back into the corner pressing his hands to his eyes. His teeth were chattering, and his silence alarmed Antoine even more than his outburst of rage. Fortunately the cab was entering the Rue des Saints-Pères; they were almost home.
Jacques got out first. Antoine, as he paid the cabman, never took his eyes off his brother, fearing he might make a sudden rush into the darkness. But now the boy seemed utterly exhausted; the elfish little face was drawn and haggard with fatigue and disappointment, and the eyes, fixed on the ground, were dry.
‘Ring the bell, will you?’ Antoine said.
Jacques said nothing and did not move. Antoine gently coaxed him towards the door. Jacques followed his brother, lamb-like, through the hall, without even trembling to think that the curious eyes of the old concierge, Mme. Frühling, were watching him. He had realized his helplessness and had no heart left to resist. The lift whisked him up, more dead than alive, to face his father’s righteous indignation. He was trapped again in the prison-house of the Family, of the social order—unescapably.
And yet, when he stood again on the landing, when he saw all the lamps lit in the hall as on the evenings when his father gave his all-men dinner parties, somehow he could not help finding a certain restfulness in the familiar home life closing in again around him. When he saw Mademoiselle come limping up the hall, thinner and shakier than ever, he felt his rancour passing and a sudden impulse to throw himself into the embrace of the stumpy black-sleeved arms stretched out towards him. She pressed the boy to her, fondling him affectionately, but all the time scolding him in a shrill, quavering monotone. ‘Oh dear! What wickedness! The cruel, heartless boy! Did you want to make us die of grief? Bless and save us, what wickedness! Haven’t you any heart at all?’ The litany of reproach went on, while large tears brimmed over from her llama-like eyes.
The door of the study opened. Jacques saw his father standing on the threshold, looking down the hall.
His eyes fell at once on Jacques, and he could not check an impulse of affectionate emotion. But then he halted, let his eyelids close; he seemed to be waiting for the culprit to fling himself at his feet, as in the Greuze picture, a copy of which hung in the drawing-room.
Shyness prevented Jacques from moving towards his father.
The study, too, was lit as if for some festivity, and the two maids had just appeared at the kitchen door. Moreover, M. Thibault was in a frock-coat, though it was the hour when he usually wore a smoking-jacket. The boy felt paralysed by the queerness of it all. He freed himself from Mademoiselle’s embrace, shrank back, and stood, with bowed head, waiting for he knew not what, so flustered by a rush of pent-up feeling that he felt an uncontrollable impulse to weep and, in the same breath, burst out laughing.
But M. Thibault’s first words seemed to ban him from the family circle. Jacques’ attitude, in the presence of witnesses, had effectively dispelled any inclination to indulgence which he might have felt. The better to bring the young rebel to heel, he feigned complete detachment.
‘Ah, so you’re back!’ He addressed the words solely to Antoine. ‘I was beginning to wonder. Did everything go off all right?’ When Antoine nodded, shaking the flabby hand his father held out to him, he continued: ‘I’m very grateful to you, my dear boy, for sparing me a distasteful task. Most distasteful indeed!’
He paused, still hoping for some gesture of contrition from his younger son. But the boy was staring sullenly at the carpet. M. Thibault glanced first at the culprit, then at the maids. Now he was definitely angry.
‘We’ll decide to-morrow on the best course to adopt, to prevent the repetition of such scandalous misconduct.’
Mademoiselle made a step towards Jacques, to urge him towards his father’s arms—a movement Jacques was aware of, though he did not raise his eyes. Indeed he had been waiting for it, his last forlorn chance of reconciliation. But M. Thibault stretched out a peremptory arm.
‘Let him be! He’s a young scoundrel, with a heart of stone. Was he worth all the anxiety we’ve gone through on his account?’ He turned again to Antoine, who was watching for an opportunity to intervene. ‘Antoine, dear boy, do us the service of looking after this miserable boy for one night more. To-morrow, I promise you, you shall be freed from all responsibility for him.’
There was still a moment of indecision. Antoine went up to his father; Jacques timidly raised his head. But now M. Thibault was speaking again, in a tone that brooked no controversy.
‘Now then, Antoine, you heard what I said? Take him off to his room. This revolting scene has lasted quite long enough. Take him away.’
Steering Jacques in front of him, Antoine vanished down the corridor; the maids shrank back against the walls, as if they were watching victims on their way to execution. M. Thibault, his eyes still closed, went back to his study and shut the door behind him.
He went straight across it into the room where he slept. The furniture had come to him from his parents, and the room was exactly like their bedroom as he had known it in his early childhood, in the dwelling-house attached to his father’s factory near Rouen. After his father’s death he had brought it, lock, stock and barrel, to Paris, where he had come to study law. He had kept everything as it was: the mahogany chest of drawers, the old-fashioned chairs, the blue repp curtains, the bed in which his father and his mother had died. Before the prie-dieu, the upholstery of which had been embroidered by Mme. Thibault, hung the crucifix which he himself, at a few months’ interval, had placed between their folded, lifeless hands.
Alone now, he could be himself again: he let his shoulders droop, and yet the mask of fatigue seemed to have slipped from the heavy features, leaving them with a simple, almost childish look that recalled the portraits of him as a boy. He went to the prie-dieu and, kneeling down, gave himself up to prayer. His puffy hands moved rapidly to and fro—a habit with him when he was by himself; there was something unconstrained, yet curiously clandestine, in all his gestures now he was alone. He raised his expressionless face and the eyes, under the half-shut lids, went straight to the crucifix.
M. Thibault was committing this new burden laid upon him, his disappointment, to God’s mercy, and now that his heart was purged of anger, prayed fervently and with a father’s love for his erring son. From the arm-rest on which he kept his books of devotion he took a rosary which had been given him for his first communion; after forty years’ polishing the beads slipped effortlessly between his fingers. He had shut his eyes again, but his head was still lifted, as if he were gazing at the crucifix. That smile, coming from the heart, that look of candid happiness, was never seen on his face in ordinary life. The words he was murmuring made his heavy cheeks quiver and the little jerky movements of his head which he made at regular intervals to free his neck from the stiff, tight collar, somehow brought to mind a censer swayed before the altar of his God.
Next morning Jacques was left to himself. Sitting on his unmade bed, he wondered what to do with himself this Saturday morning. It wasn’t the holidays—quite the contrary—and yet here he was, it seemed, spending the day in his room. He thought of School, the History Class, Daniel. The domestic sounds he heard outside his door sounded familiar and vaguely hostile; a broom rasping the carpet, doors creaking in the wind. He was not depressed; exalted, rather; but his inactivity, coupled with the mysterious threat brooding over the house, made him feel almost unbearably ill at ease. What a relief it would have been if he could have found an opportunity for some sacrifice, some heroic and absurd act of devotion, which might have given vent to the pent-up emotions that now were suffocating him! Now and then a gust of self-pity caused him to raise his head and he felt a brief thrill of morbid pleasure, a mingled thrill of frustrated love, of pride and hatred.
The door-handle turned. It was Gisèle. Her hair had just been washed and her black curls were drying on her shoulders; she was in a chemise and knickers. Her brown neck, arms and legs gave her the look of a little Algerian lad—what with her flapping drawers, with her fuzzy mop of hair, her ripe, young lips and melting, dog-like eyes.
‘What do you want?’ Jacques asked in a peevish tone.
‘I’ve come to see you.’ She looked at him intently.
During the last week little ten-year-old Gisèle had guessed more than her elders suspected. And now her Jacquot had come back! But things at home had not resumed their normal course. Just now her aunt, when doing Gisèle’s hair, had suddenly been called away to see M. Thibault, and had left her in her room, her hair ‘all anyhow,’ after making her promise to ‘be good.’
‘Who was it who rang?’ he asked.
‘The Abbé.’
Jacques frowned. She climbed on to the bed beside him.
‘Poor Jacquot!’ she whispered.
Her affection did him so much good that, to show his gratitude, he took her on his knees and hugged her. But his ears were on the alert.
‘Run! There’s someone coming!’ He pushed her towards the door.
He had only just time to jump off the bed and open a grammar book when he heard the voice of Abbé Vécard behind the door, talking to Gisèle.
‘Good-morning, my dear. Is Jacquot here?’
Entering, he stopped on the threshold. Jacques looked down. The Abbé came up to him and playfully tweaked his ear.
‘Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!’ he began.
But the stubborn look on the boy’s face made him change his tactics. With Jacques he always proceeded warily. He felt for this so often erring member of his flock a particular regard, not unmixed with curiosity and a certain esteem, for he had realized the vigour of the boy’s personality.
Sitting down, he called Jacques towards him.
‘The least thing you could do was to ask your father’s forgiveness. Have you done so?’ Needless to say, he knew perfectly well the state of affairs, and, furious with his deceit, Jacques cast him a furtively indignant look, shaking his head. For a while neither spoke.
Then the priest began in a low, somewhat ill-assured voice. ‘My child, I won’t conceal from you that I have been deeply grieved by what has happened. Till now, for all your unruliness, I’ve always stood up for you. I have often said to your father, “Jacques has a good heart, everything will come right, only we must be patient.” But now I hardly know what to say and, worse still, I have learnt things about you which never, never could I have brought myself to suspect. We’ll come back to that. And yet, I said to myself, “He will have had time to reflect, he will return to us repentant, and there is no sin that cannot be atoned for by sincere contrition.” Instead of that I find you with a stubborn face, without a semblance of regret, without a tear. Your poor father, this time, has really lost heart, and I am grieved for his sake, too. He asks himself how far you have sunk in perversity, whether your heart is utterly hardened. And, upon my word, I ask myself that question, too.’
Clenching his fists in his pockets, Jacques pressed his chin hard against his chest so that no sob might escape from his throat, no muscle of his face betray him. He alone knew how bitterly he had suffered for not having asked forgiveness, what exquisite tears he would have shed, had he had Daniel’s welcome. No! Since it was thus, he would never let anyone see what he felt for his father; that almost animal attachment, tinctured with rancour, seemed to have become even keener, now that there was no hope of its being returned.
The Abbé paused. The studied calm of his features made his silence all the more telling. Then, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, without a word of introduction, he began speaking, or, rather, intoning words that Jacques knew well.
‘ “A certain man had two sons. . . . And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, and came to himself he said, I will arise and go to my father and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy . . .” ’
Before the priest could utter the last word, Jacques’ self-control broke down and he burst into tears.
The priest continued in a different tone.
‘Yes, my child, I felt sure you were not utterly corrupted. This morning I said my mass for you. Well, like the Prodigal Son, arise and go to your father, and he will have compassion. And he, too, will say, “Let us be merry, for this my son was lost and is found.” ’
Then Jacques remembered how the hall had been lit up for his homecoming, how M. Thibault had worn his frock-coat, and it made him still more contrite to think that perhaps he had ‘let down’ their preparations to welcome him.
‘There’s something else I want to say to you,’ the priest went on, stroking the boy’s hair. ‘Your father has just come to a grave decision about you.’ He hesitated and, as he groped for his words, mechanically passed his hand to and fro over Jacques’ protruding ears, laying them flat against his cheeks, then letting them spring back. Jacques felt his ears burning, but dared not move his head. ‘I approve of his decision,’ the Abbé added, putting his forefinger on his lip and riveting his gaze on the boy’s eyes. ‘He intends to send you, for a while, away from home.’
‘Where?’ The word was a stifled cry.
‘He will tell you, my child. But whatever you may think at first, you must accept the punishment with a contrite heart, as a measure taken for your good. At the start, perhaps, it will sometimes be a little hard, when you find yourself alone for hours on end; but remember at those moments that there is no solitude for the true Christian, and that God never forsakes those who put their trust in Him. Come, my boy, come with me and ask your father’s forgiveness.’
A few minutes later Jacques was back in his room, his face swollen with tears, his cheeks blazing. He walked over to the looking-glass and gave his reflected self a look of concentrated ferocity; it was as if he felt the need of some living human form to act as the target of his malevolence, his imprecations. But just then he heard a step in the passage. Glancing at the door, he saw the key had been removed. He piled a barricade of chairs against it. Then, running to the table, he scribbled a few lines in pencil, pushed the letter into an envelope, wrote the address, stuck on a stamp, and rose. He seemed at his wits’ end. To whom could he entrust the letter? Here, everyone was an enemy. He opened the window. The morning was grey, the street deserted. After a while an old lady and a child came slowly past; Jacques dropped the letter; it fluttered slowly down and came to rest on the pavement. When he ventured to look out of the window again, the letter had disappeared, the lady and the child were almost out of sight.
And now he gave way to his despair; with a whimpering cry, the moan of a trapped animal, he flung himself on to the bed, his feet pressing against the boards, his body arched convulsively, his limbs quivering with baffled fury. To stifle his cries, he clenched his teeth on the pillow, for, in the chaos of his mind, one thought was clear: he must not let the others gloat over his despair.
That evening Daniel received the letter.
To you, My Friend,
To you, the only person in the world whom I love, the daystar of my life.
This is my last will and testament to you.
They are severing me from you, from everything; they are going to put me in a place—I dare not tell you what it is, I dare not tell you where it is. I am ashamed for my father’s sake!
I feel that I shall never see you again, you who are all to me, you who alone could make me kind and good.
Good-bye, my dear, good-bye.
If they make me too miserable, too angry with everything, I shall kill myself. Then you must tell them that I killed myself deliberately, because of them. And that yet I loved them.
But my last thought on the threshold of the next world will have been for you! For you, my friend!
Farewell!
During the year which had elapsed since the day when Antoine brought back the two young truants, he had not gone to see Madame de Fontanin again. The maid, however, recognized him and, though it was nine o’clock, showed him in immediately.
Madame de Fontanin was in her room, the two children with her. Sitting very straight under the lamp, in front of the fire, she was reading aloud. Jenny, snugly ensconced in an easy-chair, was toying with her plaits and, as she listened to her mother, gazing at the flames. Daniel was sitting a little way off, his legs crossed, a drawing-board on his knee, finishing a charcoal sketch of his mother. As he paused for a moment on the dark threshold of the room, Antoine was uncomfortably conscious that his visit was ill-timed; but it was too late to retreat.
Madame de Fontanin’s greeting was rather chilly, but principally she seemed surprised to see him. Leaving her children to themselves, she led Antoine to the drawing-room. On learning the reason of his visit, however, she went out again to fetch her son.
Daniel looked seventeen now (though actually he was two years younger), and an incipient moustache darkened the curve of his upper lip. A little disconcerted, Antoine looked the youngster full in the face, in the rather blustering way he had; now his look seemed to imply: ‘There’s no shilly-shally about me, I’m one of those fellows who always go straight to the point.’ As on his previous visit, an unavowed instinct led him to exaggerate this pose of ‘downrightness,’ once he was in Madame de Fontanin’s presence.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Our meeting yesterday set me thinking and I’ve come to talk things out.’ Daniel looked surprised. ‘Yes,’ Antoine went on, ‘we scarcely exchanged two words—you were in a hurry and so was I; but it struck me—I don’t quite know how to put it. Well, for one thing you didn’t enquire about Jacques, from which I drew the conclusion that he’d been writing to you. I was right, wasn’t I? What’s more, I suspect he tells you things I don’t know, and which I ought to know. No, wait please, and hear what I have to say. Jacques left Paris last June; it’s the beginning of April now, which makes it almost nine months he’s been away. I haven’t seen him, he’s never written to me, but father sees him often. He tells me Jacques is fit and working well; that the solitary life and discipline have already done him a world of good. I sometimes wonder if he isn’t deceiving himself, or being deceived. Since seeing you yesterday I’ve been feeling worried about it. I got an idea that perhaps he’s unhappy in his present surroundings, but as I’m in the dark about it, there’s nothing I can do to help him. And I can’t bear to think that. That’s why I decided to come and talk it over frankly with you. I appeal to your affection for him. It’s not a question of betraying confidences, but I’m sure he tells you what his life is like in that place. You’re the only one who can either reassure me, or prompt me to take active measures about it.’
Daniel heard him out impassively. His first impulse had been to decline the interview altogether. Holding his head high, he gazed at Antoine, and his very indecision gave a certain aloofness to his look. At a loss, he glanced towards his mother. She had been watching him, wondering what he would do. After some minutes of suspense she smiled towards him.
‘Tell the truth, old chap,’ she said, with a decisive gesture. ‘One never has reason to regret it when one tells the truth.’
With a gesture curiously like his mother’s, Daniel began to speak. Yes, he had had letters from Thibault, now and then; letters that had become shorter and shorter, less and less communicative. Daniel knew, of course, that his friend was boarding with a tutor somewhere in the country—exactly where he did not know. The postmarks on the envelopes showed that they had been posted on a train, somewhere on the Northern Railway. Was it a sort of crammer’s Jacques was at?
It was an effort for Antoine to conceal his amazement at the pains Jacques had evidently taken to hide the truth from his closest friend. Why had he done it? Perhaps it was the same feeling of shame as that which led M. Thibault to convert, for the benefit of the world at large, the reformatory colony where he had confined his son, into ‘a religious institution on the banks of the Oise.’ A suspicion that perhaps his brother had been compelled to write such letters crossed his mind. Perhaps the poor little chap was being terrorized! He remembered the campaign run by a Beauvais newspaper of the scurrilous sort, and the lurid charges it had brought against ‘The Social Defence League.’ True, M. Thibault had won his libel action against the newspaper, all along the line—yet could one be so sure . . . ?
Antoine felt that, in the last resort, he could rely only on his own judgement.
‘I say, might I see one of the letters?’ he asked. Noticing that Daniel was blushing, he excused his abruptness with a belated smile. ‘Just one letter,’ he explained. ‘Whichever you care to show me.’
Without answering, without waiting for a lead from his mother, Daniel rose and left the room.
Now that he was alone with Madame de Fontanin, Antoine was conscious of the same feelings as he had had before: curiosity, a sense of an unfamiliar atmosphere, and a certain attraction. She was looking in front of her and did not seem to be thinking of anything. But her mere presence seemed enough to stimulate Antoine’s mental processes and quicken his uptake. It was as if the air around her were charged with a peculiar conductivity. And, at that moment, unmistakably, Antoine felt an atmosphere of disapproval. He was not far wrong. Though she had nothing definite against M. Thibault, or Antoine—she had no idea what had become of Jacques—the one glimpse she had had of their home life had left her with a most distasteful impression. Antoine guessed her feelings and was inclined to agree with her. If anyone had ventured to criticize his father’s conduct, he would certainly have protested vigorously; but at that moment, in his inmost self, he was on Madame de Fontanin’s side against his father. He had not forgotten how, the year before, after his first experience of the atmosphere of the Fontanins’ home, he had for several days found that of his own home almost unbreathable.
Daniel returned. He handed Antoine a cheap-looking envelope.
‘That’s the first. It’s the longest letter, too.’ He went back to his chair.
My dear Fontanin,
I write to you from my new home. You mustn’t try to write to me, it’s absolutely forbidden. Apart from that, everything is all right. My tutor is nice, he is kind to me and I am working hard. And I have met quite a lot of nice fellows here. My father and brother come to see me on Sundays. So you see I’m quite all right. I beg you, my dear Daniel, in the name of our friendship, do not judge my father too harshly; you don’t know all the facts. I know he is kind and good, and he has done well to send me away from Paris, where I was wasting my time at the Lycée; I see it myself now, and I’m glad. I don’t give you my address—to make sure you won’t write, for if you did so it would be terrible for me here.
I will write to you again when I have a chance, my dear Daniel.
Jacques.
Antoine read the letter twice. Had he not recognized his brother’s writing, he would have had difficulty in believing it came from him. Someone else had written the address on the envelope—obviously a more or less illiterate person—and there was something mean and furtive about the handwriting. Form and contents disturbed him equally. Why those lies? About the ‘nice fellows,’ for instance. Jacques was living in a cell in the famous ‘special annexe’ which M. Thibault had provided for boys of good family, and which was always empty. Jacques, he knew, never spoke to a soul except the servant who brought his meals and took him for walks, and a tutor who came from Compiègne two or three times a week. ‘My father and my brother come to see me!’ M. Thibault visited Crouy in his official capacity on the first Monday of each month, to preside over the administrative committee, and it was true that on that day, before leaving, he always had his son brought to see him for a few minutes in the parlour. As for Antoine, he had proposed going to visit his brother during the summer holidays, but M. Thibault had put his foot down. ‘It’s essential,’ he had said, ‘for the course of re-education your brother is undergoing, that he should be kept in absolute isolation.’
His elbows propped on his knees, Antoine twiddled the letter between his fingers. His peace of mind was badly shaken and of a sudden he felt so painfully at a loss, so lonely, that he was on the point of telling everything to the enlightened woman who, by some happy chance, had crossed his path. Looking up, he saw her with her hands resting on her lap, and with a thoughtful, somehow expectant look on her face. Her eyes seemed to read his thoughts.
‘Do you think we could help in any way?’ she smiled. The silken whiteness of her hair made the smile and the features seem those of a still younger woman.
But, just as he was about to make the plunge, he paused, noticing Daniel’s shrewd gaze intent on him. Antoine could not bear to seem irresolute, and even more disliked the idea that Madame de Fontanin might not regard him as the man of rapid measures that he was. But to himself he gave a more congenial reason for his silence—that he could not divulge a secret Jacques was at such pains to hide. Feeling unsure of himself, he cut the awkward situation short. He rose and, as he held out his hand, assumed the impressive look he deliberately cultivated, a look implying: ‘No questions, please! You see the man I am! We understand each other, that’s enough!’
In the street he strode ahead repeating to himself: ‘Keep calm, and act with firmness!’ Five or six years spent in studying science had given him the habit of casting his thoughts in ostensibly logical form. ‘Jacques does not complain: Therefore Jacques is happy.’ But, inwardly, he discredited his syllogism. The Press campaign against the Reformatory haunted his thoughts; notably he recalled an article on ‘Children’s Jails’ that had described in detail the physical and moral degradation of the ill-fed, ill-housed boys, the corporal punishments they were subjected to, the callous treatment often meted out to them by the warders. Unconsciously he made a menacing gesture. The rôle of rescuer appealed to him. Cost what it might, he would get the poor boy out of it! But how? Any idea of telling his father about it or having it out with him could be dismissed; for it was his father and the Institution founded and managed by him, that he was up against. This feeling of revolt against his father was so unprecedented that at first he felt a certain embarrassment, which soon changed to pride.
He remembered what had happened the year before, the day after Jacques’ return. At the earliest stage of the proceedings M. Thibault had summoned him to his study. The Abbé Vécard had just come. M. Thibault was bellowing: ‘The young ruffian! We’ve got to break his will!’ He had stretched out his plump, hairy hand, had spread out the fingers, then slowly closed them, cracking the finger-joints. A self-satisfied smile had lit up his face. ‘Yes, I think I’ve found the solution.’ And, after a pause, raising at last his eyelids, he had uttered the one word, ‘Crouy.’
‘What! Do you mean to send Jacques to the reformatory?’ Antoine had exclaimed. A heated argument had followed. ‘We’ve got to break him in,’ his father had repeated, cracking his knuckles again. The Abbé had demurred. Then M. Thibault had explained the special discipline Jacques would undergo—a régime which, to hear him, was amiably benevolent, paternal. He had concluded in an unctuous tone, with measured emphasis. ‘In these conditions, out of reach of evil influences and purged by solitude of his baser instincts, inculcated with a taste for work, he will come to his sixteenth year, and I venture to hope it will then be possible for him safely to resume his place in our family life.’ The priest had acquiesced. ‘Yes, isolation does effect marvellous cures.’ Impressed by his father’s arguments and the priest’s approval, Antoine had finished by thinking they were right. But now he could forgive neither his father nor himself.
He walked rapidly, without looking where he was going. In front of the Lion of Belfort, he turned on his heel, then went striding on again, lighting cigarette after cigarette, puffing the smoke into the lamp-lit darkness. Yes, he must make haste to Crouy, strike hard, do justice. . . .
A woman accosted him, murmuring cajoleries. He did not answer, but continued walking down the Boulevard Saint-Michel. ‘I shall have justice done!’ he repeated. ‘I’ll show up the double-dealing of the directors, I’ll make a public scandal and bring the boy back.’
But somehow the edge of his enthusiasm had been blunted; all the time his thoughts had been sheering off their first preoccupation, and another impulse cutting across his grandiose campaign. He crossed the Seine, well knowing to what place his wayward steps were taking him. After all, why not? With his nerves strung up like this, there was no point in going home to bed. He inhaled deeply, puffed out his chest, and smiled. ‘One’s got to be a man,’ he thought; ‘to prove one’s strength.’ As he blithely entered the furtive, ill-lit street, another rush of generous emotion carried him away. In his mind’s eye he saw his resolution beaconing him to triumph. Now that he was about to realize one of the two projects that had been vying for his attention during the last quarter of an hour, the other, by the same token, seemed to him all but realized. And, as with the assurance born of habit, he pushed open the glazed door, his plans were cut and dried. ‘To-morrow’s a Saturday—impossible to get away from the hospital. But on Sunday, Sunday morning, I’ll visit the reformatory.’
As the morning express did not stop at Crouy, Antoine had to get out at Venette, the last station before Compiègne. He alighted from the train in the highest spirits. Next week he had to sit for an examination, but throughout the journey he had been unable to apply his mind to the medical manuals he had brought with him. The decisive moment was near. For the last two days he had been picturing so vividly the triumphant climax of his crusade that he almost fancied he had already effected Jacques’ release, and the only problem troubling him was how to regain the boy’s affection.
He had a mile and a half to walk along a level, sunlit road. For the first time that year after weeks of rain there was a promise of spring in the dewy fragrance of the March morning. He feasted his eyes on the tender verdure already mantling the ploughlands. Wisps of vapour were loitering on the bright horizon and the hills along the Oise glittered in the young sunlight. For a moment he was weak enough to hope he was mistaken; so pure, so calm was the countryside around him. Could this be the setting of a convict prison?
He had to cross the entire village of Crouy before reaching the reformatory. Then, suddenly, as he came round the last houses, he had a shock. Though he had never seen it and distant though it was, he could not be mistaken. There, in the midst of a chalk-white plain, ringed round on all sides, like a new graveyard, by bare, bleak walls, rose the huge building with its tiled roof, its clock-face gleaming in the sun and endless rows of small, barred windows. It would have been taken for an ordinary prison but for the gold lettering on the cornice over the first storey:
THE OSCAR THIBAULT FOUNDATION
He walked up the treeless drive leading to the penitentiary. The little windows seemed watching from afar the visitor’s approach. Entering the portico, he pulled the bell-rope; a shrill clang jarred the Sabbath calm. The door opened. A brown watchdog, chained to its kennel, barked furiously. Antoine entered the courtyard, which consisted of a lawn surrounded by gravel paths and curved on the side facing the main ward. He had a feeling of being watched, but no living being was in sight except the dog that, tugging at its chain, was barking lustily as ever. To the left of the entrance was a little chapel topped by a stone cross; on the right he saw a low building with the notice: Staff, and turned towards it. The closed door opened the moment he set foot on the step. The dog went on barking. He stepped into a hall, with a tiled floor and yellow walls and furnished with new chairs; it reminded him of a convent parlour. The place was over-heated. A life-size plaster bust of M. Thibault, giving an impression of enormous bulk under the low ceiling, adorned the right-hand wall. On the opposite wall a humble black crucifix, garnished with a sprig of box, seemed to be playing second fiddle to it. Antoine remained standing, on the defensive. No, he had not been wrong! The whole place reeked of the prison-house.
At last, in the wall furthest from him, a hatch was opened and a warder put out his head. Antoine threw down his own card and one of his father’s, and curtly told the man he wished to see the Superintendent.
Nearly five minutes passed.
Annoyed by the delay, he was just about to start on a round of exploration, unaccompanied, when a light step sounded in the corridor and a bespectacled, plump, fair-haired young man ran up to him with little dancing steps. He was in brown flannel pyjamas and wearing Turkish slippers. All smiles, he held out both hands in welcome.
‘Good-morning, Doctor. What a happy surprise! Your brother will be so delighted, so delighted to see you. Of course I know you well; your father, the Founder, often speaks of his grown-up doctor son. And besides there’s a family resemblance. Oh yes,’ he laughed, ‘I assure you there’s a likeness. But do come to my office, please. And forgive me for not naming myself before; I’m Faisme, the Superintendent here.’
He shepherded Antoine towards his office, shuffling his feet and following close behind with his arms extended and fingers spread, as if he expected Antoine to slip or stumble, and wanted to be sure to catch him before he fell.
He forced Antoine into a seat and himself sat at his desk.
‘Is the Founder in good health?’ he asked in a high-pitched voice. ‘What an extraordinary man he is—he never seems to get older! Such a pity he couldn’t come to-day as well!’
Antoine cast a mistrustful glance round the room, then scanned without amenity the young man’s face, which for all its pink-and-white complexion had a Chinese cast; behind the gold-rimmed spectacles the two small slanted eyes seemed twinkling and beaming with perpetual joy. The voluble welcome had taken him off his guard and it upset his calculations to find that the stern warden of a ‘convict prison’ he had pictured was a smiling young man in pyjamas instead of the grim-faced martinet—or, at best, the donnish pedagogue—he had expected to confront. It was an effort for him to recover his composure.
‘By Jove!’ M. Faisme suddenly exclaimed. ‘It’s just struck me: you’ve arrived in the middle of mass. All our youngsters are in chapel, including your brother, of course. What’s to be done?’ He consulted his watch. ‘There’s another twenty minutes, half an hour, perhaps, if there are many communions—and that’s quite possible. The Founder must have told you; we are particularly fortunate in our Confessor, he’s quite a young priest with go-ahead ideas and any amount of tact, don’t you know? Since he’s been here the religious tone of the Institution has wonderfully improved. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, but really I don’t see how it can be helped.’
Mindful of the investigation he proposed to carry out, Antoine made no show of friendliness.
‘As the buildings are empty for the moment,’ he said, standing up and fixing his eyes on the little man, ‘I presume there would be no objection to my having a look round the Institution. I’ve heard it so much discussed ever since I was a boy that I’d like to have a nearer view of it.’
‘Really?’ The Superintendent seemed surprised. ‘Nothing could be simpler, of course,’ he added with a smile, but made no sign of moving. For a moment he seemed lost in thoughts, the smile still lingering on his lips. ‘Really, you know, the buildings aren’t particularly interesting; more like a miniature barracks than anything else. And when I’ve said that, you know as much about them as I do.’
Antoine remained on his feet.
‘Still, it would interest me,’ he repeated. The Superintendent stared at him, his little slotted eyes twinkling with amused incredulity. ‘I mean what I say,’ Antoine added in a determined voice.
‘In that case, Doctor, I’ll be delighted. . . . Please give me time to put on a coat and shoes and I’ll be with you.’
He went out. Antoine heard an electric bell ring. Then a big bell in the courtyard clanged five times. ‘Aha!’ he thought. ‘That’s the alarm; the enemy is within the gates!’ Unable to bring himself to sit down, he walked to the window; the glass was frosted. ‘Steady now!’ he adjured himself. ‘And keep your eyes open. The first thing’s to make sure. Then to act. That’s the line to take.’
After a good while M. Faisme returned.
They went out together.
‘Here is our Main Quadrangle!’ he said, turning the pompous nomenclature with a laugh. The watchdog started barking again; he ran up to it and gave it a violent kick in the ribs that sent it slinking back into the kennel.
‘Are you anything of a gardener? But of course a doctor must know his way about in botany, what?’ He halted, beaming, in the middle of the little lawn. ‘Do give me your advice. How’m I to hide that bit of wall? What about ivy? Only it would take years, wouldn’t it?’
Ignoring the question, Antoine walked on to the main building. First they visited the ground floor. Antoine went in front; nothing escaped his observant eye, and he made a point of opening every door without exception. The upper half of the walls was whitewashed; up to the height of six feet they were tarred black. All the windows, like those in the office, had frosted glass, and here there were bars as well. Antoine tried to open a window, but a special key was necessary; the Superintendent produced one from his pocket and turned the latch. Antoine was struck by the dexterity of his short, fat, yellow fingers. He cast a shrewd exploring glance into the inner court which was quite empty—a large rectangle of dry, well-trodden mud without a single tree and enclosed by high walls topped with broken glass.
M. Faisme described with gusto the uses of the different rooms: classrooms and workshops for carpentry, metal-work, electricity and so forth. The rooms were small, clean and tidy. In the refectory servants were just finishing clearing the deal tables; an acrid smell came from the sinks in the corners.
‘Each boy goes to the sink, after the meal, to wash his bowl, mug and spoon. They never have knives, of course, nor even forks.’ When Antoine gave him a puzzled look, he added with a grin: ‘Nothing with a point, you know.’
On the first floor there were more classrooms, more workshops and a shower-bath which did not seem much used, but of which the Superintendent was evidently particularly proud. He bustled from room to room, flapping his arms and prattling away. Now and then he would stop to push back a carpenter’s bench, pick up a nail from the floor, turn off a dripping tap, set perfect order in each room he entered.
On the second floor were the dormitories. They were of two sorts. The greater number contained ten small bedsteads, with grey blankets, placed side by side; each was fitted with a kit-rack as in French military barracks, which these resembled, except that in the centre of each room was a sort of iron cage enclosed in fine-meshed wire netting.
‘Do you shut them up in that?’ Antoine enquired.
M. Faisme flung up his arms in a gesture of comical dismay, then began laughing again.
‘Certainly not! That’s where the watchman sleeps. It’s quite simple; he puts his bed plumb in the middle, at an equal distance from each wall. In that way he can see and hear everything that goes on, in perfect safety. And he has an alarm-bell, too; the wires go under the floor.’
The other sort of dormitory consisted of rows of adjoining cells, built of solid stone and barred like the animal-cages in a menagerie. M. Faisme had stopped on the threshold. Now and then his smile had a pensive, disillusioned air which gave his doll-like features the melancholy that pervades the Buddha’s face in certain statues.
‘Alas, Doctor,’ he said, ‘it’s in these cells we have to lodge our “hard cases.” The boys, I mean, who come to us too late to be re-educated; I’m afraid there’s little to be said for them. Some lads have vice in the blood—don’t you agree? Well, there’s nothing for it but to shut them up by themselves at night.’
Antoine pressed his face to the bars and peered into the gloom of one of the cells. He could just make out an unmade pallet bed and walls covered with obscene drawings and inscriptions. Instinctively he drew back.
‘Don’t look, it’s too distressing,’ the Superintendent sighed, drawing him away. ‘Here you have the central corridor where the watchman on duty patrols all night. The light isn’t put out here, and he doesn’t go to bed. Though they’re securely locked up, the little rascals would be quite capable of giving us a lot of trouble, take my word for it!’ He shook his head mournfully, then suddenly started laughing; his slotted eyes grew narrower still and all trace of compunction had left his face. ‘Yes,’ he added with an air of naïvety, ‘it takes all sorts to make a world you know.’
Antoine was so much interested in what he saw that he had forgotten most of the questions he had prepared in advance. One, however, he remembered now.
‘How do you punish them? I’d like to see your punishment cells.’
M. Faisme stepped back a pace, his eyes wide open, flapping his hands in consternation.
‘Come, come, Doctor, what do you take us for? This isn’t a convict prison. Punishment cells, indeed! We haven’t any, thank God! For one thing the Founder would never tolerate such methods.’
Silenced and baffled, Antoine had to endure the irony that twinkled in the little narrow eyes, whose lashes flickered humorously behind the glasses. He was beginning to find the rôle he had assumed—of scrutiny and suspicion—rather irksome. Nothing he had seen encouraged him to maintain his attitude of hostility. Moreover, he had a feeling that the Superintendent might have guessed the invidious motive that had brought him to Crouy. Still it was hard to know, so genuine seemed the little man’s simplicity despite the occasional flashes of mockery that glinted in the corners of his eyes.
He had stopped laughing, came up to Antoine and put his hand on his arm.
‘You were joking, weren’t you? You know as well as I do what comes of overdoing discipline; it leads to rebellion or, what is still worse, hypocrisy. Our Founder made a fine speech on the subject at the Paris Congress, in the year of the Great Exhibition.’
He had lowered his voice and there was a look of special understanding on his face as he gazed at the young man; a look implying that he and Antoine belonged to an élite, capable of discussing such educational problems without falling into the errors of the common herd. Antoine felt flattered, and his favourable impression grew stronger.
‘It’s true that in the courtyard, just as in a military barracks, there’s a small shed that the architect described on his plan as “Punishment Cells.” ’
‘Yes?’
‘But we only use it for storing coal, and potatoes. What’s the use of punishment cells? You get so much more by persuasion.’
‘Really?’
With a subtle smile the Superintendent placed his hand on Antoine’s arm.
‘Let’s get it clear,’ he said. ‘What I call “persuasion,” I prefer to tell you right away, is the deprivation of certain items of the daily diet. Our young folk are always greedy. That’s only natural at their age, isn’t it? Dry bread, Doctor, has a persuasive power you’d never suspect; only you must know how to use it—it’s essential not to isolate the lad whom we’re trying to reform. That, by the way, shows you how little the solitary cell enters into our method. No, it’s in a corner of the dining-hall that the youngster eats his hunk of stale bread, at noon, when the best meal of the day is served, with the smell of a nice steaming dish of stew in his nostrils and with all the others tucking in under his eyes. That’s our method, and it never fails. At that age they thin down in no time; in a fortnight or three weeks I’ve broken in even the most stubborn cases. Persuasion—there’s nothing like it!’ His eyes were round with satisfaction. ‘And never have I had to take other measures; I’ve never lifted a finger against any of the young folk in my charge.’
His face was shining with pride and benevolence. He really seemed to love his youthful miscreants, even the toughest.
They went down the stairs again. M. Faisme took out his watch.
‘To finish up, let me show you a truly edifying spectacle. You’ll tell the Founder, I hope, and I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear about it.’
They crossed the garden and entered the chapel. M. Faisme sprinkled holy water. Antoine saw the backs of some sixty lads in grey overalls, kneeling in strict alignment on the stone floor, motionless. Four of the staff, stalwart figures in blue uniforms with red braid, marched up and down the aisle, keeping their eyes fixed on the boys. Attended by two acolytes, the priest at the altar was just concluding the service.
‘Where’s Jacques?’ Antoine whispered.
The Superintendent pointed to the gallery beneath which they were standing and tiptoed back towards the porch.
‘That’s where your brother always sits,’ he said as soon as they were outside. ‘He’s alone there, that’s to say, only the young man who looks after him is with him. By the way, you might tell your father that a new servant, the man we spoke to him about, has been allotted to Jacques. He took up the post a week ago. Léon, the man whom Jacques had before, was getting too old for the job, and we’ve detailed him to supervise a work-room. The new man’s a young Lorrainer, a very, very decent fellow. He’s just ended his military service; used to be the Colonel’s orderly, and his references were excellent. It’ll be less boring for your brother on his walks, don’t you think so? Good heavens, here I am chattering away to you and the boys are coming out of church.’
The dog began to bark furiously. M. Faisme reduced it to silence, adjusted his glasses, and took his stand in the centre of the big quadrangle.
Both leaves of the chapel-door had been thrown open and, three by three, with the attendants beside them, the boys were filing out, keeping perfect step, like soldiers on parade. All were bareheaded and wearing rope-soled shoes, which gave them the noiseless step of gymnasts; their overalls were clean and held in at the waist by leather belts, the buckles of which flashed in the sun. The oldest were seventeen or eighteen, the youngest ten or eleven. Most had pale complexions, downcast eyes and a look of calm quite out of keeping with their age. But Antoine, though he scrutinized them with the utmost attention, could not detect a single questionable glance, not one unsavoury smile, nor even any trace of sullenness. Those boys did not look ‘hard cases,’ and, he could but own to himself, they did not look like oppressed victims either.
When the little procession had vanished into the building and the sound of muffled footsteps on the wooden stairs had died away, he turned to M. Faisme, who seemed to be waiting for his comment on the scene.
‘An excellent turn-out,’ he said.
The little man said nothing, but gently rubbed one plump palm against the other, as if he were soaping them, while his eyes, sparkling with pride behind the glasses, conveyed his silent gratitude.
At last, when the quadrangle was quite empty, Jacques appeared outside the sunlit porch.
At first Antoine wondered if it were really he. He had changed so greatly, grown so much taller, that Antoine all but failed to recognize him. He was not wearing uniform but a lounge suit, a felt hat and an overcoat thrown over his shoulders. He was followed by a fair-haired, thick-set young man of about twenty, who was not wearing the official uniform. They came down the steps together. Neither seemed to have noticed Antoine and the Superintendent. Jacques was walking composedly, his eyes fixed on the ground, and it was not till he was within a few yards of M. Faisme that, raising his head, he stopped, displayed astonishment and briskly took off his hat. His demeanour was completely natural, yet Antoine had a suspicion that his surprise was simulated. Jacques’ expression remained calm and, though he was smiling, did not seem to convey any real pleasure. Antoine held out his hand; his pleasure, too, was feigned.
‘Well, this is a nice surprise, Jacques, isn’t it?’ the Superintendent exclaimed. ‘But I’m going to scold you, my dear boy. You should put on your overcoat properly. It’s parky up in the gallery and you might catch cold.’
Jacques had turned away from his brother as soon as he heard M. Faisme speak and was looking the Superintendent in the face with a respectful, remarkably attentive expression, as if he were trying to grasp some underlying meaning that the words might be intended to convey. Then promptly, without answering, he slipped the overcoat on.
‘By Jove!’ Antoine sounded almost startled. ‘It’s amazing how you’ve shot up.’ He could not take his eyes off his brother, trying to analyse the complete change that had come over the boy’s demeanour, face and general appearance, and his surprise hampered his spontaneity.
‘Would you like to stay outside for a bit?’ the Superintendent amiably suggested. ‘It’s such a nice day, isn’t it? Jacques can take you to his room when you’ve done a few turns round the garden.’
Antoine hesitated. His eyes were asking his brother: What about it?
Jacques made no sign. Antoine took it to mean that he would rather not stay where he was, in full view of the reformatory windows.
‘No,’ he said, and turned to Jacques again. ‘We’ll be better in your room, won’t we?’
‘As you like,’ the Superintendent smiled. ‘But first of all I want to show you one more thing; you really must have a look at all our boarders, while you’re about it. Come along, Jacques.’
Jacques followed M. Faisme who, his arms extended, laughing like a schoolboy playing a practical joke, was shepherding Antoine towards a shelter built against the wall of the porter’s lodge. There were a dozen little rabbit-hutches. M. Faisme, it seemed, had a passion of small-stock raising.
‘This litter was born last Monday,’ he explained gleefully, ‘and look, they’re opening their eyes already, dear little things. In this hutch are my buck-rabbits. Have a good look at this one, Doctor; he’s a real “hard case.” ’ He plunged his arm into a hutch and hauled out by the ears a big silver Champagne, kicking violently.
There was a ring of boyish merriment in his laugh; it seemed impossible to think ill of the little man. Then Antoine remembered the dormitory above and its hutches barred with iron.
The plaintive smile of a misunderstood man came to M. Faisme’s face. ‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘Here I am chattering away, and I can see you’re only listening out of pure politeness, what? I’ll take you as far as Jacques’ door, and leave you. Come Jacques, show us the way.’
Jacques went in front. Antoine overtook him and put a hand on his shoulder. He was trying vainly to conjure up a picture of the small, nervous, weakly, short-legged urchin he had gone to retrieve at Marseilles only a year before.
‘Why, you’re as tall as I am!’
From the shoulder his hand moved up to the boy’s neck. It was as thin and frail as the neck of a bird. Indeed all the boy’s limbs seemed to have outgrown their strength, to be extraordinarily fragile. The elongated wrists protruded from the sleeves, the trousers left his ankles almost unclad, and there was a stiffness, an awkwardness in his way of walking, paradoxically combined with a certain adolescent suppleness, that was quite new to Antoine.
The rooms reserved for the special inmates were in an annexe to the administrative offices and could be approached only through them. Five identical rooms gave on to a corridor the walls of which were painted yellow. M. Faisme explained that as Jacques was the only ‘Special’ and the other rooms were unoccupied, the young man who looked after him slept in one, while the others were used as lumber-rooms.
‘And here’s our prisoner’s cell,’ he said, giving Jacques a playful tap with his plump finger; the boy smiled and drew back to let him enter.
Antoine inspected the room with eager curiosity. It might have been a bedroom in some small, unpretentious but pleasantly appointed hotel. The wall-paper had a floral pattern and there was a fair amount of light, though it came only from above through two fanlights of frosted glass criss-crossed by iron bars. They were immediately beneath the ceiling and, the room being lofty, nearly ten feet above the floor. Sunlight did not enter, but the room was warmed, not to say over-heated, by the heating-plant of the establishment. The furniture consisted of a pitch-pine wardrobe, two cane chairs, and a black table covered with an array of books and dictionaries. The little bed was smooth and trim as a billiard-table, and had been freshly laid with clean sheets. The wash-basin stood on a clean cloth and there were several immaculate towels on the towel-rail.
A minute inspection of the room gave the final blow to Antoine’s preconceived ideas about the Institution. Everything he had seen during the last hour had been the exact opposite of what he had expected. Jacques was effectively segregated from the other boys and treated with every consideration; the Superintendent was a good fellow, as unlike the warden of a prison as one could well imagine. In fact, all M. Thibault had said was true. Obstinate though he was, Antoine was being forced to retract his suspicions one by one.
He caught Mr. Faisme’s gaze intent on him.
‘Well, I must say you’re pretty comfortable here,’ he remarked, rather abruptly, turning to Jacques.
Jacques made no reply. He was taking off his hat and coat, which the servant took from him and hung up on the pegs.
‘Your brother has just said that you seem comfortable here,’ the Superintendent repeated.
Jacques swung round, with a polite, good-mannered air his brother had never seen him assume before. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Very comfortable indeed.’
‘No, don’t let us exaggerate,’ M. Faisme smiled. ‘It’s all very primitive really, we only insist it shall be clean. In any case, it’s Arthur we must compliment,’ he added, turning to the servant. ‘That bed does you credit, my lad!’
Arthur’s face lit up. Antoine, who was watching him, found himself making a friendly gesture towards the young man. He had a bullet head, pale eyes, smooth features and there was something frank and forthright in his smile and gaze. He had stayed beside the door and was tugging at his moustache, which seemed almost colourless against his sun-tanned cheeks.
‘So that’s the grim warder I had pictured—creeping about with a dark-lantern and a bunch of keys!’ Antoine was saying to himself, and could not help laughing at his mistake. Then he went up to the books and, still laughing, ran his eyes over them.
‘Sallust, I see. Are you making good progress with your Latin?’ he asked, a cheerful smile still lingering on his face.
It was M. Faisme who answered his question.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say it in front of him,’ he began with feigned reluctance and a flutter of his eyelashes in Jacques’ direction, ‘but I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you his tutor is very pleased with his progress. We work our eight hours a day,’ he continued in a more serious tone. He went up to the blackboard and straightened it while he went on talking. ‘Still that doesn’t prevent us from going every day, whatever the weather—your worthy father attaches much importance to it—for a good long two hours’ tramp with Arthur. They’ve both good legs, and I leave them free to choose the walks they like. With old Léon it was another matter; I suspect they didn’t cover much ground; but they made up for it by gathering herbs along the hedgerows. I should tell you old Léon was a chemist’s assistant in his youth and knows all about plants, not to mention their Latin names. Jacques must have learned quite a lot from him. Still I must say I’d rather see them taking long walks in the country—much better for Jacques’ health, isn’t it?’
Antoine had turned to his brother several times while M. Faisme was speaking. Jacques seemed to be listening in a dream; now and then he had to make an effort to follow, and at these moments a look of vague distress crossed his face, his lips parted and his eyelids quivered.
‘There I am again, babbling away, and it’s ages since Jacques had a chance of seeing his big brother.’ M. Faisme backed towards the door with little friendly gestures. ‘Are you going back by the eleven o’clock train?’ he asked.
That had not been Antoine’s intention, but M. Faisme’s tone implied it was the obvious thing to do, and, moreover, he felt only too glad of the pretext for an early escape. He was conscious that the dreary atmosphere of the place and Jacques’ indifference were getting on his nerves. And, in any case, he had learned what he wanted to learn. What was the use of staying on?
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Unfortunately I must get back to Paris early, for my afternoon visits.’
‘There’s nothing to regret; the next train doesn’t leave till late in the day. Well, so long, Doctor!’
The brothers were alone. For a moment both felt embarrassed.
‘Take the chair,’ Jacques said, and moved towards the bed as if to seat himself on it. Then he noticed the second chair, changed his mind and, offering it to Antoine, repeated ‘Take the chair’ in a natural tone, as if he were saying, ‘Do sit down!’
Nothing of this byplay had escaped Antoine; his suspicions were aroused.
‘So you have only one chair as a rule,’ he observed.
‘Yes. But Arthur’s lent us his to-day, as he does when my tutor comes.’
Antoine did not press the point.
‘Well, they seem to do you pretty well here.’ He cast another glance around the room. Pointing to the clean sheets and towels, he added: ‘Do they change the linen often?’
‘Every Sunday.’
Antoine had been speaking in the crisp, cheerful tone that was usual with him, but somehow in this echoing room, in the atmosphere created by Jacques’ apathy, it sounded incisive, almost aggressive.
‘Just think,’ he said, ‘I was worried about you, I hardly know why. I was afraid they might be treating you badly here.’
Jacques gazed at him with surprise, and smiled. Antoine kept his eyes fixed on his brother’s face.
‘Well now, honestly, between ourselves, you’ve nothing to complain of?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now that I’m here, isn’t there anything I could fix up for you with the Superintendent?’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘How can I tell? Think, now.’
Jacques seemed to ponder, smiled again, then shook his head.
‘No. As you can see, everything’s quite all right.’
His voice had changed, like everything else about him; it was a man’s voice now, with an agreeable, if rather muffled, resonance, which came as a surprise from one so obviously a mere boy.
Antoine gazed at him again. ‘Yes, Jacques, how you’ve changed! No, “changed” isn’t really the word for it; you’re no longer the same, not a bit, not in any way.’
He still kept his eyes on Jacques, trying to recognize in the unfamiliar face the features he had known. There was still the same reddish hair, a little darker and browner now, but still coarse and growing low on the forehead; there was the same narrow, ill-formed nose, the same cracked lips, shaded now by a faint fringe of down; the same heavy jaw, but more massive than in the past; and the same protuberant ears that seemed tugging at the mouth, keeping it stretched. Yet nothing of it all was really like the youngster of the day before yesterday. ‘It looks as if his temperament has changed as well,’ he mused. ‘He used to be so changeable, always on edge—and now he looks half asleep, as if his face had been ironed out! Yes, he used to be a nervous type, and now he’s gone lymphatic.’
‘Stand up for a moment,’ he said.
Jacques submitted to the examination with an amiable smile, but there was no warmth in it. The pupils of his eyes seemed misted over.
Antoine felt his arms and legs.
‘Goodness, how you’ve shot up! Sure it isn’t telling on your health?’
Jacques shook his head. Antoine was holding the boy in front of him, by the wrists. He was struck by the paleness of the freckled cheeks and the pouches under the eyes.
‘None too healthy, your colour,’ he went on, with a touch of seriousness. He frowned, was on the point of saying something more, but stopped.
Suddenly the sight of Jacques’ submissive, expressionless face had revived all the suspicions he had vaguely felt when he first had seen Jacques in the quadrangle.
‘I suppose they told you I was waiting for you after mass, didn’t they?’ he asked abruptly.
Jacques looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘When you came out of the chapel,’ Antoine persisted, ‘did you know that I was here?’
‘Certainly not. How could I know?’ Jacques’ smile conveyed candid amazement.
Antoine decided to drop the subject. ‘Well, I rather thought they had. . . . Can I smoke here?’ he asked, to change the subject.
Jacques looked at him anxiously. Antoine held out his cigarette-case.
‘Have one?’
‘No, thanks.’ A shadow seemed to settle on his face.
Antoine was at a loss what to say. As usually happens when someone wants to prolong a conversation with a taciturn companion, Antoine racked his brains to think of questions he might put.
‘So really and truly,’ he began, ‘there’s nothing you need. You’ve got all you want?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Is your bed comfortable? Have you enough blankets?’
‘Oh yes, I’m too warm sometimes.’
‘What about your tutor? Is he decent to you?’
‘Very.’
‘But doesn’t it bore you rather, working like this, all by yourself?’
‘No.’
‘How do you spend the evenings?’
‘I go to bed after dinner, at eight o’clock.’
‘When do you get up?’
‘When the bell rings, at half-past six.’
‘Does the confessor come to see you sometimes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like him?’
Jacques stared blankly at Antoine. He did not understand the question, and made no answer.
‘And does the Superintendent come as well?’
‘Yes, often.’
‘He looks a good sort. Do the boys like him?’
‘I don’t know. I expect so.’
‘You never meet the—the others?’
‘Never.’
At each question Jacques, whose eyes were constantly lowered, gave a slight shiver, as if it was a strain for him to jump like this from one subject to another.
‘How about your poems? Do you still write poetry?’ Antoine asked with a smile.
‘Oh no.’
‘Why not?’
Jacques shrugged his shoulders; a placid smile came to his lips and lingered there for some moments. It was the sort of smile Antoine would have expected had his question been: ‘Do you still play with a hoop?’
In despair Antoine switched the conversation round to Daniel. Jacques was not prepared for that; he flushed a little.
‘How do you expect me to know anything about him?’ he said. ‘We don’t get letters here.’
‘But,’ Antoine went on, ‘don’t you ever write to him?’ He kept his eyes fixed on his brother.
The boy smiled as he had done when Antoine had referred to his poems, and made a faint gesture as if to wave away the topic.
‘It’s ancient history, all that. Don’t let’s talk of it any more.’
What did he mean by that? If he had said, ‘No, I’ve never written to him,’ Antoine would have bluntly given him the lie, and felt a secret pleasure in doing so, for Jacques’ air of apathy was beginning to irritate him. But Jacques had eluded his question, and there had been a melancholy finality in his tone that had silenced Antoine. Just then he fancied he saw Jacques’ eyes grow suddenly intent on something behind himself, by the door; and, in his mood of latent irritation, he felt all his suspicions come crowding back. The door had a window in it, no doubt to make it possible to see from outside what was going on in the room, and over the door was a grating through which what was said could be overheard from outside.
‘There’s someone in the corridor, isn’t there?’ Antoine asked bluntly, but in a low voice.
Jacques stared at him as if he had gone mad.
‘Someone in the corridor? What do you mean? Sometimes people go by. Just now I saw old Léon passing.’
There was a knock at the door and Léon came in to be introduced to the big brother. Without more ado he sat down on the edge of the table.
‘I hope you find him fit, sir. Ain’t he shot up since the autumn?’
He was laughing. He looked a typical old-school French sergeant-major. He had a big, drooping moustache, and tanned cheeks which his jovial belly-laugh suffused with a glow of blood that ramified across them in a network of red veins, spreading into the whites of his eyes and blurring their expression, which normally, it seemed, was one of fatherly good humour with a spice of mischief in it.
‘They’ve packed me off to the workshops,’ he said to Antoine, with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. ‘And I’d got so used to this young gentleman! Eh well,’ he added, as he moved away, ‘it’s no use crying over spilt milk, as they say . . . Give my respects to Monsieur Thibault, if it ain’t too much trouble, sir. He knows me well, does your old dad.’
‘What a fine old chap!’ Antoine exclaimed when he had gone.
Then he tried to get their talk under way again.
‘I could take him a letter from you, if you want to send one,’ he said. When Jacques stared at him uncomprehendingly, he added: ‘Wouldn’t you like to write a word to Fontanin?’
Yet again he was trying to summon up to the boy’s listless face some hint of real feeling, some memory of the past; and again he failed. Jacques merely shook his head, unsmiling.
‘No, thanks. I’ve nothing to say to him. All that’s ancient history.’
Antoine left it at that. Inwardly he was furious. Moreover, it must be getting late; he took out his watch.
‘Half-past ten. In five minutes I must go.’
Jacques suddenly looked ill at ease, as if there was something he wanted to say to his brother. He went on to enquire about Antoine’s health, the time the train went, his medical examinations. And, when Antoine rose, he was struck by the tone in which Jacques sighed.
‘What? So soon? Do stay a little longer.’
He fancied then that the boy might have been put off by his coldness, that the visit might have given him more pleasure than he chose to evince.
‘Are you glad I came?’ he murmured awkwardly.
But Jacques’ thoughts seemed far away. He gave a little start, as if surprised, and answered with a polite smile:
‘Yes, of course. Very glad, thank you.’
‘Right-oh, I’ll try to come again. Good-bye till then.’ He was feeling really annoyed. He looked at his young brother again, full in the face; all his perceptive powers were on the alert, and his emotions, too, were stirred.
‘I often think of you, old chap, and I must say I’m feeling worried—that you mayn’t be happy here.’ They were near the door. Antoine grasped Jacques’ hand. ‘You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?’
Jacques looked embarrassed. He made an impulsive movement, as if at last he were about to confide in Antoine. Then he seemed to come to a quick decision.
‘I say, I wish you’d give something to Arthur, the servant. He’s so obliging, you know.’ Antoine was so taken aback that he did not answer at once. Jacques went on in a pleading voice: You’ll give him a tip, won’t you?’
‘But,’ Antoine replied, ‘mightn’t it lead to . . . to complications?’
‘No, of course not. When you’re going, say good-bye to him nicely and give a small tip. Please, Antoine!’ His attitude was almost imploring.
‘Of course I will. But I want to know the truth about you, and I want a straight answer. Are you unhappy here?’
‘No, certainly not!’ There was a hint of vexation in Jacques’ voice. Then he added in a lower tone: ‘How much will you give him?’
‘Haven’t an idea. What do you think? How about ten francs? Or would you rather twenty?’
‘Oh, yes, twenty!’ Jacques seemed delighted, but embarrassed at the same time. ‘Thank you, Antoine.’ And he gripped affectionately the hand his brother gave him.
Arthur was going along the corridor as Antoine went out. He took the tip without demur, and his frank, slightly childish face flushed with pleasure. He escorted Antoine to the Superintendent’s office.
‘It’s a quarter to eleven,’ M. Faisme said. ‘You’ve got time enough, but you must start at once.’
They crossed the vestibule in which the Founder’s bust lorded it superbly. And now, when Antoine saw it again, his sense of irony was quelled. For he realized now the well-foundedness of his father’s pride in this institution, which he had built up unaided; and he felt a vicarious pride in being his father’s son.
M. Faisme accompanied him to the gate, begging him to present his respects to M. Thibault. As he spoke, he never ceased laughing, puckering his eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. The hands he pressed almost affectionately round Antoine’s hand were plump and yielding as a woman’s. At last Antoine managed to free himself. Looking back, he saw the little man standing in the road, bareheaded in the sunlight, still laughing and wagging his head with every sign of amity.
‘Really, I’m as silly as an hysterical school-girl, letting my imagination run away with me like that!’ Antoine was saying to himself as he walked to the station. ‘That show is excellently run, and Jacques isn’t a bit unhappy.
‘And the silliest thing,’ he suddenly thought, ‘is that I wasted my time cross-examining the boy instead of having a friendly chat with him.’
He was almost inclined to believe his brother had been positively glad to see the last of him. ‘But it’s a bit his own fault,’ he concluded with some exasperation, ‘he seemed so . . . so callous!’ Still he was sorry he had failed to make the first advances.
Antoine did not keep a mistress and was satisfied with casual adventure. But he was twenty-four, and he sometimes felt an almost painful yearning for the nearness of some weaker being on whom he could lavish his compassion, whom he could protect and shield. His affection for Jacques was growing stronger with every step he took away from him. And now—when would he see him again? On the least pretext he would have turned back.
He walked with his eyes to the ground, to escape the glare of the morning sun. When, after a while, he raised them again, he saw he had missed his way. Some children showed him a short cut through the fields. He quickened his pace. ‘Supposing I missed the train,’ he thought, ‘what should I do?’ Playing with the idea, he pictured his return to the reformatory; he would spend the day with Jacques, would tell him of his fantastic fears, and this journey he had kept secret from their father. And this time he would play the part of a real confidant, a comrade, and remind the boy of the scene in the cab on their return from Marseilles, and how that night he had felt they might become real friends. His desire to miss the train became so urgent that he slackened his pace, though he had not yet come to an actual decision. Suddenly he heard the engine whistle, and a plume of smoke rose on his left, above a clump of trees. Unthinking, he began to run. The station was in sight. He had his ticket in his pocket, had only to jump into a carriage, running across the rails, if necessary. His head thrown back, his elbows pressed in to his sides like a professional sprinter, he took deep breaths of the keen air. Proud of his athletic fitness, he felt certain he would get there on time.
But he had reckoned without the embankment. To reach the station the road made a bend, passing under a little bridge. Vainly he made a spurt, getting the last ounce out of his muscles; when he came out on the far side of the bridge, the train was already moving out of the station. He had missed it by about a hundred yards.
Such was his pride that he would not admit he had been beaten in the race; he preferred to think he had missed the train on purpose. ‘I could still jump into the guard’s van if I chose,’ he thought, ‘but that would settle things peremptorily; then it would be impossible for me to see Jacques again.’ He stopped, pleased with his decision.
Immediately all he had been picturing took concrete form; he would lunch at the inn, go back after lunch to the reformatory, and spent the whole day with his brother.
Antoine was back at the reformatory gate a little before one. M. Faisme was just going out, and was so taken aback that for a few seconds he seemed like a man of stone, but for the little eyes twinkling as usual behind his glasses. Antoine explained what had happened. Only then did the Superintendent burst out laughing and regain his wonted loquacity.
Antoine explained that he would like to take his brother out for the afternoon, for a walk.
The Superintendent looked dubious. ‘That’s a bit of a problem. The regulations, you know. . . .’
But Antoine pressed his point with such insistence that the man gave in.
‘Only I must ask you to explain the particular circumstances to the Founder. . . . Well, I’ll go and fetch Jacques.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Antoine said.
He regretted it; they arrived at an unfortunate moment. They had scarcely entered the corridor when Antoine came on his brother squatting, for all the world to see, in the retreat known to the Administration as the Vater-closette. The door was being held open by Arthur, who was leaning against it, smoking a pipe.
Antoine walked quickly past and entered Jacques’ room. M. Faisme was rubbing his hands with an air of jubilation.
‘You see!’ he said. ‘The lads we look after are looked after—even “there!” ’
Jacques came to his room. Antoine had expected he would seem embarrassed, but nothing of the sort. Jacques was buttoning up his clothes quite unconcernedly as he entered and his face was expressionless; he did not even seem surprised at Antoine’s return. M. Faisme explained that he would permit Jacques to be out with his brother until six. Jacques watched his face as if he wanted to be sure of understanding exactly what he meant, but made no comment.
‘Now I really must fly, if you’ll excuse me,’ M. Faisme said in his brisk falsetto voice. ‘There’s a meeting of my Municipal Council. Would you believe it, I’m the Mayor here!’ He was roaring with laughter, as if he had cracked a joke of the first order, as he vanished through the door. Even Antoine was infected by his merriment.
Jacques dressed composedly. Antoine was struck by Arthur’s attentiveness to Jacques as he handed him his clothes. When he volunteered to give his boots an extra shine, Jacques made no objection.
The room had already lost the well-kept aspect that had so favourably impressed Antoine in the morning. He tried to discover why. The luncheon-tray was still on the table; there was an empty mug, a dirty plate, bread-crumbs. The clean linen had disappeared, a single soiled hand-towel hung on the rail, under the basin was a dirty, tattered square of oilcloth. The white bed-linen had been replaced by rough, unbleached, shabby-looking sheets. And suddenly all his suspicions were reawakened. But now he refrained from asking questions.
They set out on to the high road side by side.
‘Where shall we go?’ Antoine asked in a cheerful tone. ‘You don’t know Compiègne? It’s only about two miles’ walk, along the banks of the Oise. Like to have a look at it?’
Jacques agreed. He seemed decided to fall in with everything his brother proposed.
Antoine slipped his arm through his brother’s and fell into step with him.
‘What did you think of the towel trick?’ he asked. He looked at Jacques, and laughed.
‘The towel trick?’ his brother repeated blankly.
‘Don’t you remember? This morning, while I was being trotted round the place, they took advantage of it to lay your bed with clean sheets and hang nice clean towels by your washstand. Very clever! Unluckily I turned up again, like a bad penny! One in the eye for them!’
Jacques stopped abruptly, a faint, uneasy smile on his lips.
‘Really one would think you want to find fault with everything that goes on at the Institution,’ he blurted out, his deep voice quivering a little.
He fell silent for a while and continued walking at his brother’s side. A moment later he spoke again, obviously forcing himself to do so, as if it bored him desperately having to enlarge on so futile a topic.
‘You don’t realize, Antoine. It’s quite simple, really. The linen is changed on the first and third Sundays of each month. Arthur, who has been looking after me for the last ten days, had changed the sheets and towels last Sunday, so he thought it was his duty to change them again this morning, as it was a Sunday. The people at the linen-room told him he had made a mistake, so he had to take back the clean linen, which I’m not due to get till next week.’ Again he fell silent, gazing at the landscape.
A bad start! Antoine applied himself to turn their conversation into another channel, but he was still feeling annoyed at his clumsiness; somehow he could not strike the note of everyday good-fellowship he wanted. Jacques answered briefly, Yes or No, to Antoine’s questions, and did not show the slightest interest. At last he spoke, of his own accord.
‘Please, Antoine, don’t mention the business about the towels to the Superintendent; it would only get Arthur into trouble over nothing at all.’
‘All right.’
‘Nor to Papa, either,’ Jacques added.
‘I’ll tell nobody, don’t worry. As a matter of fact it had passed out of my mind. Now, look here, Jacques,’ he went on, ‘I’m going to tell you the truth. Just imagine, I’d got it into my head, I don’t know why, that this was a rotten place, that you were having a bad time here.’
Jacques turned a little and examined his brother’s face with a serious expression.
‘I spent the morning nosing round,’ Antoine went on. ‘Finally, I saw I’d been mistaken. Then I pretended to miss my train. You see, I didn’t want to go without having had time for a good talk with you.’
Jacques made no reply. Did he relish the prospect of a ‘good talk’? Antoine felt uncertain and, fearing to make a false step, kept silent.
The road fell steeply towards the river, and they began to walk ahead more briskly. Presently they came to a bend of the river, which was converted at this point into a canal and spanned by a narrow iron bridge, crossing a lock. Three empty barges, their fat brown hulls almost entirely above the water-level, were floating on the all but stagnant stream.
‘How’d you like the idea of a trip in a barge?’ Antoine asked. ‘It would be rather jolly dropping down through the morning mists, between the poplars on the banks, stopping at the locks now and then—wouldn’t it? And, in the evening, at sunset, smoking a cigarette in the bows, thinking of nothing, dangling one’s legs over the water. . . . By the way, do you still go in for drawing?’
Jacques gave a very definite start, and Antoine was certain he saw him blush.
‘Why . . . ?’ he asked in an uneasy voice.
‘Oh, I hadn’t any special reason for asking.’ But Antoine’s curiosity was aroused. ‘I was only thinking one could make a rather pretty sketch here, with the barges, the lock and the little bridge.’
The towpath broadened, became a road. They were coming to a wide reach of the Oise, whose swollen waters rolled towards them.
‘There’s Compiègne,’ Antoine said.
He had stopped and put his hand to his forehead to shelter his eyes from the sun. On the horizon, above the green mass of the woods, he saw a group of pinnacles around a belfry, the round tower of a church. He was about to tell the name of the churches to his brother—who, like himself, was holding his hand over his eyes and seemed to be gazing towards the horizon—when he noticed that Jacques’ eyes were fixed on the ground beside his feet. He seemed to be waiting for Antoine to go on with the walk; without a word, Antoine started forward again.
All Compiègne was out-of-doors. The brothers joined the crowd streaming across the bridge. There had evidently been a medical examination of recruits that morning, for groups of young men in their Sunday best were buying tricolor ribbons from street-vendors and lurching down the pavements arm in arm, leaving no room for the ordinary townsfolk, and bawling soldiers’ songs. On the Mall, amongst young women in summery attire and booted cavalrymen, the local families were strolling, greeting each other affably.
The sight of all these people was making Jacques feel more and more ill at ease and he begged Antoine to come away.
They took a street that turned off from the main thoroughfare; dark and quiet, it gently rose towards the Palace Square. When they came out into the open again, the sunlight almost blinded them. Jacques blinked his eyes. Halting, they sat down under the trees, neatly laid out in alternating rows, shadeless as yet.
‘Listen!’ he said, putting his hand on Antoine’s knee. The bells of Saint Jacques were ringing for vespers, and their long vibrations seemed to merge into the sunlight.
Antoine supposed that at last, unwittingly, the boy had responded to the bright enchantment of that first spring Sunday.
‘A penny for your thoughts, old chap!’ he smiled.
But, instead of answering, Jacques rose and began walking towards the park. The majesty of the scene did not seem to evoke the slightest response from him. What he wanted most of all apparently was to get away from places where there were people about. The calm that reigned around the château, on the great walled terraces, drew him towards it. Antoine followed, making conversation about whatever caught his eye: the clipped box borders skirting the green lawns, the ringdoves settling on the statues’ shoulders. But the boy’s replies were always evasive.
Suddenly Jacques asked: ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘To whom?’
‘Fontanin.’
‘Yes, I met him the other day in the Latin Quarter. Do you know he’s a day-boy now at Louis-le-Grand Lycée?’
‘Really?’ was all Jacques said at first. Then he added, with a faint tremor in his voice that for the first time had something in it of the peremptory tone familiar with him in the past: ‘You didn’t tell him where I was, did you?’
‘He didn’t ask me. Why? You’d rather he didn’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . . !’ He did not go on.
‘An excellent reason!’ Antoine laughed. ‘But I suppose you’ve got another, eh?’
Jacques stared blankly at him; evidently he had not realized Antoine was joking. Aloof as ever, he started walking again. Then abruptly he asked another question.
‘And Gise? Does she know?’
‘Where you are? No, I don’t think so. But with children one can never be sure of anything.’ Now that Jacques himself had started a topic of conversation, Antoine made the most of it. ‘And Gise is such a quaint little thing. Some days you’d think she was quite grown up; she listens to everything that’s said with her eyes full of interest—and pretty eyes they are! And on other days she’s just like a baby. Would you believe it, yesterday Mademoiselle was looking for her everywhere, and there she was playing with her dolls under the hall table! And she’s rising eleven, you know.’
They were going down towards the wistaria arbour; Jacques halted at the bottom of the steps beside a sphinx in mottled pink marble, and began stroking pensively the sleek, cool forehead gleaming in the sunlight. Was he thinking of Gise and Mademoiselle? Had a sudden picture risen before him of the old hall table, with its fringed cloth and silver platter full of visiting-cards? So Antoine thought, and went on cheerfully:
‘Heaven only knows where she gets all her ideas from. Our home can’t be much fun for a kid, can it? Mademoiselle adores her, but you know what she’s like; she’s always in a flutter, she won’t let the poor child do anything, never leaves her in peace for a moment.’
Laughing, he tried to catch his brother’s eye, feeling that these little details of their family life were like a secret treasury to which they alone had the key—something unique and irreplaceable, the memories of childhood spent in common. But Jacques vouchsafed only a fleeting, artificial smile.
Antoine, however, was not to be silenced now.
‘Meals aren’t much fun nowadays, I can tell you. Father doesn’t open his mouth, or else serves up to Mademoiselle a sort of rehash of his latest public speeches, or tells her how he spent the day, down to the latest detail. By the way, his election for the Institute is going very well, I hear.’
‘Yes?’ A hint of tenderness crept over Jacques’ face. After musing for a moment, he smiled. ‘So much the better!’
‘All his friends are putting their backs into it,’ Antoine went on. ‘The Abbé’s a pillar of strength; he has friends in every camp, you know. The election is in three weeks.’ He had stopped laughing, and added in a lower voice: ‘You may say what you like, but to be a member of the Institute means something. And father really deserves it, don’t you agree?’
‘Rather!’ the boy cried enthusiastically. ‘He’s awfully good, really—a really good man at heart.’ He stopped; then, obviously anxious to continue, could not bring himself to do so. He was blushing.
‘I’m waiting till father’s comfortably ensconced beneath that august dome before springing a great surprise on him.’ Antoine was obviously carried away by his subject. ‘I’m really awfully cramped in my room at the end of the hall; I’ve no room for my books, for one thing. Did you know Gise has been put in your old room? I’d like to persuade father to rent the little flat on the ground floor, where that old chap we called “the gay old bachelor” is now; he’s leaving on the fifteenth. There are three rooms and I could have a proper study where I could see patients, and perhaps a sort of laboratory—I could fix it up in the kitchen.’
Suddenly he realized how tactless he was being in thus depicting the freedom he enjoyed and his preoccupations with his personal comfort to this unhappy boy cut off from the world. And he realized, too, that he had just spoken of Jacques’ room as if he were never to come back to it. He stopped abruptly. Jacques had resumed his air of indifference.
‘Well, now,’ Antoine said, to clear the air, ‘how about something to eat? What do you say to it? I expect you’re feeling peckish.’
He had lost all hope of establishing easy fraternal relations between Jacques and himself.
They went back to the town. The streets were still crowded, and buzzing like a beehive. The tea-shops were overflowing with customers. Brought to a full stop by the crowd, Jacques stood unmoving in front of a confectioner’s window resplendent with gaudy rows of cakes in sugar icing and exuding cream, the sight of which seemed to fascinate him.
‘Right-oh! Let’s go in!’ Antoine smiled.
Jacques’ hands were trembling as he took the plate Antoine handed him. They sat down at the far end of the shop, in front of a pyramid of mixed cakes. Rich wafts of vanilla and warm pastry came up through a service hatch. Unspeaking, slumped in his chair, his eyes swollen as if with unshed tears, Jacques wolfed his food down, stopping after each cake and waiting for Antoine to hand him another, which he began at once to eat voraciously. Antoine ordered two ports. Jacques fingers were still trembling as he took up his glass. The first sip of the wine seemed to burn him, and he coughed. Antoine drank his wine slowly, feigning not to notice his brother. Taking courage, Jacques gulped down a mouthful, felt it tingling in his gullet like liquid fire; after another gulp he drained his glass to the dregs. When Antoine began to pour him out a second glass, he pretended not to notice and only when the glass was nearly full, made a vague gesture of refusal. . . .
When they left the shop the sun was nearing the horizon and the temperature had dropped. But Jacques was unconscious of the change. His cheeks were burning and his whole body tingled with a feeling of well-being so unaccustomed that it was almost painful.
‘We’ve got those two miles to cover,’ Antoine said. ‘I suppose we’d better start back at once.’
Jacques was on the verge of tears. Clenching his fists in his pocket, he set his jaw and bent his head. Antoine, who was secretly watching him, was alarmed by the change that had come over the boy’s face.
‘Sure the walk hasn’t tired you?’ he asked.
It seemed to Jacques that there was a new note of affection in his brother’s voice. But he could not find a word to say, and the face he turned towards Antoine was grief-stricken, the eyes were full of tears.
Greatly amazed, Antoine followed him in silence. After they had crossed the bridge and left the town behind, and were once more on the towpath, he moved closer to Jacques, and took his arm.
‘Not too sorry to have missed your usual walk?’ he asked with a smile.
Jacques made no reply. Then suddenly it all came over him with a rush—the after-effect of this first heady taste of freedom, of the strong wine, and now the soft, sad dusk falling from the bright air. His emotions were too strong for him; he burst out sobbing. Antoine put his arm around him, steadying him, then sat down on the embankment and drew his brother to his side. He was no longer bent on prying into the intimacies of his young brother’s life. He was only conscious of a vast relief that at last the blank wall of apathy against which he had been coming all day long seemed to be giving way.
They were alone on the deserted river bank, alone with the dark recession of the water, under a misty sky dappled with the fires of sunset. In front of them a punt, chained to the bank, was swaying on the eddies, making the dry reeds rustle.
They had still a good way to go, Antoine was thinking, and they couldn’t stay here for ever. Above all, he wanted to make the boy raise his head.
‘What’s come over you, Jacques? Why are you crying?’
Jacques pressed tighter against him.
‘Was it thinking about your usual walk that made you cry?’
Jacques felt he must say something. ‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Why should it? Where do you usually go on Sundays?’
No answer.
‘So you don’t like going out with Arthur?’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you say so? If you’d rather have old Léon, it’s easy to fix up, you know.’
‘No! No!’ The change in his voice from apathy to rage was startling. Jacques had straightened up, and Antoine was dumbfounded by the look of bitter hatred on his face.
It seemed as if Jacques could not bear staying still; he began hurrying along the path, dragging his brother after him.
‘So you didn’t like going out with Léon, either?’
Jacques went on walking, his eyes wide open, gritting his teeth and obstinately silent.
‘Still he behaved quite nicely to you, didn’t he?’ Antoine went on.
Again no answer. He was afraid Jacques was going to shrink back into his shell once more, and tried to take his arm. The boy shook it off, and hurried on. Antoine followed, uncertain how to continue, anxiously wondering how to regain his confidence. Then, unexpectedly, Jacques slowed down, with a sudden sob. Tears were running down his cheeks, he did not look at his brother.
‘Antoine, please promise not to tell, never to tell anyone. I didn’t go walking with Léon, scarcely at all. . . .’
He stopped. Antoine was on the brink of asking a question, but instinct warned him not to utter a sound. And presently Jacques spoke again in a voice that sounded uncertain, a little hoarse.
‘On the first days, yes. As a matter of fact it was on our walks that he began to—to tell me things. And he lent me books; I didn’t believe such books existed! Afterwards he said he’d post letters for me, if I wanted. It was then I wrote to Daniel. But I hadn’t any money for stamps. Then something happened. Léon had noticed I could draw a bit. Then—but you can guess, can’t you? It was he who told me what was wanted. Then, in exchange, he paid for the stamp on my letter. In the evening he showed the drawings round to the warders, and they kept on asking for others, more and more elaborate ones. From that moment Léon did just as he liked, he stopped our walks altogether. Instead of going into the country, he used to take me round the back of the buildings, through the village. The children used to run after us. We always went by a side street to get into the public-house through the back yard. Then he’d go off to drink and play cards or whatever he wanted to do, and while he was at it I was kept hidden in a wash-house, with an old blanket over me.’
‘What? They kept you in hiding?’
‘Yes, I used to have to stay two hours locked up in the wash-house like that.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. Well, of course the people who kept the place felt anxious. . . . One day there was some washing to be dried in there, so I was kept in a passage instead. The woman there said—she said . . .’ His voice was broken by sobs.
‘What did she say?’
‘She said: “One never knows with these beastly little . . .” ’ He was sobbing so violently that he could not go on.
‘ “These beastly little . . . ?” ’ Antoine prompted.
‘ “. . . little jailbirds!” ’ He brought out the word with an effort; then burst into a storm of weeping.
Antoine waited; just then his keen curiosity blunted the edge of his compassion.
‘And what else?’ he asked. ‘Tell me what else they did to you.’
‘Antoine, Antoine!’ he cried. ‘Swear to me you won’t tell anyone. Swear! If ever papa suspected anything, he’d . . .
‘Papa is so good, you know; it would upset him terribly. It’s not his fault if he doesn’t see things as we do.’ His voice grew appealing. ‘Antoine, please, Antoine—don’t leave me now! Please!’
‘Of course not, old chap; I’m here and I’ll stand by you. I won’t breathe a word, I’ll do exactly what you want. Only—tell me the truth.’ Seeing Jacques could not bring himself to speak, he added: ‘Did he beat you?’
‘Who?’
‘Why, Léon.’
‘Of course not!’ Jacques was so surprised that he could not help smiling through his tears.
‘They don’t beat you there?’
‘Never.’
‘Really and truly, never?’
‘Never, Antoine.’
‘Well—what else?’
Jacques was silent.
‘This new man, Arthur? He’s not a nice chap, eh?’
Jacques shook his head.
‘What’s wrong with him? Does he go to the public-house too?’
‘No.’
‘Ah! So you do go out for real walks with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what have you got against him? Is he harsh with you?’
‘No.’
‘Then what is it? You don’t like him?’
‘No.’
‘Why? There must be some reason. . . .’
‘Because . . .’ Jacques turned his eyes away.
Antoine was silent for a moment; then he broke out.
‘But, damn it all, why don’t you complain? Why don’t you tell the Superintendent about it?’
Carried away by nervous excitement, Jacques pressed his body feverishly against his brother’s.
‘Oh, Antoine,’ he begged. ‘You mustn’t! You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone about it. You know you did.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s understood. But what I’m asking is: Why didn’t you complain of Léon to M. Faisme?’
Jacques merely shook his head, without a word.
‘Do you suspect that the Superintendent knows what’s going on, and connives at it?’ he suggested.
‘Oh no!’
‘What do you think of the Superintendent?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you think he gives the other boys a bad time?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Well, he looks decent enough, but now I feel all at sea. Old Léon, too, looked a good chap. Have you heard anything against the Superintendent?’
‘No.’
‘Are the staff afraid of him? Old Léon and Arthur, for instance?’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Because he’s the Superintendent.’
‘How about you? When he’s with you have you noticed anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘So you don’t dare to speak freely to him?’
‘No.’
‘Supposing you’d told him that Léon went to the pub instead of taking you for walks, and that you were kept locked up in a wash-house, what do you think he’d have done?’
‘He’d have had Léon sent away.’ Jacques sounded terrified at the thought.
‘So something prevented you from telling him. What was it?’
‘That, of course!’
Antoine could make nothing of the answer, but he had a feeling that his brother was trapped in a network of complicities. Nevertheless, at all costs, he was determined to get at the truth.
‘Look here! Is it that you don’t want to tell me what it really was? Or don’t you know, yourself?’
‘There were some drawings that—they forced me to sign.’ Jacques lowered his eyes. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added: ‘But it’s not only that. One can’t say anything to Monsieur Faisme, you understand, because—well, because he is the Superintendent. You see what I mean, don’t you?’
His tone was weary, but sincere, and Antoine did not insist; he mistrusted himself, knowing how apt he was to jump to over-hasty conclusions.
‘Anyhow,’ he said, ‘are you working well?’
The sluice-gates were in sight; behind the little windows in the barges lamps were already being lit. Jacques walked ahead, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Antoine repeated his question.
‘So you’re not going ahead with your work, either?’
Jacques shook his head, without looking up.
‘But the Superintendent told me your tutor was pleased with you.’
Jacques seemed to have difficulty in keeping up with his brother’s cross-examination.
‘Well, you see,’ he said at last, in a toneless voice, ‘the tutor is quite old and he doesn’t care much whether I work or not. He comes because he’s been told to come, that’s all. He knows nobody will check what he does. And he prefers having nothing to take home with him to correct. He stays for an hour, and we just chat; he’s very friendly with me, he tells me about Compiègne and his other pupils and all sorts of things. He’s not very happy, either. He’s told me about his daughter who has stomach trouble, and quarrels with his wife, because he’s married again; and about his son who was a company sergeant-major, but was cashiered because he ran into debt over a woman. We just pretend to be reading, doing lessons, but we don’t do anything really.’
He stopped. Antoine found nothing to say. He felt almost intimidated by this youngster who already had such wide experience of life. Besides, he had nothing more to ask. The boy began speaking, of his own accord, in a low, monotonous voice; but, in the disconnected flow of phrases, it was impossible to make out the associations between his ideas, or even what, after his previous taciturnity, was impelling him to pour his heart out.
‘It’s like what I do about the wine-and-water at the meals—I leave it to them, you see. Léon asked me to at the start, and it’s all the same to me, you know; I’d just as soon drink plain water from the jug. What really annoys me is that they’re always prowling about in the corridor; with their soft slippers one can’t hear them. Sometimes, almost, they frighten me. No, I’m not really frightened; only the dreadful thing is that I can’t make a movement without their seeing and hearing me. One’s always alone, but never really alone, you understand. Not on my walks, not anywhere at all. It’s nothing so very terrible, but in the long run, you know—oh you’ve no idea of the effect it has, it makes one feel as if—as if everything was going round. There are days when I’d like to hide under my bed and cry. Not just to cry, you know, but to cry without being seen. It’s like when you came this morning. They told me in the chapel. The Superintendent sent the chief clerk to see what I was wearing and they brought my overcoat and my hat, as I was bareheaded. Oh, don’t think they did it to deceive you, Antoine. No, not at all, it’s just the custom here. It’s like that on Mondays, the first Monday in the month, when papa comes for the committee meeting, they always do things like that; just little trifles to make papa pleased. It’s the same thing with the bed-linen; what you saw this morning is clean linen that’s always kept in my cupboard, to put out in the room if anyone comes. It’s not that they leave me with dirty linen, no, they change it quite often enough and, when I ask for an extra towel, they always give it. But it’s the custom, you know, to make things look nice when a visitor comes. . . .
‘It’s wrong of me to tell you all this, Antoine; it’ll make you fancy all sorts of things that aren’t true. I assure you I’ve nothing really to complain of, that the discipline isn’t at all irksome, they don’t try to make things hard for me; not a bit of it. But it’s just this—this softness, do you see? And then, having nothing to do all day, tied up like that with nothing, absolutely nothing to do. At first the hours seemed to me, so, so long, you’ve no idea. But one day I broke the mainspring of my watch, and since then it’s been better, little by little I’ve got used to it. But I don’t know how to express it, it’s as if one had gone asleep deep down in oneself. One doesn’t really suffer, because it’s like being asleep, but it’s disagreeable all the same, you understand.’
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again it was in broken phrases and the words seemed to come with an immense effort.
‘And then, Antoine, no, I can’t tell you everything. But you must know. . . . Left alone like that, one gets to have a whole lot of ideas—ideas one shouldn’t have. Especially as. . . . Well, there are Léon’s stories, you know. And the drawings. Well, in a way it helps to pass the time, you know. I make them in the daytime and, at night, somehow my mind comes back to them. I know it’s not right, I oughtn’t to. Only. . . . When one’s alone—you understand, don’t you? Oh, I’m wrong to tell you all this, I feel I shall regret it. But I’m so tired this evening, I can’t hold myself in.’
Suddenly he gave way to a flood of tears.
He had a strange feeling of frustration, as if, for all his efforts, he could not help lying, and the more he tried to tell the truth, the worse he succeeded in doing so. Yet nothing of what he had said was actually untrue. But by his tone, by overcolouring his troubles, and by the choice of facts he had described, he was conscious of having given a false impression of his life—and yet he could not do otherwise.
They had been making slow progress and were only half way back. And it was half-past five. There was plenty of daylight left, but a mist was rising from the river, brimming over into the fields and swathing them in drifting vapour.
Antoine, as he helped the stumbling youngster on his way, was thinking hard. Not of what he must do; on that score his mind was made up: he must get the boy out of it. But he was wondering how to get his consent, and that looked like being difficult. At his first words Jacques clung to his arm, sobbing, reminding him of his promise to say nothing, do nothing.
‘But of course, my dear old chap; I’ve sworn it! I’ll do nothing you don’t want me to do. Only, listen. Do you want to go on like this, frittering your life away in idleness, with no one of your own kind to talk to, in these sordid surroundings? And to think that only this morning I imagined you were happy here!’
‘But I am happy!’ In a moment all he had complained of fled from his mind, and all he now was conscious of was the languid ease of his seclusion, the somnolent routine and absence of control; not to mention his isolation from the family.
‘Happy? If you were, I’d be ashamed of you! No, my dear Jacques, I can’t believe you really enjoy rotting away in that place. You’re degrading yourself, ruining your brains—and it’s been going on for far too long. I’ve promised you not to act without your consent, I’ll keep my word, don’t worry. But do think seriously about it; let’s look the facts squarely in the face, like two friends, you and I—for we’re friends now, aren’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘You trust me, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then? What are you afraid of?’
‘I don’t want to go back to Paris.’
‘Look here, my dear Jacques, after the picture you’ve given me of your life here, family life couldn’t be worse.’
‘Yes, it could!’
The bitterness in his voice stunned Antoine into silence, and he began to feel less sure of himself. ‘Damn it!’ he muttered, vainly racking his brain for a solution. Time pressed, and he felt as if he were walking in pitch darkness. Then suddenly he saw light, he had hit on the solution! In a flash the whole plan was outlined in his head. He laughed.
‘Jacques!’ he cried. ‘Now listen to me and don’t interrupt. Or, rather, answer. Suppose we found ourselves, you and I, alone in the world, wouldn’t you like to come and live with me?’
At first the boy failed to understand what Antoine meant.
‘But, Antoine,’ he said at last, ‘what ever do you mean? There’s papa. . . .’
Menacing, between them and the future, loomed their father’s figure. The same idea crossed the minds of both: How easy things would be if he . . . ! Catching its reflection in his brother’s gaze, Antoine felt suddenly ashamed and averted his eyes.
‘Of course,’ Jacques was saying, ‘if I’d lived with you and only you, I’d have turned out quite different. I’d have worked well. . . . I would work well, I might become, perhaps, a great poet.’
Antoine stopped him with a gesture. ‘Well then, listen; if I gave you my word that no one except myself should have anything to do with you, would you agree to leave this place?’
‘Ye-es,’ Jacques murmured doubtfully. It was his craving for affection and his reluctance to offend his brother that led him to agree.
‘But would you promise to let me plan out your life and studies, and keep an eye on you generally, just as if you were my son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right!’ For a while Antoine kept silent, thinking things out. His desires were always so imperative that he never questioned their feasibility, and indeed he had never failed so far in bringing off what he had set his heart on, definitely and doggedly. He turned to the youngster, smiling.
‘It’s not a daydream, Jacques.’ His tone was emphatic, though the smile did not leave his lips. ‘I know what I’m embarking on. Within a fortnight, do you hear, within a fortnight it shall happen—take my word for it. Now, you’ve got to go back to your precious Institution, looking as innocent as a lamb. Got it? And within two weeks, I swear it, you shall be free.’
Though he had hardly heard what his brother was saying, Jacques pressed against Antoine, seized by a sudden longing for affection; he would have liked to take him in his arms and hug him and to stay thus, unmoving, pressed to the comforting warmth of his big brother’s chest.
‘You can depend on me,’ Antoine repeated.
He, too, was feeling comforted and uplifted in his own esteem, rejoicing in a welcome sense of power. He compared his life with Jacques’. Poor devil, he thought, things are always happening to him that would never happen to anyone else! He meant: ‘the sort of things that have never happened to me.’ He pitied Jacques, but above all he felt a very keen joy at being the man he was, so level-headed and so well equipped for happiness, for becoming a personality, a great doctor. He felt inclined to quicken his step, to whistle a gay tune. But Jacques seemed tired, and could make only slow progress. Anyhow, they were coming into Crouy.
‘Trust me,’ he murmured once again, tightening his pressure on Jacques’ arm.
M. Faisme was smoking a cigar in front of the entrance-gate. No sooner did he catch sight of them than he came tripping along the road towards them.
‘Hullo, my friends! Had a good time, eh? I don’t mind betting you’ve been to have a look at Compiègne.’ Laughing out of sheer high spirits, he waved his arms in the direction of the town. ‘You went along the towpath, didn’t you? Such a nice walk that is! Really the country round here is charming, too charming for words!’ He took out his watch. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, Doctor, but if you don’t want to miss your train again . . .’
‘I’m off,’ Antoine said. There was emotion in his voice as he said quietly: ‘Au revoir, Jacques!’
Night was falling. Jacques had his back to the fading light, and Antoine dimly saw a young, submissive face and eyes gazing towards the dark horizon. Again he said:
‘Au revoir!’
Arthur was waiting in the quadrangle. Jacques would have preferred to take leave of the Superintendent politely, but M. Faisme had turned his back on him. He was bolting the entrance-gate, as he did every evening. The dog was barking loudly and across the noise Jacques made out Arthur’s voice.
‘Now then! Are you coming?’
He followed Arthur obediently.
He came back to his cell with a feeling of relief. Antoine’s chair was still there by the table, and his elder brother’s affection seemed still lingering round it. He put on his old suit. His body was tired, but his brain active. There seemed to be within him, beside the everyday Jacques, a second self, an immaterial being, new-born to-day, who watched the first self going about its tasks, and dominated it.
Somehow he found it impossible to sit still and he began pacing round and round the room. He was in the grip of a new and powerful emotion which kept him on his feet; a vital force that forced itself upon his consciousness. He went to the door and stood there, his forehead resting on the glass pane, his eyes fixed on the lamp in the deserted corridor. The stifling atmosphere from the hot pipes increased his fatigue. He was half asleep now. Suddenly on the far side of the glass a shadow loomed up. The double-locked door opened; Arthur was bringing his dinner.
‘Come along, get a move on, you little schwein!’
Before starting on the lentils, Jacques removed from the tray the slice of Gruyère and the mug of wine-and-water.
‘For me?’ the young man asked. Smiling, he took the piece of cheese and moved across to the wardrobe before starting to eat it, so as not to be visible from the door. It was the time when, before beginning his dinner, M. Faisme made a round of inspection along the corridors. He always wore slippers and oftener than not his visits only became known after his departure, by the reek of cigar smoke wafted through the grating.
Jacques ate what remained of his bread, dipping the pieces into the lentil juice. No sooner had he finished than Arthur called to him.
‘Now, young man, turn in!’
‘But it’s not eight yet.’
‘Don’t you know it’s Sunday and my pals are waiting for me down town? Get a move on!’
Without answering, Jacques began to undress. Arthur, his hands in his pockets, watched him. There was a touch of unexpected, almost feminine charm in the coarse face and stalwart, stocky figure of the fair-haired young man.
‘That brother of yours,’ he said with a knowing air, ‘he’s a bit of all right; a real gent he is!’ Smiling, he made as if to slip a coin into his pocket, then took the empty tray and went out.
When he returned Jacques was in bed.
‘Mighty quick you’ve been to-night.’ The young man kicked Jacques’ boots under the washstand. ‘Look here, can’t you tidy up your things a bit before turning in?’ He came up to the bed. ‘Hear what I say, you little schwein?’ He pressed his hands on Jacques’ shoulders and gave a little laugh. The smile on the boy’s face grew more and more strained. ‘Quite sure you aren’t hiding anything between the sheets? No books? No candles?’
He slipped his hand between the sheets. But with a movement that Arthur could neither foresee nor forestall, the boy broke free and flung himself away, his back to the wall. His eyes were dark with hatred.
‘Aha!’ Arthur chuckled. ‘We’re very high and mighty to-night, ain’t we? . . . But I could tell some tales, too—and don’t you forget it!’ He spoke in a low tone, keeping an eye on the door. Then, without paying any more attention to Jacques, he lit the oil lamp that remained on all night, shut off the electric circuit with his master-key, and went out, whistling.
Jacques heard the key turn twice in the lock and then a sound of receding steps, rope-soled shoes padding away along the corridor. Then he rolled into the middle of the bed, stretched his limbs, and lay on his back. His teeth were chattering. He had lost heart, and when he recalled the events of the day and his confessions, he had an access of fury quickly followed by a mood of utter misery. Glimpses rose before him of Paris, of Antoine and his home, of quarrels and work and parental discipline. Yes, he had made an irremediable blunder, he had made himself over to his enemies! ‘But what do they want of me? Why can’t they leave me alone?’ He began to cry. Despairingly he tried to console himself with the thought that Antoine’s fantastic idea would come to nothing, that M. Thibault would put his foot down. And now he saw his father as a deliverer. Yes, of course nothing would come of it, they would end by leaving him in peace, by letting him stay here, in this haven of repose, of lethargy and loneliness.
Above his head, on the ceiling, the light from the night lamp flickered, flickered. . . .
Yes, here was peace, peace and happiness.
On the ill-lit staircase Antoine met his father’s secretary, M. Chasle, coming down, slinking rat-like close along the wall. Seeing Antoine, he pulled up abruptly with a startled look.
‘Ah, so it’s you?’ He had picked up from his employer the trick of opening a conversation with this remark. Then he announced in a confidential whisper: ‘There’s bad news! The university group are backing the Dean of the Faculty of Letters for the vacant seat at the Institute; that’s fifteen votes lost at least; with those of the law members that makes twenty-five votes gone. Shocking bad luck, as they say, isn’t it now? Your father will tell you all about it.’ He coughed. M. Chasle was always coughing, out of nervousness, but, believing himself to be a victim of chronic catarrh, sucked cough-lozenges all day. ‘I must fly now, or Mother will be getting anxious,’ he went on, seeing that Antoine made no comment. He took out his watch, listened to it before looking at the time, turned up his collar and went on down the stairs.
For seven years the little bespectacled man had been coming daily to work for M. Thibault, yet Antoine hardly knew him better now than on the first day. He spoke little, and always in a low voice, and his conversation was a tissue of commonplaces, a thesaurus of catchwords. He was a creature of trivial habits and a model of punctuality, and he seemed to have a touching devotion for his mother, with whom he lived. His boots always squeaked. His Christian name was Jules; but M. Thibault, mindful of his own dignity, always addressed his secretary as ‘Monsieur Chasle.’ Antoine and Jacques had two nicknames for him: ‘Old Acid-drop’ and ‘The Pest.’
Antoine went straight to his father’s study. He found him setting his papers in order before going to bed.
‘Ah, so it’s you? Bad news!’
‘I know,’ Antoine said. ‘M. Chasle told me about it.’
With an irritated jerk of his head M. Thibault freed his chin from his collar; it always vexed him to find that what he was proposing to announce was known already. But, just now, Antoine was not inclined to pay attention to his father’s mood; his mind was full of the object of this interview, and he was unpleasantly conscious that a sort of paralysis was creeping over him. He decided for a frontal attack, before it was too late.
‘I, too, have some bad news for you, I’m sorry to say. Jacques cannot stay at Crouy.’ He took a deep breath, then went on at once. ‘I’ve just come back from there. I’ve seen him. I got him to talk frankly, and I’ve learnt some abominable things. I want to talk to you about it. It’s up to you to get him out of the place as soon as possible.’
For some seconds M. Thibault did not move; his stupefaction was perceptible only in his voice.
‘What’s that? You’ve been to Crouy? When? Why did you go there? You must be off your head. I insist on your explaining this conduct.’
Relieved though he was to have taken the obstacle in his first stride, Antoine was extremely ill at ease and incapable of speaking. There followed an oppressive silence. M. Thibault had opened his eyes; now they closed again slowly, reluctantly, it seemed. Then he sat down and set his fists on the desk.
‘Explain yourself, my dear boy,’ he said. He spoke each syllable with careful emphasis. ‘You say you have been to Crouy. When did you go?’
‘To-day.’
‘With whom?’
‘Alone.’
‘Did they—let you in?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Did they let you see your brother?’
‘I have spent the day with him. Alone with him.’
Antoine had a belligerent way of rapping out the last word of every phrase he spoke; it made M. Thibault angrier than ever, but also warned him to go warily with his son.
‘You are a child no longer.’ The way he said this gave the impression he had just inferred Antoine’s age from the sound of his voice. ‘You must understand the unsuitability of acting thus, behind my back. Had you any particular reason for going to Crouy without telling me? Did your brother write to you to come?’
‘No. I had suddenly become anxious about him, that’s all.’
‘Anxious? In what way?’
‘About everything, about the whole system, about the effects of the life Jacques has been subjected to for eight months.’
‘Really, my dear fellow, you—you surprise me.’ He hesitated. The measured terms he was deliberately employing were belied by the large tightly clenched hands and the furious way he jerked his head forward at each pause. ‘This mistrust of your father is . . .’
‘Anybody can make mistakes,’ Antoine broke in. ‘And I can prove what I say.’
‘Prove it?’
‘Listen, father, it’s no use losing your temper. I suppose we both desire the same thing—Jacques’ welfare. When you know the state of moral decay I found him in, I’m sure you will be the first to decide that he must leave the reformatory at the earliest possible moment.’
‘That I will not!’
Antoine tried not to hear the sneering laugh which accompanied the remark.
‘You will, father.’
‘I tell you I will not!’
‘Father, when you’ve heard. . . .’
‘Do you, by any chance, take me for a fool? Do you suppose I’ve had to wait for you to go and look round Crouy to learn how things are done there? I’d have you know that for over ten years I’ve been making a thorough inspection of the place every month and followed it up by a written report. No new step is taken there without being first discussed by the committee whose President I am. Now are you satisfied?’
‘Father, what I saw there . . .’
‘That’s enough. Your brother may have poisoned your mind with all the lies he pleases; you’re easy game. But you’ll find I’m not so easy to hoodwink.’
‘Jacques didn’t breathe a word of complaint.’
M. Thibault seemed thunderstruck.
‘Then, why on earth . . . ?’ he asked, raising his voice a little.
‘Quite the contrary,’ Antoine continued, ‘and that’s the alarming thing. He told me he didn’t worry; indeed he said he was happy, that he likes being there.’ Provoked by his father’s chuckle of self-satisfaction, Antoine added in a cutting tone. ‘The poor boy has such memories of family life that even prison life strikes him as more agreeable.’
The insult missed its mark.
‘Very well,’ M. Thibault retorted, ‘then everything’s as it should be; we’re at one on that. What more do you want?’
As he was feeling less sure now of Jacques’ release, Antoine judged it wiser not to repeat to M. Thibault all the boy had told him. He resolved to keep to generalities and withhold his detailed complaints.
‘I’m going to tell you the whole truth, father,’ he began, gazing intently at his father. ‘I admit that I’d suspected ill-treatment, privation, solitary confinement and so forth. Now I know. Happily there is nothing of that sort at Crouy. Jacques is not suffering physically, I grant, but in his mind, his morals—and that’s far worse. You’re being deceived when they tell you that isolation is doing him good. The remedy is far more dangerous than the disease. His days are passed in the most degrading sloth. As for his tutor, the less said the better; the truth is that Jacques does no work, and it’s already obvious that his brain is growing incapable of the least effort. To prolong the treatment, believe me, will be to compromise his future irreparably. He is sinking into such a state of indifference to everything, and his mental flabbiness is such, that in another month or two he’ll be too far gone, it will be too late to bring him back to mental health.’
Antoine’s eyes had never left his father’s face as he was speaking. He seemed to be concentrating the utmost impact of his gaze on the stolid face, trying to force from it some gleam of acquiescence. M. Thibault, withdrawn into himself, preserved a massive immobility; he brought to mind one of those pachyderms whose strength remains hidden so long as they are at rest, and he had the elephant’s large, flat ears and, now and then, his cunning eye. Antoine’s harangue had reassured him. There had been some incipient scandals at the reformatory, certain attendants had had to be dismissed without the reasons for their departure being bruited abroad, and M. Thibault had for a moment feared that Antoine’s revelations were of this order. Now he breathed freely again.
‘Do you think that’s news to me, my dear boy?’ he asked with an air of jocular good humour. ‘All you’ve been saying does credit to your kindness of heart; but permit me to say that these questions of reformatory treatment are extremely complex, and in this field one does not become an expert overnight. Trust my experience, and the opinions of those who are versed in these subjects. You talk of your brother’s—what do you call it?—“mental flabbiness.” But that’s all to the good. You know what Jacques was like. Don’t you realize that is the only way to crush out such evil propensities as his—by breaking down his will? For by gradually weakening the will-power of a depraved boy, you sap his evil instincts and, in the end, eradicate them. Now, consider the facts. Isn’t your brother completely changed? His fits of rage have ceased; he’s disciplined, polite to all who come in contact with him. You yourself admit that he has come to like the order and routine of his new life. Well, really, shouldn’t we be proud of getting such good results within less than a year?’
He was teasing out the tip of his beard between his puffy fingers as he spoke; when he had finished, he cast a side-glance at his son. That booming voice and majestic delivery lent an appearance of force to his least words, and Antoine was so accustomed to letting himself be impressed by his father that in his heart he weakened. But now his pride led M. Thibault to commit a blunder.
‘Now that I come to think of it,’ he said, ‘I wonder why I’m taking so much trouble to defend the propriety of a step which is not being, and will not be, reconsidered. I’m doing what I consider I ought to do, after taking careful thought, and I have not to render an account to anyone. Get that into your head, my boy!’
Antoine made a gesture of indignation.
‘That’s not the way to silence me, father! I tell you once more, Jacques must not remain at Crouy.’
M. Thibault again emitted a harsh, sarcastic laugh. Antoine made an effort to keep his self-control.
‘No, father, it would be a crime to leave Jacques there. There are sterling qualities in him which must not be allowed to run to seed. And, let me tell you, father; you’ve often been mistaken about his character; he irritates you and you don’t see his. . . .’
‘What don’t I see? It’s only since he’s gone that we’ve had any peace at home. Isn’t that true? Very well, when he’s reformed, we shall see about having him back. Not before!’ His fist rose as if he were about to bring it down upon the table with a crash; but he merely opened his hand and laid his palm flat on his desk. His wrath was still smouldering. Antoine made no effort to restrain his own.
‘I tell you, father,’ he shouted. ‘Jacques shall not stay at Crouy; I’ll see to that!’
‘Really now!’ M. Thibault sounded frankly amused. ‘Really! Aren’t you, perhaps, a little inclined to forget that you’re not the master here?’
‘No, I’m not forgetting it. That’s why I ask you—what you intend to do.’
‘To do?’ M. Thibault repeated the words slowly, with a frosty smile. For a moment his eyebrows lifted. ‘There’s no doubt about what I mean to do: to give M. Faisme a good dressing-down for admitting you without my authorization, and to forbid you ever again to set foot in Crouy.’
Antoine folded his arms.
‘So that’s all they mean,’ he said; ‘your pamphlets, your speeches, all your noble sentiments. They come in handy for public meetings, but when a boy’s mind is being wrecked, your own son’s mind, it’s all the same to you. All you want is a quiet life at home, with no worries—and to hell with all the rest!’
‘You young ruffian!’ M. Thibault shouted, rising to his feet. ‘Yes. I’d seen it coming. I’ve known for quite a while what to expect of you. Yes, I’ve noticed them—the remarks you sometimes let fall at table and the books you read, your favourite newspapers. I’ve seen your slackness in performing your religious duties. One thing leads to another; when religious principles go, moral anarchy sets in and, finally, rebellion against all proper authority.’
Antoine made a contemptuous gesture.
‘Don’t let’s confuse the issues. We’re talking about the boy, and it’s urgent. Father, promise me that Jacques . . .’
‘I forbid you to speak to me again about him. Not another word. Now have I made myself clear enough?’
Their eyes met challenging.
‘So that’s your last word, is it?’
‘Get out!’
‘Ah, father, you don’t know me!’ There was defiance in Antoine’s laugh. ‘I swear to you I’ll get Jacques out of that damned jail. And that I’ll stick at nothing!’
A bulky, menacing form, M. Thibault advanced towards his son, his under-jaw protruding.
‘Get out!’
Antoine had opened the door. Turning on the threshold, he faced his father and said in a low, resolute tone:
‘At nothing, do you hear? Even if I have to start a campaign, a new one, in “my favourite papers!” ’
Early next morning, after a sleepless night, Antoine was waiting in a vestry of the Archbishop’s Palace for the Abbé Vécard to finish his mass. It was essential that the priest should know the whole story, and somehow intervene; that was now Jacques’ only chance.
The interview lasted for a long time. The Abbé had had the young man sit beside him, as if for a confession, and listened meditatively to him, in his favourite position, leaning well back in his chair, with his head slightly drooping to the left. He let Antoine have his say without interrupting him. The long-nosed, sallow face was almost expressionless, but now and again he cast a gentle, searching look on his companion, a look that conveyed his wish to read the thoughts behind the spoken words. Though he had seen less of Antoine than of the other members of the Thibault family, he had always treated him with particular esteem; what just now gave a certain piquancy to this attitude was that it was largely due to M. Thibault himself, whose vanity was always agreeably tickled by Antoine’s successes, and who was fond of singing his son’s praises.
Antoine did not try to win over the Abbé by dint of argument, but gave him an unvarnished account of the day he had spent at Crouy, ending by the scene with his father. For that the Abbé reproved him, not by words but by a deprecating flutter of his hands, which he had a way of holding level with his chest. They were the typical priest’s hands, tapering smoothly away from round, plump wrists and capable of manifesting sudden animation without moving from where they were; it was as though Nature had accorded them the faculty of expression which she had denied the Abbé’s face.
‘Jacques’ fate is now in your hands, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ Antoine concluded. ‘You alone can make father listen to reason.’
The priest did not answer, and the gaze he now gave Antoine was so aloof and sombre that the young man could draw no conclusion from it. It brought home to him his own powerlessness and the appalling difficulties of the task he had undertaken.
‘And afterwards?’ the Abbé softly questioned.
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Supposing your father brings Jacques back to Paris, what will he do with him, afterwards?’
Antoine felt embarrassed. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but wondered how to put it, for he had the gravest doubts as to whether he could get the Abbé to approve of his plan, involving as it did Jacques’ quitting his father’s flat and coming to live with his brother on the ground floor of the same building. And dare he tell the priest that he meant to remove the boy almost entirely from parental authority, to take on himself alone the supervision of Jacques’ education, indeed the entire control of his brother’s life? When he explained this to the priest, the latter smiled, but the smile was perfectly good-humoured.
‘You’d be taking on a heavy task, my friend.’
‘No matter!’ Antoine replied impetuously. ‘You know I’m absolutely convinced that what the boy needs is plenty of freedom. That he’ll never develop in an atmosphere of repression. You may laugh at me, sir, but I’m positive that if I took entire responsibility for him . . .’
But he could get nothing more out of the Abbé than another shrug of the shoulders, followed by one of his shrewd, searching glances, that seemed to come from very far away and sink so deep. He felt profoundly disheartened when he left the Abbé. After the furious rebuff from his father, the priest’s unenthusiastic reception of his scheme had left him scarcely any hope. He would have been much surprised to learn that the Abbé had resolved to go to see M. Thibault that very day.
He did not need to take that trouble. When he returned, as he did every day after mass, to drink his cup of cold milk in the flat, a few steps from the Archbishop’s Palace, where he lived with his sister, he found M. Thibault waiting for him in the dining-room. The big, thick-set man, sunk in a chair with his large hands resting on his legs, was still nursing his resentment. At the Abbé’s entrance he rose heavily from the chair.
‘So here you are?’ he murmured. ‘I suppose my visit is a surprise to you?’
‘Not so much as you suppose,’ the Abbé answered. Now and again the ghost of a smile and a gleam of mischievous humour lit up the impassive face. ‘I have an excellent detective service and there’s little I’m not informed of. But will you excuse me?’ he added, going towards the mug of milk awaiting him on the table.
‘What’s that? Do you mean you’ve seen . . . ?’
The Abbé drank his milk in little sips.
‘I learnt how Astier was, yesterday morning, from the Duchess. But it was only last night that I heard of the withdrawal of your competitor.’
‘Astier? Do you mean . . . ? I don’t follow. I’ve not been told anything. . . .’
‘Well now, that’s amazing!’ the Abbé smiled. ‘Is the pleasure of breaking the good news to you to be my privilege?’ He took his time. ‘Well then, old Astier’s had a fourth stroke; this time the poor man’s doomed and so the Dean, who’s no fool, is withdrawing, leaving you as the only candidate for election to the vacant seat at the Institute of Moral Science.’
‘What!’ M. Thibault exclaimed. ‘The Dean’s withdrawing! But why? I don’t follow.’
‘Because, on second thoughts, he realizes that the post of Registrar would be more suitable for a Dean of the Faculty of Letters, and also because he’d rather wait a few weeks for a seat that isn’t contested than risk his chance against you.’
‘Are you quite sure of it?’
‘It’s official. I met the permanent secretary at the gathering of the Catholic Association yesterday evening. The Dean had just called in, and he had his letter of withdrawal with him. A candidature that lasted less than twenty-four hours—that’s rather unusual, isn’t it?’
‘But in that case——!’ M. Thibault panted. His surprise and delight had taken his breath away. He moved a few steps forward, without looking where he was going, his hands behind his back; then, turning to the priest, he all but embraced him. Actually he only clasped his hands.
‘Ah, my dear Abbé, I shall never forget. Thank you. Thank you.’
Again delight submerged him, leaving no room for any other feelings, sweeping away his anger. So much so that he had to exercise his memory when the Abbé—having without his noticing it led him to the study—asked in a perfectly natural tone:
‘And what can have brought you here so early, my dear friend?’
Then he remembered Antoine, and at once his anger mastered him again. He had come, so he explained, to ask the Abbé’s advice as to the attitude he should adopt towards his elder son, who had much changed lately, changed for the worse, towards a mood of unbelief and insubordination. Was he, for instance, conforming with his religious obligations? Did he go to mass? He was growing more and more erratic in his attendance at the family table—giving his patients as an excuse—and, when he did put in an appearance, behaved in a new and disagreeable manner. He contradicted his father and indulged in unthinkable liberties of speech. At the time of the recent municipal elections, the discussion had several times taken so bitter a turn that it had been necessary to tell him to hold his tongue, as if he were a small boy. In short, if Antoine was to be kept in the way he should go, some new line would have to be taken with him; in this respect M. Thibault felt that the assistance and perhaps the active intervention of his good friend the Abbé were indispensable. As an illustration, M. Thibault described the undutiful conduct of which Antoine had been guilty in going to Crouy, the foolish notions he had brought back with him, and the shocking scene that had followed. Yet all the time, the esteem in which he held Antoine and which, without his knowing it, was actually enhanced by the very acts of insubordination with which he was now reproaching him, was always evident; and the Abbé duly noted it.
Sitting listless at his desk, the priest from time to time signified his approval with little fluttering movements of his fingers on each side of the clerical bands that fell across his chest. Only when Jacques’ name was mentioned did he raise his head and show signs of extreme interest. By a series of skilful, seemingly disconnected questions, he obtained confirmation from the father of all he had been told by the son.
‘But really!’ he exclaimed vaguely. He seemed to be talking to himself. He meditated for some moments. M. Thibault waited, in some surprise. When the Abbé spoke again his voice was firm.
‘What you tell me about Antoine’s behaviour doesn’t worry me as much as it does you, my friend. It was to be expected. The first effect of scientific studies on an enquiring and active mind is always to puff up a young man in his own conceit and cause his faith to waver. A little knowledge leads a man away from God; a great deal brings him back again. Don’t be alarmed. Antoine’s at the age when a man rushes from one extreme to another. You did well to tell me about it. I’ll make a point of seeing him and talking to him oftener. None of that is very serious. Only have patience, and he’ll come back to the fold.
‘But what you tell me about Jacques’ present life makes me feel far more anxious. I had no idea that his seclusion was of so extreme a nature. Why, the life he’s leading is that of a convict, and I cannot but believe it has its perils. In fact, my dear friend, I confess I’m very worried about it. Have you given the matter your earnest consideration?’
M. Thibault smiled. ‘In all honesty, my dear Abbé, I can say to you as I said yesterday to Antoine: Don’t you realize that we are far better equipped than the common run for dealing with such problems?’
‘I don’t deny it,’ the priest agreed good-humouredly, ‘But the boys you usually have to deal with don’t need the special handling that your younger son’s peculiar temperament calls for. In any case, I gather, they are treated on a different system, they live together, have recreation hours in common and are employed on manual work. I was, as you will remember, in favour of inflicting on Jacques a severe punishment, and I believed that a taste of somewhat prison-like surroundings might lead him to reflect and mend his ways. But, good heavens, I never dreamt of its being a real imprisonment; least of all that it would be inflicted on him for so long a period. Just think of it! A boy of scarcely fifteen has been kept alone in a cell for eight months under the supervision of an uneducated warder, as to whose probity of character you have only the assurances of the local officials. He has a few lessons—but what do you really know about this tutor from Compiègne who, in any case, devotes a mere three or four hours a week to teaching the boy? I repeat, what do you really know about him? Then again, one of the points you made was your experience. There let me remind you that I’ve lived amongst schoolboys for twelve years, that I’m far from ignorant of what a boy of fifteen is like. The state of physical and, worse, of moral decay into which this poor child may have fallen, without its being apparent to you—it makes one shudder!’
‘Well, well!’ M. Thibault exclaimed. ‘I’m surprised at that from you. I wouldn’t have thought you so sentimentally minded,’ he added with a brief, ironic laugh. ‘But we aren’t concerned with Jacques at present.’
‘Excuse me,’ the Abbé broke in, without raising his voice, Jacques is our first concern just now. After what I’ve just learned, I consider that the physical and moral health of this child is being exposed to terrible risks.’ After pondering, it seemed, he added with slow emphasis: ‘And he should not remain one day longer where he is.’
‘What!’
For a while neither spoke. It was the second time within twelve hours that M. Thibault had been touched on the raw. He felt his temper rising but kept it in check.
‘We’ll talk it over some other day,’ he said, beginning to rise. His tone implied that he was making a great concession.
‘No, I’m sorry, but that won’t do,’ the priest broke in, with unwonted vivacity. ‘The least one can say is that you have acted with an imprudence that is almost inexcusable.’ He had a way, soft but emphatic, of letting his voice linger on certain words, though his face showed no emotion, and at the same time raising his forefinger to his lips, as if to say: Mark well what I am saying. He made this gesture as he repeated: ‘Almost inexcusable!’ After a momentary pause he said: ‘And now the great thing is to remedy the evil that’s been done.’
‘What? What do you want me to do?’ M. Thibault had given up trying to restrain his anger, and faced up to the priest aggressively. ‘Am I going to cut short, without any reason, a treatment that has already produced such excellent results, and take back that young scoundrel into my house? Just to be once more at the mercy of his disgusting fads and fancies? No, thank you!’ He clenched his fists so fiercely that the knuckles cracked, and his set teeth gave a guttural harshness to his voice. ‘With all due consideration, I say—emphatically—No!’
The Abbé’s hand made a brief conciliatory gesture, implying: Have it your own way!
M. Thibault had pulled himself up heavily from his chair. Once more Jacques’ fate hung in the balance.
‘My dear Abbé,’ he went on, ‘I see there’s no prospect of a serious talk with you this morning, so I’m off. But let me tell you, you’re allowing your imagination to run away with you, exactly as Antoine did. Come now! Do I look like an unnatural father? Haven’t I done everything to bring back this child to the right path, by affection and kindness, by good example and the influences of family life? Haven’t I endured for years the utmost a father can endure from a son? And can you deny that all my well-meaning efforts have been wasted? Fortunately I realized in time that my duty lay on different lines and, painful as it was, I did not hesitate to take stern measures. You agreed with me then. Moreover, God in His mercy had given me some experience; I’ve often thought that in inspiring me with the idea of establishing that special department at Crouy, Providence enabled me to prepare in advance the remedy for a personal affliction. Have I not borne this trial with a certain courage? Would many fathers have done as I have done? Have I anything to reproach myself with? God be thanked, I have a quiet conscience.’ But, as he made the proud assertion, there came into his tone a note of uncertainty, as if some still small voice within were protesting against it. ‘My wish for every father is that his conscience may be as clear as mine!’
He opened the door, a complacent smile hovering on his face. For his parting shot, his voice had an accent of pawky humour, not without a savour that smacked of his native Norman soil.
‘Luckily, my friend, I’ve a harder head than yours!’
He crossed the hall, followed by the Abbé, who made no reply.
On the landing he turned. ‘Well, well, good-bye for the present.’
As he was proffering his hand, suddenly the priest began speaking in a low voice, almost to himself.
‘ “Two men went up into the temple to pray, the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank Thee, that I am not as other men are. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess. And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.” ’
M. Thibault’s eyelids lifted and he saw his confessor standing in the shadowy hall, with a finger on his lip.
‘ “I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for everyone that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.” ’
Without flinching the burly ‘Pharisee’ heard him out; his eyes were closed now and he made no movement. Presently, as the silence continued, he ventured to look up again. Without a sound the priest had closed the door on him. Left to himself, he stared for a moment at the closed door; then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned on his heel and started down the stairs. Halfway down he halted, his hand clutching the balustrade; his breath was coming in short gasps and he was jerking his jaw forward, like a horse chafing at the bit.
‘No,’ he murmured to himself. ‘No.’
Without more hesitation he went on his way downstairs.
All that day he did his best to forget the interview. But in the course of the afternoon, when M. Chasle was slow in handing him a file he wanted, he had an access of rage that he had difficulty in repressing. Antoine was on duty at the hospital. Dinner that night was a silent meal. Without waiting for Gisèle to finish her dessert, M. Thibault folded his napkin and returned to his study.
Eight o’clock struck. ‘I might go back to him,’ he thought as he sat down. ‘It’s not too late yet.’ But he was quite determined to do nothing of the kind. ‘He’ll start talking to me again about Jacques. I have said No, and No it is.’
‘But what did he mean with the parable of the Pharisee and the publican?’ he asked himself for the hundredth time. Suddenly his underlip began quivering. He had always been afraid of death. He stood up and, over the bronzes crowding up the mantelpiece, scanned his face in the mirror. His features had lost the look of self-complacency that had stamped itself, indelibly as it had seemed, upon them: the look that never left them even when he was alone, even in prayer. A shudder ran through his body. His shoulders sagged and he dropped back into his chair. He was picturing himself on his death-bed, and a dread came over him that he might have to face his last hour empty-handed. He tried to reassure himself by recalling the high esteem in which the world held him.
‘Still, am I not an upright man?’ he kept on asking himself, but always with a rankling doubt. Words were not enough to quell his anxiety, for he was in one of those rare moods when a man delves down into himself, letting light into the dark places of his heart. With his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, he looked back on his life and found in it not one act that was wholly pure. In the twilight of his mind harrowing memories flickered into consciousness. One of them, crueller than all the rest, stung him so bitterly that he bowed his head and hid it with his hands. For the first time in his life perhaps, M. Thibault was ashamed. He knew at last that supreme self-disgust, so intolerable that no sacrifice seems too great, if only it sets a man right with his own conscience, buying the divine forgiveness and restoring to the stricken heart a feeling of peace and hope of eternal salvation. Ah, to find God again! But first of all he must regain the good opinion of the priest, God’s mandatory. Yes, he could not live an hour longer with this sense of damnable estrangement, under such obloquy.
Once he was in the open air, he felt calmer. To save time he took a cab. The Abbé opened the door; his face, under the lamp held high to see his visitor, betrayed no emotion of any kind.
‘It’s I,’ M. Thibault said mechanically, holding out his hand; then in silence he walked to the priest’s study. ‘No, I’ve not come to talk to you about Jacques,’ he declared, the moment he was seated. The priest’s hands made a vague, conciliatory movement. ‘There’s nothing more to be said on that subject, I assure you; you’re on a false scent. But, of course, if you feel you’d like to do so, why not go to Crouy and see for yourself?’ With a rather naïve abruptness he continued: ‘Forgive me for my bad temper this morning. You know how easily roused I am. But really, well, at bottom I’m . . . Look here, you were too hard on me, you know. Much too hard on the “Pharisee” you take me for! I’m perfectly justified in protesting—perfectly! Why, for thirty years haven’t I been giving all my time, all my energies to good works; not to mention the greater part of my income? And all the thanks I get is to be told by a priest, who is my personal friend, that I’m . . . Come now, own up, it’s not fair!’
The Abbé looked at his penitent, and the look implied: ‘Pride is showing through again, for all you try to mask it, in every word you say.’
There was a long silence, broken at last by M. Thibault.
‘My dear Abbé,’ he said in an uneasy tone, ‘I admit I’m not altogether . . . Well, yes, I admit it; only too often I . . . But that’s the way I’m built, if you see what I mean. You know that well enough, don’t you?’ He seemed to be pleading for the priest’s indulgence. ‘Ah, it’s a strait and narrow path indeed—and you’re the only one who can guide me, keep me from stumbling. . . .’
Suddenly he murmured in a broken voice: ‘I’m getting old, I’m afraid. . . .’
The Abbé was touched by the change in his tone. Feeling he had been silent overlong, he drew his chair nearer to M. Thibault’s and began to speak.
‘It’s I who now feel unsure of myself, and, indeed, my dear friend, what should I add, now that the holy words have sunk so deep into your heart?’ He mused for a while before continuing. ‘I know well that God has placed you in a difficult position; the work you do for Him gives you authority over other men, and honours—and that is as it should be. Yet it may possibly incline you sometimes to confound His glory with your own. And might not this lead you, little by little, even to prefer yours to His?’
M. Thibault’s eyes were for once wide open, and showed no sign of closing; there was consternation in their pale intensity, and a gleam of almost childish awe.
‘And yet remember!’ the Abbé went on. ‘Ad majorem Dei gloriam. That alone counts, and nothing else should weigh with us. You, my friend, are one of the strong ones of the earth, and the strong are usually proud. Oh, I know how hard it is to control the driving force of pride, to direct it into its proper channel. How hard it is not to live for oneself, not to forget God, even when all one’s life is taken up with acts of piety! Not to be amongst those of whom Our Lord once spoke so sadly. “This people honours Me with its lips, but its heart is far from Me.” ’
‘Ah yes,’ M. Thibault cried excitedly, without lowering his eyes, ‘indeed it’s hard! No one on earth knows as well as I do how terribly hard it is.’
In self-humiliation he was finding a delightful anodyne, and he was vaguely conscious, too, that by this attitude he might regain the priest’s esteem, without having to make concessions in the matter of Jacques’ detention. And a secret force within him urged him to go still further, to prove the depth of his faith by an astounding declaration and the display of an unlooked-for nobility. No price would be too high if he could force his friend, the priest’s respect.
‘Listen, Abbé!’ he exclaimed; for a moment his face had the same resolute expression that was often Antoine’s. ‘Listen! If until now my pride has made of me a miserable sinner, has not God offered me this very day an opportunity to make—to make atonement?’ He hesitated, as though engaged in an inner struggle. And indeed at that moment he was struggling against himself. The Abbé saw him trace the sign of the cross rapidly with his thumb across his waistcoat, above his heart. ‘I am thinking about this election, you understand. That would be a genuine sacrifice, a sacrifice of my pride, since you told me this morning that my election was assured. Well then I——! But wait! There’s vanity even in this. Shouldn’t I keep silent and do it without telling anyone, even you? But—let it be! Very well then, Abbé, I make a vow to withdraw to-morrow, and for ever, my candidature for the Institute.’
The Abbé made a gesture that M. Thibault did not see; he had turned his eyes towards the crucifix hanging on the wall.
‘O Lord,’ he prayed, ‘have mercy on me, a sinner!’
He put into the prayer a residue of self-satisfaction that he himself did not suspect; for pride is so deep-rooted that, at the very moment of his most fervent repentance, he was savouring his humility with a passionate thrill of pride. The priest gazed at him intently; he could not help wondering how far the man before him was sincere. And yet at that moment there shone on M. Thibault’s face the illumination of a mystic who has made the great renunciation; it seemed to obliterate the puffiness and wrinkles, giving the time-worn features the innocence of a child’s face. The priest could hardly believe his eyes. He was ashamed of the rather despicable satisfaction he had felt that morning at confounding this gross Pharisee. Their rôles were being reversed. He turned his mind’s eye on his own life. Was it really for the sole glory of God that he had been so ready to abandon his pupils and canvass his present exalted post, with its pomp and prestige? And was there not something sinful in the pleasure he felt, day after day, in the exercise of that diplomatic adroitness which was his speciality—even if it were exercised in the service of his Church?
‘Tell me honestly, do you believe that God will pardon me?’
The tremor of anxiety in M. Thibault’s voice recalled the Abbé to his function of spiritual director. Clasping his hands beneath his chin, he bent his head, and forced a smile on to his lips.
‘I have not tried to stop you,’ he said, ‘and I have let you drain the cup of bitterness to its dregs. And I am very sure that the divine compassion will take into account this moment of your life. But—’ he raised his forefinger—‘the intention is enough, and your true duty is not to carry out the sacrifice to the end. Do not protest. It is I, your confessor, who free you from your vow. Indeed God’s glory will be better served by your election than by this gesture of renunciation. Your family and your wealth impose obligations which you must not ignore. That title “Member of the Institute” will confer on you, amongst the great republicans of the conservative group, who are the backbone of our country, an added authority, and one which we consider necessary for the advancement of the highest interests of our faith. You have at all times submitted your life to our guidance. That being so, let the Church, speaking through my lips, show you once more the course to take. God declines your sacrifice, my dear friend; hard as it may be, you must bow to His will. Gloria in excelsis!’
As he spoke, the priest had been watching M. Thibault’s face and had noticed how its traits had gradually changed, readjusting themselves and settling back to their normal composure. At the last words he had lowered his eyelids, and it was impossible to guess what was passing in his mind. The priest, in giving him back his seat in the Institute, an ambition of twenty years’ standing, had given him back life. But the effects of the tremendous struggle he had gone through had not yet worn off; he was still in an emotional mood, thrilled with a sense of infinite gratitude. At the same moment both men had the same impulse. Bowing his head, the priest began to offer humble thanks to God, and when he looked up again he saw M. Thibault already on his knees, gazing heavenwards with unseeing eyes, his face lit up with joy. His moist lips were quivering, his hairy hands—so bloated that they looked as if the fingers had been stung by wasps—were locked in an ecstasy of fervour. Why did this edifying spectacle suddenly strike the priest as unbearable to see—so much so that he could not help stretching out his arm till it all but touched the penitent?
He checked the gesture at once, and laid his hand affectionately on M. Thibault’s shoulder. The latter rose with an effort from his knees.
‘Everything has not been settled yet,’ the priest reminded him, with the inflexible gentleness that was his characteristic. ‘You must come to a decision about Jacques.’
M. Thibault seemed to stiffen up, suddenly, violently.
The Abbé sat down.
‘Do not follow the example of those who think they have done all they need do, because they have faced some arduous duty, while neglecting the one that is immediate, close at hand. Even if the ordeal you have made this child undergo has not been so injurious as I fear, do not prolong it. Think of the servant who buried the talent his master entrusted to him. Come now, my friend, do not leave this room till you have dealt faithfully by all your responsibilities.’
M. Thibault remained standing, shaking his head, but much of the obstinacy had gone out of his expression. The Abbé rose.
‘The difficult problem,’ he murmured, ‘is how to avoid producing an impression of having given way to Antoine.’ He saw that he had hit the mark, took a few steps and suddenly began to speak in a cool, business-like tone. ‘Do you know what I’d do, my friend, if I were in your place? I’d say to him: “So you want your brother to leave the reformatory, do you? Yes? And you’re still of the same opinion? Very well then, I take you at your word, go and fetch him—and keep him with you; you want him back, and it’s for you to take charge of him.” ’
M. Thibault made no response. The priest went on speaking.
‘I’d go even further. This is what I’d tell him. “I don’t want Jacques at home at all, arrange things as you please. You always look as if you thought we didn’t know how to deal with him. Very well, have a try yourself!” And I’d saddle him with the full responsibility for Jacques. I’d give them a place where they could live together—near you, of course, so that they could have their meals at home. But I’d give Antoine entire charge of his brother. Don’t say no, my dear friend,’ he added, though M. Thibault had made no movement of any kind. ‘Wait, let me finish; my idea is not so fantastic as it may seem.’
He returned to his desk and sat down, resting his elbows on the table.
‘Firstly: It’s quite likely that Jacques will put up with his elder brother’s authority more easily than with yours, and I’m inclined to believe that if he enjoys greater freedom, he may lose that spirit of revolt and insubordination which has been so distressing in the past.
‘Secondly: As regards Antoine, his level-headedness entitles him to our entire trust. If you take him at his word, I’m convinced he won’t reject this chance of freeing his brother. And, as to those regrettable tendencies we were talking of this morning, a small cause can have great results. In my opinion the fact of being responsible for the spiritual welfare of another will tend to counteract them, and we shall find him coming back to a less—a less anarchical conception of society, and morals, and religion.
‘Thirdly: Your parental authority, once it is spared the friction of everyday contacts which wear it down and disperse its efficacy, will keep its prestige intact; you’ll be able to use it for that general supervision of your sons which is its prerogative and—how shall I put it?—its main function.
‘Finally’—his tone grew confidential—‘I must confess that, at the moment of your election, it strikes me as desirable that Jacques shall have left Crouy, and that the whole unhappy episode should be put out of mind. Celebrity attracts all sorts of interviews and enquiries, and you would be a target for the indiscretions of the Press. That’s an entirely secondary consideration, I know; yet all the same . . .’
M. Thibault could not restrain a glance betraying his uneasiness. Though he would not admit it to himself, he knew that it would salve his conscience if the ‘prisoner’ were released; indeed the plan suggested by the priest had everything in its favour. It would save his face vis-à-vis to Antoine and bring Jacques back to normal life without his having to trouble about the boy.
‘If I could be sure,’ he said at last, ‘that the young rascal after being released wouldn’t bring new scandals upon us. . . .’
The Abbé knew that he had gained his point.
He undertook to exercise a discreet supervision over the two lads, anyhow during the first few months. Then he accepted an invitation to dine on the following day, and to take part in an interview M. Thibault would arrange for with his son.
M. Thibault rose to go. A weight had been lifted off his heart and he felt a new man. Still, just as he was shaking hands with his confessor, he felt a final qualm of conscience.
‘May God in His compassion forgive me for being the man I am.’ There was a note of sadness in his voice.
The priest beamed on him, and recited in a low voice, like a benediction:
‘ “What man of you having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?” ’ A sudden smile lit up his face, he raised a finger to emphasize the words. ‘ “I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.” ’
One morning, it was barely nine, the concierge of the building where Madame de Fontanin lived asked to have a word with her. A ‘young person,’ it seemed, wanted to see her but would neither go up to the flat nor give a name.
‘A “young person”? Do you mean a woman?’
‘A little girl.’
Madame de Fontanin’s first impulse was to refuse to see her; the visit had probably to do with one of Jerome’s love-affairs; or was it blackmail?
‘She’s quite a child,’ the concierge remarked.
‘I’ll see her.’
It was indeed a child whom she found hiding in the darkness of the concierge’s ‘lodge’; a child who met her eyes reluctantly.
‘Why, it’s Nicole!’ Madame de Fontanin cried when she recognized Noémie Petit-Dutreuil’s daughter. Nicole was on the point of throwing herself into her aunt’s arms, but she checked the impulse. All the colour had gone out of her face and she was looking haggard, but she was not crying, and though her eyes seemed unnaturally large and her nerves were obviously on edge, she had complete control of herself.
‘I’d like to speak to you, Auntie.’
‘Come along upstairs.’
‘No, not in your flat.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d rather not, please.’
‘But why? I’m all by myself in the flat this morning.’ She realized Nicole was uncertain what to do. ‘Daniel’s at school and Jenny’s gone to her piano lesson. I shall be alone till lunch. Now come along upstairs.’
Nicole followed her without a word. Madame de Fontanin led her to her bedroom.
‘What’s the matter?’ She could not conceal her mistrust. ‘Who told you to come here? Where have you come from?’
Nicole looked at her without lowering her eyes, but her eyelids were fluttering.
‘I’ve run away.’
‘Run away!’ Madame de Fontanin looked distressed. Yet, at the same time she felt relieved. ‘And what made you come to us?’
Nicole made a movement with her shoulders that implied: ‘Where could I go? There’s nobody else.’
‘Sit down, darling. Now let’s see. . . . You’re looking dreadfully tired. By the bye, are you feeling hungry?’
‘Well, a bit,’ she confessed with a timid smile.
‘Why ever didn’t you say so at once?’ Madame de Fontanin smiled and led Nicole into the dining-room. When she saw with what appetite the little girl fell on the bread and butter, she went and fetched what remained of some cold meat from the sideboard. Nicole ate without saying a word, ashamed of showing such voracity, but unable to conceal her hunger. The colour was coming back to her cheeks. She drank two cups of tea in quick succession.
‘How long is it since your last meal?’ Madame de Fontanin asked. She was looking even more upset than the little girl. ‘Are you feeling cold, dear?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘But you must be. You’re shivering.’
Nicole made a petulant gesture; she was always angry with herself for not being able to conceal her moments of weakness.
‘I travelled all night. I expect that’s why I’m feeling a bit cold.’
‘You travelled all night! Where on earth have you come from?’
‘From Brussels.’
‘Good heavens! All by yourself?’
‘Yes,’ Nicole answered in a level voice, ‘all by myself.’ The firmness of her tone showed that she had acted not on caprice but of a set purpose. Madame de Fontanin took her hand.
‘You’re freezing, child! Come along to my bedroom. Wouldn’t you like to lie down and sleep a bit? You can tell me all about it later.’
‘No, I’d rather tell you now, while we’re alone. Besides, I’m not sleepy. Really, I’m quite all right now.’
It was one of the first days in April. Madame de Fontanin wrapped a shawl round the little runaway, lit the fire, and tried to get her to sit in front of it. At first the child resisted, but at last she gave way. She seemed in a highly nervous state, her eyes were shining with a hard, unnatural fixity, and she was staring at the clock on the mantelpiece. Obviously she was eager to speak, but, now she was seated beside her aunt, had suddenly become tongue-tied. Not to increase her embarrassment, Madame de Fontanin refrained from looking at her.
Minutes passed, and still Nicole did not say anything. Madame de Fontanin decided to speak first.
‘Whatever you’ve done, dear, no one here will ask you anything about it. Keep your secret, if you’d rather do so. I’m grateful to you for having thought of coming to us. You’re like a daughter here, you know.’
Nicole stiffened up, startled by the thought that she was being suspected of having done something wrong, something she disliked confessing. She made a sudden movement that let slip the shawl from her shoulders, revealing the curves of a healthy young body, strangely incongruous with her haggard cheeks and the immaturity of her features.
‘It’s not that at all!’ Her eyes were flashing. ‘And now I’m going to tell you everything.’ Her voice had an almost aggressive harshness as she began her story.
‘You remember, auntie, the day you came to see us at our flat in the Rue de Monceau . . . ?’
‘Yes, indeed!’ Madame de Fontanin sighed, and again a look of anguish crossed her face.
‘Well, I heard everything, every word!’ The words came with a rush; her eyelids were quivering.
There was a pause.
‘I knew it, my dear.’
The child stifled a sob and hid her face with her hands as if the tears were flowing from her eyes. But almost at once she took her hands away; her eyes were dry, and her lips tightly set—which changed not only the expression of her face but the quality of her voice.
‘Don’t think hardly of her, please, Aunt Thérèse. She’s so dreadfully unhappy, you know. You do believe me, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ A question was hovering on Madame de Fontanin’s lips, and she looked at the girl with a calm that carried no conviction. ‘Tell me, is—is your Uncle Jerome at Brussels, too?’
‘Yes.’ For a moment she was silent, then her eyebrows lifted and she added: ‘Why, it was he who gave me the idea of running away, of coming here.’
‘What! He told you to run away?’
‘Well, no, not exactly that. You see he’d been coming every morning all last week. He gave me some money to buy myself food, as I’d been left all alone. Then the day before yesterday he said, “If some kind soul would find room for you, it would be much better for you than staying here.” “Some kind soul,” he said, and of course I thought of you at once, Aunt Thérèse. And I’m sure he had the same idea. Don’t you think so?’
‘Very likely,’ Madame de Fontanin murmured. And suddenly a feeling of such happiness swept over her that she all but smiled.
Eagerly she asked: ‘How did you come to be alone? Where ever were you?’
‘At home.’
‘In Brussels?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know your mother had gone to live in Brussels.’
‘We had to, at the end of November. Everything was sold up at our place in Paris. Mummy never has any luck, she’s always in trouble, with bailiffs coming round for money. But now the debts have been paid off, she’ll be able to return.’
Madame de Fontanin looked up quickly, on the brink of asking: ‘Who is paying them?’ And so obvious was the question in her gaze that she could read its unspoken answer on the little girl’s lips. She could not restrain herself from asking:
‘And he—he left in November, with her, I suppose?’
There was such anguish in her voice that Nicole did not answer for a while. At last she forced herself to speak.
‘Auntie, you mustn’t be cross with me; I don’t want to hide anything from you, but it’s so difficult to explain everything, all at once. Do you know Monsieur Arvelde?’
‘No. Who is he?’
He’s a wonderful violinist who used to give me lessons here. He’s a really great artist, you know; he plays in concerts.’
‘Well?’
‘He lived in Paris, but he’s a Belgian really. That’s why, when we had to run away, he took us to Belgium. He has a house of his own in Brussels, and we stayed there.’
‘With him?’
‘Yes.’ She had understood the question and did not shirk it; indeed she seemed to find a certain perverse pleasure in vanquishing her reticence. But for the moment she did not dare to say more.
After a rather long pause Madame de Fontanin spoke again.
‘But where were you living during these last few days, when you were by yourself and Uncle Jerome came to see you?’
‘There.’
‘At that Belgian gentleman’s house, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did your uncle visit you there?’
‘Why, of course.’
‘But how did you come to be alone?’ Madame de Fontanin’s voice had lost none of its gentleness.
‘Because Monsieur Raoul is on tour just now, in Lucerne and Geneva.’
‘Monsieur Raoul? Who is that?’
‘Monsieur Arvelde.’
‘So your mother left you alone in Brussels to go to Switzerland with him?’ The little girl’s gesture was so desperate, so pitiful, that Madame de Fontanin blushed. ‘You must forgive me, darling,’ she added weakly. ‘Don’t let’s talk any more about all this. You’ve come here and that’s quite all right, and I hope you’ll stay with us.’
Nicole shook her head energetically.
‘No, no, there’s not much more to tell.’ She took a deep breath, then broke into a voluble explanation. ‘This is what’s happened, Auntie. Monsieur Arvelde has gone to Switzerland. But Mamma didn’t go with him. He had got her an engagement at a theatre in Brussels; she’s playing in a light opera—because of her voice, you know; he made her work hard at her singing, and she’s been awfully successful really. They talk about her in the papers; I’ve got the cuttings in my bag—would you like to see them?’ She stopped suddenly, uncertain of her ground. A curious look came into her eyes as she went on. ‘So you see it was just because Monsieur Raoul went to Switzerland that Uncle Jerome came, but it was too late. When he arrived Mamma had left the house. One evening she came and kissed me. No, that’s not true.’ Her eyebrows knitted, and she continued in a low, forlorn voice. ‘She didn’t kiss me, she almost beat me, because she didn’t know what on earth to do with me.’ Raising her eyes, she forced a smile to her lips. ‘Oh no, she wasn’t really angry with me, it wasn’t that at all.’ A sob broke from the smiling lips. ‘She was so awfully unhappy, Aunt Thérèse; you simply can’t imagine. She had to go, as someone was waiting for her downstairs, and she knew Uncle Jerome would be coming soon, because he’d been to see us several times; he even played music with Monsieur Raoul. But, the last time, he said he wouldn’t come again while Monsieur Arvelde was there. So, just before she went out, Mamma told me to tell Uncle Jerome that she’d gone away for a long time, that she was leaving me behind and he was to look after me. I’m sure he would have done so, only I didn’t dare to say it when I saw the way he looked when he came and found her gone. He was so terribly angry, I was afraid he might go after them, so I had to tell him a lie. I said Mamma was coming back next day; and every day I told him I was expecting her. He kept on hunting for her high and low, he thought she was still in Brussels. But everything was so awful, I felt I simply couldn’t stay there any longer; because of Monsieur Raoul’s valet especially. He’s such a nasty man; I hate him!’ She shivered. ‘Oh Aunt Thérèse, he has such horrible eyes—I can’t bear him! So, the day Uncle Jerome spoke to me about some kind soul, all of a sudden I made up my mind. Yesterday morning, when he gave me a little money, I went out at once so that the servant shouldn’t take it from me. I hid in churches until the evening, and I caught the slow night train.’
She had told her story hastily, with lowered eyes. When she raised her head and saw the look of profound disgust and indignation on Madame de Fontanin’s face, she clasped her hands imploringly.
‘Oh, Aunt Thérèse, please don’t think unkindly of Mamma, it really wasn’t her fault at all. I’m not always nice and I’m really a dreadful nuisance to her; you understand, don’t you? But I’m grown up now, and I don’t want to go on with that life any more. I couldn’t bear it!’ Her mouth set in a look of firm resolve. ‘I want to work, to earn my living, and not be a drag on anyone. That’s why I’ve come, Aunt Thérèse. There’s no one else but you. Please tell me how to set about it; please, Auntie. You won’t mind looking after me, will you? Just for a few days.’
Madame de Fontanin was too deeply moved to reply at once. Could she ever have believed this child would one day become so dear to her? There was a world of tenderness in her eyes as she gazed at Nicole, an affection that warmed her own heart, too, and allayed her distress. The little girl was not so pretty as she used to be; those feverish days had left their mark, and an ugly rash blemished the young lips—but her deep blue eyes were lovelier than ever. Just now they seemed dilated, unnaturally large, yet what courage, what steadfastness shone in their limpid depths! . . . At last, smiling, she leant towards the little girl.
‘Darling, I quite understand. I respect your decision and I promise to help you. But for the present you’re going to live here, with us; it’s rest you need.’ She said ‘rest,’ but her eyes implied ‘affection.’ Nicole read their meaning, but she still refused to soften.
‘I want to work, I don’t want to be a charge on anyone any longer.’
‘What if your mother comes back to fetch you?’
Her clear gaze grew misted; then suddenly an unbelievable hardness came over it.
‘I’ll never go back to her. Never!’ Her voice was harsh with bitter resolution.
Madame de Fontanin made as if she had not heard, and merely said:
‘I—I’d very much like to keep you with us—for always!’
The girl rose unsteadily, then suddenly sank on to the floor and laid her head on her aunt’s knees. As Madame de Fontanin stroked the child’s cheek, her mind was busy with a delicate problem which she felt it her duty to settle once for all.
‘My dear, you’ve seen a great many things that a girl of your age oughtn’t to have seen,’ she began.
Nicole tried to rise, but Madame de Fontanin prevented her. She did not want the child to see her blushing. As she held the girl’s forehead to her knee, unthinkingly, she was winding a strand of golden hair round her finger, groping in her mind for the right words to say. ‘And you must have guessed a number of things, things which, I think, had better remain a secret. You understand me, don’t you?’ Nicole had moved her head and was looking up at her. A sudden light came into the child’s eyes.
‘Oh, Aunt Thérèse, you can be sure of that. I won’t breathe a word to anyone. They wouldn’t understand; they’d say Mamma was to blame.’
She was as bent on concealing her mother’s weakness as Madame de Fontanin was on concealing Jerome’s. The strange complicity that was springing up between the little girl and Madame de Fontanin was sealed by Nicole’s next remark. She was standing, her face lit up with eagerness.
‘Listen, Aunt Thérèse. This is what you must tell them: that Mamma has been obliged to earn her living and has found a situation abroad—in England, let’s say. A situation that has prevented her from taking me with her. As French mistress in a school, we might tell them.’ A childish smile hovered on her lips as she added: ‘And, as Mamma’s gone away, there’ll be nothing surprising if I seem rather sad, will there?’
The ‘gay old spark’ on the ground floor moved out on the fifteenth of April.
On the next morning Mademoiselle de Waize, preceded by two maids, by Madame Frühling, the concierge, and a handyman, went to take possession of the little bachelor flat. The reputation of its previous occupant had been anything but savoury and Mademoiselle, drawing her black merino mantle round her shoulders, waited until all the windows had been opened before crossing the threshold. Then only did she risk entering the little hall of the flat and making a thorough inspection of the rooms. Though somewhat reassured by the immaculate bareness of the walls, she directed the rite of cleansing in the spirit of an exorcist.
Much to Antoine’s surprise the worthy spinster had agreed almost without protest to the idea of the two brothers being installed outside the parental walls, though such a project must have run counter to all her notions of home life as it should be lived, and played havoc with her views of the Family and Education. Antoine accounted for Mademoiselle’s attitude by the pleasure she felt at Jacques’ return, and the respect in which she held the decisions of M. Thibault, above all when they had the commendation of the Abbé Vécard.
As a matter of fact there was another reason for Mademoiselle’s almost enthusiastic acquiescence: the relief she felt at seeing Antoine leave the flat. Ever since she had taken Gise under her wing the poor old lady had lived in constant terror of infectious diseases. One spring she had actually kept Gise imprisoned in her room for six weeks, not daring to let her take the air elsewhere than on the balcony and delaying the departure of the whole family to their summer residence, because little Lisbeth Fürhling, the concierge’s niece, had whooping-cough and, to leave the house, it would have been necessary to pass in front of the concierge’s premises on the ground floor. It goes without saying that Antoine, what with his clothes redolent of the hospital, his medical books and instruments, seemed to her a source of daily peril in their midst. She had begged him never to take Gise on his knee. If, on coming home, by some unlucky chance he dropped his overcoat across a chair in the hall instead of taking it to his room, or if he arrived late and came to table without washing his hands—though she knew he did not wear an overcoat when seeing patients, and never left the hospital without first visiting the lavatory—she was too terrified, too obsessed by fears of ‘germs,’ to eat and, the moment dessert came on the table, would sweep Gise away with her to her room and inflict on her a fiercely antiseptic douche in throat and nostrils. To install Antoine on the ground floor meant creating a protective zone of two stories between Gisèle and him, and diminishing to that extent the peril of infection. Thus she displayed particular zest in preparing for the bearer of contagions this remote quarantine. In three days the rooms were scraped clean, washed, carpeted and equipped with curtains and furniture.
All was ready now for Jacques’ return.
Every time she thought of him, her activity redoubled; or else she would indulge in a sentimental breathing-space, conjuring up before her melting eyes the well-loved face. Her affection for Gise had by no means ousted Jacques from his priority in her regard. She had doted on him since he was born, indeed she had loved him even longer than that, for she had loved and brought up, before him, the mother whom he had never known, whose place she had taken from the cradle. It was between her outstretched arms that one evening, tottering along the carpet in the hall, Jacques had taken, towards her, his first step; and for fourteen successive years she had trembled for him as now she trembled for Gisèle. And with boundless love went total incomprehension. The boy, from whom she scarcely ever took her eyes, remained a mystery to her. There were days when she gave up hope—so ‘inhuman’ did she find the child—and then she would weep, recalling Madame Thibault’s childhood, for Jacques’ mother had been as meek and mild as an angel out of heaven. She never tried to puzzle out from whom Jacques had inherited his propensity for violence, and could only blame the Devil. And yet there were days when one of those sudden, impulsive gestures in which the child’s heart suddenly flowered forth would quicken her emotion, making her weep again, but now with joy.
She had never been able to get used to Jacques’ absence nor had she ever been able to understand the reasons for his exile. And now she wanted his return to be a festive occasion and his new room to contain everything he loved. Antoine had to put his foot down or she would have crammed the cupboards full of his old toys. She had brought down from her own room his favourite arm-chair, the chair in which he had always used to sit when a black mood was on him; and, on Antoine’s advice, she had replaced Jacques’ old bed by a brand-new sofa-bed, that, folded up in the day, gave the room the dignity of a study.
Meanwhile Gisèle had been left to her own devices for two days, but with plenty of work to keep her out of mischief. Try as she might, she could not fix her attention on her lesson-books. She was dying of curiosity to see what was happening down below. She knew her Jacquot was going to return, that all this commotion was on his account, and, to calm her nerves, kept pacing up and down the room that seemed to her a prison-cell.
On the third morning she could bear it no longer, and the temptation was so strong that at noon, noticing that her aunt had not come up again, she ran out of her room without more ado and raced down the stairs, four steps at a time. Antoine was just coming in. She burst out laughing. Antoine had a special way of looking at her—a stolid, concentrated glare he had invented for their mutual amusement—that never failed to send her off into peals of uncontrollable laughter, which lasted as long as Antoine could retain his gravity. Mademoiselle used to scold them both for it. But just now they were alone, and the occasion was too good to miss.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he said at last, catching hold of her wrists. She struggled, laughing all the more. Suddenly she stopped.
‘I really must get out of this habit of laughing. If I don’t, you know, nobody will ever want to marry me.’
‘So you want to get married, do you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, gazing up at him. There was a mildness in her gaze that brought to mind the eyes of a large, sentimental dog. Looking down at her plump little body, with its wild-flower grace, he reflected for the first time that this imp of eleven would one day become a woman, would marry. He let go her wrists.
‘Where were you rushing off to like that, by yourself, without even a hat or a shawl on? Don’t you know it’s lunch-time?’
‘I’m looking for auntie. She’s given me a sum I can’t make out,’ she added with a little giggle. Then, blushing, she pointed to the mystery-laden door from which a single ray of light was streaming. Her eyes were shining in the dimness of the vestibule.
‘You’d like to have a look at it, eh?’
She made a ‘Yes’ with a flutter of her red lips, soundlessly.
‘You’re in for a scolding, I warn you,’ Antoine smiled.
She hesitated, eyed him boldly to see if he were joking. Then she made up her mind.
‘No, why should I be scolded? It’s not a sin.’
Antoine laughed; he had recognized Mademoiselle’s phraseology for Right and Wrong. He fell to wondering what effect the old maid’s influence was having on the child. A glance at Gisèle reassured him; she was a healthy plant, which would flourish in any soil, and defy the gardener’s restraint.
Her eyes were still fixed on the half-opened door.
‘Well, why don’t you go in and have a look round?’ Antoine said.
As she slipped in like a scared mouse, she stifled a cry of joy.
Mademoiselle was alone. She had climbed on to the sofa-bed and, standing tiptoe, was straightening the crucifix she had just hung on the wall; it was the crucifix she had given Jacques for his first communion, and it was still to watch over her dear one’s sleep. She seemed gay, happy, young, and was singing as she worked. She had recognized Antoine’s step in the entrance-hall, and thought she must have forgotten the time. Meanwhile Gisèle had made an inspection of the other rooms and, unable to restrain her glee, had begun dancing and clapping her hands.
‘Good heavens!’ Mademoiselle exclaimed, jumping down from the bed. In a mirror she saw her niece, her hair streaming in the breeze from an open window, capering like a young fawn, and screaming at the top of her voice.
‘Hurrah, for lovely draughts! Hurrah!’
She did not understand, did not try to understand. The idea that an act of wilful disobedience might account for the little girl’s presence here never crossed her mind; for sixty-six years she had been in the habit of bowing to the exigencies of fate. She made a dash at the child and, unhooking her cape, wrapped her hastily in its folds, and without a word of reproach hurried her out. And, after making Gisèle run up the stairs even quicker than she had run down them, did not draw breath till she had put the child in bed under a warm blanket and made her drink a bowl of boiling hot herb-tea.
It must be admitted her fears were not entirely groundless. Gisèle’s mother, a Madagascan whom Major de Waize had married in Tamatave, where he was garrisoned, had died of tuberculosis less than a year after the birth of the child; two years later the Major himself had succumbed to a slow, never fully diagnosed disease that was thought to have been transmitted to him by his wife. Ever since Mademoiselle, the orphan’s only relative, had had her sent home from Madagascar and taken charge of her, the dangers of hereditary disease had constantly obsessed her, though actually the child had never had a serious cold in her life, and the various doctors and specialists who examined her each year had never found the least flaw in her healthy constitution.
The election for the Institute was taking place in a fortnight, and M. Thibault seemed in a hurry to have Jacques back. It was arranged that M. Faisme should personally escort him to Paris on the following Sunday.
On the previous Saturday evening, Antoine left the hospital at seven o’clock, dined at a neighbouring restaurant so as to escape the family dinner, and, round about eight, alone and in high spirits, took possession of his new domain, where he was to sleep that night for the first time. He found a pleasure in the feel of his private key turning in the lock, in slamming his own door behind him, and, after switching on all the lights, began to walk slowly from room to room, with the zest of a conqueror exploring a new-won kingdom. He had reserved for himself the side looking out on the street: two big rooms and a dressing-room. The first large room had little furniture in it; only a few chairs of various shapes and sizes grouped round a small circular table. This was to serve as the waiting-room, when patients came to consult him. Into the second room, which was the larger of the two, he had moved the furniture belonging to him in his father’s flat, his big desk, his bookshelves, his two leather arm-chairs, and all the various accessories of his industrious hours. His bed was in the dressing-room, which also contained a washhandstand and wardrobe.
His books were stacked on the hall floor alongside his unopened trunks. The heating apparatus was emitting a gentle warmth, and brand-new electric lamps shed an uncompromising brilliance on everything in the flat. Antoine had the rest of the evening before him to set his house in order; he made up his mind to have everything unpacked and in its appointed place—a congenial setting for the new life that was beginning—within the next few hours. He pictured the dinner in the flat above drawing to its dreary close, Gisèle drowsing over her dessert, M. Thibault as usual perorating. And Antoine relished the peace around him, and the inestimable boon of solitude.
The glass over the mantelpiece reflected him half length. He drew near it, not without a certain self-satisfaction. He had a way of his own with mirrors, and always viewed himself full face, squared his shoulders and clenched his jaws, while his eyes seemed boring almost angrily into their reflected selves. He preferred not to see his lanky torso, short legs and somewhat puny arms, for the disproportion between his rather undersized body and the bulkiness of his head, the size of which was increased by the thick beard, was distasteful to him. But he approved of himself, he regarded himself as a fine figure of a man, built on exemplary lines. What particularly pleased him was the look of grim determination on his face, for, by dint of creasing his forehead as if he felt obliged to concentrate his full attention on each incident of daily life, a bulge had formed at the level of his brows, which, overshadowing his eyes, imparted to them a curious piercingness that pleased him as the outward sign of an indomitable will.
He decided to begin with his books, and, taking off his coat, started by giving a vigorous tug to the closed doors of the empty bookcase. Let’s see now, he mused. Lecture note-books at the bottom, dictionaries within easy reach; medical manual—yes, that’s the place for it. Tra-la-la! he hummed light-heartedly. Well, well, here I am; I got my way. The ground floor flat; Jacques. It all panned out—who’d have believed that possible three weeks ago? He began to speak aloud, in a high-pitched voice, impersonating an admirer. ‘That chap Thibault has an in-dom-itable will. Never knows when he’s beaten. Indomitable!’ Casting a humorous glance at the mirror, he cut a caper, which all but dislodged the pile of books and pamphlets he was propping under his chin. Steady now! he adjured himself. That’s better. My shelves are coming to life again. Now for the manuscripts. Oh, for this evening, let’s put the files back into the file case, as they were before. But one of these days we’ll have to sort them out, all those notes and comments. Quite a lot I’ve got together. The great thing is to have a simple, efficient system for classifying them; with an index, of course, that I keep absolutely up to date. Like Philip’s. Yes, a card-index. Of course, all the great doctors . . .
Gaily, with an almost dancing step, he moved to and fro between the hall and the bookcase. Suddenly he emitted a boyish laugh, that came as a surprise. ‘Doctor Antoine Thibault!’ he announced, halting for a moment and straightening his shoulders. ‘It’s Doctor Thibault! Of course you’ve heard of him; the child-specialist!’ He side-stepped nimbly, made a rapid bow, then, sobering down, resumed his journeys to and fro between the hall and study. The wicker basket, next. In two years’ time I’ll annex the Gold Medal. House Physician at a Clinic. Hospital diploma. So I’m setting up here for three or four years at most. Again he mimicked a high falsetto voice. ‘Thibault is one of our youngest hospital staff doctors; Philip’s right-hand man.’ I got on the right scent when I specialized at once on children’s diseases. When I think of Louiset, Tournon and the rest of them—the damned fools!
Damned fools! he repeated absent-mindedly. His arms were full of all sorts of objects and he was looking round perplexedly for the best place for each. Pity Jacques doesn’t want to be a doctor. I could help him, I’d see him through. Two Thibaults as doctors! Why not, after all? It’s a career worthy of a Thibault. Hard, I grant you, but how rewarding, when one has a taste for fighting against odds, and a bit of personal pride! Think of all the attention, memory, will-power it demands! And one never gets to the end of it. And consider what it means when one’s made good! A great doctor, that’s somebody! A Philip, for instance. One has to learn, of course, how to adopt that gentle, assured manner. Very courteous, but distant. Yes, it’s pleasant to be someone, to be called in for consultation by the colleagues who’re most envious of one!
Personally I’ve chosen the most difficult branch: children. Yes, they’re the trickiest cases; never know how to tell you what’s wrong and when they do, lead you all astray. That’s it; with children one can count only on oneself; got to face up to the disease and hit the diagnosis. X-rays luckily. . . . A competent doctor to-day has got to be a radiologist, and know how to use the apparatus himself. Soon as I’ve taken my M.D., I’ll do a course of X-rays. And later on, next door to my consulting-room, there’ll be an X-ray room. With a nurse. No, a male assistant’s better; in a white coat. On consulting-days, for every case that’s in the least complicated—zip!—a photo.
‘What gives me confidence in Dr. Thibault is that he always begins with an X-ray examination.’
He smiled at the sound of his own voice, and winked towards the mirror. Why yes, I don’t deny it, that’s Pride, with a capital P! He laughed ironically. The Thibault pride, as Abbé Vécard calls it. My father, too, of course. But I—oh well, let it go at that! It’s pride. Why not? Pride comes in very useful as a driving force. I make good use of it, too. Why shouldn’t I? Isn’t it up to a man to make the most of his talents? What are my talents, now? He smiled. Easy to answer that. For one thing, I’m quick in the uptake, and I’m retentive; what I know sticks. Next, I can work. ‘That chap Thibault works like a horse!’ So much the better; let ’em say it if they want to, they’d all like to be able to do as much. And then, what more? Energy. Definitely that. An ex-tra-ord-in-ary energy! He said it out loud, syllable by syllable, turning again to the mirror. It’s like a battery; well, a charged accumulator, always on tap for any effort I require of it. But what would all those talents come to, if there wasn’t driving force to actuate them? Tell me that, Monsieur l’Abbé! He was holding in his hand a flat, nickel-plated instrument-case that gleamed under the ceiling-light, and was wondering where to put it. Finally he reached up and placed it on the top of the bookcase. ‘Eh lad, it’s nowt to be ashamed of!’ he shouted in the jovial, bucolic Norman voice his father sometimes affected. ‘And there’s a lot in pride, saving your respects, Monsieur l’Abbé.’
The wicker basket was nearly empty. From its depths Antoine took two little portraits in plush frames and gazed at them musingly. They were photographs of his maternal grandfather and his mother. The former portrait showed a handsome old man standing beside a table piled with books, on which his hand was resting; the other, a young woman with fine features and indefinite rather gentle eyes. She was wearing an open square-cut bodice and two silky tresses fell upon a shoulder. He was so familiar with this likeness of his mother that it was thus he always pictured her, though the portrait dated from the time of Madame Thibault’s engagement, and he had never known her with her hair like that. He had been nine years old at Jacques’ birth, when she had died. He could remember better his grandfather. Couturier the economist and friend of MacMahon, who had just missed being made Prefect of the Seine Department on the fall of M. Thiers and had been for some years Dean of the Institute. Antoine had never forgotten his pleasant face, his white muslin cravats, and his razors with mother-of-pearl handles, one for every day of the week, in their sharkskin case.
He stood the two portraits on the mantelpiece, amongst his specimens of stones and fossils.
The room was rapidly undergoing a complete transformation. The miscellaneous objects and papers littering his desk had still to be arranged. He set about it with a will and, when everything was in place, surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction. As for my old clothes and linen, he decided lazily, that’s old Mother Frühling’s affair. To make his escape from Mademoiselle’s leading-strings still more complete, he had arranged for the concierge to do all the work in the ground-floor flat, without help or interference from above. Lighting a cigarette, he settled luxuriously into one of the leather arm-chairs. It was seldom he had a whole evening to himself like this, without anything definite to do, and he was feeling rather lost. It was too early to go to bed and he wondered what to do with himself. Should he stay where he was, smoking cigarettes, thinking of anything, or nothing? Of course he had letters to write but—no, he didn’t feel like letter-writing.
I know, he suddenly thought, rising from the chair and going to the bookcase. I meant to look up what Hémon says about infantile diabetes. Setting the fat, paper-bound volume on his knee, he began glancing through its pages. Yes, I ought to have known that; it’s obvious. A frown had settled on his face. Yes, I was completely mistaken; if it hadn’t been for Philip that poor child would be done for, and it would be my fault. Well, not exactly my fault. Still . . . He closed the book and slammed it on to the table. Curious how stiff, almost cutting, the Chief can be on such occasions. Of course he’s awfully vain, likes to throw his weight about. ‘My poor good Thibault,’ that’s what he said: ‘My poor good Thibault, the diet you prescribed was bound to make the child get worse.’ Yes, he said that in front of the nurses and students; a nasty slap in the eye!
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he took a few steps in the room. I really ought to have answered him back. I should have said: For one thing, if you did your own duty . . .’ Just that. He’d have said: ‘Monsieur Thibault, on that score I do not see how anyone . . .’ Then I’d have driven home my point.
‘Excuse me, Chief. If you came to hospital punctually in the morning, and if you stayed until the end of the consultation hour, instead of dashing off at half-past eleven to visit your paying patients, I wouldn’t have to do your work for you, and I wouldn’t run the risk of making blunders.’ Yes! In front of them all! What a sensation! Of course he’d have been sick to death with me for a couple of weeks or so—but what the devil would that matter? Who cares?
A vindictive expression had suddenly come over his face. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he began absent-mindedly winding up the clock. He shivered, put on his coat again, and went back to his chair. His cheerfulness of a short while back had evaporated and he felt a sudden chill at his heart. The damned fool! His lips twisted in a rancorous grin. Crossing his legs impatiently, he lit another cigarette. But even as he murmured ‘Damned fool!’ he had been thinking of the sureness of eye, the experience, the amazing intuition of Dr. Philip, and at that moment the genius of his Chief seemed to him something almost superhuman.
What about me? he thought, and a vague distress seemed to grip his throat. Shall I ever get to understand things in a flash, as he does? Shall I ever have that almost infallible perspicacity which is what really makes the great physician? Shall I? Of course I’ve a good memory, I’m hard-working, persevering. But those are virtues of the underling. Have I anything more in me? It’s not the first time I’ve boggled over an easy diagnosis—yes, there’s no getting over that, it was simplicity itself, a ‘classical’ case, with all the obvious symptoms. Suddenly he flung his arms up, and raised his voice. Yes, it’s going to be a hard struggle. I’ve got to work, pile up knowledge day by day. But then his face grew pale. He had remembered Jacques was coming next day. To-morrow evening, he thought, Jacques will be in the room over there, and I . . .
He had jumped up. And now the project he had formed of living with his brother appeared to him in its true light, as the most irreparable of follies! He was no longer thinking of the responsibility he had undertaken, he was thinking only of the handicap that was bound from now on, whatever he might do, to retard his progress. What a fool he had been! It was he himself who had hung this millstone round his own neck. And now there was no escape.
He crossed the hall unthinkingly, opened the door of the room that had been prepared for Jacques, and stood on the threshold, unmoving, peering into the darkness. He felt profoundly discouraged. ‘Damn it!’ he said aloud. ‘Is there no way of escape, no place where one can have some peace? Where one could work, and have only oneself to think about? Here one has to give in all the time—to the family, to friends, and now to Jacques! They all conspire to prevent me from working, to make a mess of my life!’ The blood had gone to his head, his throat was parched. He ran to the kitchen, drank two glasses of cold water, and returned to his study.
In a mood of black depression he began to undress. All in this room, in which he had not yet got used to his surroundings, in which familiar objects seemed different from their former selves—everything in the room suddenly seemed hostile.
He took an hour to go to bed, and longer still to sleep. He was not accustomed to have noises of the street so near; each passing footfall made him start. His mind was obsessed with trifles; he remembered the trouble he had had coming home the other night, from an evening at Philip’s place, in finding a cab. And, from time to time, the thought of Jacques’ return came back with harrowing intensity, and he started tossing this side and that in nervous exasperation.
Furiously he adjured himself: I’ve my own way to make, blast it! Let them look after themselves! I shall let him live here, now that it’s all fixed up, and I’ll see he does the work he has to do. But there it ends. I’ve promised to look after him, and that’s all. It must not stand in the way of my career. My career! That’s the great thing!
Of his affection for the boy not a trace remained that night. Antoine recalled his visit to Crouy. He pictured his brother as he then had seen him: emaciated, with the pale cast of loneliness. Quite possibly, it struck him now, the boy was consumptive. In that case he would persuade his father to pack off Jacques to a good sanatorium; to Auvergne, to the Pyrenees or, better still, to Switzerland; then he, Antoine, would be alone, his own master, free to work just as he pleased. He even caught himself thinking: I’d take his room and use it as my bedroom.
Antoine woke up in an entirely different mood. In the course of the morning, at the hospital, he frequently consulted his watch with cheerful impatience, all eagerness to go and take over his brother from the hands of M. Faisme. He was at the station long before the train was due and, while he walked up and down the platform, busied himself memorizing what he intended to say to M. Faisme about the Foundation. But when the train came in and he saw Jacques’ form and the Superintendent’s glasses amidst the press of passengers, he completely forgot the home-truths he had intended to rub in.
M. Faisme was all smiles, very spick and span, and accosted Antoine as if he were a bosom friend. He wore light-coloured gloves and his yellow face, close-shaved to an immaculate smoothness, gave the impression of having been liberally powdered. He seemed little disposed to part company with the brothers and urged them to a café terrace for a drink. Only by promptly hailing a taxi did Antoine manage to escape. M. Faisme himself lifted Jacques’ hold-all on to the seat, and when the cab moved off, at the risk of having the toes of his patent-leather shoes run over, thrust his head in through the window and clasped effusively the brothers’ hands, bidding Antoine meanwhile convey his profound respects to the Eminent Founder.
Jacques was crying.
He had not yet said a word or made the least response to his brother’s cordial welcome. But the state of prostration the boy was evidently in increased Antoine’s pity and the new gentleness stirring in his heart. Had anyone ventured to remind him of his rageful feelings of the previous night, he would have disclaimed them indignantly and affirmed in perfect good faith that he had never ceased to feel that the boy’s return would give at least a point and purpose to his life, so lamentably empty and futile hitherto.
When he had led his brother into their flat and closed the door behind them, he was as pleasantly elated as a young lover doing the honours of the home he has prepared for her to his first mistress. Indeed that very idea flashed through his mind and made him laugh; perhaps he was being ridiculous, but he was feeling far too cheerful to mind that. And though in vain he tried to catch some gleam of satisfaction on his brother’s face, he never doubted for a moment that he was going to make a success of the task he had undertaken.
Jacques’ room had been visited at the last moment by Mademoiselle; she had lit the fire to give it a cosier air and placed well to the fore a plateful of the almond cakes dusted with vanilla sugar for which Jacques had had a special fondness in the past. On the bedside table, in a glass, was a little bunch of violets with a streamer cut out of paper attached to it, on which Gisèle had written in chalk of various colours: For Jacquot.
But Jacques paid no heed to any of these preparations. Almost the moment he entered, while Antoine was taking off his coat, he had sat down near the door, holding his hat.
‘Come along, Jacques, and have a look round our estate!’ Antoine called out.
The boy went up to him lethargically, cast a listless glance into the other room, and went back to his seat. He seemed to be waiting for, and afraid of, something.
‘What do you say to going up and seeing “them” now?’ Antoine suggested. And he guessed from Jacques’ shiver that, with all his dread of the impending encounter, he would rather get it over as soon as possible.
‘Yes? Well, let’s go at once. We’ll only stay a minute or two,’ Antoine added, to give him courage.
M. Thibault was waiting for them in his study. He was in a good humour. The sky was cloudless and spring was in the air. Moreover, that morning when he had gone to mass at the parish church, sitting in his special pew, he had had the pleasure of reminding himself that on the next Sunday there would doubtless be, sitting in that same seat, a new and eminent member of the Institute. He went up to his sons, and kissed the younger. Jacques was sobbing. M. Thibault saw in his tears proof of his remorse and good resolutions; he was more moved than he cared to show. He had the boy sit in one of the high-backed chairs on each side of the fireplace, and stalking up and down the room, his hands behind his back, puffing and blowing as was his wont, he pronounced a brief homily, affectionate yet firm, recalling the terms on which Jacques had been given the privilege of coming home again to his father’s house, and bidding him show Antoine as much deference and obedience as if Antoine were his father.
An unexpected caller cut short the peroration; it was a future colleague, and M. Thibault, anxious not to keep him cooling his heels in the drawing-room, dismissed his sons. Nevertheless he escorted them up to his study door and, as with one hand he drew back the curtain, placed the other on the head of the repentant boy. Jacques felt his father’s hand stroking his hair and patting his neck with an indulgence so unwonted that he could not restrain his emotion and, turning, seized the thick, flabby hand to raise it to his lips. Taken by surprise, M. Thibault opened a displeased eye, and withdrew his hand with a feeling of embarrassment.
‘Tch! Tch!’ he muttered gruffly, jerking his neck clear of the collar several times. Jacques’ sentimentality seemed to him to augur no good.
They found Mademoiselle dressing Gisèle for Vespers. When Mademoiselle, instead of the little imp of mischief she was expecting, saw a tall, pale youth with haggard eyes enter the room, she wrung her hands alarmingly and the ribbon she was tying in the little girl’s hair slipped from her fingers. Such was her consternation that it was some little time before she could bring herself to kiss him.
‘Bless and save us, Jacques! Is it really you?’ was all she managed to say; then flung her arms around him. After hugging him to her bosom, she stepped back to have another look at him, but, though her shining eyes lingered on every feature, they could find no semblance of her dear youngster’s face.
Gise was still more startled by the change and feeling so shy that she kept her eyes fixed on the carpet, and had to bite her lip to keep herself from bursting into laughter. And Jacques’ first smile of the day was for her.
‘So you don’t recognize me, Gise!’ He went up to her and, now that the ice was broken, she threw herself into his arms and then began skipping round him like a young lamb, still clinging to his hand. But she dared not talk to him as yet; not even ask if he had seen her flowers.
They all went down together. Gisèle had not let go Jacques’ hand and was nestling against him with the innocent sensuality of a young animal. At the foot of the staircase they parted hands, but in the portico as she was going out she blew him, through the glass door, a big kiss with both hands; he did not see it.
Now they were alone in their new home, Antoine’s first glance at Jacques told him a weight had been lifted from the boy’s mind by this meeting with the members of the family, and that he was already feeling better.
‘You know, I think we’ll do very well here, you and I. Nice little flat, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, sit down, old chap, and make yourself at home. Try that chair over there, it’s very comfy, and tell me what you think of it. Now I’ll make some tea. I expect you’re hungry? Go and choose us some cakes at the pastrycook’s.’
‘Thanks, I’m not hungry.’
‘But I am!’ Nothing could repress Antoine’s geniality. After a laborious, solitary youth, Antoine was now experiencing for the first time the pleasure of loving and protecting someone, sharing his life with another. And for the sheer joy of it he was laughing, carried away by an exhilaration that was making him expansive as he had never been before.
‘Have a cigarette then. No? You keep on looking at me. . . . Don’t you smoke? You keep on looking at me, I was going to say, as if I was laying a trap for you. Look here, old chap, let yourself go a bit. Have a little confidence, damn it! You’re not in the reformatory now. Can’t you trust me even now?’
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Well then, what is it? Are you afraid I’ve let you down, that I’ve got you back on false pretences and you’re not as free as you expected?’
‘N-no.’
‘Then what’s worrying you? Are you missing anything?’
‘No.’
‘Then what is it? What’s going on behind that stubborn-looking forehead of yours? Out with it!’ He went up to the boy, on the point of bending over him, giving him a brotherly kiss, but he refrained. Jacques looked up at his brother with forlorn, hopeless eyes; he realized an answer was expected of him.
‘Why do you ask me all those questions?’ He shuddered slightly, then added in a very low voice: ‘What difference can it make?’
There was a short silence. Antoine was gazing at his brother, and there was such affectionate compassion in his eyes that once more Jacques felt inclined to cry.
‘Yes, old chap, just now you’re like a sick man.’ All the gaiety had left Antoine’s voice. ‘But, never fear, you’ll get over it. Only let yourself be looked after—and loved!’ he added shyly, without looking at the boy. ‘We don’t yet know one another well. Just think, nine years between us—it was a regular abyss as long as you were a child. You were eleven when I was twenty; we couldn’t have anything in common. But now it’s very different. . . . No, I couldn’t say if I had any affection for you in those days. I didn’t ever think about it. You see I’m being quite frank with you. But now—well, all that, too, is changed. I’m delighted—yes, damn it!—I’m thrilled to have you here with me. Life will be more pleasant, better in many ways, now that there are two of us. Don’t you think so? For instance, when I’m coming back from the hospital, I’m sure to hurry now, so as to get home quickly. And I’ll find you here, sitting at your desk, after a strenuous day’s work. Shan’t I? And in the evening we’ll come down from dinner early, and each will settle down in his own study, under a lamp; but we’ll leave the doors open so as to see each other and feel we are together. Or else, some nights, we’ll have a good talk, like two old friends, and it’ll be an effort to drag ourselves to bed. What’s up? Why are you crying?’
He went up to Jacques, sat on the arm of his chair, and after a brief hesitation took his hand. Jacques turned away his tearful face, but returned the pressure of Antoine’s hand, and for some moments clung to it feverishly with all his might.
‘Oh, Antoine!’ The cry seemed choking in his throat. ‘If you only knew all that’s happened inside me, in the last year!’
He was sobbing so violently that Antoine did not dream of putting any further questions. Placing his arm round Jacques’ shoulders, he pressed the boy tenderly to him. Once before, on that evening when in the darkness of the cab the barriers between them had fallen, he had experienced that thrill of vast compassion, that sensation of a sudden access of strength and will-power—the feeling that he alone must supply the vital force for both of them. And very often since an idea had hovered in the background of his mind, an idea which now was taking clear and definite form. Rising, he began to pace the room.
‘Listen!’ he began. His voice had an unusual intensity of feeling. ‘I don’t know why I’m speaking to you of this so soon, on our first day. Anyhow, we’ve plenty of time to return to it. Well, this is what I’ve been thinking—you and I are brothers. That doesn’t sound much of a discovery, does it? And yet the idea is a new one, for me, and one that deeply moves me. We’re brothers! Not merely of the same blood, but springing from the same origins since the beginning of time, from the same germ-cells, the same vital impulse. We’re not just any two young men, named Antoine and Jacques; we’re two Thibaults, we are the Thibaults. Do you see what I mean? And what’s so alarming in a way is that we both have in us that same vital impulse, that special Thibault temperament. Do you see? For we Thibaults are somehow different from the rest of mankind. I rather suspect we have something in us that others haven’t got; just because we are Thibaults. Personally, wherever I’ve been, in college, Faculty, or hospital, I’ve felt myself a man apart, I hardly like to say “superior to the others”—though, after all, why shouldn’t I? Yes, we are superior, we’re equipped with an energy others don’t possess. What’s your opinion? Don’t you agree? I know that you passed for a bit of a duffer at school, but didn’t you feel it there, too, that “urge” as they call it, which somehow gave you more—more driving force than the other boys?’
‘Yes!’ Jacques had stopped crying and was staring at his brother with passionate interest. His face had suddenly an expression of intelligence and maturity that made him seem ten years older.
‘It’s a long while now since I first noticed it,’ Antoine went on. ‘There must be some particular combination in our make-up, of pride and violence and obstinacy—I don’t know how to put it. Take father, for instance. But, of course, you don’t know him very well. And it takes a different form with him. Now listen!’ He drew up his chair in front of Jacques and leant forward, his hands resting on his knees: one of M. Thibault’s favourite attitudes. ‘What I wanted to say to you to-day was that this secret force is always making itself felt in my life; I don’t know how to describe it, it’s like a wave—one of those sudden swelling waves that buoy you up when you’re swimming, and carry you in one tremendous rush a great way forward. But you must know how to turn it to good account. Nothing’s impossible, nothing’s even difficult, when one has that vital force; and we have it, you and I. Do you understand? In my own case, for example—but I’m not telling you all this just to talk about myself. I want to talk about you. It’s up to you now to take stock of this driving force you have in you, to analyse it and apply it rightly. If you make up your mind, you can catch up on all the time you’ve wasted, in one stride. It’s a matter of will-power. Some people simply haven’t any—as I’ve discovered only quite recently. I’ve got it, and you can have it, too. All the Thibaults can have it. And that’s why they can make good at anything they turn their hand to. Think of what it means, to forge ahead of others, to make one’s value recognized. I tell you, it’s our duty to bring this vital energy, which is our heritage, to full fruition. It’s in us—in you and in me—that the Thibault stock must come to flower—the full flower of a lineage. Do you see what I mean?’ Jacques’ eyes had been riveted on Antoine with all but painful fixity. Antoine repeated: ‘Do you understand all this?’
‘Yes, yes, I understand!’ he all but shouted. His plea eyes were sparkling, there was an almost vicious edge to his voice, and his lips were curiously twisted. It looked as if he were furious with his brother for shattering his peace of mind by this so unexpected outburst of enthusiasm. A tremor passed through his body, then his features relaxed and a look of profound weariness settled on his face.
‘Oh let me be!’ he suddenly exclaimed, letting his forehead sink between his hands.
Antoine said nothing; he was observing his brother. How much thinner and paler he had grown, in a fortnight! The close-cropped reddish hair made still more apparent the abnormal size of his skull, the scragginess of his neck, and his protruding ears.
‘By the way,’ he suddenly asked, point blank, ‘have you turned over a new leaf?’
‘In what way?’ Jacques murmured, and a mist crept over the brightness of his eyes. He flushed, and, though he managed to keep up an expression of surprise, it was obviously feigned.
Antoine made no reply.
It was getting late. He looked at his watch and rose; he had his second round to make, at five. He pondered if he should tell his brother he was going to leave him alone till dinner; but, much to his surprise, Jacques seemed almost glad to see him go.
And indeed, when he was alone, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from him. He had the idea of making an inspection of the flat; but in the hall in front of the closed doors a vague anxiety came over him and he went back to his own room, and shut himself in. At last he noticed the bunch of violets and the paper streamer. All the events of the day merged together in his memory; his father’s welcome, Antoine’s conversation. He lay down on the sofa and began crying again, but not with despair; he was weeping above all from exhaustion, but also because of the room, and the violets, and the hand his father had laid on his head, and Antoine’s solicitude, and the new life which was beginning for him. He wept because on all sides they seemed to want to love him, because henceforth people were going to take notice of him, and speak to him, and smile towards him and he would have to respond; because his days of tranquillity were over.
To soften the transition, Antoine had postponed Jacques’ return to the Lycée till October. With the help of some of his old school-friends, who were about to enter the University, he had worked out a sort of ‘refresher course,’ the object of which was the progressive re-education of the boy’s intelligence. Three different tutors shared the task. They were all young, and personal friends. Under those favourable conditions, the youngster worked as and when he pleased, according to the amount of concentration he could bring to his task. And soon Antoine had the pleasure of seeing that his seclusion in the reformatory had not done so much harm to his brother’s mental faculties as might have been feared; in certain respects, indeed, his mind seemed to have ripened most remarkably in solitude—so much so that after a rather slow start, his progress soon became more rapid than Antoine had dared to hope. Jacques profited, without excess, by the independence he was allowed. Moreover, Antoine, though he did not say so to his father, but with the tacit approval of the Abbé Vécard, felt that no harm could be done by allowing Jacques the utmost freedom. He realized the potentialities of Jacques’ mind and believed that there was everything to be gained by letting him develop in his own way, on his own lines.
During the first few days the boy felt a strong distaste for going out of the house. The bustle of the street made him feel dizzy, and Antoine had to exercise his ingenuity in devising errands which took him out into the open air. So gradually Jacques renewed acquaintance with the neighbourhood and after a while came actually to like his walks abroad. The weather kept fine and he found pleasure in walking to Notre Dame along the river bank, and strolling in the Tuileries Gardens. One day he even ventured to enter the Louvre Museum, but he found the air stifling and dusty, and the long lines of pictures so monotonous that he soon went out, and did not return.
At meal-times he was silent; he listened to his father. In any case M. Thibault was so dictatorial and overbearing that all who were constrained to live in his vicinity took refuge in silence and composed their faces into masks of decorous attention. Mademoiselle herself, despite her beatific admiration, always hid her real face from him. M. Thibault enjoyed this deferential silence, which gave free rein to his craving to lay down the law on every topic, and was naïve enough to take it for approval. His attitude to Jacques was studiously reserved, and, faithful to his promise, he never questioned him as to how he spent his time.
There was one point, however, on which M. Thibault had shown himself intractable; he had formally forbidden all intercourse with the Fontanins, and, to make assurance doubly sure, had decided that Jacques should not join the rest of the family that summer at Maisons-Laffitte, where he went every year with Mademoiselle, and where the Fontanins, too, had a little country residence on the outskirts of the forest. It was settled that Jacques should spend the summer in Paris with Antoine.
The paternal edict against seeing the Fontanins was the subject of a momentous conversation between Antoine and his brother. Jacques’ first reaction was a cry of revolt; he felt that the old injustice would never be wiped out, so long as this attitude of suspicion as regards his friend was allowed to persist. The violence of his reaction was far from displeasing Antoine. For it proved to him that Jacques, the real Jacques, was being reborn. But when the first blaze of anger had passed, he set himself to reason with the boy. And he had little trouble in extracting a promise that he would not try to see Daniel. As a matter of fact, Jacques was not so set on their meeting as he seemed to be. He was still too shy and too unsociable to desire new contacts; the intimacy with his brother was enough—all the more so as Antoine took pains to live with him on a footing of simple friendship, without anything to indicate the difference in their ages, and still less the authority with which he had been invested.
One afternoon in early June, when he came home, Jacques saw a crowd gathered round the street-door. Old Madame Frühling, the concierge, had had an attack and was lying unconscious on the threshold of her room. She came to in the evening, but her right arm and leg were partially paralysed.
Some days later, when Antoine was about to leave his flat after breakfast, there was a ring at the bell. A young German-looking girl, wearing a pink blouse and black apron, was standing in the doorway. She was blushing, but there was boldness in her smile.
‘I’ve come to do your rooms, sir. Don’t you recognize me, Monsieur Antoine? I’m Lisbeth Frühling.’
She spoke with an Alsatian accent, the sing-song quality of which was still more emphasized by her childish intonation. Antoine had not forgotten the little girl who was known to all the residents in the block of flats as ‘Old Madame Frühling’s orphan brat,’ and whom, as he walked past the concierge’s ‘lodge,’ he often used to see playing hopscotch in the courtyard. Lisbeth explained that she had come from Strasburg to look after her aunt and do her work for her. And forthwith the girl took up her domestic duties in the young men’s flat.
She continued to come each morning, bringing their early breakfast on a tray and waiting on them as they ate it. Antoine would tease her over her way of blushing in and out of season, and ask her questions about German life. She was nineteen; during the six years since she had left Madame Frühling, she had been living with her uncle who kept an Hotel Restauration in the vicinity of the station at Strasburg. So long as Antoine was present, Jacques put in a word now and then. But whenever he was alone with Lisbeth in the flat he kept studiously out of her way.
All the same, on the mornings when Antoine was on duty early at the hospital, she served the breakfast in Jacques’ bedroom. On these occasions he always asked her for news of her aunt, and Lisbeth did not spare him a single detail. The old lady was slowly getting better—she must be, as her appetite was steadily improving. Lisbeth had a great respect for food. She was small and plump, and the suppleness of her body bore witness to her passion for dancing and open-air games. When she laughed, she would look at Jacques without the least constraint. She had a knowing, pretty little face, with a rather short nose, young, pouting lips, china-blue eyes and clusters of flaxen curls rippling over her forehead.
Each day Lisbeth made the talk last a little longer and gradually Jacques got over his early shyness. He listened to all she said seriously, attentively. He had a way of listening that had at all times won him confidences: the secrets of servants, of schoolfellows, sometimes even of his masters. Lisbeth talked to him more freely than to Antoine, though it was with the elder brother she behaved more childishly.
One morning, noticing that Jacques was looking up a word in his German dictionary, she dropped what little reserve she had so far kept up and asked him to show her what he was translating. It happened to be a Lied of Goethe’s that she knew by heart and used to sing at home.
Fliesse, fliesse, lieber Fluss!
Nimmer werd’ ich froh. . . .
German poetry, it seemed, had a way of going to her head. In a soft voice she sang to him several German love-songs, explaining the meanings of the first lines before she began. The songs she liked best were always sad ones, with a note of childish sentiment.
Were I a little swallow in the nest
I would take wing to thee!
But Schiller was her adoration. After thinking hard for a while she recited without a break one of her favourite passages, the lines in Mary Stuart in which the young imprisoned queen is given leave to take a few steps in the garden of the keep where she is confined, and runs across the lawns, her eyes half blinded by the sudden light, her heart aflame with youth. Jacques could not understand all the words, so she translated as she went along and, to convey the young queen’s delight in that brief spell of freedom, she put such emotion into her voice that Jacques, remembering Crouy, felt profoundly thrilled. Little by little vanquishing his reserve, he began describing his own misfortunes. He was still living so much alone, and spoke so seldom, that the sound of his own voice rapidly went to his head. In his excitement he embroidered on reality and inserted in his narrative all sorts of literary reminiscences; for, during the past two months, a large share of his time and industry had gone to the perusal of the novels on Antoine’s shelves. He was keenly aware, moreover, that these romantic travesties were stirring Lisbeth’s emotions far more effectively than would have done the plain, unvarnished truth. And when he saw the pretty girl drying her tears, in the graceful attitude of Mignon weeping for her motherland, he felt, almost for the first time, the boundless joy of the creative artist, and such an immense gratitude to Lisbeth for the pleasure she was giving him that, with a thrill of hope, he wondered if this were not love. . . .
Next morning he awaited her impatiently. She guessed his feelings very likely and had brought with her an album full of picture-postcards, autographs and dried flowers; a visual record of her young life, of all she had been and done since the age of three. Jacques plied her with questions; he liked being taken by surprise, and was surprised by everything he did not know. Lisbeth’s stories of her young days were sprinkled with picturesque details that carried conviction—in fact it was impossible to question her good faith. And yet, when a blush mantled her cheeks and the singing tone of her voice grew more pronounced, somehow she gave the impression of making things up, of lying, that we get from people trying to describe their dreams.
In a flutter of pleasurable excitement she spoke to him of the winter evenings at the Tanzschule where the young men and girls of her quarter of the city met. Carrying a tiny violin the dancing-master would follow the couples round, marking the beat, while Madame ground out the latest Viennese waltzes on the player piano. At midnight they all settled down to a meal. Then in merry groups they flocked out into the darkness, and saw each other home from house to house, but never could bring themselves to separate, so soft was the snow underfoot, so clear the wintry sky, so keen the night wind on their cheeks.
Sometimes non-commissioned officers from the garrison put in an appearance at their dances. One of them she named as ‘Fredi’ and another ‘Will.’ Lisbeth took her time before pointing out on a group-photograph of men in German uniforms the big doll-like soldier whose Christian name was Will. ‘Ach!’ she said, dusting the photograph with her loose sleeve, ‘he’s such a nice boy, Will, so good-hearted and sentimental!’ Evidently she had been to his room, for she told Jacques a long story in which a zither, raspberries and a bowl of junket figured. In the midst of the tale she caught herself up with a sudden little laugh; and left it unfinished. Sometimes she spoke of Will as her fiancé, and sometimes as if he had passed out of her life. Jacques gathered finally that he had been transferred to a garrison in Prussia after a mysterious, rather comical incident, the memory of which set her shivering at one moment and giggling at another. It seemed that there had been an hotel bedroom at the end of a corridor where the floor squeaked—but at that point the story became quite incomprehensible. One thing seemed clear; the room in question must have been one of those in Frühling’s own hotel; otherwise how could her old uncle have been able, in the middle of the night, to rise in anger from his bed, pursue the soldier into the courtyard, and throw him out into the street, in his shirt and socks? By way of explanation Lisbeth added that her uncle thought of marrying her himself, for her to keep house for him. She also informed Jacques that her uncle had a hare-lip and smoked black cigars that smelt of soot from morn till night. And, at that, suddenly the smile left her lips and she began to cry.
Jacques was sitting at his table, with the album open before him. Lisbeth was perched on the arm of his chair and when she bent down he was conscious of the warm fragrance of her breath and felt her curls lightly brushing his ear. But his senses were not stirred. Perversion he had known, but now another world was opening up before him, a world he fancied he was discovering within himself, but actually was exhuming from an English novel he had recently perused. It was a world of chaste love, happy, sentimental satisfactions, and of purity.
All through the day his imagination was busy planning out, down to the least detail, the interview of the next morning. He pictured them alone in the flat; they would, of course, have the whole morning to themselves without fear of interruption. He had made Lisbeth sit on the sofa, on his right; she bent her head forward and, standing, he gazed down, across the ringlets tumbling round her neck, on the smooth curves of her neck and back under the loose bodice. She did not dare to raise her eyes and he leant over her, whispering: ‘I don’t want you to go away again, ever again!’ And then at last she raised her head, with a questioning look, and he gave her his answer, a kiss on her forehead, sealing their betrothal. ‘In five years I’ll be twenty. Then I shall tell Papa: “I’m a child no longer.” If they say, “She’s the concierge’s niece,” I . . .’ He made a threatening gesture. ‘So now we’re engaged, you and I. You’re my fiancée!’ The four walls of his room seemed too narrow to contain so much happiness. He went out and walked in the warm summer sunshine, dazed with ecstasy. ‘She’s mine! Mine! My sweetheart!’
Next morning he was sleeping so soundly that he did not even hear her knock and leapt from his bed only when he heard her laugh in Antoine’s room. When he went there Antoine had just finished breakfast and was about to leave. He had his hands pressed on Lisbeth’s shoulders and was admonishing her in a gruff tone.
‘Make no mistake about it! If you let your aunt have any more coffee, you’ll have to deal with me!’
Lisbeth was laughing with that characteristic laugh of hers; she refused to believe that coffee served in the good old German manner, with plenty of milk and sugar, and gulped down piping hot, could possibly do any harm to the old woman.
Now, at last, they were alone. On the tray were some pastry twists sprinkled with aniseed; she had made them specially for him. Deferentially she watched him eat his breakfast. Jacques was vexed with himself for being so hungry. Nothing was working out according to plan, and he was at a loss to find a means of linking up reality with the scene he had planned out in fancy, down to its last detail. And, as a crowning misfortune, the bell rang.
It was a surprise visit. Old Madame Frühling tottered in; she was far from being fully restored to health, but she was feeling better, heaps better, and had come to say good-morning to Master Jacques. After that Lisbeth had to help her aunt back to the lodge, and settle her down in her arm-chair. Time passed, and Lisbeth did not come back. Never had Jacques been able to endure the tyranny of circumstance. He stormed up and down his room, in the throes of a baffled fury that resembled the fits of rage that used to come over him in the past. Setting his jaw, he thrust his fists into his pocket. And presently he began to feel a grievance against Lisbeth.
When at last she came back, his mouth was parched and his gaze aggressive; he was so strung up by waiting that his hands were trembling. He pretended to be busy with his books. She hurried through the housework and said au revoir. He was still bending over his books. Sick at heart, he let her go without a word. But, the moment he was alone, he flung himself back in his chair and his lips set in a smile of such undiluted bitterness that he went to the mirror to enjoy it objectively. For the twentieth time he pictured the scene he had composed in fancy: Lisbeth seated, he standing, her flaxen curls . . . In a rush of bitterness he placed his hand before his eyes and flung himself on the sofa. But no tears came; all he felt was the throbbing of his nerves, a sense of baffled fury. . . .
When she came next day she had a downcast air and, thinking he was to blame for it, Jacques felt immediately contrite. As a matter of fact, the cause of her dejection was a disagreeable letter she had just received from Strasburg. The hotel was full, and her uncle wanted her back. Frühling agreed to wait one more week, but no longer. She had thought of showing the letter to Jacques, but the look of timid affection on his face so touched her that she could not bring herself to say anything that would distress him. She sat down, without thinking, on the sofa, and, as chance would have it, at the exact place where, in his daydream, Jacques had intended her to sit. And now he, too, was standing beside her, just where he had meant to stand. She bent forwards and he saw across a mist of flaxen ringlets the smooth curve of her back flowing away under the loosely fitting blouse. Almost mechanically he began to bend towards her, when suddenly she straightened up—a shade too soon. She looked at him with surprise, then, smiling, drew him beside her on the sofa and without the least hesitation pressed her face to Jacques’, her temple resting on his temple, her soft, warm cheek upon his cheek.
‘Chéri . . . Liebling!’
He felt like swooning with the delight of it, and closed his eyes. Lisbeth’s fingers, roughened at the tips by needlework, were fondling his other cheek, and now, very gently, they began to slip down underneath his collar. He felt the button come loose and a delicious tingling ran through his body. Her little hand seemed charged with electricity, as it slipped between the shirt and his skin; at last it settled upon his breast. Taking courage, Jacques moved his own hand towards her blouse, but found the way barred by a brooch. She unfastened the blouse to help him. He held his breath as he felt under his fingers the unfamiliar contact of another’s flesh. She made a sudden nervous movement as if he were tickling her, and all at once he realized that the soft warmth of a little breast was nestling in his hand. Blushing, he gave her a clumsy kiss; she returned it, passionately, full on his mouth. He was disconcerted, even a little disgusted, by the clammy moisture lingering on his lips after the warm pressure of the kiss. Once more she rested her cheek on his, unmoving; the silken flutter of her eyelashes lightly brushed his temple. . . .
Henceforth this was their daily ritual. She would start taking off her brooch in the hall and, as she entered, pin it to the door-curtain. Then they would sit on the sofa, cheek to cheek, nestling in their bodies’ warmth. Usually they were silent, but sometimes she would begin singing in a low voice a sentimental German ballad, which brought tears to their eyes; and for a while, pressing closely against each other, they would sway from side to side in rhythm with the song, mingling their breath and asking no better joys than that. When Jacques’ fingers moved a little under her blouse, or if he changed the position of his head to brush Lisbeth’s cheek delicately with his lips, she would gaze at him with eyes that always seemed to hold a mute appeal for gentleness, sighing, ‘Be loving, chéri!’
Once their hands had found the usual resting-place, they did not stray in quest of new delight; by an unspoken pact both young people avoided unrehearsed gestures. They had all the physical nearness they wanted in the long, insistent pressure of cheek on cheek and the fluttering of their breasts, like the ghost of a caress, under each other’s hands. For Lisbeth, who often seemed in a half dream, it was the easiest thing to keep her senses under control; at Jacques’ side she was lost in a haze of poetic fancies, of ecstatic purity. As for Jacques, the need for keeping in check any more definite impulse did not make itself felt in any way. Those chaste caresses were an end in themselves, and the idea that they might be a prelude to more ardent gestures never so much as crossed his mind. If at moments the proximity of the young, warm body had a physical effect upon his senses, he was hardly conscious of it, and the thought that Lisbeth might have noticed it would have made him mortally ashamed, disgusted with himself. No gross desire ever came over him while he was with her; the gulf between his spiritual and his fleshly self was unbridgeable. The former belonged to his beloved; the latter had its sordid, solitary being in another world, the world of night, which Lisbeth never entered. If some nights, unable to go to sleep, he flung himself out of bed, pulled off his nightshirt and, standing before the glass, fell to kissing his arms, hugging himself with a sort of desperate frenzy, never on these occasions did he conjure up Lisbeth’s form to join the phantom rout of his imaginings.
Meanwhile Lisbeth was only too well aware that these idyllic days were numbered; she was due to leave Paris on the following Sunday, and she had not had the courage to tell Jacques.
That Sunday, at dinner-time, Antoine, knowing his brother was upstairs with the family, went to his room, where Lisbeth was awaiting him.
‘Well, what about it?’ he asked, with an enigmatic smile.
She shook her head.
‘And you’re off this evening, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He made a gesture of annoyance.
‘But it’s his fault, too,’ she protested. ‘He doesn’t seem to think of it.’
‘You promised to “think of it” for him.’
She gazed at Antoine, despising him a little in her heart of hearts, for not understanding that, for her, Jacques was ‘different.’ Still, Antoine was good-looking, she liked his imposing manner, and could forgive him for being like the rest of men.
She had pinned her brooch to the curtain and began to undress in an absent-minded way; her thoughts were busy with the journey before her. When Antoine took her in his arms she gave a short, nervous laugh, which seemed to die away deep down in her throat. ‘Liebling,’ she whispered, ‘be extra nice this time—it’s our last evening.’
Antoine was out all the rest of the evening. Towards eleven Jacques heard him enter and walk at once to his room as quietly as he could. He was just going to bed, and did not call his brother.
As Jacques got into bed, his knee hit against something hard, a package of some sort—evidently a ‘surprise’ intended for him. It contained some aniseed twists, covered with a sticky coating of burnt sugar and wrapped up in tinfoil, and, inside a silk handkerchief with Jacques initials on it, a mauve envelope, inscribed: To my beloved.
She had never written to him before. That night it was as if she had come into the room and was bending over his bed. He was laughing for joy as he opened the envelope.
Dear Master Jacques,
When you read this letter I shall be far away from you. . . .
The lines grew blurred under his eyes; a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
. . . I shall be far away from you. I am leaving to-night for Strasburg by the 10.12 train, from the Gare de l’Est.
‘Antoine!’
The cry was so heart-rending that Antoine rushed across to his brother’s room, thinking he had had an accident.
Jacques was sitting on his bed, his arms outspread, his lips parted, a look of wild entreaty in his eyes; it seemed as if he were dying and Antoine alone could save him. The letter lay on the counterpane. Antoine glanced through it without surprise; he had just seen Lisbeth off. He bent over his brother, but Jacques pushed him away.
‘Don’t say a word, Antoine, please. You can’t understand, you can’t imagine. . . .’
He was using the same words as Lisbeth. A look of obstinacy had settled on his face and his eyes had a dark, brooding intensity that brought to mind the boy he used to be. Suddenly his chest began to heave, his lips trembled and, as if he were trying to take shelter from an enemy, he rolled over and burst into sobs, crushing his face against the bolster. One of his arms was hanging behind him; Antoine gripped the quivering fingers which instantly closed round his. At a loss for words, Antoine squeezed his brother’s hand affectionately, gazing at his bent back racked by sobs. Once more he was struck by the secret fires brooding beneath the crust of seeming apathy and always ready to blaze up in angry flames; and he took stock of the vanity of his educational pretensions.
Half an hour went by; Jacques’ hand unclenched, he was no longer sobbing, but his breath still came in gasps. Little by little it became more regular, he was going to sleep. Antoine did not move; he could not bring himself to go. He was thinking with dismay of the boy’s future. He waited another half-hour; then went out on tiptoe, leaving the door ajar.
Next morning Jacques was still asleep, or pretending to be, when Antoine left the flat.
They met, for the first time that day, upstairs, at the family table. Jacques’ face was tired and drawn, there was a scornful twist to the corners of his mouth; he had the expression of children who take pride in thinking themselves misunderstood. Throughout the meal he was careful not to meet Antoine’s eye; he did not even want to be pitied. Antoine understood; and moreover, he, too, did not particularly want to talk about Lisbeth.
Their life slipped back into its normal rut, as if nothing had happened.
One evening, just before dinner, Antoine was surprised to find amongst his mail an envelope addressed to him and enclosing a sealed letter for his brother. The writing was unfamiliar, but as Jacques was in the room with him, he did not want to seem to hesitate.
‘Here’s something for you,’ he said at once.
Jacques darted towards him, his cheeks flushing an angry red. Antoine, seemingly absorbed in a bookseller’s catalogue, handed him the envelope without looking at him. On raising his eyes he saw that Jacques had thrust the letter into his pocket, unread. Their eyes met. Jacques’ were aggressive.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ he demanded. ‘Haven’t I the right to get a letter?’
Antoine returned his brother’s look without a word, turned his back on him and left the room.
Throughout dinner he conversed with M. Thibault, studiously ignoring Jacques. As usual after dinner they went down together, but did not exchange a single word. Antoine went straight to his room. He had hardly sat down when Jacques entered without knocking, approached him with a combative air and flung down the open letter on the table.
‘Now that you’ve taken it on you to censor my correspondence, you’d better have a look at it!’
Antoine refolded the letter without a glance at its contents, and held it out to his brother. As Jacques did not take it, he opened his fingers and let the letter drop on to the carpet. Jacques picked it up and thrust it into his pocket.
‘Got the sulks, have you?’ he jeered. ‘Well, they’re wasted on me!’
Antoine shrugged his shoulders.
‘And, what’s more, let me tell you I’m sick and tired of it all.’ Jacques’ voice was shrill with anger. ‘I’m no longer a child, and I insist—you can’t deny I have the right . . .’ He left the phrase unfinished. Antoine’s air of calm attention maddened him. ‘I tell you I’ve had enough of it!’ he shouted.
‘Enough of what?’
‘Of everything.’ All the finer shades of feeling had left his face; his eyes were smouldering with rage, his ears seemed to be sticking out more than ever, and his mouth gaped. At that moment he looked a boor. His cheeks were growing scarlet. ‘Anyhow, this letter came here by mistake. My instructions were that I was to be written to Poste Restante. That way at least I can get my letters without interference, without having to render an account to anyone.’
Antoine gazed at him steadily without answering. Silence was his trump card, he knew; moreover it served to mask his embarrassment. Never had the boy spoken to him in that tone before.
‘And, to begin with, I mean to start seeing Fontanin again, do you understand? No one shall stop me.’
It came back to Antoine in a flash; that was the writing in the grey exercise-book. So Jacques had broken his promise and was writing to Fontanin. Antoine wondered if Madame de Fontanin was in the secret. Had she authorized the clandestine correspondence?
For the first time in his life Antoine was thinking ‘Well, I suppose it’s up to me to play the “heavy father”!’ He remembered that not so very long ago he might have found himself adopting towards M. Thibault the very attitude Jacques was adopting with him now. Yes, the tables had been properly turned!
‘So you’ve been writing to Daniel?’ he asked with a frown.
Jacques nodded decisively, without the least sign of contrition.
‘Without telling me!’
‘Well, what about it?’ Jacques retorted.
Antoine’s first impulse was to give the impertinent youngster a slap on the face. He clenched his fists. The way the argument was going threatened to ruin the very thing on which he set most store.
‘Go away,’ he said in a tone of feigned discouragement. ‘To-night you simply don’t realize what you are saying.’
‘I’m saying . . . I’m saying that I’ve had enough of it!’ Jacques stamped his foot. ‘I’m no longer a child. I insist on being allowed to see whoever I choose. I’ve had enough of living like this. I want to go and see Fontanin because Fontanin is my friend. That’s why I wrote to him. I know what I’m doing. I’ve asked him to meet me, and you can tell that to—to anyone you like. I’m sick of this life, sick to death of it.’ He was raging about the room, his mind a chaos of rancour and revolt.
What he did not say, and what Antoine could scarcely be expected to guess, was that ever since Lisbeth had gone away, the unhappy youngster had been feeling such desolation and such heaviness of heart that he had given way to his yearning to confide this first great secret of his young existence to someone of his own age; to share with Daniel the burden that seemed crushing out his life. He had rehearsed the whole scene to himself, carried away by romantic emotion: the climax of their friendship, when he would entreat his friend to love one half of Lisbeth, and Lisbeth to let Daniel take on himself one half of their love.
‘I’ve asked you to go,’ Antoine repeated. He feigned complete detachment and rather enjoyed the feeling of superiority it gave him. ‘We’ll talk it over later, when you’ve come to your senses.’
Maddened by Antoine’s imperturbability, Jacques began shouting in his face. ‘You’re a coward! You’re just another wretched usher!’ He slammed the door behind him as he went out.
Antoine rose, turned the key in the lock and dropped into a chair. His face was white with indignation.
‘The damned little fool—calling me an usher! He shall pay for that. If he thinks he can say what he likes to me, he’s mistaken. He’s spoilt my evening, I shan’t be able to do a stroke of work now. Yes, he shall pay for this! And to think I used to have a quiet life. What a mess I’ve made of things! And all for this wretched little ass. An “usher” indeed! The more one does for them—Yes, it’s I who’ve played the fool. For his sake, here I am wasting my time, ruining my work. But now I’m through with him. I’ve my own life to live, exams to get through. And that little idiot shan’t interfere, damn him!’ Unable to keep still, he began pacing up and down the room.
Suddenly he visualized himself in Madame de Fontanin’s presence, and a look of stoical disillusionment settled upon his features. ‘Yes, Madame, I’ve done everything I possibly could. I’ve tried kindness and affection, and allowed him the greatest possible freedom. And look at the result! Believe me, Madame, there are some temperaments with which there’s nothing to be done. Society can protect itself from them only in one way, and that’s by preventing them from doing harm. It may sound pretentious calling a reformatory a “Means of Social Preservation,” but there’s good sense behind it.’
A rustling, mouse-like noise made him turn his head. A note had been pushed under the locked door.
‘Please forgive me,’ it ran, ‘for calling you an usher. I’ve got over my temper. Let me come back.’
Antoine could not help smiling. Impulsively, in a sudden access of affection, he went to the door and opened it. Jacques was there, his arms dangling by his side. His nerves were still so much on edge that he kept his head bent and had to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing. Assuming a look of vexation and aloofness, Antoine went back to his chair.
‘I’ve work to do.’ His tone was curt. ‘You’ve already made me waste time enough for one evening. What do you want now?’
Jacques raised his eyes, in which the laughter lingered, and looked his brother in the face.
‘I want to see Daniel again.’
There was a short silence.
‘You know that father’s set against it,’ Antoine began. ‘What’s more, I’ve taken the trouble to explain to you his reasons. Do you remember? On that day it was settled that you agreed to the arrangement and wouldn’t make any attempt to get in touch with the Fontanins. I trusted you. And now, see what’s happened! You’ve let me down; at the first pretext, you’ve broken our pledge. Well, all that’s over now; I’ll never be able to trust you again.’
Jacques was sobbing.
‘Please don’t say that, Antoine. It isn’t fair. You can’t understand. I know I oughtn’t to have written without telling you. But that was because there was something else I’d have been obliged to tell you—and I simply couldn’t!’ In a low voice he added: ‘Lisbeth. . . .’
Antoine cut him short. ‘That has nothing to do with it.’ At all costs he wanted to stave off a confession on that topic. It would have been even more embarrassing to him than to Jacques. To divert the conversation into a new channel, he went on at once. ‘Well, I’ll agree to give you one more chance. You’re going to promise me. . . .’
‘No, Antoine, I can’t promise you not to see Daniel again. It’s you who are going to promise me to let me see him. Listen to me, Antoine, I swear to you before God that never again will I hide anything from you. But I must see Daniel again—only I don’t want to do so without your knowing. Neither does he. I’d written to him asking him to reply Poste Restante, but he wouldn’t. This is what he writes. “Why Poste Restante? We have nothing to conceal. Your brother has always been on our side. So I’m addressing this letter to him, and he can give it to you.” At the end he refuses to come and meet me behind the Panthéon as I’d asked him to. Listen! “I have told mother about it. The simplest way will be for you to come as soon as you can and spend a Sunday at our place. My mother likes you and your brother very much, and she’s told me to invite both of you.” You see what a decent chap he is. Papa has no idea of it and condemns him without knowing a thing about him. I don’t feel bitter with father; but with you, Antoine, it’s not the same thing. You’ve met Daniel, you know what he’s like and you’ve seen his mother; there’s no reason for you to behave like Papa. You should be pleased I have a friend like Daniel. Haven’t I had my share of loneliness? Please forgive me, I don’t mean that for you, you know I don’t. But you must see; it isn’t the same thing, Daniel and you. I’m sure you have friends of your own age, haven’t you? You must know what it is to have a real friend.’
Seeing the look of happiness and affection that lit up Jacques’ face as he said the final word, Antoine ruefully admitted to himself that he had no real friend. And suddenly he felt an impulse to go up to his brother and put his arm round him. But there was an obduracy, a challenge in Jacques’ eyes that galled his pride and gave him a desire to match his will against it, fight it down. Still, he could not help being shaken by the boy’s determination.
Stretching out his legs, he began to turn the problem over in his mind. ‘Obviously,’ he mused, ‘I’m broadminded enough to admit that father’s veto is absurd. That Fontanin boy can have nothing but a good influence on Jacques. Nothing could be better than the atmosphere of his home life. What’s more, it might be of help to me in handling Jacques. Yes, I’m sure she would help me; indeed she’d have a better notion of what to do than I, and she’d soon get a great influence over the boy. What a fine woman she is! The devil of it is—supposing father heard of it! Well, well, I’m not a child. After all, it’s I who’ve taken full responsibility for Jacques—so I’ve the right to decide things, in the last resort. I consider that, on the face of it, father’s veto is absurd and unjust; well then, I’ll ignore it. For one thing it will make Jacques more attached to me. He’ll think, “Antoine isn’t like Papa.” And then there’s Daniel’s mother. . . .’ He saw himself standing again before Madame de Fontanin, saw her smile as he explained: ‘Madame, I’ve made a point of bringing my brother to you, myself.’
He rose, took a few steps in the room, then halted in front of Jacques who stood, unmoving, summoning up all his will-power and resolved to fight down Antoine’s opposition to the bitter end.
‘Well, Jacques,’ he said, ‘now that you’ve forced my hand, I’ll have to tell you what my plan has always been about it. I’ve always intended to override father’s opposition and let you see the Fontanins again. I’d even meant to take you there, myself. What do you think of that? Only I preferred to postpone it till you were quite yourself again, anyhow till the beginning of the school term. Your letter to Daniel has precipitated matters. Very well, I’ll take the responsibility on myself. Father shall know nothing about it, nor the Abbé either. We’ll go there next Sunday, if you like.’
He paused a moment, then continued in a tone of affectionate reproach: ‘I hope you realize now how greatly mistaken you have been, and how wrong not to give me credit for better feelings towards you. Surely I’ve told you dozens of times, old chap, that there must be perfect frankness between us, perfect confidence—or it’s the end of all we’ve hoped.’
‘Next Sunday!’ Jacques stammered. This unexpected victory without a struggle had made chaos of this thoughts. He had a vague feeling that he was the dupe of some stratagem too subtle for his comprehension. Then he was ashamed of his suspicion. Antoine was really and truly his best friend. What a pity he was so dreadfully old! But—next Sunday? Why so soon? And he began to wonder if he were really so anxious to see his friend again.
On that Sunday afternoon Daniel was seated beside his mother, sketching, when the little dog started barking. The bell had rung. Madame de Fontanin put down her book.
‘I’ll go, mother,’ Daniel said, when he saw her beginning to move towards the door. Lack of money had constrained her to dismiss first the maid, then, a month ago, the cook; Nicole and Jenny were helping with the housework.
Madame de Fontanin had been listening to hear who the caller was; she recognized Pastor Gregory’s voice and, smiling, went out into the hall to greet him. She found him holding Daniel by the shoulders and, as he peered into the boy’s face, emitting his raucous laugh.
‘What do you mean by it, lad, staying indoors on a fine day like this? You should be out taking some exercise. Oh, these Frenchmen, they don’t know what sport is—cricket, boating and the rest of it.’ The brilliance of his small black eyes, which seemed to have no whites, the pupils filling the entire space between the eyelids, was so overpowering at close quarters that Daniel turned away with an uneasy smile.
‘Don’t scold him,’ Madame de Fontanin said; ‘he’s expecting a friend to call. It’s the Thibaults, you know.’
Screwing up his face, the Pastor groped amongst his memories; then suddenly began rubbing his dry hands together with such demoniac vigour that they seemed to crackle with electric sparks, while his lips parted in an eerie, soundless laugh.
‘I’ve got it!’ he said at last. ‘It’s that bearded doctor man. A nice, decent young chap. Do you remember how flabbergasted he looked when he came and found our dear little girl risen from the dead? He wanted to test the resurrection with his thermometer. Poor fellow! By the way, where is she? Is she, too, shut up in her room on this lovely day?’
‘No, you needn’t trouble about her; Jenny’s out with her cousin. They hurried through lunch and went out at once. They’re trying a new camera which Jenny was given for her birthday.’
Daniel, who had brought a chair for the pastor, raised his head and looked at his mother, whose voice had shaken a little as she spoke.
‘What about this Nicole girl?’ Gregory asked, as he sat down. ‘Any news?’
Madame de Fontanin shook her head. She did not want to discuss it in front of her son who, at the mention of Nicole, had cast a furtive glance at the pastor.
‘Now, my boy, tell me,’ the latter asked abruptly, turning to Daniel, ‘what about your bearded doctor friend? What time exactly is he going to come and inflict himself on us?’
‘I’m not sure. About three, I expect.’
Gregory sat up, so as to extract from his clerical waistcoat a silver watch as big as a saucer. ‘Very well. You’ve exactly an hour, lazybones. Off with your coat and start out at once for a good quick sprint round the Luxembourg Gardens—in record time, mind you! Off you go!’
Daniel exchanged a glance with his mother before rising.
‘All right, I’ll leave you to yourselves,’ he said mischievously.
‘Cunning little rascal!’ Gregory shook his fist playfully at him.
But once he was left alone with Madame de Fontanin, a glow of kindliness lit up the dry, sallow face, and his eyes grew tender.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘the time has come when I want to speak to your heart, my dear, and to your heart alone.’ For a few moments he seemed abstracted from his surroundings, as if in prayer. Then with a nervous gesture he ran his fingers through his straggly black hair, pulled a chair towards him and sat astride it. ‘I’ve seen him.’ He watched the colour ebbing from Madame de Fontanin’s face. ‘He asked me to come and see you. He is repentant and I can’t tell you how unhappy.’ Gregory kept his eyes fixed on hers as if he hoped the joy that glowed in them persistently might alleviate the distress he was imposing on her.
‘So he’s in Paris?’ she murmured, without thinking of what she was saying, for she knew Jerome had come in person, on Jenny’s birthday, two days before, to leave the camera with the concierge. Wherever he might be, never had he forgotten the birthday of any member of the family. ‘So you’ve seen him.’ She spoke in a far-away voice and her face betrayed as yet no definite emotion. For months she had been thinking about him incessantly, but in so vague a manner that, now he was being spoken about, a curious lethargy had crept over her mind.
‘Yes, he’s so unhappy,’ the pastor repeated with insistence, ‘and overwhelmed with remorse. That wretched creature of his is still singing at the theatre, and he is thoroughly disgusted with it all; he never wants to see her again. He says life is impossible for him apart from his wife and children—and I believe he means it. He begs your forgiveness and will make any undertaking you desire if only he can remain your husband. He implores you to abandon your intention of divorcing him. And I discerned on his face the look of the just man, of one who is fighting the good fight.’
She said nothing, but gazed pensively into the middle distance. There was a gentleness about her face, the soft, sensitive lips, full cheeks and rather heavy chin that seemed instinct with compassion; and Gregory thought she was in a forgiving mood.
‘He tells me you are going to appear, both of you, before the judges,’ he continued, ‘for the preliminary attempt at reconciliation and that, only if that fails, the actual divorce proceedings will begin. So he now craves your forgiveness, for he has undergone a change of heart; I’m convinced of it. He says he is not the man he seems to be, that he’s better at heart than we imagine. And that, too, I believe. And he’s quite decided to work now, if he can find work. So, if only you’ll consent, he will live here with you, he’ll choose the better path and atone for his misdeeds.’
He saw her lips trembling, a nervous tremor convulsing her chin. Then, with a quick, decisive jerk of her shoulders, she turned to him.
‘No!’
Her voice was clear, emphatic and in her gaze there was a sombre dignity, giving the impression that her mind was made up irrevocably. Gregory leant back and closed his eyes; for a long while he did not speak.
When at last he spoke his voice was remote; all the warmth had gone out of it. ‘Look here!’ he began. ‘I’m going to tell you a story, if you’ll let me, a story that is new to you. It’s about a man who was in love. I ask you: listen well. This man, while he was still quite young, was engaged to a poor girl who was so good and beautiful, so truly beloved of God, that he too loved her.’ His eyes grew dark, intense. ‘Yes, he loved her with his whole soul. . . .’ For a moment he seemed to have lost the thread; with an effort he continued, speaking more quickly. ‘And then, after their marriage, this is how things went. One day the man discovered that his wife did not love him only; she loved another man, their friend, who was welcome at their house and like a brother to them both. The unhappy husband took his wife away on a long journey, to help her to forget; and then he came to understand that now she would always love that other man, their friend; and himself no more. Thus life became a hell for both of them. He saw his wife suffering adultery in her body, then in her heart, and at last even in her soul, for she was becoming unjust and wicked. Yes,’ he continued in a slow, sad voice, ‘they came to a terrible pass those two poor people; she growing evil because of thwarted love, and he too growing evil because the Negative was rooted in their lives. Well, what did he do then, that man? He prayed. And he thought: “I love this woman, and I must shield her soul from evil.” And then, with joy in his heart, he summoned his wife and his friend into his study and, setting before them the New Testament, he said: “In the sight of God I solemnly declare that you twain are joined in holy wedlock.” All three were weeping. But then he said: “Have no fears; I am leaving you and never shall I return to spoil your happiness.” ’
Screening his eyes with his hand, Gregory added in a low voice:
‘Ah my dear, what a noble reward God made that man, in the memory of that great sacrifice, his love-offering!’ He raised his head. ‘And the man did as he had said; he gave away all his money to them, for he had great riches and she was the poorest of the poor. He made a long journey, to the other side of the world, and I know that now, seventeen years later, he is still quite alone and all but penniless, earning his daily bread as I do, as a humble worker for the Church of Christian Science.’
Madame de Fontanin gazed at him, deeply moved.
‘But wait!’ His voice grew suddenly shrill, excited. ‘Let me tell you now the end of the story.’ His features were working with emotion, his arms were resting on the back of the chair on which he sat astride, with the emaciated fingers feverishly interlocked. ‘That poor man thought he was bequeathing happiness to those two people, and taking away with him all the evil that had marred their lives. But God moves in a mysterious way and it was of them that Evil took possession. They mocked at him. They betrayed the Spirit. They accepted his sacrifice with crocodile tears, but in their hearts they scoffed. They told lies about him to their mutual friends. They showed his letters round. They even used against him his act of generosity, calling it “connivance,” and went so far as to say he had left his wife without a penny, deserted her to run away to another woman’s arms, in Europe. Yes, they said all that. And they bought a judgement of divorce against him.’
He dropped his eyes for a moment, and an odd noise that sounded almost like a chuckle came from his throat. Then he rose and very carefully put back his chair in the place from which he had taken it. All signs of grief had left his face.
‘Well,’ he said, bending over the motionless form of Madame de Fontanin, ‘such is love, and so incumbent on us is forgiveness that if at this very instant that dear, faithless woman appeared beside me, saying, “James, I have come back, to live again under your roof. You shall be once more my abject slave, and when I feel inclined, I’ll make a mock of you again”—well, even if she said all that, I’d reply, “Come, take all the little I possess. I thank God for your return. And I shall strive so ardently to be truly good in your eyes, that you, too, will become good; for Evil does not exist,” Yes, it’s the truth, dear, if ever my Dolly comes back to me, asking me to give her shelter, that’s how I shall deal by her. But I shan’t say, “Dolly, I forgive you,” but only “Christ watch over you!” And so my words will not come back empty, because Good is the power, the only power, capable of holding in check the Negative.’ Folding his arms, he fell silent, nursing his pointed chin in the hollow of his hand. At last he spoke again, in the sing-song intonation of the professional preacher. ‘And you, Madame de Fontanin, should go and do likewise. For you love this man with your heart’s love, and Love is Righteousness. Christ has said: “Except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.” ’
She shook her head sadly.
‘You don’t know him, James,’ she said in a low voice. ‘The very air’s unbreathable beside him. Everywhere he brings evil. He would only destroy all our happiness again—and contaminate the children.’
‘When Christ touched the leper’s sore with His hand, the hand of Christ was not infected, but the leper was cleansed.’
‘You say I love him—no, that isn’t true! I know him too well now. I know what his promises are worth. I’ve forgiven him far too often.’
‘When Peter asked Our Lord how often he should forgive his brother, saying, “Till seven times?” Jesus answered, “I say not unto thee until seven times: but until seventy times seven.” ’
‘I tell you, James, you don’t know him.’
‘Who has the right to think, “I know my brother”? Christ said, “I judge no man.” And I, Gregory, I say to you: If a man leads a life of sin without being vexed and sore at heart, that is because there still is blindness in his soul. But one who weeps because he has lapsed into a sinful life, verily his eyes are open to the light of truth. I tell you he is stricken with remorse and his face was the face of a Just Man.’
‘You don’t know everything, James. Ask him what he did when that woman had to run away to Belgium because her creditors were after her. It was another man that she ran away with, but he left all to follow them, he threw away every vestige of self-respect. For two months he worked as a check-taker in the theatre where she was singing. The way he behaved was simply revolting. Yes, revolting! She went on living with her violinist; Jerome put up with everything, he used to dine with them, to play duets with his mistress’s lover! “The face of a Just Man!” No, you’ve no idea what he’s really like. To-day he’s in Paris, he’s repentant, and tells you he has left that woman, and doesn’t want to see her again. Tell me, why should he be paying off her debts—if it isn’t that he wants to get her to come back to him? Yes, he’s settling with Noémie’s creditors one by one, and that’s the reason why he is in Paris now. And the money he’s using for it is—mine and the children’s. Listen! Do you know what he did three weeks ago? He mortgaged our place at Maisons-Laffitte, just to raise twenty-five thousand francs for one of Noémie’s creditors who was pressing her for payment.’
She looked down; there was more to tell, but she left it unsaid. She was recalling that meeting at the notary’s to which she had been summoned and to which she had gone, suspecting nothing, to find Jerome waiting for her at the door. He needed her power of attorney for the mortgage, as the property was hers, by inheritance. He had thrown himself on her mercy, professing to be penniless and on the brink of suicide; there, in the public street, he had dramatically turned out his empty pockets. She had given way, almost without a struggle, and had followed him to the lawyer’s office, to put an end to the scene he was making in the street—and also because she, too, was short of money and he had promised to give her a few thousand francs out of the proceeds of the mortgage. She had to have the money to tide over the next six months, pending the settlement that would take place after the divorce.
‘I tell you again, James, you don’t know him. He assures you that everything is changed, and he wants to come back to live with us. Supposing I tell you that the day before yesterday, when he came here to leave his birthday present for Jenny downstairs, with the concierge, he had his cab stop only a few yards from our door, and that there was someone with him in the cab!’ She shuddered; a picture had risen before her of the little workgirl in black she had seen crying on a bench beside the Seine. She stood up. ‘That’s the sort of man he is!’ she cried. ‘He’s so dead to every sense of decency that he brings with him some woman or other, his latest mistress, when he calls to leave a birthday present for his daughter. And you say I still love him—that’s untrue, absolutely untrue!’ She was pale with resentment; at that moment she seemed genuinely to hate him.
Gregory gazed at her severely.
‘The truth is not in you,’ he said. ‘Even in thought, should we return evil for evil? Spirit is everything. The material world is subject to the spiritual. Has not Christ said—?’ The barking of the dog cut him short. ‘That must be your damned bearded doctor man!’ he muttered, scowling.
He hurried back to his chair and sat down.
The door opened and Antoine entered, followed by Jacques.
He came in with a firm, decided step, now that he had accepted all the consequences this visit might entail. The light from the open windows fell full on his face; his hair and beard formed zones of shadow and all the sunlight seemed concentrated on the pale rectangle of his forehead, lending him an air of high intellectuality. And, though he was of medium height, at that moment he seemed tall. As Madame de Fontanin watched him coming towards her, her instinctive liking for the young man took a new lease of life. While he was bowing and she was holding out both hands towards him in affectionate welcome, he was annoyed to notice Pastor Gregory in the background. The pastor, without moving, gave him a curt nod.
Jacques, who was standing at some distance from the others, was examining with interest Madame de Fontanin’s eccentric-looking visitor, while Gregory, astride his chair, his chin propped on his folded arms, his nose as red as ever, and lips set in an uncouth, incomprehensible grin, watched the young folks good-humouredly. When Madame de Fontanin went up to Jacques, there was such affection in her look that he suddenly recalled that evening when she had held him weeping in her arms. She, too, was remembering it, as she exclaimed:
‘Why, he’s such a big boy now that I hardly dare to—!’ and, promptly kissed him, with a laugh that had in it a touch of coquetry. ‘But of course I’m a mamma, and you’re the next thing to a brother to my Daniel.’ She turned to Gregory, who had just risen and was about to take his leave. ‘You’re not going yet, James, I hope?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got to go now.’ He shook hands energetically with the two brothers, then went up to her.
‘Just one word,’ Madame de Fontanin said, as they were leaving the room together. ‘Answer me quite frankly, please. After what I’ve told you, do you still think that Jerome should be allowed to return to live amongst us?’ Her eyes were full of anxious questioning. ‘Weigh well your answer, James. If you say to me “Forgive!” I will forgive.’
He was silent. His face was lit up with that look of all-enveloping compassion which is a trait of those who look on themselves as chosen vessels of the Truth. He fancied he detected something like a gleam of hope in Madame de Fontanin’s eyes. It was not that sort of forgiveness Christ desired of her. He turned away his eyes, with a disapproving snort.
Taking him by the arm, she tried to impart a note of affection to their leave-taking.
‘Thank you, James, thank you. Please tell him my answer is “No.” ’
He was not listening; he was praying for her.
‘May Christ reign in your heart,’ he murmured, as he went out, without a backward glance.
When she came back, Antoine was gazing round the drawing-room, his mind full of the last occasion when he had seen it. She had to make an effort to steady her ruffled nerves.
‘How nice of you to have come with your brother!’ Her voice sounded a little artificial, exaggerating the pleasure she genuinely felt at seeing him again. ‘Do sit down.’ She motioned Antoine to the chair beside hers. ‘To-day we’ll do better not to count on the young people’s company.’
While she was speaking, Daniel had slipped his arm through Jacques’ and was taking him off to his own room. They were of the same height now. Daniel had not expected to find his friend so changed. His affection was all the stronger, and his desire to confide in him more urgent. No sooner were they alone than his face grew animated and took on an air of mystery.
‘Look here, you’d better know at once—you’ll be seeing her presently. She’s a cousin of mine, who’s living with us. She’s absolutely ravishing!’ He stopped abruptly, whether it was he noticed a hint of embarrassment in Jacques’ attitude, or a belated scruple checked his revelations. ‘But let’s hear about you, old chap,’ he went on with a friendly smile. Even with his most intimate friend Daniel maintained a slightly ceremonious courtesy. ‘Why, it’s ages, a whole year, since we saw each other.’ Jacques made no remark, so he went on: ‘Oh, there’s nothing as yet,’ and added, bending confidentially towards his friend: ‘But I’ve high hopes!’
The insistence of his gaze and the tone in which he spoke were making Jacques feel ill at ease. And then it dawned on him that Daniel was not quite the same as before, though he could not have said exactly where the difference lay. Perhaps the oval face had lengthened out a little, but the features looked much the same; the upper lip formed still the same Cupid’s bow, but now its curves were emphasized by the dark line of a moustache, and he had still the trick of smiling with one side only of his face—which marred its symmetry, showing on the left side of his mouth the white flash of his upper teeth. Something perhaps of their former purity had gone out of his eyes, and the tendency of the eyebrows to lift towards the temples was more pronounced, giving an almost feline charm to his gaze. In his voice, too, and manner were traces of a nonchalance which formerly he would not have ventured to display.
Jacques was so busy observing Daniel that he did not think of answering. Then—was it due to that casual manner of his friend’s, which at once irritated and attracted him?—he suddenly felt a rush of the passionate affection of his schooldays coming over him, and tears rose to his eyes.
‘Think of it!’ Daniel was exclaiming. ‘A whole year! Lots of things must have happened to you. Tell me all about them.’ He had been moving restlessly about the room; now he sat down, so as to fix his attention on his friend.
Daniel’s attitude conveyed the sincerest affection, but Jacques thought he discerned in it a conscious effort, and became tongue-tied. Still, feeling he must speak, he began telling about the time he had spent in the reformatory. Once again, without actually intending to do so, he dropped into the same literary clichés that he had tried on Lisbeth; a sort of bashfulness prevented him from giving a bald, unvarnished account of the life he had led there.
‘But why did you write to me so seldom?’
Jacques shirked the real reason, his reluctance to expose his father to hostile criticism—which, incidentally, did not prevent him, in his heart of hearts, from totally disapproving of M. Thibault.
‘Being all alone like that changes one, you know,’ he explained after a pause. The mere fact of recalling it had made his face go apathetic, blank. ‘You come to feel that nothing really matters. And there’s a sort of formless fear that never leaves you. You do things, but without thinking. After a while you hardly know who you are, you hardly know, even, if you exist. In the long run that life would kill one, or else drive one mad.’ He was staring into vacancy, a bemused look on his face. He shuddered slightly; then, changing his tone, fell to describing Antoine’s visit to Crouy.
Daniel listened without interrupting. But once he saw that Jacques’ narrative was coming to an end, his face lit up again.
‘Why, I’ve not even told you her name!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s Nicole. Like it?’
‘Very much,’ Jacques said. For the first time he began to think of the charms of such a name as Lisbeth.
‘Nicole! It suits her to a T. That’s my idea anyhow. Well, you’ll be seeing for yourself. She’s not pretty, pretty, so to speak. But more than pretty; vivid, full of life, and such eyes!’ He paused. ‘Appetizing, if you see what I mean.’
Jacques would not meet his gaze. He, too, would have liked to open his heart to Daniel, tell him of his love; that indeed was why he had come here. But, from Daniel’s first remark on, he had been feeling ill at ease, and now he listened with downcast eyes, with a sense of constraint, almost of shame.
‘This morning,’ Daniel went on—he could hardly keep his exultation within bounds—‘Mother and Jenny went out early, so we had our tea by ourselves, Nicole and I. We were alone in the flat. She hadn’t dressed yet. It was simply wonderful! I followed her into Jenny’s room, that’s where she sleeps. A young girl’s bedroom, there’s something about it—! Well, I caught her in my arms, just for a second. She struggled, but she was laughing. You’ve no idea how supple she is. Then she ran out and shut herself in mother’s room, and wouldn’t open the door. I can’t think why I’m telling you all this—it’s too silly for words, really.’ He tried to smile, but his lips stayed tense.
‘Do you want to marry her?’ Jacques asked.
‘To marry her?’
Jacques felt suddenly hurt, as if he had been insulted. Every minute his friend was growing more and more of a stranger to him. And he felt his heart turn to ice when he saw the expression on Daniel’s face—a look of faintly mocking curiosity.
‘But what about you?’ Daniel asked, coming closer. ‘In your letter you told me that you, too . . . ?’ He left the phrase unfinished.
But, without looking up, Jacques shook his head, as if to say: ‘No, that’s all over; you shan’t hear a word from me.’ In any case, without waiting for an answer, Daniel had just got up. A sound of young voices came to their ears.
‘You must tell me about it later on. They’ve just come. Hurry up!’ He glanced at a mirror, threw up his head and hurried out into the corridor.
‘Well, children,’ Madame de Fontanin was calling, ‘aren’t you coming for tea?’
The tea was laid in the dining-room.
As he crossed the threshold Jacques’ heart beat faster; two girls were standing by the table. They had their hats and gloves still on, and their cheeks were glowing after their walk. Jenny ran up to Daniel and clung to his arm. Seeming to ignore her, he steered Jacques in the direction of Nicole, and introduced him with a breezy unself-consciousness that impressed the boy. He was conscious of Nicole’s eyes giving him a curious, fleeting glance, of Jenny’s lingering on him with more attention. He looked back towards Madame de Fontanin who was standing beside Antoine at the drawing-room door, evidently concluding a remark.
‘. . . to get children to understand,’ she was saying with a melancholy smile, ‘that there is nothing more precious than life, and that it is so terribly short.’
It was long since Jacques had found himself amongst people he did not know, but he was so keenly interested in observing them that he lost all shyness. Nicole’s natural elegance and sparkle were such that, beside her, Jenny struck him as insignificant and almost plain. Just then Nicole was talking to Daniel; she was laughing. Jacques could not hear what they were talking about, but he could see her eyebrows lifting in merriment or wonder. Her grey-blue eyes, if rather shallow, set too far apart and perhaps a shade too round, made up for these defects by their gaiety and brilliance, which gave the pale, fair features a vitality that seemed unquenchable. And her face, moulded on generous lines, was crowned by a thick, heavy plait of hair tightly coiled above her head. She had a way of holding herself, slightly bending forward, that gave her an air of always making haste to greet a friend, and lavishing on all who crossed her path the thoughtless vivacity of her smile. As he watched her, Jacques found himself reluctantly applying to her that word ‘appetizing,’ which had so profoundly shocked him on Daniel’s lips. Just then she realized she was being looked at, exaggerated her spontaneity, and promptly lost it.
It never crossed Jacques’ head to make an effort to conceal the interest other people inspired in him; on such occasions he had the ingenuousness of the child who stares open-mouthed—his face grew rigid, his gaze inert. Formerly, before his return from Crouy, he had not been thus, but used to treat those with whom he came in contact with such indifference that he never recognized anyone. Now, wherever he was, in crowded shop or street, his eyes observed the passers-by. He did not consciously analyse what he discovered in them; his mind worked on them unknowingly. It was enough for him to catch a glimpse of some peculiarity in a face or in the demeanour of another, for his imagination to attribute to these strangers whom chance had brought his way a host of special traits of character.
Madame de Fontanin cut short his musings; she had placed her hand on his arm.
‘Come and have your tea beside me,’ she said. ‘I want you to pay me a little visit now.’ She handed him a cup and plate. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come to see us. . . . Jenny, my pet, please bring the cake. . . . Your brother’s been telling me about the life you lead in your little flat. I’m so happy about it. It’s so pleasant when two brothers understand each other like bosom friends, isn’t it? Daniel and Jenny, too, get on very well together, and it’s one of my greatest joys. Ah, that makes you smile, my big boy!’ She had turned to Daniel who was coming up with Antoine. ‘He’s always poking fun at his old Mamma! Now, as a punishment, you shall kiss me, in front of everybody.’
Daniel laughed, with perhaps a shade of embarrassment, but bent down and touched his mother’s forehead lightly with his lips. There was an easy elegance in his least movement.
From the other side of the table Jenny was watching the scene with a smile the charm of which delighted Antoine. Carried away once more by her feelings, she went up to Daniel and linked her arm in his. ‘There’s another,’ Antoine thought, ‘who gives more than she gets.’ When he had seen her for the first time, his interest had been quickened by the way the childish face looked wise beyond its years. He noticed now the graceful way her shoulders moved, as the young bosom gently rose and fell under the light blouse. She was not in the least like her mother, or Daniel either, but that was not surprising, for she seemed destined for a life quite other than the normal.
Madame de Fontanin was sipping her tea, holding the cup very near her laughing face; through a fragrant mist she was making little amiable gestures towards Jacques. The brightness and the goodness of heart that shone in her eyes seemed to diffuse a gentle glow around her, and the white hair crowned like an incongruous diadem the noticeably youthful forehead. Jacques’ eyes strayed from mother to son. At that moment he loved both with such fervour that he wished with all his heart they might perceive it; for, more than most, he felt a craving not to be misunderstood. His interest in the minds of others was so keen that nothing would satisfy him but an intimate communion with their secret thoughts; almost he wished to merge his life into theirs.
Beside the window Nicole and Jenny had embarked on a discussion. Daniel went up to them and joined in. All three bent over the camera to discover whether or not another photograph could be taken on the spool.
‘Do! Just to please me!’ Daniel suddenly exclaimed in the warm, emotional tone which was something new with him; the gaze he cast at Nicole was at once imperious and caressing. ‘Yes! Just as you are now, with your hat on, and my friend Thibault beside you.’
‘Jacques!’ he called, then added in a lower tone: ‘Please do—I’m awfully keen on taking you two together.’
Jacques joined their group. Daniel dragged them all into the drawing-room where the light, so he said, was better.
Antoine stayed on with Madame de Fontanin in the drawing-room. He was bringing to an end the explanation he had thought it best to give her, with the brusqueness which, to his thinking, lent an accent of forthrightness to his manner. ‘And I’d have you know exactly the circumstances of this visit,’ he was saying. ‘If father knew Jacques was here, he’d take my brother from my keeping, and all the trouble would begin again.’
‘Poor man,’ Madame de Fontanin murmured, in a tone that made Antoine smile.
‘Do you really mean you’re sorry for him?’ he asked.
‘Yes, for having failed to win the trust of a son like you.’
‘It’s not his fault, and it’s not mine either. My father is what is usually described as an eminent and worthy man. I respect him. But there’s no help for it; never, on any question, do we think—I won’t say “alike,” but even on the same lines. Never, whatever the subject we are talking about, can we manage to see it from the same angle.’
‘There are some who’ve not yet been touched by the great light.’
‘If it’s religion you’re thinking of,’ Antoine put in at once, ‘I may as well tell you father’s fanatically religious.’
Madame de Fontanin shook her head. ‘That’s nothing new,’ she smiled. ‘Doesn’t the apostle Paul tell us that it isn’t those who only hearken to the Law who find favour in God’s eyes, but, rather, those who practice it in word and deed?’
For M. Thibault, whom she thought she pitied from the bottom of her heart, she really felt an instinctive, unreasoning aversion. The taboo he had imposed on her son, her household and herself, seemed odious, unjust, and based on the least worthy motives. Not only did the grossness of M. Thibault’s appearance revolt her, but she could not forgive him for mistrusting the very things she valued most: her moral standard, her Protestantism. And she felt all the more warmly towards Antoine for having overridden his father’s injunction.
‘What about you?’ she asked with sudden apprehension. ‘Are you still a practising Catholic?’
When Antoine shook his head, her face lit up with a glow of pleasure.
‘As a matter of fact, I kept it up for quite a long time,’ he began. He found that Madame de Fontanin’s company gave a fillip to his thoughts—and, still more certainly, to his tongue. She had a knack of listening with extreme attention that implied a high esteem of the person speaking to her, and always encouraged him to rise to the occasion, above his normal conversational level. ‘I kept up my religious observances, but I had no real piety. God was for me a sort of omniscient headmaster, whom it was best to humour by means of certain gestures and a certain line of conduct. I obeyed, but, for the most part, with a sense of boredom. I was a good pupil, you see, in everything; in religion like the rest. It’s hard for me to say now exactly how I came to lose my faith. When I found I’d lost it—that was only four or five years ago—I’d in any case already reached a stage of scientific knowledge that left little room for religious belief. I’m a positivist, you know,’ he added, with a feeling of self-satisfaction; as a matter of fact he was expressing theories he made up as he went along, for so far he had had scant leisure or occasion to indulge in self-analysis.
‘I don’t claim,’ he continued, ‘that science explains everything, but it tells me what things are, and that’s enough for me. I find the how of things sufficiently interesting for me to dispense with the vain quest of the why. Besides,’ he added hastily, in a lower voice, ‘isn’t it possible that between these two types of explanation there’s only a difference of degree?’ He smiled, as if in self-excuse. ‘As for questions of morality, well, I hardly give them a thought. I hope I’m not shocking you! But you see, I love my work, I love life, I’m energetic, I like getting things done, and my experience has led me to believe that “Get on with your job!” is a quite adequate rule of life. So far, in any case, I’ve never felt the slightest hesitation about what it was up to me to do.’
Madame de Fontanin made no reply. She was not in the least vexed with Antoine for being so different from herself. But in her heart of hearts she gave thanks all the more fervently to God for His constant presence in her life. To this awareness of divine protection she owed the joyful, never-failing confidence that radiated from her so unmistakably and with such efficacy that, though her life had been a sequence of disaster and her lot was far worse than that of most of those she met, she yet had that peculiar gift of being a source of courage, peace of mind and contentment for all around her. Antoine at that moment was experiencing it; never in his father’s circle had he met anyone who inspired him with such veneration; round whom the atmosphere was so exalting, by reason of its purity. And he wanted to come nearer her, even at the expense of strict veracity.
‘I’ve always felt drawn to Protestantism,’ he averred, though actually he had never given it a thought till he met the Fontanins. ‘Your Reformation was a Revolution on the religious plane, for it opened the door to ideas of spiritual freedom.’
She listened to him with growing appreciation. Young, ardent, chivalrous he seemed to her just now, and she was impressed by the vital energy of his expression, the furrow on his forehead that told of concentrated thought. And when he raised his head she had a childish delight in noting a peculiarity that increased the pensiveness of his expression; the upper eyelids were so narrow that they almost vanished under the heavy brows when he opened his eyes wide; at that moment his eyelashes and his eyebrows were all but indistinguishable.
A man with a forehead like that, she was thinking, could never stoop to an ignoble act. And suddenly it struck her that Antoine was the perfect prototype of a man worthy to be loved. She was still quivering with resentment against her husband. How different would have been a life united with someone of Antoine’s calibre! It was the first time she had compared another man with Jerome, the first time a definite regret had crossed her mind and she had been aware of feeling that another might have brought her happiness. It was only a fleeting impulse, strong but secret, that stirred her to the depths of her being; almost immediately she felt ashamed, and she got the better of it quickly enough. But the after-taste of bitterness that contrition and perhaps regret had left behind them was slower to dissipate.
Just then Jenny and Jacques came in, and their appearance laid effectively the phantoms of her troubled mind. She made a welcoming gesture and called them up to her at once, lest they should think their presence was unwanted. At the first glance she felt that something had happened between them. . . . It had.
Immediately after taking the photograph of Nicole and Jacques, Daniel proposed to find out forthwith whether it had been a success. That morning he had promised Jenny and his cousin to teach them how to develop, and they had made all the necessary preparations in an empty cupboard at the end of a passage, that Daniel had formerly used as a dark-room. The space in it was so cramped that it was practically impossible for more than two to be in it at the same time. Daniel had adroitly managed to get Nicole to go in first; then, running up to Jenny, had laid a hand trembling with excitement on her shoulder and whispered:
‘You stay with Jacques!’
She had cast him a shrewd, disapproving glance. Yet she had obeyed, such was her brother’s influence over her, so irresistible his manner of demanding, not only in so many words but by the sheer effrontery of his gaze and the vehemence of his demeanour, that his wishes should be complied with then and there.
While the brief scene between brother and sister was in progress, Jacques had stayed in the background, examining the contents of a glass cabinet in the drawing-room. Jenny persuaded herself, as she went to join him, that he could not have noticed Daniel’s manœuvre. With a little pout she asked him:
‘How about you? Do you go in for photography?’
‘No.’
The almost imperceptible embarrassment with which he replied made her realize that she should not have asked the question. It came back to her that he had only just been released from some sort of institution in which he had been to all intents and purposes a prisoner. Following an association of ideas, and by way of making conversation, she put another question.
‘You haven’t seen Daniel for quite a long time, have you?’
Jacques lowered his eyes.
‘No. Not for a very long time. Not since . . . ! Why, it’s over a year.’
A shadow flitted across her face. Her second attempt had been hardly more successful than her first. He would think she was trying to remind him of the Marseilles episode. So much the worse for him! She had never approved of that adventure, and in her eyes he alone was responsible for it from the start, unconsciously, she had been disliking Jacques. When she saw him that afternoon, at tea-time, she had been unable to help recalling the injury he had done her family, and from the moment she set eyes on him had felt an unqualified repugnance. For one thing, she found him ugly, vulgar even; his big head and uncouth features, his jaw, chapped lips, protuberant ears and red hair bunched up over his forehead—all displeased her. Indeed she could hardly forgive Daniel his attachment to such a friend; though her jealousy prompted her to be more glad than otherwise to discover that the only being who dared to contest with her the first place in her brother’s heart was so unattractive.
She had taken the little dog on her lap and was stroking it absent-mindedly. Jacques was still staring at the floor; he, too, was thinking of the escapade to Marseilles, of the memorable night when he first had crossed this threshold.
‘Do you find him much changed?’ she asked, to break the silence.
‘Not at all,’ he said; then hastily corrected himself. ‘No, that’s wrong; he has changed quite a lot.’
His keen regard for truth impressed her, and for a moment she found him less distasteful. Perhaps Jacques was conscious of this fleeting change of mood, for he stopped thinking about Daniel. Looking at Jenny, he began to wonder what she was like. And suddenly he had a brief glimpse into her character, a revelation that he found he could not put into words, though he had guessed the nervous instability, the cross-currents of intense emotion, behind those features seemingly expressive, yet so reticent, and the eyes which, for all their animation, kept their secret. It struck him that he would like to know her better, gain access to that fast-shut heart—even, perhaps, become the friend of this young girl. And for a while his fancy toyed delightfully with the thought that he might come to love her. All his troubled past was out of mind, and now it seemed to him that never again could he be unhappy.
He let his eyes rove round the room, and linger now and then on Jenny; in his gaze there was both curiosity and a shyness which prevented him from noticing how reserved her attitude was, how much she was on the defensive. Suddenly, by an inevitable flash-back of emotion, the picture of Lisbeth rose before him—but a Lisbeth who had dwindled now into a little, insignificant, domestic creature, of no account. For the first time he realized the childishness of his romantic scheme of marrying Lisbeth. But—what then? He was appalled at the void that of a sudden loomed up in his life, a void that at all costs he must fill. In Jenny, obviously, he might find the friend he needed, but . . .
Her voice took him from his reverie, with a start.
‘. . . at a school?’
He only caught the tail-end of the phrase.
‘Sorry! I didn’t catch. . . . What were you saying?’
‘I asked if you were going to school just now.’
‘Not yet.’ His voice betrayed his discomfiture. ‘I’m very behindhand with my studies, you know. I’m working with private coaches, friends of my brother.’ Then, in all innocence, he added: ‘And you?’
She was offended by his putting a direct question to her and the too familiar glance that accompanied it.
‘I don’t go to school,’ she answered curtly. ‘I have a governess.’
With his next observation he made another blunder.
‘Of course, for a girl, it doesn’t matter really.’
She bridled.
‘That’s what you think. But it’s not mother’s view, or Daniel’s.’
Now there was no mistaking her hostility. He realized too late his clumsiness and tried to retrieve the situation by a remark that he imagined amiable.
‘What I mean is: a girl always knows enough to get along with.’
He saw that he was sinking in deeper; he could not control his thoughts or words. That damned reformatory! It had made an idiot of him! He reddened, and the sudden rush of blood to his head seemed to complete his befuddlement. The only issue he could see now was to give vent to his anger. For a moment he groped vainly for some stinging retort; then, throwing discretion to the winds, he blurted out in the vulgar, bantering tone his father often used:
‘The principal thing isn’t taught in schools; it’s character.’
She had herself well under control, and did not flinch. But just then the dog gaped noisily and she exclaimed:
‘Oh, you nasty little creature! What disgusting manners!’ Her voice was trembling with rage. ‘What disgusting manners!’ she repeated, with a shrill, rancorous insistence. Then she put the dog down, rose, and walked out on to the balcony.
Five slow minutes passed, five minutes of intolerable silence. Jacques had not moved from his chair; he felt as if he were suffocating. From the dining-room came the sound of alternating voices: Madame de Fontanin’s and Antoine’s. Jenny was leaning on the balcony rail, with her back to him, humming one of her piano exercises, and beating time with her foot as if to emphasize her truculent contempt. She had made up her mind to tell her brother all about it, and get him to drop this vulgar, ill-bred friend of his. At that moment she hated Jacques. Glancing furtively into the room, she saw him sitting there, flushed but on his dignity. She felt even surer of herself and set her mind to finding some new remark to hurt him.
‘Come along, Puce! I’m off!’
Leaving the balcony, she walked past him as if he were not there and calmly proceeded to the dining-room.
Jacques was terrified at the thought that if he stayed behind he would never find a way of getting up and going. So he rose, and followed her at a distance. Madame de Fontanin’s affectionate welcome changed his resentment into melancholy.
‘So your brother’s deserted you?’ she said to her daughter.
‘Oh, I asked Daniel to develop my films straight away,’ she explained, but without meeting her mother’s eye. ‘He won’t be long now.’
She had a shrewd suspicion that Jacques had not been taken in, and this complicity that circumstances had forced on them intensified their mutual dislike. Inexorably Jacques wrote her down a liar, and disapproved of her readiness to shield her brother. She guessed his feelings and her pride was wounded; she carefully refrained from looking in his direction.
Smiling, Madame de Fontanin motioned them towards the sofa.
‘I see my little patient has grown famously,’ Antoine remarked.
Jacques said nothing, and kept his eyes bent upon the floor. He was foundering in an abyss of hopelessness; never would he recover his former self! Conscious at once of his weakness and his brutality, he felt profoundly sick at heart; every impulse had him at its mercy, he was a puppet in the hands of implacable fatality.
He heard Madame de Fontanin asking him a question. ‘Are you fond of music?’
He pretended not to understand, tears were filling his eyes, and he bent quickly down, as if to tie a shoelace. He heard Antoine answering on his behalf. His ears were buzzing and he felt like death. Was Jenny looking? he wondered.
Daniel and Nicole had been together in the dark-room for over a quarter of an hour. Daniel had shot the bolt the moment he entered, then taken the films out of the camera and unrolled them.
‘Don’t meddle with the door,’ he said. ‘The least speck of light will fog the whole spool.’
Nicole’s first impression was one of total obscurity, but after a while she began to see what looked like incandescent shadows moving in the red glow of the lantern close beside her. Gradually they took form, and she saw two long, delicate hands, cut off at the wrists, tilting a long dish. Those two disembodied hands were all she could make out of Daniel, but there was so little space in the dark-room that she was as conscious of his every movement as if he were actually in contact with her. They held their breath, each haunted by a vivid memory of the kiss exchanged that morning in the bedroom.
‘I say! Can you see anything?’ she whispered.
But he would not answer her at once; the silence had an exquisite suspense that thrilled his senses and, now that darkness was doing away with the restraints of normal life, he had turned towards her and was inhaling eagerly the perfume floating round her.
At last he brought himself to speak. ‘No, there’s nothing yet.’
Again there was silence. Then suddenly the dish on which Nicole’s eyes were fixed ceased moving. The two spectral hands had left the zone of the lamplight. The moment seemed never-ending. All at once Nicole felt his arms encircling her, closely, passionately. She experienced no surprise, rather a vague sense of relief that the suspense was over. But she drew her shoulders back as far as she could, twisting and turning, to elude the lips whose impact she both dreaded and desired. At last their faces touched. Daniel’s burning forehead came in contact with something cold, slippery and pliant; it was Nicole’s hair, the long, glossy plait she wore coiled round her head. He could not help giving a start, and drawing back a little. For a moment her lips were free, and she had just time to utter a strangled cry: ‘Jenny!’
Roughly his hand closed her lips; then, leaning against her with the full weight of his body, he crushed her against the door. His voice came in quick gasps through his clenched teeth; there was a note almost of madness in it.
‘Keep quiet! Stop! Nicole darling, dear little girl, I want—I want to tell you. . . .’
She had almost ceased struggling and he thought she was giving way to him. She had slipped her arm behind her and was feeling for the latch. The door fell open abruptly letting in a flood of light. He released her, and shut the door again at once. But in the sudden light she had seen his face, and it was unrecognizable, like a livid Chinese mask, with great blotches of red round the eyes that seemed to slew them up towards the temples. The pupils, shrunk to pin-points, were expressionless, and the thin, tight lips of a few minutes past were puffy now, clumsily agape. A thought of Jerome flashed through her mind. There was hardly any likeness between Daniel and his father, yet in that harsh, revealing beam of light, it was Jerome’s face she had seen!
‘My congratulations!’ His voice was shrill with vexation. ‘The whole spool’s ruined.’
‘I’m quite ready to stay,’ she said composedly. ‘In fact I want to talk to you. Only, please unlatch the door.’
‘No; Jenny will come in.’
After a momentary hesitation she said: ‘Then promise me on your honour that you won’t touch me again.’
He felt like flinging himself on her, gagging her with his hand, ripping up her blouse; but, in the same breath, knew that he was beaten.
‘All right. I promise.’
‘Good! Now listen to me, Daniel. I was very silly this morning; I let you go too far, much too far. But this time I say definitely, No! I didn’t run away from home just to get involved in this sort of thing.’ She spoke the last words hurriedly; to herself. Then she addressed Daniel again. ‘Yes, I’ll trust you with my secret. I ran away from mother’s place. Oh, there’s nothing really to be said against her—only that she’s very unhappy . . . and very weak. That’s all I can tell you.’ She paused. That face she loathed above all, Jerome’s face, still hovered before her eyes; his son might bring her to the state to which Jerome had brought her mother. Alarmed by Daniel’s silence, she went on hastily: ‘You don’t understand me a bit. Of course that’s my fault, really; I’ve not been my real self with you. With Jenny, yes. With you I’ve gone on in a silly way, and you’ve imagined all sorts of things. But, underneath, I’m not like that, not in the least. I don’t want the sort of life that—that begins that way. What would have been the point of coming to live with someone like Aunt Thérèse? No! I want—you’ll laugh at me, but I don’t care—I want to be able later on to deserve the respect of a man who’ll love me truly, for always; a man who—who takes it seriously.’
‘But I do take it seriously!’ From the tone she guessed the smile of naïve self-pity hovering on his lips, and knew at once that she had no more to fear from him.
‘No, you don’t!’ She sounded almost cheerful. ‘And you mustn’t be angry, Daniel, if I tell you straight out—you don’t love me.’
‘Not love you? Oh, Nicole . . . !’
‘No, it’s not me you love, it’s . . . something else. And I don’t love you either. Now listen, I’m going to be quite frank; I don’t think I could ever love a man like you.’
‘Like me?’
‘I mean, a man like all the rest. It isn’t that I don’t want to love someone, one day. I do. But it’s got to be someone, well, someone who’s pure, and who’ll have approached me in a very different way, and for . . . for other reasons. Oh, I don’t know how to express it! Anyhow, a man quite different from you.’
‘Thanks very much!’
His desire for her was dead, and all he wanted now was to escape seeming ridiculous.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘let’s make peace, and forget all about it.’ She began to open the door; this time he did not try to stop her. ‘Is it “friends”?’ she asked, holding out her hand. He made no answer. He was looking at her eyes, her cheeks, the young face that seemed proffered like a ripe fruit. He forced a smile on to his lips; his eyelashes were fluttering. She took his hand and grasped it tightly.
‘Don’t spoil my life as well!’ she murmured in a coaxing voice, and suddenly her eyebrows took a humorous inflexion. ‘Isn’t a spool of films quite enough damage for one day?’
Good-naturedly he laughed. She had not expected that much of him, and felt a little chagrined. Still, all in all, she was well satisfied with her victory and with the opinion he would have of her henceforward.
‘Well?’ Jenny asked when they appeared together in the dining-room.
‘No go,’ Daniel said gruffly.
Jacques felt a thrill of spiteful satisfaction. Nicole’s eyes twinkled as she repeated slowly, emphatically:
‘Ab-so-lutely no go!’
Then she noticed that Jenny’s cheeks were quivering, her eyes blurred with sudden tears, and running up to her, she kissed her.
From the moment his friend had come into the room, Jacques had stopped thinking about himself; he could not keep his eyes off Daniel. A change had come over Daniel’s features, a change that was painful to observe. It was as if the upper and lower halves of his face no longer matched; the enigmatic, troubled, almost sinister expression of his eyes was out of keeping with the smile that lifted one side of his mouth and screwed the lower portion of his face round to the left.
Their eyes met. Daniel frowned slightly and moved uneasily away.
This indication of mistrust grieved Jacques more than all the rest. All the time, from the very start, Daniel had been obscurely disappointing him; now at last he was consciously aware of it. There had not been a moment of real intimacy between them; why he had not even been able to tell Lisbeth’s name to his friend!
For a while he fancied that the cause of his distress was his disillusionment regarding Daniel. But the real reason, though he had only a vague inkling of it, was that now, for the first time, he was viewing his love from a critical angle and, by the same token, eliminating it from his system. Like all young people, he lived only for the present; the past lapsed so swiftly into oblivion, and thoughts of the future merely whetted his impatience. And to-day the present, every moment of it, seemed to have a bitter savour; as the afternoon drew to a close, he felt more and more hopelessly depressed. When Antoine signed to him to get ready to go, he felt actually relieved.
Daniel had noticed Antoine’s gesture. He went up to Jacques at once.
‘You’re not going yet?’
‘Yes, we must.’
‘So soon?’ Then he added in a lower tone. ‘But we’ve seen hardly anything of each other.’
He, too, had got nothing but disappointment from the day. And now, to make things worse, he began to feel remorseful for the way he had treated Jacques and—what grieved him even more—their friendship.
‘Please forgive me,’ he said suddenly, leading Jacques towards the window-recess. And there was such humility, such genuine solicitude in his manner that Jacques, forgetting all his disappointments, felt carried away by an access of the old affection. ‘It’s been a rotten day,’ Daniel continued. ‘Everything went wrong. When shall I see you again?’ His tone grew pressing. ‘Look here, I’ve got to see you alone and have a good long talk. We’ve got out of touch with each other somehow. Of course, there’s nothing odd in that—why, we haven’t seen each other for a whole year! But we can’t let that go on.’
He suddenly wondered what future lay before their friendship, which so long had had nothing to thrive on except an almost mystical sentiment of loyalty, the fragility of which had just been shown to them. No, they must not let it wither. True, Jacques struck him now as rather childish; but his affection remained intact and, for all he knew, the keener for his feeling so much older than his friend.
‘We’re always at home on Sunday,’ Madame de Fontanin was saying just then to Antoine. ‘We shan’t leave Paris till after the School Prize-day.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Daniel has won several prizes,’ she said in a low voice, but with evident pride. ‘Wait!’ she added hastily, after making sure her son had his back to her and was not listening. ‘Before you go, I’d like to show you my treasures.’ She hastened light-heartedly to her room, Antoine following, and led him to a writing-desk. In one of the drawers, in a neat row, lay twenty laurel crowns in painted cardboard. She shut the drawer almost immediately and began laughing, a little flustered at having yielded to a sentimental impulse.
‘Don’t tell him,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t the least idea I keep them all.’
They returned in silence to the hall.
‘Hullo, Jacques!’ Antoine called.
‘To-day doesn’t count,’ Madame de Fontanin said, holding out both hands to Jacques and giving him a keen glance, as if she had guessed everything. ‘You’re amongst friends here, Jacques dear, and any time you feel like coming you’ll always be welcome. And your big brother, too, I needn’t say,’ she added with a graceful gesture for Antoine.
Jacques turned round to see if Jenny was there; but she had gone off with her cousin. Bending over the little dog, he kissed its sleek, smooth forehead. . . .
Madame de Fontanin went back to the dining-room to clear the table. Daniel followed her pensively, then leant against the doorway and, without speaking, lit a cigarette. He was turning over in his mind what Nicole had told him. Why had they concealed from him the fact that his cousin had run away from home and come to them for refuge? Refuge against what?
Madame de Fontanin was moving to and fro with the supple movements that gave her still the easy grace of a much younger woman. She was thinking of what Antoine had said, of all he had told her about himself, his studies, and his plans for the future, and about his father. ‘What a noble character!’ she was saying to herself. ‘And I do like that forehead of his. It’s so—’ she groped for an epithet—‘yes, so earnest,’ she added with a little thrill of pleasure.
Then she recalled the idle fancy that had crossed her mind; for an instant had not she, too, sinned in thought? Gregory’s words came back to her. And all at once, for no definite reason, she felt her heart full of such abounding joy that she put down the plate she was holding so as to pass her fingers over her face and feel, under her hand, the imprint of that sudden ecstasy. She went up to her son and startled him from his reverie, gaily clapping her hands on his shoulders. Then she gazed into his eyes, kissed him and, without a word, went quickly out of the room.
She went straight to her desk and began writing in her large, childish, rather wavering hand.
My dear James,
I have behaved too arrogantly towards you. Who of us has the right to judge another? I thank God for having enlightened me once again. Tell Jerome I will not press for a divorce. Tell him . . .
Across her tears the words seemed dancing on the paper.
A few days later Antoine was awakened by a sound of hammering on the shutters. The dustman had failed to get the street-door opened for him, though the bell was in order—he could hear it ringing in the concierge’s room—and suspected that ‘something was wrong.’
Something was wrong, indeed; old Madame Frühling was dead. She had had another seizure, a fatal one, in the course of the night, and had dropped dead on the floor.
Jacques came in just as the body was being laid out on the mattress. The old woman’s mouth was gaping, showing some yellow teeth. What was it, something horrible, it reminded him of? Yes, that dead grey horse lying on the Toulon road. Then suddenly it struck him very likely Lisbeth would be coming for the funeral.
Two days passed and she did not appear; it seemed she was not coming at all. Jacques caught himself thinking: So much the better! He could not make out his real feelings just now. Even after his visit to the Fontanins, he had gone on tinkering with a poem in which he glorified his heart’s beloved and lamented her absence. But somehow he had no real wish to see her again.
None the less he walked past the concierge’s room ten times a day, and each time glanced eagerly inside, only to turn away each time, reassured, yet dissatisfied.
On the day before the funeral, as he was coming in after dining alone in the little restaurant where he and Antoine had been having their meals since M. Thibault’s departure to Maisons-Laffitte, the first thing to meet his eye was a valise in the entrance-hall, just outside the concierge’s door. He felt himself trembling, his forehead damp with sweat. In the light from the candles round the bier he saw a girlish form, swathed in heavy mourning veils, kneeling beside it. He entered the room at once. The two nuns glanced round at him without interest; but Lisbeth did not turn. The night was sultry and a warm, sickly-sweet odour filled the room; the flowers on the coffin were wilting. Jacques remained standing, feeling sorry he had ventured in; the death-bed and everything connected with it had given him a sensation of discomfort that he was unable to vanquish. Lisbeth had passed out of his mind and all he wanted now was a pretext to get away. When a nun rose to snuff a candle, he slipped out of the room.
It seemed as if Lisbeth had intuitively felt his presence, or perhaps she had recognized his step, for she caught him up before he had reached the door of the flat. Hearing her step behind him, Jacques turned. For a few seconds they stood gazing at each other in a dark corner of the entrance-hall. Under the black veil her eyes were clouded with tears, and she did not see the hand he was holding out to her. He would have liked to weep in sympathy, but he was conscious of no emotion, only a vague boredom and a certain shyness.
A door banged on one of the upper landings. Fearing they might be caught outside his door, Jacques took out his keys. But what with his confusion and the darkness, he was unable to find the keyhole.
‘Sure it’s the right key?’ she murmured. He was profoundly moved by the slow cadence of her voice. When at last the door was open, she hesitated. Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs from one of the upper flats.
‘Antoine’s on duty at the hospital,’ Jacques whispered, to persuade her. Then, without the least sign of embarrassment, she crossed the threshold.
As he shut the door and switched on the lights, he saw her walking straight to his room. When she sat down on the sofa, each of her movements reminded him exactly of the past. Through the crêpe veil he saw her eyes swollen with weeping; grief had perhaps taken away some of the prettiness of her features, but it had added pathos. He noticed that she had a bandaged finger. He did not dare to sit down; he could not take his mind off the bereavement that had led to her return.
‘How close it is to-night!’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s going to be a storm.’
She moved a little on the sofa; and the movement seemed an invitation to him to take the place beside her, his usual place. Jacques sat down and at once, without a word, without even taking off her veil, but simply drawing it aside, she pressed her cheek against his, exactly as before. The crêpe veil had an odour of dye and starch, and he found the contact of her moist skin disagreeable. He felt at a loss what to do or say. When he took her hand in his she gave a little cry.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘Ach, it’s only a—a whitlow,’ she sighed.
The sigh seemed to be for all her troubles at once: her sore finger, her bereavement and the baffled tenderness fretting her heart. Without thinking, she began unwinding the bandage. When the finger was laid bare—livid and misshapen, with the nail displaced by the abscess—Jacques felt his breath stop short and for a moment his senses reeled as if she had suddenly exposed some secret place of her body.
Meanwhile he was beginning to feel, across his clothes, the warmth of the young body touching his. She turned her china-blue eyes towards him, plaintive eyes that always seemed entreating him not to be unkind. And then he had an impulse, stronger than his repugnance, to press his lips on the disfigured finger and make it well again.
She rose and, with a dejected air started winding the lint again round her finger.
‘I’ll have to be going back now.’
She looked so worn out that he made a suggestion.
‘I say, let me make you a cup of tea. Shall I?’
She gave him a curious look, and only afterwards smiled.
‘Thank you, I’d like a nice cup of tea. I’ll run across and say a little prayer; then I’ll come back.’
In a few minutes he had the water boiled, the tea made, and was bringing it back to his room. Lisbeth was not yet there. He sat down. Now he was all eagerness for her return. He felt his nerves on edge, but did not try to ascertain the reason. Why was she delaying like this? He could not bring himself to call to her; it would be like an affront to the dead woman. But what could be keeping her all this time? As the minutes passed he kept on going up to the tea-pot, feeling its declining warmth. At last it was stone-cold and, having no pretext for getting up, he stayed unmoving in his chair. His eyes were smarting with staring at the lamp and, with his exasperation, he felt the fever rising in his blood.
A sudden glare of lightning, between the slats of the closed shutters, jarred his nerves to breaking-point. Was she never coming back? He felt half asleep, so weary of everything he would have liked to die.
There was a low rumble, a black crash. That was the tea-pot bursting. Let it burst! The tea was pouring down in rain, lashing the shutters. Lisbeth was soaked through, water was streaming down her cheeks, down the black crêpe, washing the colour out of it till it was snow-white, white and translucent, a bridal veil.
Jacques gave a violent start. She had just sat down beside him again, pressing her cheek to his.
‘Were you asleep, Jacques dear?’
Never before had she called him by his Christian name. She had taken off her veil and, in a half-dream, he seemed to see once more the well-beloved face of the Lisbeth he had known, though now there were dark rings round her eyes and the corners of her lips were drooping. She made a gesture of weary resignation.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘my uncle will marry me.’
Her head was bowed, and Jacques could not see if she was crying. There had been sadness in her voice, but acquiescence too; perhaps her regret was touched with curiosity about the new life opening before her. But Jacques was not disposed to press such speculations too far. He wanted to believe her unhappy, to revel in the thrill of pitying her. Putting his arms round her, he pressed her body against his with all his might, as if he were trying to merge them into one. Her lips found his, and passionately he gave his mouth to her mouth’s kiss. Never in his life had he felt such an ecstasy of emotion. Evidently she had unfastened her blouse before coming in, for suddenly, almost without a movement on his part, the warmth of her young breast was nestling in his hand.
She shifted her position a little so that Jacques’ hand could move untrammelled, under the dress.
‘Let’s pray together for Mother Frühling,’ she murmured.
He felt no inclination to smile; almost he believed he was really praying, such was the fervour of his caresses.
Suddenly she gave a little moan, and shuffled free from his embrace. He supposed that he had hurt her finger, or else that she was about to leave him. But she only moved towards the lamp-switch; after turning off the light she came back to the sofa. Close beside his ear he heard her whisper ‘Liebling!’ and then again he felt her soft lips crushed on his, her feverish fingers on his clothes. . . .
Another clap of thunder woke him; rain was hissing on the cobbles in the courtyard. Lisbeth? Where was Lisbeth? All was darkness in the room. He had half a mind to get up, to go and look for her, and even made a tentative effort to rise, propping himself on his elbow; but then a flood of sleep swept over him, and he sank back amongst the cushions.
It was broad daylight when at last he opened his eyes.
First, he saw the tea-pot on the table, then his coat inexplicably sprawling on the floor. Now everything came back to him and he got up at once. A sudden, urgent craving had come over him to take off what clothes he still had on and wash his limbs in good clean water. The cold bath seemed like a purifying rite, a baptism. Still dripping, he began to walk about the room, throwing out his chest, testing his muscles and patting the cool, firm skin; the odious associations of this cult of his own nakedness had been completely blotted from his memory. Reflected in a glass he saw his slim young body and for the first time since a very long while he found that he could gaze at every part of it coolly, with unruffled equanimity. Remembering certain lapses of the past, he merely shrugged his shoulders with indulgent contempt. ‘All that was childish silliness!’ That chapter of his life, he felt, was definitely closed; it seemed to him that certain energies, after a long spell of incomprehension and deviation from their natural course, had at last found their proper function. Though what had happened during the last twelve hours was only vaguely present in his consciousness, and though he did not even give a thought to Lisbeth, he felt light-hearted, clean and sane in mind and body. He had not the least impression of having hit on something new; rather, it seemed to him he had recovered a long-lost equilibrium, like a convalescent who, though delighted by his return to health, finds nothing new in it.
Still naked, he moved into the hall, and held the door ajar. He fancied he could make out Lisbeth in the darkened room where the dead body lay, on her knees and swathed in the black veils she had worn the previous night. Men on ladders were festooning the street entrance with black draperies. He remembered the funeral was fixed for nine, and dressed in eager haste, as if for a holiday. That morning every act was a delight.
He had just finished tidying his room when M. Thibault, who had made a point of returning from Maisons-Laffitte for the funeral, came to fetch him.
He walked beside his father in the cortège. He had a vague sense of almost patronizing superiority as at the church he filed in with the others, amongst all those people who did not know; and, without much emotion, he clasped Lisbeth’s hand.
All that day the concierge’s room was empty. Jacques counted the minutes, waiting for Lisbeth’s return; but he would not own to himself the reason for his impatience, the desire smouldering in the background of his mood.
At four o’clock the bell rang, but when he ran to open the door, it was his Latin tutor. He had quite forgotten he had a lesson that afternoon.
He was listening to his tutor’s explanations of a passage of Horace with an inattentive ear, when the bell rang again. This time it was she. From the threshold she could see the open door of Jacques’ room, and the tutor’s back bent over the table. For a few moments their eyes met, questioning. Jacques had no idea that she had come to say good-bye, that she was leaving by the six o’clock train. She did not dare to speak, but a slight tremor ran through her body and her eyelids quivered. Raising her bandaged finger to her mouth, she came quite close to him and, as if she were already in the train that was to carry her away from him for ever, threw him a hasty kiss, and fled.
The tutor went on with the interrupted lesson.
‘Purpurarum usus means the same thing as purpura qua utuntur. But there’s a shade of difference. Do you feel it?’
Jacques smiled as if he felt it. He was telling himself Lisbeth would be back quite soon and a picture was hovering before his eyes of Lisbeth’s face in the dusk of the hall, and the raised veil, and the kiss she had seemed to snatch with her bandaged finger from her lips, to throw to him.
‘Go on translating,’ the tutor said.
[As regards Parts I and II of THE THIBAULTS the present Translator wishes to acknowledge the assistance he has derived from the previous version by Mr. Stephen Haden Guest.]
The two brothers walked along by the Luxembourg railings. The Senate-house clock had just gone half-past five.
‘Your nerves are on edge,’ Antoine observed. Jacques had been forcing the pace for quite a while, and his brother was ‘rowing tired of it. ‘Sweltering, isn’t it? Looks like a storm brewing.’
Jacques slowed down and took off his hat, which was pinching his temples.
‘Nerves on edge? Not a bit of it. Quite the contrary. You don’t believe me? Well, I’m amazed at my own calmness. Each of the last two nights I’ve slept like a log; so much so that, on awaking, I felt stiff all over. Cool as a cucumber, I assure you. But you shouldn’t have bothered to come with me, you’ve such heaps of things to do. All the more so as Daniel’s going to turn up. Amazing, isn’t it? He came all the way from Cabourg this morning just for me. He telephoned a moment ago to know when the results would be posted. Damned thoughtful he is about things like that. Battaincourt promised to come, too. So, you see, I shan’t be alone.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, in half an hour. . . .’
Yes, his nerves are strung up all right, thought Antoine. Mine too, a bit. Still, as Favery swears he’s in the list——Antoine brushed aside, as in his own case he had always done, all thought of failure. Casting a paternal glance on the youngster beside him, he hummed through closed lips: In my heart, in my heart . . . What that girl Olga was singing this morning; can’t get it out of my head. By Duparc, I fancy. I only hope she doesn’t forget to remind Belin about tapping Number Seven. In my heart tra-la-la . . .
And if I’ve passed, Jacques mused, shall I be really, really pleased? Not so much as they, anyhow, he added to himself, thinking of Antoine and his father.
A memory flashed across his mind.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘the last time I dined at Maisons-Laffitte—I’d just got through the viva voce and my nerves were in rags—when we were at the dinner-table, father suddenly addressed me, with that special look of his, you know: “And what shall we make of you, if you’re ploughed?” ’
The picture faded and another memory crossed his mind. What a state I’m in this afternoon! he thought and, smiling, took his brother’s arm.
‘No, Antoine, there was nothing unusual about that, of course. It was next day, the following morning. Look here, I simply must tell you about it. As I’d nothing to do, father told me to attend M. Crespin’s funeral in his place. Remember? And it was then that something happened—something quite inexplicable. I got there too soon and, as it was raining, I went into the church. I was thoroughly sick, you know, at having my morning spoiled like that; all the same, as you’ll see, that doesn’t really explain it. Well, I entered the church and sat down in an empty row, when—what do you think?—a priest came up and took the chair beside me. Mind you, there were any number of empty chairs; yet this priest deliberately planted himself next to me. He was quite young, still at the seminary, no doubt, smooth shaven and smelling clean, of good mouth-wash—but he had disgusting black gloves and, worst of all, a huge umbrella with a black handle that reeked like a drenched dog. Don’t laugh, Antoine; wait and see! I simply couldn’t get that priest out of my mind. He had his nose buried in a prayer-book and I could just see his lips moving as he followed the service. So far, so good. But, at the elevation, instead of using the kneeling-desk in front of him—that, of course, I’d have understood—he knelt on the ground, prostrated himself on the bare stone slabs. I, meanwhile, remained standing. When he rose he saw me like that and caught my eye; perhaps my attitude may have struck him as provocative. Anyhow I caught a look of pious disapproval on his face and he rolled his eyes upwards—it maddened me, his air of smug superiority. To such a pitch that—I can’t think what possessed me to do it, it’s a mystery to me yet—I drew a visiting-card from my pocket, scrawled a phrase on it and handed it to him.’ (As a matter of fact, all this was make-believe; Jacques had merely fancied at the moment that he might act thus. What prompted him to lie?) ‘He raised his nose from his book, and hesitated; yes, I had positively to force the card into his hand. He glanced at it, stared at me in consternation and then, slipping his hat under his arm, quietly picked up his brolly and—rushed out! You’d have thought he had a lunatic at large beside him. Well, for that matter, I was pretty mad at the moment, it was all I could do to keep a hold on myself. I went away without waiting for the service to end.’
‘But, I say, whatever had you written on the card?’
‘Oh yes, the card. It was so perfectly idiotic I hardly like to tell you. What I wrote was this: I do NOT believe! With a note of exclamation. Underlined. On a visiting-card. A monkey-trick, eh? I do NOT believe!’ His eyes widened, staring ahead. ‘In the first place, can one ever affirm such a thing—positively?’ He stopped speaking for a moment, to watch a smartly dressed young man in mourning, who was crossing at the Medicis corner. When he spoke again his voice sounded brittle, as though he were forcing himself to an odious confession. ‘It’s absurd. Do you know what I’ve been thinking of for the last minute? I was thinking, Antoine, that if you died I’d like to have a close-fitting black suit like the one that fellow there has on. I even, for an instant, longed for your death—impatiently. Now, don’t you think I’ll end my days in a padded cell?’
Antoine merely shrugged his shoulders.
‘It mightn’t be such a bad thing, perhaps,’ Jacques continued. ‘I might try to analyse myself right up to the final stage of madness. I say, that’s an idea! I might write the story of a highly intelligent man who goes mad. Everything he did would be insane, yet he would act only after the most scrupulous deliberation and behave, on his own estimate, with perfect logic. Do you see? I’d install myself in the very centre of his mind, and I’d . . .’
Antoine kept silence. That was another pose he had essayed and it had become a second nature with him. But there was such awareness in his silences that his companions’ thoughts, far from being paralysed, were stimulated by them.
‘Oh, if only I had the time to work, to try out my ideas!’ Jacques sighed. ‘One exam, after another! And I’m twenty already; it’s simply ghastly!’
He lifted his hand to his neck, where the collar-edge chafed the tip of a pimple. Another boil in the making, he mused dolefully; the iodine hasn’t stopped it.
He turned to his brother again.
‘I say, Antoine! When you were twenty, you weren’t childish, were you? I remember you quite well. But I’m different, I never change. Really I feel exactly the same as I was ten years ago. Don’t you agree?’
‘No.’
All the same, Antoine reflected, he’s right about that. Consciousness of continuity; or, better, the continuity of consciousness. Like the old fellow who says, ‘Personally, I was mad keen on leapfrog.’ Same feet, same hands, same old buffer. I, too, that night I had such a fright at Cotterets, that colic attack. Didn’t dare leave my room. Dr. Thibault it was, yes, the doctor himself and no other—our House-physician, a first-rate man, he added complacently, as though he overheard one of his subordinates describing him.
‘Am I boring you?’ asked Jacques, lifting his hat to mop his forehead.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘That’s what it looks like. You hardly answer a word, and listen to me as if I were a fever case.’
‘Oh no, I don’t.’
If, Antoine mused, the ear-douche doesn’t bring the temperature down . . . He was thinking of the boy they had brought to the hospital that morning, the look of agony on his face. In my heart. . . . In my heart tra-la-la.
‘You think I’m feeling nervous,’ Jacques went on. ‘I tell you again, you’re mistaken. I may as well make a clean breast of it; there are moments when I’d almost rather hear I’d failed the entrance!’
‘Why on earth——?’
‘To escape.’
‘To escape? Escape what?’
‘Everything. The whole show. You, them, the whole bunch!’
Instead of uttering the comment that rose to his lips—‘You’re talking nonsense’—Antoine turned to his brother and examined him thoughtfully.
‘To burn my boats,’ Jacques continued, ‘and go away. Oh, if only I could go right away, all by myself, anywhere on earth! Somewhere far away, where I’d have some peace and settle down to work.’ Well knowing that he would never go, he yielded to his daydream with all the greater zest. He paused for a moment, then, with a wry smile, turned to his brother again.
‘And there, there perhaps, but nowhere else, I might bring myself to forgive them.’
Antoine stopped short.
‘Still harping on that, eh?’
‘On what?’
‘Forgive them, you say. Forgive whom, for what? The reformatory?’
Jacques cast a hostile glance at him, shrugged his shoulders and walked on. A lot his stay at Crouy had to do with it! But what was the good of explanations? Antoine would never understand.
And, anyhow, what did this idea of ‘forgiveness’ amount to? Jacques himself could not explain it satisfactorily, though he was always finding himself at grips with a dilemma: to forgive or, alternatively, to cultivate his rancour. To take things as they came, get his degree, become a cogwheel in the machine; or—the other way out—to give full rein to the destructive forces that surged within him and launch himself with the full impetus of his resentment against—against what, he could hardly say; against morality, the cut-and-dried life, the family, society. An ancient grievance, that, and harking back to childhood; a vague awareness that none had known him for what he was, a boy who needed to be properly taken, but, time and again, everyone had failed him. Yes, he was sure of it; had escape been feasible, he would have found that peace of mind which he accused ‘the others’ of frustrating.
‘Once I’d got there, Antoine, I’d work.’
‘ “Got there.” Where, exactly?’
‘There you are—asking me “Where?”! No, Antoine, you can’t understand. You’ve always felt in harmony with other people. You were always satisfied with the path of life you’d chosen.’
Jacques fell to summing up his grown-up brother in terms which usually he held taboo. He saw him as a diligent, contented man. He had energy all right, but what about his brains? The brains of a zoologist. An intellect so positive and so realistic that it had found its natural field in scientific research. An intellect that based its theory of life on the one concept of activity, and with that was satisfied. And—this struck even deeper—an intellect which stripped things of their secret virtue, of all, in a word, that gave significance and beauty to the universe.
‘I’m not a bit like you,’ he burst out passionately and, swerving a little from his brother’s side, walked silently aloof along the kerb.
I’m stifled here, he mused; everything they make me do is loathsome, sickening. The tutors, my fellow-students—all alike! And the things they rave about, their favourite books! Their ‘great modern authors’! Oh, if only someone in the world could guess what I am, my real self—and what I’m out to do. No, no one has a notion of it, not even Daniel. His raging mood had passed. He did not listen to Antoine’s reply. To forget all that has been written up to now! he adjured himself. To get out of the rut and, looking inside oneself, say everything! No one’s ever had the nerve to say everything, as yet. But someone might; I might. . . .
It was hard going up the Rue Soufflot incline in such a temperature, and they slackened speed. Antoine talked on; Jacques was silent. Noticing the contrast, Jacques smiled to himself. After all, he thought, I can never argue with Antoine; either I stand up to him and lose my temper, or else I dig myself in before the arguments he methodically marches up, and hold my tongue. Now, for instance. It’s a sort of low cunning, really; I know that Antoine takes my silence for assent. But it’s not so. Far otherwise. I stick to my guns, my ideas. I don’t care if other people find them muddled; I’m sure, myself, of their soundness and I’ve only got to develop the knack of proving this to others—a matter of getting down to it one day, that’s all. Arguments—they’re easily found. But Antoine rattles on and on, never stops to wonder if there’s any sense in my ideas. All the same, how I do feel lonely! . . . And once again the desire to go away flamed up in him. Wonderful it would be to give up everything, all at once. Rooms left behind! Wonders of setting forth! He smiled again and, throwing a teasing glance at his brother, began to declaim.
Families, I hate you! Closed circles round your hearth!
Fast shut doors. . . .[1]
[1] For this and for the other passages from M. Gide’s Les Nourritures Terrestres cited in this chapter, I have used the authorized translation by Mrs. Dorothy Bussy—Translator.
‘Who’s that by?’
Nathanael, look at everything as you pass by and stop nowhere. . . .
‘By whom?’
‘Oh,’ Jacques exclaimed—the smile had left his lips and he was walking faster—‘that comes from a book that’s to blame for everything, a book in which Daniel has found every sort of excuse—far worse, a panegyric!—for his—his callousness. He’s got it off by heart, while I . . . No’—his voice trembled—‘no, I can’t say I loathe it, but—don’t you see, Antoine?—it’s a book that burns your fingers while you read, and somehow I can never feel at ease with it, so dangerous do I think it.’ With grudging appreciation he repeated: ‘Rooms left behind! Wonders of setting forth!’ When, after a moment’s silence, he spoke again, his voice was changed, had suddenly grown harsh, staccato. ‘I may talk about it—going away. But it’s too late. I shall never be able to get really away.’
‘You talk about “going away,” ’ Antoine replied, ‘as if it meant leaving home for good. And that, obviously, is easier said than done. But why not travel a bit? If you’ve passed the entrance exam, father will be quite agreeable to your going away during the summer.’
Jacques shook his head.
‘Too late.’
What did he mean by that?
‘Surely you don’t propose to spend the two months’ holidays at Maisons-Laffitte, with only father and Mademoiselle?’
‘I do.’
He made an evasive gesture and, now they had crossed the Place du Panthéon and entered the Rue de l’Ulm, he pointed to the groups collecting outside the Ecole Normale. His face darkened.
What a queer character he has! Antoine reflected. He had often made the same observation—indulgently and with unconscious pride. Much as he hated the unforeseen, and despite Jacques’ habit of constantly springing surprises on him, he was for ever trying to make his brother out. Round and about the incoherent phrases Jacques let fall, Antoine’s nimble wits were busy with an intellectual gymnastics, which not only amused him but enabled him (so he imagined) to read the riddle of the boy’s personality. Unfortunately, no sooner did Antoine see himself adding the crowning touch to his diagnosis of the boy’s mind than Jacques would utter some new remark that upset all his inferences. A fresh start had to be made, leading him more often than not towards entirely different conclusions. The result was that, for Antoine, every conversation with his brother involved a sequence of improvised and incompatible deductions, the last of which he always took to be decisive.
The grim façade of the Ecole Normale was looming above them, and Antoine, turning to Jacques, cast a long, meditative look at him. Reading between the lines, he reassured himself, you can see the youngster appreciates family life far better than he imagines.
The gate was open now, and the quadrangle crowded. At the vestibule entrance Daniel de Fontanin was talking to a blond young man.
‘If it’s Daniel who spots us first,’ Jacques murmured to himself, ‘that means I’ve passed.’ But Fontanin and Battaincourt turned simultaneously when Antoine hailed them.
‘Not too nervy?’ Daniel enquired.
‘Not in the least.’
(If, thought Jacques, he mentions Jenny’s name, it means I’ve passed.)
‘This quarter of an hour’s suspense before the results are posted,’ Antoine observed, ‘is simply damnable.’
‘I wonder now!’ Daniel demurred. He took a childish delight in contradicting Antoine, whom he addressed as ‘Doctor’ and whose precocious gravity amused him. ‘There’s always a spice of pleasure in suspense.’
Antoine shrugged his shoulders and turned towards his brother.
‘Hear what he says? . . . Personally,’ he continued, ‘I’ve been through this sort of suspense fourteen or fifteen times, but I’ve never managed to get used to it. What’s more, I’ve noticed that the fellows who put on an air of stoicism on such occasions are nearly always the second-raters, weaklings.’
‘The joys of hope deferred are not for everyone,’ Daniel oracled. When he addressed the doctor there was a glint of mockery in his eyes that softened to tenderness as they turned to Jacques.
Antoine insisted.
‘I’m speaking in earnest. A strong man finds uncertainty intolerable. True courage isn’t just a matter of facing events with coolness; it’s going out to meet them half way, so as to take their bearings at the earliest moment, and act accordingly. Isn’t that so, Jacques?’
‘No, I’m more inclined to agree with Daniel,’ Jacques replied, though he had not been listening. And, as Daniel went on talking to Antoine, he slipped in a leading question, aware that he was cheating destiny.
‘Are your mother and sister still at Maisons-Laffitte?’
Daniel did not hear, and, in the act of dinning the thought ‘I’m ploughed’ into his head, Jacques realized how solid was his faith in his success. Father’ll be delighted, he thought and, smiling at the prospect, bestowed the smile on Battaincourt.
‘Very decent of you to come to-day, Simon.’
Battaincourt glanced towards him affectionately; he made no secret of his fervent cult of Daniel’s friend, an adoration which sometimes irritated Jacques, since he could not respond to it with a friendship of equal warmth. . . .
The hubbub in the quadrangle ceased abruptly. A roll of white paper had flashed into view at one of the windows. Jacques had a vague impression of being swept off his feet, borne by a wave towards the fateful scroll.
A buzzing in his ears; then Antoine’s voice.
‘Passed! Third on the list!’
Warm, vibrant with life, the voice rang for a moment in his ears, but he did not grasp the meaning of the words till, looking timidly round, he saw the jubilation on his brother’s face. Then, lifting a clammy hand, he fumbled with his hat; sweat was pouring down his forehead. Daniel and Battaincourt were edging round the crowd towards him. Daniel’s eyes were on him and, scanning his friend as he approached, Jacques noticed how his raised upper lip bared his teeth, though no other feature showed the least trace of a smile.
A murmur grew, filling the place with sound; and life went on its way again. Jacques drew a deep breath, and the blood once more flowed freely through his limbs. He had a sudden vision of dangers ahead, a pitfall. ‘Trapped!’ he murmured. Then other thoughts welled up. He seemed to live again some seconds of his Greek viva voce, the crucial moment when he made that slip; the tablecloth rose green before his eyes, with the examiner’s thumb splayed flat on the Choëphori, his bulging nail flaked like a shred of horn.
‘Who is first?’
He did not hear the name that Battaincourt announced. I’d have been first, he thought, if I’d tumbled to asylum, shrine. Wardens of the domestic shrine. Then, again and again, he struggled to reconstruct the train of thoughts which had misled him to that appalling blunder.
‘Wake up, doctor! Try to look pleased!’
Daniel clapped Antoine on the shoulder and Antoine deigned to smile. For that was Antoine’s way; pleasure for him almost always involved a feeling of constraint, for the gravity of his demeanour precluded any show of gaiety. It was otherwise with Daniel; his gaiety was untrammelled. He seemed to find an almost sensual pleasure in poring on the faces of his friends, his neighbours, and, above all, the women present, mothers or sisters, whose artless affection frankly betrayed itself in every accent, every gesture.
Glancing at his watch, Antoine turned to his brother.
‘Well? Anything more to do here?’
Jacques gave a start.
‘What? No, rather not!’ He looked dejected; he had just realized that inadvertently—at the moment when the results were posted, most likely—he had made the pimple on his lip, which for a week past had spoilt his appearance, start bleeding again.
‘Then let’s be off,’ Antoine proposed. ‘I’ve a patient to see before dinner.’
As they left the quadrangle, they saw Favery hurrying up to greet them. He was jubilant.
‘There you are! I told you I’d heard your French Composition was a fine piece of work.’
Favery had left the Ecole Normale a year previously and, eschewing provincial posts, had got himself nominated to a temporary vacancy at the Lycée Saint-Louis. He did coaching in his off-hours by day so that by night he might enjoy the life of Paris. Teaching did not appeal to him, his preferences went to journalism, with a secret hankering after politics.
It came to Jacques’ mind that Favery was fairly intimate with the examiner in Greek, and again a picture of the green tablecloth and the examiner’s finger flashed across his mind; he felt his cheeks reddening with shame. That, nevertheless, he’d passed had not yet dawned on him; he experienced no sense of relief, rather a mood of listlessness, with occasional bursts of rage whenever he recalled his blunder or the pimple on his lip.
Daniel and Battaincourt linked their arms in his and swung him along, to a dancing lilt, towards the Panthéon. Antoine and Favery followed behind.
‘My alarm goes off at six-thirty,’ Favery explained, ‘standing in a saucer poised precariously upon a tumbler.’ His voice was loud, his laugh complacent. ‘I curse a bit, open an eye, switch on the light; then I move on the hand to seven o’clock and go to sleep again, clasping the infernal machine against my chest. Presently the house, the whole neighbourhood, is rocked by an earthquake; I damn-its-eyes, but disobey. I give myself till five past, then ten, then a quarter-past, and, when it’s two minutes over the quarter, I allow myself till twenty past—to make it a round figure. At long last I scramble out of bed. All my things are spread out ready—like a fireman’s kit—on three chairs. At seven twenty-eight I’m in the street; naturally I’ve had no time for breakfast or a wash. Just four minutes remain to catch my metro. At eight o’clock I’m standing at my desk and the cramming process begins. You know when I get away. I have to find time for a tub, for dressing and looking up friends. How the devil am I to do any work?’
Antoine listened with half an ear, while his eyes roved in quest of a taxi. He turned to his brother.
‘Dining with me, Jacques?’
‘Jacques is having dinner with us,’ Daniel protested.
‘No, no,’ Jacques exclaimed. ‘I’m dining with Antoine to-night.’ And to himself he added with impatience: ‘Won’t they ever leave me in peace, confound it? For one thing, I’ve got to put some more iodine on my boil.’
Favery put in a suggestion.
‘Let’s all have dinner together.’
‘Where?’
‘Any old place. How about Packmell’s?’
Jacques demurred.
‘No. Not to-night. I’m tired.’
‘Tiresome old thing!’ murmured Daniel, slipping his arm in Jacques’. ‘Doctor, you’ll join us at Packmell’s, won’t you?’
Antoine had secured a taxi. He turned towards them, obviously in two minds.
‘What sort of a place is Packmell’s?’
Favery drew a bow at a venture.
‘Not by any means what you think . . .’
Antoine looked at Daniel questioningly.
Packmell’s?’ Daniel said. ‘Hard to classify, isn’t it, Batt, old boy? Quite out of the ordinary run of cabarets. More like a well-conducted boarding-house. Certainly the bar functions from five to eight, but at eight-thirty the bar-flies flit with one accord, leaving the field to the “regulars.” The tables are run together and we all dine off a vast and highly decorous tablecloth, with Mother Packmell in the seat of honour. A good band; pretty girls. What more can you want? So that’s that. You will meet us at Packmell’s?’
Antoine rarely went out at night; he led laborious days and reserved his evenings for examination work. To-day, however, he did not feel in the mood for haematology. To-morrow would be Sunday; Monday, the daily round began again. Occasionally he took a Saturday evening off and plotted out a night’s amusement. Packmell’s appealed to him. Pretty girls. . . .
‘Have it your own way!’ His voice was studiously indifferent. ‘Where is it by the way?’
‘Rue Monsigny. We’ll look out for you up to half-past eight.’
‘I’ll be there long before that,’ said Antoine, slamming the taxi door.
Jacques made no protest; his brother’s assent had changed his outlook and, moreover, he always took a secret pleasure in giving in to Daniel’s caprices.
‘Shall we walk there?’ Battaincourt asked.
‘Personally, I’m taking the metro,’ said Favery, stroking his chin. ‘I’ll change in a jiffy and meet you there.’
Paris was stifling in a sultry heat, presaging storm, the heat-wave which so often ends July, when at each nightfall the air grows drab and dense—with dust and vapours, indistinguishably.
They had a good half-hour’s walk before them. Battaincourt came up to Jacques’ side.
‘So now you’ve started on the path of glory!’ There was no irony in his voice.
Jacques made a petulant gesture; Daniel smiled. Though Battaincourt was five years older than himself, Daniel regarded him as a mere child, and the very quality which so irritated Jacques—his incorrigible naïvety—endeared him to Daniel. He recalled the days when they used to ask Battaincourt to recite, and the latter, planted on the hearthrug, would declaim:
O sleek-haired Corsican, how fair thy France
Under the sun of Messidor . . . !
The would-be Napoleonic gesture that accompanied this exordium always set them loudly laughing, but their hilarity never shook Battaincourt’s simple faith.
In those days Simon de Battaincourt, a new-comer to Paris from the city in Northern France where his father, a Colonel, lived, used to wear a black, close-fitting coat, which he had had specially built to order, as being most seemly for a student at the Paris School of Divinity. The budding clergyman was at that period a frequent visitor at Mme. de Fontanin’s house; she made a point of encouraging his visits as Colonel de Battaincourt’s wife had been one of her childhood’s friends.
‘I can’t stick this Latin Quarter of yours!’ exclaimed the ex-divinity student, who now lived near the Etoile, wore light suits and had quarrelled with his people over the fantastic marriage on which his heart was set. He was now employed, at a salary of four hundred francs a month, cataloguing engravings in Ludwigson’s Art Gallery, where Daniel had found him a post.
Raising his eyes, Jacques looked around him. His gaze fell on an ancient flower-vendor, squatting behind her basket of roses; he had passed her earlier in the day, when he was with Antoine, but then he had observed her with brooding eyes, aloof from all distractions of things seen. Recalling their walk together up the Rue Soufflot, he suddenly felt that he missed something, as if some familiar thing was lacking, like a ring that he had always worn. The feeling of unrest which had haunted him for the past three weeks, and, less than an hour since, weighed on his every step, had vanished, leaving behind a void that was almost pain. For the first time since the results were out, he took the measure of his success; but it left him dazed and broken, as though he had fallen from a height.
‘Anyhow, you had some sea-bathing, I suppose,’ Battaincourt was saying to Daniel.
Jacques turned to his friend.
‘Yes, by Jove!’ he exclaimed, and his eyes grew tender. ‘To think you came back all on my account! Had a good time down there?’
‘Far better than I’d any reason to expect,’ Daniel replied.
Jacques smiled ruefully.
‘As usual!’
The look that passed between them was the aftermath of a long-standing controversy.
Jacques’ affection for Daniel had an astringent quality, far different from the easy-going friendship Daniel accorded him. ‘You’re far more exacting where I’m concerned,’ Daniel once remarked, ‘than for yourself. You’ve never fallen in with the life I lead.’ ‘No,’ Jacques had answered, ‘I’ve nothing against your way of living; what I cannot bear is the attitude you have adopted towards life.’ And therein lay the source of many a quarrel in the past.
After Daniel had taken his degree, he had refused to follow any beaten track. His father was away and did not trouble about him. His mother left him free to choose his path; she respected strength of will in any form and was fortified by her mystical faith that all was for the best where her children—and, in general, the family—were concerned. Above all she wished her son to feel free and under no obligation of earning money to better the fortunes of his family. Nevertheless, Daniel could not ignore his duty. His inability to help his mother had preyed upon his mind for two consecutive years and he had anxiously cast about for ways and means of reconciling duty to his kin with other and more urgent needs that shaped his conduct. Scruples whose complexity even Jacques was far from appreciating. The truth was that—judging by the haphazard way in which Daniel had set about learning his art, unaided, taking instinct (mere caprice, it often seemed) as his only guide, painting so little, drawing little more, sometimes shutting himself up all day with a model, only to cover half the pages of an album with outline sketches, and then not touching a pencil again for weeks on end—the truth was that few indeed would have suspected the sublime faith he felt in his talent, and in his future. A tacit self-esteem untainted by conceit; he waited for the day when, in the long process of unalterable law, all that was best in him would find a medium of expression; for he was certain of his destiny—that of a first-rate painter. When and by what path would he win to that high estate? He had no notion and, judging by his conduct, did not greatly care; ‘We must let life take charge,’ he proclaimed, and followed his precept to the letter. Not without twinges of remorse, however; but his timorous reversions to his mother’s moral code had been short-lived and never restrained him effectively from following his bent. ‘Even when in the past two years my conscience pricked me most acutely,’ he once wrote to Jacques (he was eighteen at the time), ‘I can swear I never reached the point of being genuinely ashamed of myself. What is more, when in those hours of doubt I blamed myself for yielding to temptation, I actually felt far less angry with myself than later on, when life had taken charge again, and I recalled my puerile gestures of self-restraint and abnegation.’
Soon after this letter was written, Daniel happened to share a compartment in a suburban train with another passenger (known to them thereafter as ‘the Man in the Train’), who can assuredly have had no inkling of the repercussions that brief encounter was to have upon the early life of two young people.
Daniel was returning from the Versailles Park where he had lounged away a fine October afternoon under the shadows of the trees. He jumped into a carriage just as the train was leaving. As chance would have it, the face of the elderly man sitting opposite him was not entirely unfamiliar; their paths had crossed that afternoon in the Trianon shrubberies and Daniel had observed him with some interest. He welcomed the chance of examining the man at his leisure. A near view of the traveller gave the impression of a much younger man; though his hair was white, he could be little more than fifty. A short white beard set off effectively the oval of a face whose symmetry enhanced its gentle charm. His complexion, hands and bearing, the cut of the summery suit he wore, the exotic shade of his tie and, above all, the clear blue gaze, vibrant with life and light, that he cast on all about him—all gave the impression of a quite young man. The book whose leaves he was turning with a practised hand was bound in flimsy leather like a guide-book, and the cover bore no title. Between Suresnes and Saint-Cloud he rose and, going into the corridor, leaned forth to contemplate the panorama of Paris, flecked with gold under the fires of sunset. Then, drawing back, he leaned against the inner window, behind which Daniel sat. The hands that held the cryptic book were level now with Daniel’s eyes, only the pane of glass intervened; plastic hands, emotional yet listless—a thinker’s hands. The fingers moved, half-opening the book, and on a page flattened against the glass Daniel could read a few phrases.
Nathanael, I will teach you fervour . . .
A throbbing, lawless life. . . .
A harrowing existence, Nathanael, rather than tranquillity.
The book slipped aside, but not before Daniel had caught a glimpse of the title heading the page: Les Nourritures Terrestres.
What could this be: ‘Fruits of the Earth’? He visited a series of booksellers that evening, only to find that they knew nothing of the book. Would ‘the man in the train’ keep his secret to himself? ‘A harrowing existence,’ Daniel repeated to himself, ‘rather than tranquillity.’ Next morning he hastened to examine all the catalogues available in the arcades of the Odéon and, a few hours later, shut himself up in his room with his new acquisition.
The whole afternoon went to its perusal and he read it at one sitting. He left the house at nightfall. Never had his mind been in such ferment, uplifted by such splendid visions. He walked on and on, taking long strides—a conqueror’s progress. Night came on. He had been following the bank of the Seine and was very far from home. He dined off a roll and returned; the book lay on his table, awaiting him. Should he, or should he not . . . ? Daniel dared not open it again. Finally he went to bed, but not to sleep. At last he capitulated and, wrapping a dressing-gown around him, slowly read the book once more, from beginning to end. He well knew that this was a momentous hour for him, that at the deepest levels of his consciousness a slow, mysterious process of gestation was at work. When with the dawn he turned, for the second time, the final page, he found that now he looked on life with new eyes.
I have boldly laid my hands everywhere, and believed I had a right to every object of my desire . . .
Desires are profitable, and profitable the surfeiting of desires—for so they are increased.
He realized how in a flash the burden that his upbringing had laid on him—the obsession of moral standards—had been lifted; the word ‘sin’ had changed its meaning.
We must act without considering whether the action is right or wrong: love, without troubling whether what we love is good or evil.
Feelings to which hitherto he had yielded grudgingly, if at all, suddenly broke free and beckoned him on; in the brief period of a night the scale of moral values which from his earliest days had seemed immutable went up in flames. Next day he felt a man baptized anew. As, stage by stage, he repudiated everything he had hitherto held true beyond all question, a miracle of peace allayed the forces that, until now, had grappled with his soul.
Daniel spoke of his great discovery to none but Jacques, and to Jacques only after a long while. It was one of the bosom secrets of the friends; they thought of it as all but a religious mystery and alluded to it only in veiled terms. Nevertheless, for all Daniel’s zealotry, Jacques obstinately refused to be inoculated with his friend’s cult. And, in refusing to quench his thirst at this too heady spring, he saw himself making a stand against his instincts and gaining thus in strength and personal integrity. But he well knew the book gave Daniel the régime, the ‘fruits of the earth,’ that suited him, and Jacques’ resistance was accompanied by feelings of envy and despair.
‘So you look on Ludwigson as one of nature’s freaks, eh?’ Battaincourt was saying.
‘Ludwigson, my dear Batt.——’ Daniel began explaining.
Jacques shrugged his shoulders and fell back behind his friends. The Ludwigson of whom they spoke—Daniel had just come back from a short stay at his place—had earned the reputation in the various centres where he had established himself of being one of the ‘warmest’ art-dealers in Europe, and had been for some time past a bone of contention between Jacques and his friend. Jacques could never stomach the notion that Daniel should, directly or indirectly—even to earn his living—take part in the schemes promoted by this dealer. But no one, not even Jacques, could ever boast of having dissuaded Daniel from any venture on which his heart was set. In the case of Ludwigson, the man’s intelligence and tireless activity—carried to a pitch that made insomnia a habit with him—the contempt for luxury and, up to a point, of money too, evinced by this merchant-prince who found his life’s interest in adventuring and winning, the efficiency of this big-business-man whose career evoked the picture of a fiery brand, shaken by the wind, smoky yet dazzling, too—everything about the man seemed wildly interesting to Daniel. In fact it was curiosity more than necessity that led him to agree to work for this modern buccaneer.
Jacques remembered the day when Daniel first confronted Ludwigson; two races, two cultures, met face to face. He had chanced to drop in at the studio which Daniel was sharing with some friends as impecunious as himself. Ludwigson entered without knocking, and countered Daniel’s indignant outburst with a smile; then brusquely, without making himself known or taking a chair, he drew a pocket-book from his pocket, with the gesture of a high-comedy actor tossing his purse to an underling, and offered ‘the gentleman present whose name is Fontanin’ a salary of six hundred francs a month as from that day, for the next three years, provided that he, Ludwigson, Proprietor of the Ludwigson Art Galleries and Manager of Messrs. Ludwigson & Co., Art-Dealers, should have sole rights in all the works of art produced by M. Fontanin during this period, the said works to be signed in the artist’s hand, and dated. Daniel, least industrious of artists, who had never exhibited or sold a single sketch, had never understood how Ludwigson had come to form so flattering an opinion of his talents as to justify the offer. In any case he was resolved to be sole arbiter of his output and well aware that, had he closed with the offer, he would have taken Ludwigson’s money only on furnishing month by month a sufficiency of pictures, ample to cover the salary proposed. But it was one of his pet theories that work should be performed joyfully, without constraint. So, to the stupefaction of his fellow-artists, he had shown Ludwigson the door with icy politeness, and, giving him no time to collect his wits, had made the dealer beat a retreat on to the landing as quickly as he had come.
But that was not the end of it. Ludwigson returned to the attack, but with more tactful strategy, and some months later a business connexion had been established between the dealer and Daniel—somewhat to the latter’s amusement. Ludwigson was the editor of a sumptuous art magazine appearing in three languages; he asked Daniel to select the French articles for publication. The young man’s character had pleased him from the start and he was impressed by the excellence of Daniel’s taste. The work was far from boring and Daniel devoted his spare time to it. Very soon he had complete charge of the French section of the magazine. Ludwigson, always lavish in his personal expenditure, made a point of engaging few but carefully selected associates, giving them a free hand, and paying their work on a generous scale. Daniel, though he had laid no claim to it, was soon being paid the same salary as the English and German collaborators. As he had to earn his living, he preferred an avocation wholly independent of his artistic career. Moreover, some of his drawings (Ludwigson arranged a private show for him) had already made good with certain connoisseurs. The advantages he derived from his association with the picture-dealer enabled him not only to contribute to the welfare of his mother and sister, but to lead the easy life he liked, without being tied down to any rigid task or encroaching on the hours of freedom essential to his true calling.
Jacques caught up his friends at the Boulevard Saint-Germain crossing.
‘. . . the priceless experience,’ Daniel was saying, ‘of being introduced to the dowager Madame Ludwigson.’
‘Why, I never dreamt that Ludwigson of yours had ever had a mother!’ Jacques observed, by way of joining in the conversation.
‘Nor did I,’ Daniel concurred. ‘And what a mother! Try and imagine—no, only a sketch would do her justice. I’ve done several, but not from life, worse luck! Imagine a mummy tricked out by some clown to do a circus turn. An old Egyptian Jew, at least a hundred years old, bloated with gout and natural fat, reeking of fried onions, who wears mittens, has pet names for her footmen, calls her son bambino, lives on bread soused in red wine and passes the unwary visitor a tobacco-jar——’
‘So the old lady fancies a pipe?’ Battaincourt broke in.
‘No, it contains—snuff! The old creature’s always dribbling black powder on the mass of diamonds with which Ludwigson’s thought fit—why, God alone knows—to plaster her dewlaps.’ A quaint analogy struck him and he paused to find words for it. ‘Like the lanterns they post round a house that’s being pulled down.’
Jacques grinned; he was always taken by Daniel’s flow of spirits.
‘And what did he want to get out of you when he revealed the skeleton in his cupboard?’
‘You’ve guessed it! He has a new scheme up his sleeve. Wonderful chap he is!’
‘Wonderful, yes; because he’s so damned rich. If he were poor he’d be no better than a——’
Daniel cut him short.
‘Leave it at that, if you don’t mind. I like him. And he’s hit on a sound idea; a series of monographs, Great Masters in their Paintings. That’s his long suit: lavishly illustrated hand-books at astounding prices.’
Jacques listened no longer; he felt peevish, out of spirits. Over-tired, perhaps, after the day’s emotions. Or was it vexation at having been let in for this evening’s jaunt, when he so longed for solitude? Or just the chafing of his collar on his neck?
Battaincourt slipped between the two friends. He was waiting for a chance of asking them to act as witnesses at his wedding. For months past, by night and by day, that event had loomed large in his thoughts and under the fever of his desire his bloodless features were visibly wasting away. Now, at last, he had not long to wait. The period set by law to the parental veto had just run out, and, that very morning, the date of his wedding had been fixed. In two weeks’ time. . . The thought of it brought the blood to his cheeks; he turned away to hide his blush, took off his hat and mopped his forehead.
‘Don’t move!’ cried Daniel. ‘It’s fantastic how, in profile, you’re the living image of a deer—d double e r, of course!’ And, indeed, Battaincourt had a long nose which almost joined his lip, arched nostrils, round eyes and, just then, a wisp of towy hair matted with sweat, that curled up into a little tapering horn above his forehead.
Battaincourt replaced his hat mournfully and let his eyes roam across the Place du Carrousel and Trajan’s Arch towards the Tuileries Garden, where the dust glowed red.
Poor little belling deer, Daniel mused. Who’d have believed him capable of such a passion? There he goes, a traitor to all his principles, quarrelling with his people, and all for that woman! A widow, fourteen years his senior, a shop-soiled widow—attractive, I grant, but shop-soiled. He smiled inwardly, remembering the afternoon last autumn when Simon had badgered him into meeting the fascinating widow—and the sequel of their meeting a week later. . . . Well, anyhow he could honestly say he had done his utmost to restrain Battaincourt from that act of folly. But he was at grips with blind instinct and, since he deferred to passion wherever he encountered it, he had confined himself to steering clear of the lady in question and watching the developments of his friend’s matrimonial venture from a safe distance.
‘For a conquering hero you look pretty glum,’ observed Battaincourt, who, aggrieved by Daniel’s mockery, hoped for amends from Jacques.
‘Don’t you realize that he wanted to be ploughed?’ Daniel suggested. He was surprised by the pensive look in Jacques’ eyes and, approaching him, laid his hand on his shoulder, murmuring with a smile: “for each thing has a special and a different value.” ’
The words sufficed to bring back the whole passage—Daniel used often to repeat it—to Jacques’ mind.
Woe betide you if you say your happiness is dead because you had not dreamt it would take that shape! . . . Your dream of to-morrow is a delight—but to-morrow has a delight of its own—and nothing, fortunately, is like the dream we have dreamt of it, for each thing has a special and a different value.
Jacques smiled.
‘Give me a cigarette.’
He tried to shake off his lethargy, for Daniel’s sake. ‘Your dream of to-morrow is a delight. . . .’ And indeed he seemed to feel delight, as yet evasive, hovering round him. To-morrow? Ah, to wake and see, across his open window, the sun rise level with the tree-tops! To-morrow; Maisons-Laffitte, and the cool shadows of the woods!
Nothing in the sleepy street near the Paris Opera, nothing except a file of cars drawn up along the kerb called the attention of passers-by to an anonymous cabaret with close-drawn blinds. A page swung round the revolving doors to let them through and Daniel made way for Jacques and Battaincourt to pass, as though he were receiving them at his own house.
Some discreet exclamations greeted Daniel’s arrival. Few of the patrons of the place knew his real name; to everyone he was the ‘Prophet.’ Just now the cabaret was rather empty. Behind the bar, in the alcove whence a slender spiral staircase, painted white and edged with gold to match the panelling of the room, led up to Mme. Packmell’s quarters on the next floor, a piano, violin and ’cello were playing the hits of the season. The tables had been pushed back against the grey plush settles that flanked the walls and a few couples were dancing a boston on the purple carpet under the last gleams of the sunset filtering through the lace curtains. Close under the ceiling fan-blades droned monotonously, fluttering the pendants of the chandeliers, green foliage of palms, and lifting trailing clouds of muslin about the dancing couples.
Jacques, always swept off his feet by a first glimpse of new surroundings, meekly followed Daniel to a table from which the two rooms could be observed in vista. A group of girls in the further room had pounced on Battaincourt and he had already begun to dance.
‘You always need screwing up to the point,’ Daniel said. ‘Now that you are here, I’m sure you’ll like it. Now, own up, isn’t it a homely, cheery little dive?’
‘Order a cocktail for me,’ Jacques broke in on his encomium. ‘You know the sort—with milk, red-currant juice and lemon-peel in it.’
Young women in white dresses served the customers; they were known as the ‘Nurse-girls.’
‘Shall I give you a little “Who’s Who” of some of these people?’ Daniel asked, changing his seat and coming to sit by Jacques. ‘That fair woman over there, in blue, to begin with—she’s the boss. “Mother Packmell” we call her, though, as you see, she’s still quite a fetching wench! She’s here, there and everywhere all night long, with the same old smile on her face, amongst her bright young things—rather like a fashionable dressmaker showing off her mannequins. See that dark chap over there who’s saying “How do you do?” to her? Now he’s talking to a pale little kid, the girl who was dancing with Battaincourt just now—no, nearer us; that’s Paule, the fair young girl who looks like an angel—a slightly, ever so slightly tarnished angel. Look, what’s that queer-looking dope she’s swilling now, might be green curaçoa? The chap who’s standing, talking to her, is Nivolsky, the painter, quite a fine fellow in his way; a knave and a liar, but for all that chivalrous as a knight of old! Whenever he turns up late for an appointment he says he’s just been fighting a duel, and, for the moment, genuinely believes it. He borrows money right and left and is always broke, but he has talent; he pays his bills with pictures. This is his system, in a nutshell. He spends the summer in the country and paints a strip of road on a canvas fifty yards long—complete with trees, farm-carts, cyclists, a sunset and so on; then, in the winter he retails his road in driblets proportioned to the money owed and his creditor’s standing. He says he’s Russian and owner of heaven knows how many “souls.” So, you see, during the Russo-Japanese war, everyone was pulling his leg for staying in Montmartre and indulging in tap-room patriotism. Know what he did? He cleared out, vanished for a year, and returned only after the fall of Port Arthur, bringing with him a sheaf of war-photos; his pockets bulged with them.
‘ “Just observe, old chap,” he’d say, “this battery in action. Do you see that big rock at the back? And just behind the rock the business end of a rifle? Well, old chap, I was behind that rifle.” The trouble was that he brought back several crates of sketches, too, and during the next two years he always paid his debts with landscapes of Sicily. Hullo! He’s twigged that I’m talking about him; he’s flattered. Watch, and you’ll see him go through his paces!’
Jacques, resting his elbow on the table, kept silence. In such moods his face seemed emptied of intelligence; with his dull eyes and slightly parted lips he had the look of an animal, brooding and lethargic. Listening to his friend’s chatter, he watched Nivolsky and the girl, Paule. She had a vanity-box in her hand and, pouting her lips, dabbed them with a lipstick, to which her fingers gave a brisk little twirl, as though she meant to bore a hole with it. As the painter watched her, he kept swinging her bag round and round his finger. It was obvious that theirs was merely a cabaret acquaintanceship; nevertheless, she touched his hands and knee, and set his tie straight. Once, when he leaned towards her confidentially, she pressed her little white hand against his face and teasingly pushed him away. Jacques’ senses tingled.
Not far from her a dark woman was sitting by herself, huddled up at the far end of the settee, her black satin cloak drawn tightly round her as though she feared the cold; her ardent gaze was riveted on Paule, who showed no sign of being aware of it.
Jacques’ brooding eyes rested on all these folk; was he studying them, or building fancies round them? He had only to watch any one of them for a while, to surmise in him or her a maelstrom of emotions. Moreover, he did not seek to analyse the feelings he read into each and could not have put his intuitions into words; he was far too taken by the spectacle before his eyes to double his personality and register his impressions. But, anyhow, this sense of communion, real or illusive, with other beings gave him unbounded pleasure.
‘Who is that tall woman talking to the barman?’ he asked.
‘In peacock blue, with a necklace down to her knees?’
‘Yes. What a cruel face!’
‘That’s Marie-Josèphe; a name that would become an empress. Fine-looking woman, eh? There’s a funny history to those pearls of hers. Are you listening?’ With a smile Daniel turned to his friend. ‘She was kept by Reyvil, the perfume-king’s son. Now Reyvil had a lawful, if unfaithful, spouse at home, who was Josse, the banker’s mistress. . . . Look here, are you listening?’
‘Yes, yes—with all my ears.’
‘Well, you look half asleep. Josse is immensely rich and one day he was moved to make a present of some pearls to his mistress, Mme. Reyvil. The problem was how to do so without putting her husband’s back up. But Josse is as cute as you make ’em. He faked up a lottery in aid of the White Slaves’ Rescue League, persuaded M. Reyvil, the husband, to take ten tickets at a franc each, and saw to it that Reyvil won the necklace intended for Mme. Reyvil. But then the trouble began. Reyvil wrote to Josse to thank him, but added a postscript asking him not to breathe a word about the lottery to Mme. Reyvil as he had just given the pearls to his mistress, Marie-Josèphe. But there’s more to come—the end of the story goes one better. Josse saw red; his one idea was to have the necklace back or, failing that, to have the lady who was wearing it. And, three months later, he’d dropped Mme. Reyvil and cut out his dear friend Reyvil with Marie-Josèphe—exchanged the pearlless wife for the pearl-decked mistress. So now the worthy Reyvil, who has completely forgotten that the necklace only cost him ten paltry francs, declaims in season and out of season against the unspeakableness of the demi-rep! Hullo, Werff!’ He paused to shake hands with a handsome youth who had just come in, greeted from the far end of the room with cries of ‘Apricot! Hi, Apricot!’
‘You know each other, don’t you?’ Daniel asked Jacques, who held out his hand somewhat ungraciously to the new-comer. ‘Good morrow, fair lady!’ Daniel continued, as Paule, the Russian painter’s anaemic companion, walked past; and stooped to kiss her hand. ‘May I introduce my friend Thibault?’ he added. Jacques rose. The girl’s neurotic eyes just glanced at Jacques, lingered more intently on Daniel’s face; she seemed about to address him, then changed her mind and walked away.
‘Do you come here often?’ Jacques enquired.
‘No. Well . . . yes; several times a week. A habit. And yet, as a rule, I get tired of seeing the same people, the same place, pretty quickly. I like to feel that life is moving on . . .’
Suddenly Jacques remembered, ‘I’ve passed!’—and drew a deep breath. An idea flashed through his mind.
‘Do you know when the Maisons-Laffitte telegraph-office shuts down?’
‘It’s closed by now. But, if you send a wire at once, your father will get it first thing in the morning.’
Jacques beckoned to a page.
‘Telegraph form, please.’
He scribbled the telegram in such feverish haste, and this belated eagerness to announce his success was so like Jacques, that Daniel smiled and leant over his friend’s shoulder; but only to draw back hastily, surprised and even annoyed by his unwitting tactlessness. He had read, not M. Thibault’s address, but: Mme. de Fontanin, Chemin de la Forêt, Maisons-Laffitte.
A buzz of curiosity had greeted the appearance of an elderly dame, a familiar figure at the cabaret, who had just come in accompanied by a pretty, dark girl whose observant air, though in no wise timid, gave the impression that this was her first visit to the place.
‘Hullo, something new!’ Daniel murmured under his breath.
Werff, who happened to be passing, smiled.
‘Don’t you know? Ma Juju’s launching a “deb.” ’
‘Damned pretty little thing, anyhow,’ commented Daniel after taking a good look at her.
Jacques turned. Yes, she was really charming, with her bright eyes, natural complexion and general air of not ‘belonging’ here. Her gauzy dress was of the palest pink; she wore no ornaments, no jewels. Beside her even the youngest women present looked tawdry.
Daniel had returned to his seat beside Jacques.
‘You should secure a close-up view of Ma Juju,’ he suggested. ‘I know her well; she’s quite a character. Nowadays she enjoys a social standing of sorts; she has quite a nice flat and an at-home day, indulges in evening parties and gives young girls their start in life. Her peculiarity was that she would never let a man keep her; she was just a nice little prostitute and never tried to better herself. For thirty years she figured on the Police Register and plied her trade between the Madeleine and Rue Drouot. But her life fell into two compartments; from 9 a.m. till 5 p.m. she went as Madame Barbin and led a quiet middle-class existence in a ground-floor flat in Rue Richer, with a hanging lamp, a housemaid and all the household cares of that walk of life—accounts to keep, the stock-markets to be watched with an eye to her investments, servant troubles, family ties, nephews and nieces, birthdays, and, to crown all, a children’s party round the Christmas-tree. It’s gospel truth. Then at five each evening, wet or fine, she doffed her flannel camisole for a smart tailor-made coat and skirt and sallied forth, without the least compunction, on her beat; Madame Barbin had changed to Juju, pretty lady, a keen worker, ever cheerful, never glum, and a familiar, well-liked client of all the accommodating hotels along the boulevards.’
Jacques could not take his eyes off ‘Ma Juju.’ With her laughing, energetic, rather cunning face, she had the genial aspect of a country parish priest; her bobbed hair showed snow-white beneath a wideawake hat.
‘Without the least compunction . . .’ Jacques repeated pensively.
‘Of course,’ said Daniel. There was a touch of raillery, almost of aggressiveness in his manner as, glancing towards Jacques, he murmured Whitman’s lines.
You prostitutes flaunting over the trottoirs or obscene in your rooms,
Who am I that I should call you more obscene than myself?
Daniel knew he was administering a shock to Jacques’ modesty and he did it deliberately, for it irritated him to see how easily Jacques, for months on end—was it by way of a reaction against his friend’s loose living?—endured a life of all but perfect chastity. Daniel was simple-minded enough, indeed, to be greatly upset about it and he knew that Jacques, too, was sometimes rather uneasy about the insidious lethargy gaining on a temperament which in early youth showed promise of more ardent ways. Once in the course of the past winter they had broached that delicate topic; it was on their way home from the theatre, as they threaded their way along the boulevards dense with a seething crowd of lovers. Daniel had expressed amazement at his companion’s apathy. ‘Still,’ Jacques answered, ‘I’m fit as a fiddle. At my army medical I noticed that they put me in the top class physically.’ But Daniel had remarked a quaver of anxiety in his friend’s voice.
His musings were cut short by the arrival of Favery who had appeared in the offing and was looking in their direction; with studied nonchalance he committed hat, stick and gloves to the cloak-room attendant. He hailed Jacques with a grin.
‘Hasn’t your brother come yet?’
In the evening Favery always wore collars that were a trifle too high, new suits that looked as if they were someone else’s, and he stuck out his smooth-shaven chin with a jaunty air that prompted Werff to sneer: ‘See the conquering usher comes!’
‘I’ve passed!’ thought Jacques, with half a mind to take French leave and catch an evening train to Maisons-Laffitte. Only the thought that Antoine had promised to meet him here and might turn up at any moment held him back. If not to-night, he consoled himself, then to-morrow morning very early. And at the thought the cabaret faded out and, drenched in coolness, he was watching the new-risen sun drinking up the dew along the avenues.
A blinding flash as all the lights went on together startled him out of his daydream. I—have—passed! The thought seemed to restore at once his contact with reality. He looked round for his friend and espied Daniel talking confidentially to Ma Juju in a corner of the room. Daniel was perched sideways on a swivel-chair and his vivacious gestures as he rattled on brought out the graceful poise of his head, the bright awareness of his eyes and smile, the shapeliness of his hands poised in mid-air—hands, look and smile spoke no less than his lips. Jacques could not take his eyes off him. How handsome he looks! was his unformulated thought. How fine that one so young, so splendidly alive, should sink himself so utterly in the Now, the Here! And do it all so naturally! He doesn’t know I’m watching him, or give it a thought; he has no notion of being under scrutiny. Curious, to catch a fellow unawares like that, to pry into his inmost secrets! How can anyone manage to be so oblivious of his surroundings, when in public? When he talks, he is whole-heartedly in what he says. I’m different; I can’t be ‘natural.’ I could never give myself away like that—except in a closed room, safe from prying eyes. And even then . . . ! He gave his musings pause. Daniel’s not so very observant, he resumed, that’s why he’s not absorbed, as I am, by environment; he can remain himself. Jacques pondered again; then, as he rose from his seat, he summed the matter up: But I am always an easy prey to the world around me. . . .
‘No, my charming Prophet,’ Ma Juju was admonishing Daniel at that moment, ‘it’s no use begging; that little girl is not for you.’ The suppressed fury in Daniel’s eyes made her burst into laughter. ‘Well, upon my word! Have a nice sit-down, dearie, and you’ll get over it!’
This Parthian shot was one of a batch of pointless gags—others were: ‘That’s nobody’s business’—‘Be my mascot, Baby!’—‘That ain’t nothing so long as you keep fit’—one of the reach-me-down phrases, restocked from time to time, wherewith the Packmell ‘crowd’ were wont to interlard their conversation in and out of season, smiling the while masonically.
‘But how did you get to know her?’ Daniel insisted; his eyes were obdurate.
‘No, my dear. Nothing doing in that quarter. She’s one in a thousand, that kid, a nice little thing and no nonsense about her. A top-notcher!’
‘Tell me how you got to know her.’
‘Will you leave her alone?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Well, it was when I had the pleurisy—remember? She heard about it and turned up one day, all out of her own head. And, don’t forget, I hardly knew the girl—I’d helped her a bit once or twice, but only in a small way. You see the kid had had a deal of trouble, a rotten time of it. She’d fallen in love with a society man, as far as I can make out, and there was a child (wouldn’t think it, now would you?) who died almost at once, with the result that one can’t mention the word “baby” without her starting to howl! Anyhow, when I had my attack, she came and settled in at my place, like a trained nurse, and, day and night for six weeks and more, she looked after me better than if she’d been my own daughter. Why, there were days she put as many as a hundred cupping-glasses on my chest. Yes, my dear, she saved my life, and that’s gospel truth. And didn’t spend a sou. One in a thousand! So I swore I’d see her fixed up all right. These young folk, they’re always running after whims and fancies. But my job’s to see her launched, properly launched, you know. . . . By the way, you might lend me a hand there—I’ll explain presently. . . . She hasn’t been out of my sight for three months now. First I’d got to find a name for her. Her real name is Victorine—Victorine Le Gad. “Le Gad,” a double-barrelled name, might pass. But “Victorine”—I ask you! So I changed it to “Rinette.” Not bad, eh? And the rest to match. Colin’s given her elocution lessons; she had a Breton accent you could cut with a knife; well, she’s kept just the right dash of it, a bit of a foreign twang—might be English—delicious anyhow. She learnt the boston in a fortnight, she’s light as a feather. What’s more, she’s no fool. She sings in tune; a real rich voice she has, with a tang of the gutter in it; that’s how I like ’em! So there she is, shipshape, ready to be launched. The one thing now is to give her a good send-off. No, don’t laugh; that’s where you come in. I’ve talked to Ludwigson about her; since Bertha gave him the bird, he’s all at a loose end. He’s promised to come to-night to meet the child. Put in a word saying you like her and he’ll be as keen as mustard. Ludwigson, you see, is exactly the man to suit her. She has only one idea: to collect a little nest-egg and go back to Brittany, where her home is. Damned silly, but there you are! All Bretonnes are like that. A cottage near the village pump, the usual white streamers and plenty of processions—just Brittany, in a word! She’s not asking for the moon; if she keeps straight and listens to reason, she’ll get what she wants in no time. I hope she’ll have twenty thousand francs put away by the New Year and I know just how I’m going to invest them for her. . . . Look here, do you know anything about the Rand market?’
Hungry voices vociferated: ‘Dinner! Take your seats!’
Daniel returned to Jacques.
‘Hasn’t your brother come yet? Anyhow let’s pick our seats.’
The long table was laid for twenty people; there was some hesitation as they chose their places. Daniel so manœuvred that Jacques was placed beside Rinette, on her left; Ma Juju, who clung to her like a leech, sat on her right, as close as she could squeeze beside her. But, just when everyone had picked his place and Jacques was about to take his own, Daniel forestalled him.
‘Change with me!’
Without more ado he pulled Jacques to one side, gripping his arm so roughly that Jacques felt his fingers nipping his wrist and all but gave a squeal of pain.
Daniel was too preoccupied to think of excusing himself. He turned to Ma Juju.
‘Isn’t it up to you, Ma Juju, to introduce me to my neighbour?’
‘Ah, there you are!’ muttered the old lady, who had just noticed Daniel’s ruse. Then she apostrophized the company at large.
‘May I introduce Mademoiselle Rinette to you all?’ And added in menacing tones: ‘She’s under my wing.’
‘Introduce us!’ voices clamoured on all sides. ‘Introduce us to her!’
‘Save us, what a to-do they’re making!’ sighed Ma Juju, and with a bad grace she removed her hat and tossed it to one of the ‘Nurse-girls’ waiting at table. She pointed to Daniel first of all.
‘This is the Prophet,’ she announced, ‘and a real bad hat!’
‘How do you do?’ said the girl amiably. Daniel took her hand and kissed it.
‘Next please!’
‘His friend—I don’t know his name.’ Ma Juju’s finger indicated Jacques.
‘How do you do?’ said Rinette.
‘Next: Paule, Sylvia, Madame Dolores—also a child unknown; the Wonder-Child, no doubt. Then Werff, alias “Apricot,” and Gaby. The Chump.’
‘Thanks,’ a sarcastic voice broke in, ‘I prefer the name of my forefathers. Favery, Mademoiselle, and one of your most ardent admirers.’
‘Be my mascot, baby!’ someone chirped ironically.
‘Lily and Harmonica, or the Inseparables,’ Ma Juju went on, steeled against interrupters. ‘The Colonel. Maud, Queen of the Garden. A gentleman I don’t know and with him two ladies whom I know very well, though I can’t recall their names. An empty chair. Ditto another. Then Battaincourt, otherwise “Little Batt.” Marie-Josèphe, plus the pearls. Madame Packmell.’ Then, with a bow, she added: ‘And Ma Juju, your humble servant.’
‘How do you do? How do you do?’ Rinette echoed herself in silvery cadences, smiling without a shadow of constraint.
‘Rinette’s no sort of name for her,’ Favery observed. ‘What about Miss Howd’youdo?’
‘Why not?’ the girl replied.
‘Three cheers for Miss Howd’youdo!’
Smiling still, she seemed delighted by their noisy acclamations.
‘And now, the soup!’ The suggestion came from Madame Packmell.
Jacques nudged Daniel with his elbow and showed him the bruise on his wrist.
‘Whatever came over you just now?’
His friend threw him a quizzing glance, without the least sign of contrition, a glance that was ardent to the point of fierceness.
‘ “I am he that aches with amorous love,” ’ he quoted in English, lowering his voice.
Jacques leant forward to examine Rinette who happened to be looking towards him; he met her cool eyes, green-glistening like Marennes oysters.
Daniel continued in the same low voice.
‘ “Does the earth gravitate? Does not all matter aching attract all matter?
‘ “So the body of me to all I meet and know.” ’
Jacques frowned slightly. This was not the first time he had chanced to witness one of these paroxysms of passion which carried Daniel off his feet in quest of pleasure, beyond all possibility of restraint. And each of them made a rift in Jacques’ affection despite his efforts to keep it whole. A comic detail shifted the trend of his thoughts; he had suddenly noticed that the inner surface of Daniel’s nose was lined with jet-black down, making his nostrils like the vent-holes of a mask. Then his eyes fell on the ‘Prophet’s’ hands, fine, tapering hands, shaded too with dusky down. Vir pilosus, he thought, repressing a smile.
Daniel leaned towards him again and continued in the same low tone, as though finishing the quotation from Whitman.
‘Fill up your neighbour’s glass, my dear.’
‘Madame Packmell, the menu ith quite illegible thith evening,’ lisped a voice from the far end of the table.
‘Two black marks against Madame Packmell!’ declared Favery severely.
‘That ain’t nothing, so long as you keep fit,’ the comely blonde riposted philosophically.
Jacques was sitting next to Paule, the slightly tarnished angel with the snow-white skin. Beyond her sat a big-breasted girl who never spoke and applied her napkin to her lips after each spoonful. Further on, almost facing Jacques, beside a dark woman whose forehead rippled with tiny curls—Dolores, as Ma Juju called her—sat a little boy, seven or eight years old, dressed in rather shabby black; his eyes followed every movement of the others and, now and again, a smile lit up his face.
Jacques addressed the girl beside him.
‘I say, they’ve forgotten your soup.’
‘Thanks, I’m not taking any.’
She kept her eyes lowered and only raised them to look in Daniel’s direction. She had tried her best to get a seat beside him but at the last minute had seen him exchanging chairs with his friend; Jacques was to blame for this, she thought. Where had this fellow with the spotty face and a boil on his neck sprung from? There was something in this dark boy’s looks which put him in the category of red-haired folk—her pet aversion. Only to see his hairy forehead, his jowl and loose-set ears, you knew him for a bit of a brute!
Madame Dolores’ shrill voice broke in.
‘Well, what’s come over you? Why don’t you put your serviette on?’ She jerked the youngster to and fro, tucking the starched napkin, which half submerged him in its folds, into his collar.
‘When a woman owns to a certain age,’ Favery was laying down the law to Marie-Josèphe, ‘it means she’s past it. She got into the Conservatoire, I tell you, at the extreme age-limit, exactly forty-five years ago, by producing her younger sister’s birth-certificate—which made her two years under her true age. So it comes to this . . .’
‘That’s nobody’s business,’ Ma Juju declared in a loud stage-whisper.
‘Favery is one of those excellent folk who can never engage in a conversation without premising that the rate of velocity for falling bodies is 32 feet 2 inches per second at Paris,’ observed Werff, who once had crammed for the Polytechnic. He owed the nickname of ‘Apricot’ to the hue of his skin; it had been burnt to a dull gold, spangled with freckles, by his practice of open-air sports. He cut a handsome figure, with his supple shoulders, strongly moulded face and full, red lips; by night his sunburnt cheeks and blue eyes radiated hale well-being, a muscular gusto regaled by the day’s athletics.
‘Nobody knows what he died of,’ someone remarked, eliciting a jesting repartee. ‘The real mystery was what he lived on!’
‘Hurry up now!’ Madame Dolores admonished the boy. ‘They serve dessert here, you know—but you shan’t have any?’
‘Why?’ the lad pleaded, turning his shining eyes towards her.
‘Because you shan’t if I say No! Now do as you’re told, hurry up!’ She saw that Jacques was watching and sped him a confidential smile. ‘He’s a fussy kid, you see. He shies off anything he’s not used to. Salmis of pigeon—you won’t see that every day, my pet! Gammon and greens came his way oftener than pigeon I should say. He’s been spoilt. Fussed over, petted, like all only children. Especially as his mother was an invalid for so long. That’s what he is’—she stroked the child’s round, close-cropped head—‘a spoilt child. A naughty, spoilt child. But, now his aunt’s in charge of him, there’ll be a change. Our young gentleman wanted to keep his lovelocks, like a little girl, eh? We’ll hear no more about those fads of his; no more pampering for him. Eat your dinner now. The gentleman’s looking. Be quick!’ Delighted to have an audience, she cast another smile in the direction of Jacques and Paule. ‘He’s a little orphan,’ she announced complacently. ‘He lost his mother only this week; she was married to my brother. She died in her village down in Lorraine—of consumption. Poor little kid,’ she added, ‘it’s lucky for him that I am willing to look after him. He has no one in the world now except me. But I shall have my work cut out!’
The little boy had ceased eating and was staring at his aunt. Did he understand? There was a curious intonation in his voice as he questioned her.
‘Was it my mummy who died?’
‘Don’t bother with questions. Eat your dinner!’
‘Don’t want to now.’
‘There you are! That’s how he is,’ Madame Dolores lamented. ‘Well, if you must know, it was your mummy who died. Now do as you’re told and go on eating, or you won’t have any ice-cream.’
Paule averted her eyes just then and, as their looks crossed, Jacques saw the image of his own distress. Her neck was slim and lithe and very pale, still paler than her cheeks; its slender grace invited thoughts of dalliance. As his gaze rested on her fine-grained skin, shaded with a slight down, a faint savour of sweetness rose to his lips. He groped for something to say, found nothing, and smiled. Watching him from the corner of an eye, she found him less uncouth. But a sudden twinge at her heart brought a deathly pallor to her face; resting her hands on the table edge, she let her head sink back a little, biting her tongue to save herself from fainting.
Seeing her thus, Jacques pictured a bird alighted on the tablecloth, there to die.
‘What is it?’ he whispered.
Her eyes were swimming and a line of white showed between her half-shut eyelids. Without moving she forced out two words.
‘Say nothing!’
A lump had risen to his throat and, even had he wished, he could not have called out. In any case the others paid no heed to them. He looked at Paule’s hands; her rigid fingers, diaphanous like tiny tapers, had grown so livid that the nails showed up as patches of dark violet.
‘My alarm goes off at six-thirty,’ Favery was explaining to the girl beside him, with chuckles of self-satisfaction, ‘standing in a saucer poised precariously on a tumbler . . .’
Meanwhile Paule’s colour had returned a little and she opened her eyes again; turning, she weakly smiled her thanks to Jacques for his silence.
‘It’s over,’ she murmured breathlessly. ‘I’m liable to these attacks—my heart, you know.’ Then she added ruefully, with lips that quivered still, ‘Have a nice sit-down, dearie, and you’ll get over it!’
He had an impulse to catch her in his arms and carry her far, far away from all this sordidness; in a daydream he devoted all his life to her and made her well. So potent was the love he felt within him for any weaker being who might claim, or merely accept, the refuge of his strength! He had half a mind to tell Daniel of his fantastic scheme, but Daniel’s thoughts were otherwise occupied.
Daniel was chatting with Ma Juju, across Rinette; a pretext for watching the girl beside him and feeling her warm nearness. Though all through the meal he had diplomatically refrained from addressing her in any but the briefest phrases, while paying court to her with delicate attentions, she obviously filled his thoughts. On several occasions she had noticed his eyes fixed on her and on each occasion, though she could not analyse the cause, his look, far from attracting her, evoked a feeling of estrangement; she was not blind to the virile charm of Daniel’s face, but it annoyed her.
Meanwhile a heated discussion was in progress at the far end of the table.
‘Conceited ass!’ ‘Apricot’ apostrophized Favery, who pleaded guilty.
‘That’s what I often say to myself!’
‘But not loudly enough, I fear.’
Amidst the general laughter Werff kept the upper hand.
‘My dear Favery,’ he declared, deliberately raising his voice, ‘allow me to tell you something: what you’ve just said about women proves that you don’t know what to say to them.’
Daniel glanced at Favery. The young pedagogue was laughing and Daniel fancied he saw him glance towards Rinette, as though she had been the theme of the discussion. There was a certain effrontery, a lewdness, in Favery’s look which gave a fillip to Daniel’s antipathy for him. He knew stories about Favery which did him little credit, and felt a brutal impulse to retail them in Rinette’s hearing. And he never could resist impulses of that order. Lowering his voice so as to be heard by the two women only, he bent towards Ma Juju in such a way as to include Rinette in the conversation, and asked in a casual voice:
‘Do you know that one about Favery and the Woman taken in Adultery?’
The old woman snapped at the bait.
‘No, let’s hear it! And chuck us a cigarette! This dinner seems likely to last all night.’
‘One fine day—she’d been his mistress for a good spell then—the lady rolled up at his place with a valise in her hand. “I’ve had enough of it. I want to live with you,” and the usual stuff. “But how about your husband?” “Him? I’ve just written him this letter: ‘Dear Eugène, I have come to a turning-point in my life,’ and so on . . . ‘I want, as I have the right, to bestow my affection on a heart that understands,’ and so on and so forth. . . . ‘That heart—I have found it, and so I leave you.’” ’
‘And what a heart—I ask you!’
‘That was her look-out. But guess what happened next! Old Favery was in the devil of a stew. A woman on his hands and, what was worse, a woman who’d soon be divorced and free to insist on his marrying her. Then he brought off what he claims to be a stroke of genius. He sent this letter to the lady’s husband: “Dear Sir, I hereby inform you that your wife has left her home with the intention of coming to live with me. Faithfully yours . . .” ’
‘Very decent of him,’ Rinette remarked.
‘So you think!’ A malicious smile flitted across Daniel’s face. ‘But wait a bit! Favery’s astute; he was simply taking his precautions for the future. Her husband, he knew, would produce the letter in court. And the marriage of an unfaithful wife with her lover is forbidden by law. So Favery winds up his story with the maxim: Heaven helps those who know the Civil Code.’
Rinette pondered a while; then it dawned on her.
‘A dirty trick!’
Daniel, as he bent towards her, felt her breath hover on his face and lips, and he took a deep breath, almost closing his eyes.
‘So he let her drop, eh?’ the old woman inquired.
Daniel did not reply. Rinette looked towards him. He kept his eyelids lowered now, for he felt powerless to hide their frenzy of desire. Close to her eyes she saw the smoothness of his skin, the savage line of his mouth, his quivering lashes, and, as though she long had known and tested their dark treacheries, something within her, urgent as an instinct, turned her suddenly against him.
‘But what became of the woman?’ Ma Juju asked again.
‘They say she killed herself. His version is that she was consumptive.’ With a forced smile he passed his fingers across his forehead.
Rinette drew herself up, shrinking against the back of her chair, so as to keep as far apart as possible from Daniel. What was the cause of this revulsion that had come over her so suddenly? His face, his smile, his expression—all about this handsome youth repelled her; his way of leaning forward, the grace of his gestures and, most of all, his long, sensitive hands. Never had she dreamt there slumbered in her heart, biding their time but so far held in leash, such potencies of loathing for a total stranger.
‘So, in other words, I’m a flirt!’ exclaimed Marie-Josèphe, calling the company to witness.
Battaincourt smiled ingenuously.
‘Am I to blame if our language has no other word to describe that most charming of traits: the desire to fascinate?’
‘Oh, how disgusting!’ Mme. Dolores’ shrill voice broke in.
All eyes turned in her direction, only to find that the little boy had spilt a spoonful of cream on his black coat and was being hauled away by his aunt towards the lavatory.
Jacques profited by her eclipse to question Paule, glad of this chance of breaking the ice.
‘You know her?’
‘Slightly.’
Panic’s impulse was to stop there; she was naturally reserved, and felt depressed. But, as Jacques had been so nice to her just now, she continued. ‘She’s not a bad sort, you know. And she’s well off. She was once, for quite a long while, the mistress of a fellow who writes plays. Then she married a chemist. He’s dead now and his patent medicines bring her in a tidy income still—the “Dolores Corn-cure,” you must have heard of it. No? Better tell her so, she always carried samples in her bag. A striking woman, you’ll see; quite a character. She keeps a dozen cats picked up here, there and everywhere, and a large aquarium of fishes in her bedroom. She loves animals.’
‘But not children.’
Paule shook her head.
‘That’s the sort she is,’ she concluded.
Jacques noticed that after speaking she breathed with difficulty. All the same he wanted to prolong their talk. The reminder that she had heart-disease brought to his lips, somewhat inaptly, a familiar phrase: ‘The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.’
She reflected a moment, then, strumming on the table with her fingers, corrected him.
‘It should be: “The heart its reasons has . . .” The first way it didn’t sound like poetry.’
His longing for her persisted, but he now felt less disposed to devote his life to her. No sooner, he thought, am I allowed the smallest glimpse into another’s soul than I am half in love already! He recalled the first occasion when he noticed this habit of his. One day during the previous summer he had gone for a walk with some of Antoine’s friends in the Viroflay woods. A Swedish girl, studying medicine at Paris, had leaned on his arm and chattered to him of her childhood. . . .
Suddenly he realized that it was half-past nine and Antoine had not yet come. A panic fear came over him and, forgetting everything else, he clutched Daniel’s arm and shook it.
‘I’m positive something’s happened to him!’
‘What . . . ?’
‘To Antoine.’
Dinner had just ended and people were leaving their seats. Jacques rose to his feet. Daniel was standing too and, while manœuvring to keep in touch with Rinette, tried to reassure his friend.
‘Don’t be an ass, old chap! He’s a doctor. An urgent call. . . .’
But Jacques was already out of earshot. Unable to collect his wits or master his forebodings, he had hurried off to the cloak-room. Without saying good-bye to anyone or giving a thought to Paule, he ran outside. ‘It’s my fault,’ horror-stricken, he admonished himself. ‘I’ve brought Antoine bad luck. My fault! My fault! And all to have a black suit, like that fellow at the Medicis crossing!’
The orchestra of three had just struck up a waltz and a few couples had started dancing near the bar. Daniel saw Favery’s chin uptilted, as if he sniffed the air, his twinkling eyes fixed on Rinette, and by a quick move forestalled him.
‘Shall we . . . ?’
She had noticed his approach and met it with a hostile look. She gave him time enough to bend a little towards her before replying.
‘No.’
He masked his surprise with a smile.
‘ “No.” Why “no”?’ he said, mimicking her intonation. So sure was he of getting his way that he took a step towards her. ‘Come along!’ The touch of over-confidence in his gesture clinched her distaste.
‘No, not with you,’ she said pointedly.
‘No?’ he repeated; but there was a challenging gleam in his dark eyes that seemed to say, ‘My time will come!’
She turned away and, noticing Favery’s hesitant approach, went up to him as if he had already asked her for the dance. They danced together in silence.
Ludwigson had just arrived. Wearing a dinner-jacket and an incongruous straw hat, he stood beside the bar, chatting with Mother Packmell and Marie-Josèphe, whose necklace he was fingering complacently. But stealthily his slow eyes, slotted between reptilian lids, would alight, like a blow from a loaded cane, on something or someone present, summing up the company.
Ma Juju steered a course between the dancers in quest of Rinette. When she had found the girl, she nudged her with her elbow.
‘Hurry up! And remember what I said!’
Paule had buttonholed Daniel in a corner of the room and he was listening to her with a far-away smile. He watched Ma Juju proceeding with the most natural air in the world to join Marie-Josèphe’s group, while Rinette, ceasing to dance, went and sat down alone at a distant table in the far room. A moment later Ludwigson and Ma Juju crossed both rooms and joined her there. Ludwigson always—and especially when he knew he was being looked at—stiffened his back, like an old-time cabby, as he walked. He knew only too well that nature had cursed him with a houri’s hind parts and that whenever he moved fast his hips were apt to sway from side to side; so he stepped delicately. He pressed his thick lips on Rinette’s proffered hand. As he made the gesture Daniel noted his somewhat receding skull, plastered with black and skilfully dekinked hair. ‘The fellow’s got a distinction of his own all the same,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s a touch of the coolie in our Levantine mountebank—but something of the Grand Turk, too.’
As Ludwigson slowly drew off his gloves his expert, appraising gaze was sizing Rinette up. He sat down facing her, Ma Juju beside him. Drinks were served at once though Ludwigson had given no order; they knew his ways. He never drank champagne, but always Asti—a still variety—not iced or even cool, but slightly warmed. ‘Tepid,’ he explained, ‘like the juice of frucht in sunshine.’
Daniel left Paule and, lighting a cigarette, strolled round the bar, greeting his friends; then he returned and settled down in the further room. Ludwigson and Ma Juju had their backs to him, but he was directly opposite Rinette, though the full width of the room lay between them. A breezy conversation had sprung up all at once around the glasses of Asti. Rinette was smiling at Ludwigson’s sallies; leaning towards her, he made no secret of his admiration and spared no pains to please her. When she saw Daniel watching she put on an even gayer air.
The two rooms led into each other and dancing couples came and went through the opening between them. A little rosy-cheeked ‘professional,’ who might have stepped out of a Lawrence canvas, had perched herself on the first step of the tiny white staircase behind the bar, and, with both hands on the banisters and standing on one leg, she swung the other to and fro in time with the music, and yelled, her face uptilted, a meaningless refrain that everyone that summer knew by heart.
‘Timmyloo, lammyloo, pan, pan, timmylah!’
Daniel, a cigarette between his lips, rested his head on his hands; his eyes were riveted on Rinette. He had ceased smiling; his features had grown rigid, his lips pinched. ‘Where have I seen him before?’ the girl asked herself. She laughed over-noisily, studiously evading Daniel’s gaze. But evasion grew more and more difficult; oftener and oftener, like a lark lured towards a mirror, she found her attention caught and held by his unswerving eyes. Shadowed yet clear, they seemed precisely focussed on a point in space far beyond Rinette; keen, burning eyes and never faltering; twin magnets from whose pull she managed to break free each time, but each time found it harder.
Suddenly Daniel felt something: moving almost at his side. Such was the tension of his nerves that he could not help starting. It was the little orphan who had gone to sleep on the settle, curled up in Dolores’ silky mantle, one finger near his mouth, and eyelashes still moist with half-dried tears.
The band had ceased playing while the violinist went his round in quest of tips. When he came to Daniel the latter slipped a currency-note under the napkin.
‘The next boston—make it last a quarter of an hour, non-stop,’ he whispered. The musician’s dusky eyelashes fluttered in assent.
Daniel felt that Rinette was watching him and, raising his eyes, he took possession of her gaze. And now he knew that it was in his thrall; once or twice—to amuse himself—he played at cat-and-mouse, pouncing on it and letting it go, to test his power. And then . . . he let it go no more.
Ludwigson, greatly smitten, waxed more and more insistent in his wooing, while the attention Rinette paid him grew more and more perfunctory and vacillating. When the violin struck up another waltz, from the first touch of the bow upon the strings, she knew by the thrill his tense features gave her that things were coming to a head. Yes, there was Daniel getting up! Coolly, with eyes fixed on his prey, he crossed the room, came straight up to her. It flashed across him that he was risking his post with Ludwigson and the thought was like a rowel to his passion. Rinette watched him come, and in her glassy stare there was something so abnormal that Ludwigson and Ma Juju both swung round at once. Ludwigson, imagining that Daniel meant to greet him, made a tentative gesture in his direction. But Daniel did not seem even to know him. As he leaned forward his look bored into the girl’s seagreen eyes, bright with mingled terror and consent. Subdued, she rose. Without a word he slipped his arm around her, drew her close and disappeared with her into the further room where the band was playing.
For a second or two Ludwigson and Ma Juju sat in stony silence, blankly staring at their retreating backs. Then their eyes met.
‘Well, of all the damned cheek . . . !’ Ma Juju could hardly speak and her double chin quivered with fury.
Ludwigson’s eyebrows lifted, but he did not answer. He was naturally so pale that he could not grow paler. The nails of his huge fingers glowed darkly like cornelians as he reached for his glass and raised the Asti to his lips.
Ma Juju was panting like a winded sprinter. ‘Anyhow,’ she ventured, with the dry chuckle of a woman getting her revenge, ‘that means the sack for the young scallawag, I guess, as far as you’re concerned.’
Ludwigson looked surprised.
‘Monsieur de Fontanin? But why should you think that?’
His smile implied that a man of breeding does not stoop to such acts of petty spite. Cool and collected, he drew on his gloves. Perhaps, indeed, he was genuinely tickled at the situation. Taking a note from his pocket-book, he tossed it on to the table and rose with a courteous gesture of farewell to Ma Juju. Then he went to the room where dancing was in progress and halted on the threshold till the couple came round to where he stood. Daniel caught his drowsy gaze, in which a spice of malice mingled with jealousy and admiration; then he saw him sidling past the settles towards the exit and vanish through the swivel-door, which seemed to swish him round in its wake, into the outer darkness.
Daniel waltzed slowly; his body did not seem to move, and he held his head erect. There was a certain coolness in his deportment, partly ease and partly stiffness; he danced on the tips of his toes and his feet never left the ground. Rinette, lost to her surroundings—whether spell-bound or outraged, she could not decide—followed so perfectly Daniel’s least movements that it was as if they had always danced together. After ten minutes they were the last couple left in; the others, whose energy had failed them long before, formed a circle round them. Five more minutes passed and left them dancing still. Then, after a last repeat, the band cried quarter. They danced on till the final chord—the girl half-swooning on his shoulder; Daniel self-possessed, veiling with closed eyelids the burning gaze which now and again he proved on her, thrilling her by turns with loathing and desire.
To the accompaniment of clapping hands Daniel led Rinette back to Ludwigson’s table, took quite composedly the vacant chair, asked for another glass and, filling it with Asti, gaily lifted it to Ma Juju and drained it at a draught.
‘Faugh!’ he exclaimed. ‘What syrup!’
Rinette broke into a nervous laugh and her eyes filled with tears.
Ma Juju stared at Daniel, big-eyed with wonder; her anger had evaporated. She rose and, shrugging her shoulders, sighed comically.
‘Well, that ain’t nothing so long as you keep fit!’
Half an hour later Daniel and Rinette left Packmell’s together.
Rain had fallen.
‘A taxi?’ the page enquired.
‘Let’s walk a bit first,’ Rinette proposed. There was a soft fall in her voice that Daniel found charming.
Despite the rain, the air was still sultry. The ill-lit streets were empty. They walked slowly on along the rain-bright pavement.
An infantryman passed by; he held two women by the waist and was laughingly teaching them how to change step. ‘Left, right! Not like that. Hop on your left foot! Left, right!’ Laughter rang receding, long echoing along the silent house-fronts.
When they left the cabaret she thought he would slip his arm through hers at once. But Daniel so keenly relished joys deferred that he would postpone them almost to the breaking-point. She made the first move, startled by a distant flash of lightning.
‘The storm’s not over yet. It’ll rain again.’
‘And that will be delightful.’ His voice was like a caress, charged with hidden meanings, rather too subtle for the girl, whom his aloofness disconcerted.
‘You know I can’t get it out of my head that I’ve seen you somewhere before.’
He smiled in the shadow, thankful that she kept to commonplace remarks. He was far from suspecting that she really thought she had met him before, and all but answered ‘So do I,’ by way of joining in the game; then, of course, they would fall to guessing when it had happened. But it amused him more to go on mystifying her by keeping silence.
‘Why do they call you “Prophet”?’ she asked, after a pause.
‘Because my name is Daniel.’
‘Daniel what. . . ?’
He hesitated, reluctant to drop the defensive, even on a minor point. Still Rinette’s curiosity was so patently ingenuous that he felt it unfair to dupe her with a false name.
‘Daniel de Fontanin.’
She did not reply, but gave a start of astonishment. She’s stumbled, he thought, and made as if to come to her aid; but she eluded him. That was enough to make him eager to coerce her and, going up to her, he tried to take her arm. Swerving nimbly aside, she kept beyond his reach; then suddenly she turned aside, making for a side-street. Playing a game with me, he thought; well, I’ll join in! But it looked as if she were trying to escape him in earnest; she quickened her step till he could hardly keep his distance without breaking into a run. Their point-to-point along the deserted streets amused him. But, when she dived into a darker street that would have brought them back, by a roundabout way, to their starting-point, feeling rather tired, he made a third attempt to grasp her arm. She eluded him again.
‘Don’t be so silly!’ he cried angrily. ‘Stop now!’
But she fled all the faster, darting into patches of shadow and constantly swerving from one pavement to the other, as if she really meant to shake off his pursuit. All at once she broke into a run. With a few strides he drew level and brought her to bay before a door-porch. Then on her face he caught a look of terror that could not have been feigned.
‘What’s the matter?’
She crouched in the dripping doorway, panting, staring up at him with haggard eyes. He thought for a moment. It was clear to him, though he could make nothing of it, that she had had some serious shock. He tried to draw her towards him; she recoiled in such panic haste that a flounce of her dress was torn.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ he asked again, moving back a pace. ‘Are you afraid of me? Or do you feel ill?’
A nervous shudder passed through her body; she could not utter a sound and never took her eyes off him.
It was all as much a mystery as ever, but now he took pity on her.
‘Would you rather I left you?’
She nodded. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he repeated his question.
‘You mean it? You’d rather I went away?’ He might have been soothing a lost child, such was the gentleness he put into his voice.
‘Yes.’ Her tone was almost brutal.
Obviously, he decided, this was no acting. He realized that any more insistence on his part would be unmannerly and, suddenly resigned to losing her, determined to take it like a sportsman.
‘Have it your own way,’ he said. ‘Only I can’t leave you stranded here in the middle of the night, in this doorway. We’ll forage round for a taxi first, and then I’ll leave you. . . . Right?’
The lights of the Avenue de l’Opéra were visible in the distance and they walked silently towards them. Quite soon an empty taxi came their way and, at a sign from Daniel, drew up beside the kerb. Rinette kept her eyes fixed on the ground. Daniel opened the door. Only when her foot was on the step did she turn towards him and look him in the face; it was as if something compelled her to survey him once again. With a forced smile he stood before her, bareheaded, doing his best to keep up the appearance of a friend who is bidding a casual good-bye. Once she was sure he would not try to accompany her, her features relaxed. She told the driver where to go. Then, turning, to Daniel, she whispered an apology.
‘I’m sorry, but to-night, Monsieur Daniel, you must leave me. I’ll explain to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow, then,’ he said, with a bow. ‘But—where?’
‘Oh, yes. . . . Where?’ she repeated innocently. ‘At Madame Juju’s, if you like. Yes, at her place. Three o’clock.’
‘Right!’
He took her extended hand in his, and his lips lightly brushed the tips of her gloved fingers.
The taxi started.
Then suddenly a gust of anger swept over Daniel. He was just mastering it when he observed the girl’s white shoulders leaning from the window and saw her bid the driver stop.
In a few strides he had caught up the taxi, the door of which Rinette had opened. He saw her huddled together at the far end of the seat, her eyes staring into the darkness. He read their meaning and sprang in beside her; when he took her in his arms, she crushed her lips to his and now he knew it was no fear or weakness that moved her to surrender, but that she freely gave herself. She was sobbing, sobbing desperately, and murmured broken phrases.
‘I want . . . I want . . .’
Daniel was dumbfounded by the words that followed.
‘I want . . . to have . . . a child by you!’
. . . ‘Same address, sir?’ the taxi-driver enquired.
After leaving Jacques and his friends Antoine had the taxi take him to Passy where he had ‘a pneumonia case’ to visit; thence to his father’s residence in the Rue de l’Université where for the past five years he and his brother had shared the ground floor flat between them. Lolling in the car that took him homewards, a cigarette between his lips, he decided that his little patient was certainly on the mend, that his day’s work was over, and that he was feeling in excellent spirits.
Yesterday, he mused, I wasn’t too pleased with myself. As a rule, when expectoration ceases so abruptly . . . Pulsus bonus, urina bona, sed aeger moritur. The essential now is to prevent endocarditis. His mother’s still a pretty woman. Paris is looking pretty, too, this evening.
As the car sped by, his eyes searched the green shadows of the Trocadéro and he swung round to follow with his gaze a couple turning up a lonely pathway. The Eiffel Tower, the statues on the bridges and the Seine were flushed with rosy light. In my heart tra-la-la. . . . The engine purred a ground-bass to his voice. In my heart . . . sleeps, he suddenly added. Got it! In my heart sleeps la-la-la. Provoking not to be able to remember the words. Now what the devil sleeps in anybody’s heart? The beast in all of us, he thought, smiling to himself. And again his wandering thoughts veered to the prospect of a festive evening at Packmell’s. Some girl, perhaps . . . ? He felt glad to be alive, borne on an undercurrent of desire. Throwing away the cigarette, he crossed his legs and drew a deep breath of air, to which the rapid motion of the taxi lent an illusive coolness. Let’s hope Belin didn’t forget the cupping-glasses for that child. We’ll save the poor kid—what’s more, without an operation. I’d love to see the look on Loiselle’s face. Those surgeons! They’re all the rage but—what are they? Mere acrobats. As old father Black used to declare: ‘If I’d three sons, I’d say to the least gifted one: “Go in for midwifery!” To the most sporting: “The lancet for you, my boy!” But, to the cleverest, I’d say: “Be a G.P., treat lots of patients and try to better your knowledge every day.” ’ A joyous mood swept over him again, he felt each sinew tense with deep-set joy. ‘I’ve played my cards well,’ he murmured under his breath.
When he reached home, the open door of Jacques’ room reminded him that his brother had passed his examination; a success that crowned his five years’ vigilance and careful handling of the boy. How well I remember, he mused, the evening when I met Favery in the Rue des Ecoles and the idea of urging Jacques to join the Ecole Normale first came to me! The Square Monge was white with snow. A bit cooler than this! he sighed. Zestfully he foresaw his body under the cool, clear water, and tossed his garments hither and thither with childish impatience.
He felt a new man when he turned off the shower and, thinking of Packmell’s, whistled merrily. He accorded but a minor rôle in his life to ‘the girls,’ as he called them; and none to sentimental love. Light come, light go, was his method, and he prided himself on its matter-of-factness. Moreover, certain nights excepted, he held aloof from ‘that sort of thing’—not for discipline’s sake or through physical indifference, but because ‘that sort of thing’ belonged to a scheme of life in which the line he had decided once for all to take had no part. He had a feeling that such preoccupations were fit for weaklings; whereas he was a ‘strong man.’
There was a ring at the bell. He glanced at the clock; if it came to that, he would have time to visit a patient before joining the others at Packmell’s.
‘Who’s there?’ he railed through the door.
‘It’s I, Monsieur Antoine.’
He recognized M. Chasle’s voice and opened the door. During M. Thibault’s absence at Maisons-Laffitte his secretary continued to work in the Rue de l’Université.
‘Ah, there you are!’ murmured M. Chasle vaguely. Abashed by the vision of Antoine in his pants, he looked aside, muttering ‘What?’ with an interrogative grimace. ‘I see you’re dressing,’ he added almost immediately, one finger uplifted, as though he had just solved an enigma. ‘I hope I’m not intruding.’
‘I have to be off in twenty-five minutes,’ Antoine made haste to inform him.
‘That’s more than enough. Look here, doctor.’ He put down his hat and, taking off his glasses, opened his eyes wide. ‘Don’t you see anything?’
‘Where?’
‘In my eye!’
‘Which eye?’
‘This one.’
‘Keep still. No, I can’t see anything at all. You got it in a draught, perhaps?’
‘Yes, it must be that. Thank you. I’d opened both windows.’ He coughed shortly and replaced his spectacles. ‘Thanks. You’ve set my mind at rest. That was all; a draught. An airy nothing. Hee! Hee!’ He tittered to himself before continuing. ‘You see, I haven’t taken up much of your time.’ But, instead of reaching for his hat, he perched himself on the arm of a chair and mopped his forehead.
‘It’s hot,’ Antoine observed.
‘Terribly.’ M. Chasle knitted his brows with a knowing air. ‘Thunder about, that’s sure. It’s hard on people who’re bound to keep moving, people who have got steps to take. . . .’
Antoine, who was lacing up his shoes, glanced at him enquiringly.
‘Steps to take?’
‘Well, in heat like this! In offices, in police-stations, why it’s stifling! So one just puts it off to another day.’ He wagged his head with an air of kindly commiseration.
Antoine could make nothing of the rigmarole.
‘By the way,’ said M. Chasle, ‘I have often wanted to ask you about it; do you know the Superannuates’ Home?’
‘Superannuates . . . ?’
‘Yes. For old people; not incurables. A rest-home at Point-du-Jour; the best air in France. By the bye, while we’re on that topic, there’s something else I’d like your opinion about, Monsieur Antoine. You’ve never chanced to find a five-franc piece which had been forgotten?’
‘ “Forgotten?” How? In a pocket?’
‘No. In a garden. In the street, so to say.’
Antoine stood up, trousers in hand, and stared at M. Chasle. One can’t be a moment with the old blighter, he said to himself, without beginning to feel like a mental case. With an effort he pulled his wits together.
‘I don’t quite follow your question.’ He spoke with careful gravity.
‘It’s like this. Suppose somebody happens to lose something. Well, someone else may happen to find it, the thing that was lost, I mean, eh?’
‘Quite.’
‘Now supposing it happened to be you who found the thing, what would you do with it?’
‘I’d try to discover the owner.’
‘Yes, of course. But supposing the party wasn’t there any more?’
‘Where?’
‘In the garden, in the street, for instance.’
‘Well, I’d take the—the thing to the police-station.’
M. Chasle smiled knowingly.
‘But, if it was money? What then? A five-franc piece? We all know what would become of it at the police-station.’
‘Do you imagine the police would keep the money?’
‘To be sure!’
‘Not a bit of it, M. Chasle. To begin with, there are the formalities, papers to sign. Look here! Once when I was with a friend in a cab I found a baby’s rattle, quite a pretty little thing, really, ivory and silver-gilt. Well, at the police-station they took our names—my friend’s name, the cabby’s, our addresses and the cab number; we had to sign a form and they gave us a formal receipt. That’s news to you, eh? What’s more, my friend was notified a year later that, as no one had appeared to claim the rattle, he could come and get it.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s the law; if lost property is not claimed, the finder is entitled to keep it, after a year and a day.’
‘A year and a day? The finder?’
‘That’s so.’
M. Chasle shrugged his shoulders.
‘A rattle, may be. But supposing it were a note—a fifty-franc note, for instance?’
‘Exactly the same thing.’
‘I don’t believe it, M. Antoine.’
‘But I’m positive, M. Chasle.’
The grey-haired dwarf perched on the chair stared at the young man over his spectacles. Then, averting his eyes, he coughed behind his hand.
‘I asked you that—it’s about my mother.’
‘Has your mother found some money?’
‘What?’ ejaculated M. Chasle, wriggling on the chair-arm. His cheeks were crimson and, for a moment, his face betrayed an agony of doubt. But, almost immediately, a subtle smile crept over his lips. ‘Of course not. I was speaking of the Home.’ Then, as Antoine began to slip on his coat, he leapt down from the chair to help him pass his arms through the sleeves. ‘A passage of arms,’ he tittered. Then, taking advantage of his position at Antoine’s back, he continued quickly, speaking into his ear. ‘The dreadful thing, you see, is that they want 9,000 francs. With the extras, 10,000 francs all told. And payable in advance, what’s more; it’s written down. And then, if anyone wants to leave, eh?’
‘To leave?’ Antoine faced round, uncomfortably aware that he was losing the thread yet again.
‘Good heavens, she won’t stay there three weeks! Is it really worth it, do you think? She is rising 77, you see, and it’s odds on she won’t have time to spend all that at home, ten thousand francs. What do you think?’
‘Seventy-seven,’ Antoine echoed, involuntarily working out the dismal reckoning.
He had lost track of the time. The moment you deflect your attention to other people, he had observed, you find a ‘case.’ Despite his professional training, his attention always centred so instinctively on himself that, whenever he directed it to others, he had a feeling of its being deflected. This fool is certainly a case, he said to himself: ‘the Chasle case.’ He remembered the time when he first met M. Chasle; on a recommendation from the priests at the boys’ school, M. Thibault had engaged him for the holidays as the children’s tutor. After their return to Paris, enchanted by the tutor’s punctuality, he had given him the post of secretary. For eighteen years, Antoine mused, I’ve seen the little man day after day and yet I know nothing about him!
‘My mother is a splendid woman,’ M. Chasle continued, avoiding his eyes. ‘You must not think, M. Antoine, that as a family we’re nobodies. I may be one—but mother, not she! She was born to be a great lady, not to the humble life we lead. Still, as the gentlemen at Saint-Roch so often say, and they’ve been true friends to us, not forgetting the Curé, who knows Monsieur Thibault by name quite well—“Every life has its cross,” they say, and it’s quite true. It isn’t as if I didn’t want to do it. I do. If only one could be sure. . . . Ten thousand francs! . . . And then I’d have a quiet little life, as I like it! But, there, she wouldn’t stay! And they wouldn’t give me back the money. They see to that all right. When you go there they make you sign a long rigmarole, with an official stamp on it, a sort of affidavit. Like at your police-station. But they’re cannier than your policemen, they don’t write to you after a year, they give nothing back. Not a sou, not a brass farthing,’ he repeated with a harsh guffaw. Then, in the same tone, he continued: ‘And your friend—what did he do? Did he go and get it?’
‘The ivory rattle? No, he didn’t.’
M. Chasle seemed to ponder deeply.
‘A child’s rattle, well, yes. . . . But money, that’s another story. People who lose money in the street are off like a flash to claim it at every police-station in Paris. Shouldn’t wonder if some people put in for more than they lost. But what about proving it, eh?’
Antoine did not reply. M. Chasle fixed him with an inquisitorial eye and chuckled. ‘How about proving it, I’m asking?’
‘Proving it?’ Antoine sounded annoyed. ‘What about all the particulars they have to specify—how the money was lost, if it was in notes or coin, if——’
‘No, not that,’ M. Chasle broke in excitedly. ‘They surely wouldn’t ask if it was in notes or coin. Particulars, I grant you. But, anyhow, not that one!’ He murmured bemusedly: ‘No, not that one, most certainly not!’
Antoine glanced at the clock.
‘Look here, I don’t want to hurry you away but I really must be going.’
M. Chasle seemed to waken from a trance and slipped off the chair-arm.
‘Many thanks, doctor, for the consultation. I’ll go home and put a bandage on . . . and a wad of cotton-wool in my ear. It’ll pass off, I’m sure.’
Antoine could not help smiling as he watched the little man hopping warily across the polished hall floor. M. Chasle’s shoes always creaked, and this was one of the ‘crosses’ of his life. He had consulted a host of bootmakers, tried every shape of clicks and uppers, every kind of sole—leather, felt and rubber; he had visited pedicures and even (on the advice of a floor-polisher who, on occasion, acted as a table-waiter) taken his chance with the inventor of an elastic boot, known as the ‘Sleuth,’ specially built for waiters and domestics. But all in vain. Thus he had acquired a habit of walking on tiptoe and, with his beady eyes set in a tiny head, and coat-tails flapping on his hips, looked like a wing-clipped magpie.
‘There now, I was forgetting,’ he exclaimed as he reached the door. ‘All the shops are shut. Have you any change?’
‘For . . . ?’
‘For a thousand francs.’
‘Might have,’ said Antoine, opening a drawer.
‘I don’t care to carry such big notes on me,’ M. Chasle explained. ‘And, as you happened to speak of people losing money . . . Could you give me ten hundred-franc notes? Or twenty fifties? The fatter the wad is, the safer, so to speak.’
‘No, I’ve only two five-hundreds,’ Antoine said, making as if to close the drawer.
‘Better than nothing,’ said M. Chasle, approaching him. ‘Quite different, anyhow.’ He handed Antoine the note which he had just extracted from the lining of his coat, and was about to slip the other two into the same recess when the door-bell rang so stridently that both men jumped and M. Chasle, who had not yet inserted the money in his cache, stammered: ‘Wait! Wait a bit!’
His features twitched convulsively when he knew the voice for that of his concierge; the man was hammering on the door and shouting:
‘Is M. Chasle there?’
Antoine hastily opened to him.
‘Is he there?’ the man panted. ‘It’s urgent. An accident. The little girl’s been run over.’
M. Chasle, who had heard the man’s words, staggered, and Antoine returned to the room just in time to catch him as he fell. Laying him on the floor, he fanned his face with a wet towel. The old man opened his eyes and tried to stand up.
‘Do come quickly, Monsieur Jules,’ said the man at the door. ‘I’ve a taxi waiting.’
‘Is she dead?’ Antoine asked, without pausing to wonder who the little girl might be.
‘As near as may be,’ the man replied under his breath.
Antoine took from a shelf the first-aid kit which he had handy for such emergencies and, suddenly remembering that he had lent Jacques his bottle of iodine, ran to his brother’s room, shouting to the concierge.
‘Get him into the taxi! Wait for me! I’ll come with you.’
When the taxi pulled up near the Tuileries in front of the house in the Rue d’Alger where the Chasles lived, Antoine had pieced together from the concierge’s flustered explanations an outline of the accident. The victim was a little girl who used to meet ‘M. Jules’ each evening on his way back. Had she tried to cross the Rue de Rivoli on this occasion, as M. Jules was late in coming home? A delivery tri-car had knocked her down and passed over her body. A crowd had gathered and a newspaper-vendor who was present had recognized the child by her plaited hair, and furnished her address. She had been carried unconscious to the flat.
M. Chasle, crouching in a corner of the taxi, shed no tears, but each new detail drew from him a racking sob, half muffled by the hand he pressed against his mouth.
A crowd still lingered round the doorway. They made way for M. Chasle, who had to be helped up the stairs as far as the top landing by his two companions. A door stood open at the end of a corridor, down which M. Chasle made his way on stumbling feet. The concierge stood back to let Antoine pass, and touched him on the arm.
‘My wife, who’s got a head on her shoulders, ran off to fetch the little doctor who dines at the restaurant next door. I hope she found him there.’
Antoine nodded approval and followed M. Chasle. They crossed a sort of anteroom, redolent of musty cupboards, then two low rooms with tiled floors; the light was dim and the atmosphere stifling despite the open windows giving on a courtyard. In the further room Antoine had to edge round a circular table where a meal for four was laid on a dingy strip of oilcloth. M. Chasle opened a door and, entering a brightly lit room, stumbled forward with a piteous cry.
‘Dédette! Dédette!’
‘Now, Jules!’ a raucous voice protested.
The first thing Antoine noticed was the lamp which a woman in a pink dressing-gown was lifting with both hands; her ruddy hair, her throat and forehead were flooded with the lamplight. Then he observed the bed on which the light fell, and shadowy forms bending above it. Dregs of the sunset, filtering through the window, merged in the halo of the lamp, and the room was bathed in a half-light where all things took the semblance of a dream. Antoine helped M. Chasle to a chair and approached the bed. A young man wearing pince-nez, with his hat still on, was bending forward and slitting up with a pair of scissors the blood-stained garments of the little girl. Her face, ringed with matted hair, lay buried in the bolster. An old woman on her knees was helping the doctor.
‘Is she alive?’ Antoine asked.
The doctor turned, looked at him and hesitated; then mopped his forehead.
‘Yes.’ His tone lacked assurance.
‘I was with M. Chasle when he was sent for,’ Antoine explained, ‘and I’ve brought my first-aid kit. I’m Dr. Thibault,’ he added in a whisper, ‘House-physician at the Children’s Hospital.’
The young doctor rose and was about to make way for Antoine.
‘Carry on! Carry on!’ Antoine drew back a step. ‘Pulse?’
‘Almost imperceptible,’ the doctor replied, intent once more on his task.
Antoine raised his eyes towards the red-haired young woman, saw the anxiety in her face and made a suggestion.
‘Wouldn’t it be best to telephone for an ambulance and have your child taken at once to my hospital?’
‘No!’ an imperious voice answered him.
Then Antoine descried an old woman standing at the head of the bed—was it the child’s grandmother?—and scanning him intently with eyes limpid as water, a peasant’s eyes. Her pointed nose and resolute features were half submerged in a vast sea of fat, that heaved in billowy folds upon her neck.
‘I know we look like paupers,’ she continued in a resigned tone, ‘but, believe me, even folk like us would rather die at home in our own beds. Dédette shan’t go to hospital.’
‘But why not, Madame?’ Antoine protested.
She straightened up her back, thrust out her chin and sadly but sternly rebuked him.
‘We prefer not,’ was all she said.
Antoine tried to catch the eye of the younger woman, but she was busy brushing off the flies that obstinately settled on her glowing cheeks, and seemed of no opinion. He decided to appeal to M. Chasle. The old fellow had fallen on his knees in front of the chair to which Antoine had led him; his head was buried on his folded arms as though to shut out all sights from his eyes, and, from his ears, all sounds. The old lady, who was keenly watching Antoine’s movements, guessed his intention and forestalled him.
‘Isn’t that so, Jules?’
M. Chasle started.
‘Yes, mother.’
She looked at him approvingly and her voice grew mothering.
‘Don’t stay there, Jules. You’d be much better in your room.’
A pallid forehead rose into view, eyes tremulous behind their spectacles; then, without a protest, the poor old fellow stood up and tiptoed from the room.
Antoine bit his lips. Meanwhile, pending an occasion further to insist, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves above his elbow. Then he knelt at the bedside. He seldom took thought without at the same time beginning to take action—such was his incapacity for long deliberation on any issue raised, and such his keenness to be up and doing. The avoidance of mistakes counted less with him than bold decision and prompt activity. Thought; as he used it, was merely the lever that set an act in motion—premature though it might be.
Aided by the doctor and the old woman’s trembling hands, he had soon stripped off the child’s clothing; pale, almost grey, her body lay beneath their eyes in its frail nakedness. The impact of the car must have been very violent, for she was covered with bruises, and a black streak crossed her thigh transversely from hip to knee.
‘It’s the right leg,’ Antoine’s colleague observed. Her right foot was twisted, bent inwards, and the whole leg was spattered with blood and deformed, shorter than the other one.
‘Fracture of the femur?’ suggested the doctor.
Antoine did not answer. He was thinking. ‘That’s not all,’ he said to himself, ‘the shock is too great for that. But what can it be?’ He tapped her knee-cap, then ran his fingers slowly up her thigh; suddenly there spurted through an almost imperceptible lesion on the medial side of the thigh, some inches above the knee, a jet of blood.
‘That’s it,’ he said.
‘The femoral artery!’ the other exclaimed.
Antoine rose quickly to his feet. The need to make, unaided, a decision gave him a new access of energy and, as ever when others were present, his sense of power intensified. ‘A surgeon?’ he speculated. ‘No, we’d never get her alive to the hospital. Then, who? I? Why not? And, anyhow, there’s no alternative.’
‘Will you try a ligature?’ asked the doctor, piqued by Antoine’s silence.
But Antoine did not heed his question. It must be done, he was thinking, and without a moment’s delay; it may be too late already, who knows? He threw a quick glance round him. A ligature. What can be used? Let’s see. The red-headed girl hasn’t a belt; no loops on the curtains. Something elastic. Ah, I have it! In a twinkling he had thrown off his waistcoat and unfastened his braces. Snapping them with a jerk, he knelt down again, made with them a tourniquet and clamped it tightly round the child’s groin.
‘Good! Two minutes’ breathing-time,’ he said as he rose. Sweat was pouring down his cheeks. He knew that every eye was fixed on him. ‘Only an immediate operation,’ he said decisively, ‘can save her life. Let’s try!’
The others moved away at once from the bed—even the woman with the lamp, even the young doctor, whose face had paled.
Antoine clenched his teeth, his eyes narrowed and grew hard, he seemed to peer into himself. Must keep calm, he mused. A table? That round table I saw, coming in.
‘Bring the lamp!’ he cried to the young woman; then turned to the doctor. ‘You there—come with me!’ He strode quickly into the next room. Good, he said to himself; here’s our operating theatre. With a quick gesture he cleared the table, stacked the plates in a pile. ‘That’s for my lamp.’ Like a general in charge of a campaign, he allotted each thing its place. ‘Now for our little patient.’ He went back to the bedroom. The doctor and the young woman hung on his every gesture and followed close behind him. Addressing the doctor, he pointed to the child.
‘I’ll carry her. She’s light as a feather. Hold up her leg, you.’
As he slipped his arms under the child’s back and carried her to the table, she moaned faintly. He took the lamp from the red-haired woman and, removing the shade, stood it on the pile of plates. As he surveyed the scene, a thought came suddenly and went: ‘I’m a wonderful fellow!’ The lamp gleamed like a brazier, reddening the ambient shadow, where only the young woman’s glowing cheeks and the doctor’s pince-nez showed up as high-lights; its rays fell harshly on the little body, that twitched spasmodically. The swarming flies seemed worked up to frenzy by the on-coming storm. Heat and anxiety brought beads of sweat to Antoine’s brow. Would she live through it? he wondered, but some dark force he did not analyse buoyed up his faith; never had he felt so sure of himself.
He seized his bag, and taking out a bottle of chloroform and some gauze, handed the former to the doctor.
‘Open it somewhere. On the sideboard. Take off the sewing-machine. Get everything out.’
As he turned, holding the bottle, he noticed two dim figures in the dark doorway, the two old women like statues posted there. One, M. Chasle’s mother, had great, staring eyes, an owl’s eyes; the other was pressing her breast with her clasped hands.
‘Go away!’ he commanded. They retreated some steps into the shadows of the bedroom, but he pointed to the other end of the flat. ‘No. Out of the room. That way.’ They obeyed, crossed the room, vanished without a word.
‘Not you!’ he cried angrily to the red-haired woman who was about to follow them.
She turned on her heel, and for a moment he took stock of her. She had a handsome, rather fleshy face, touched with a certain dignity, it seemed, by grief; an air of calm maturity that pleased him. Poor woman! he could not help thinking. . . . But I need her!
‘You’re the child’s mother?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She shook her head.
‘All the better.’
As he spoke he had been soaking the gauze and now he swiftly stretched it over the child’s nose. ‘Stand there, and keep this.’ He handed her the bottle. ‘When I give the signal, you’ll pour some more of it on.’
The air grew heavy with the reek of chloroform. The little girl groaned, drew a deep breath or two, grew still.
A last look round. The field was clear; the rest lay with the surgeon’s skill. Now that the crucial moment had come, Antoine’s anxieties vanished as if by magic. He went to the sideboard where the doctor, holding the bag, was laying on a napkin the last of its contents. ‘Let’s see,’ he murmured, as though to gain a few seconds’ respite. ‘There’s the instrument-box; good. The scalpel, the artery-forceps. A packet of gauze, cotton-wool, that’ll do. Alcohol. Caffeine. Tincture of iodine. And so forth. . . . All’s ready. Let’s begin.’ And yet again there came to him that sense of buoyancy, of boundless confidence, of vital energies tautened to breaking-point; and, crowning all, a proud awareness of being lifted high above his workaday self.
Raising his head, he looked his junior for a moment in the eyes. ‘Have you the nerve?’ his eyes seemed to enquire. ‘It’s going to be a tough job. Now for it!’
The young man did not flinch. And now he hung on Antoine’s gestures with servile assiduity. Well he knew that in this operation lay their only hope, but never would he have dared to take the risk, alone. With Antoine, however, nothing seemed impossible.
He’s not so bad, this young chap, thought Antoine. Lucky for me! Let’s see. A basin? No matter—this will do as well. Grasping the bottle of iodine he sluiced his arms up to the elbow with the liquid.
‘Your turn!’ He passed the bottle to the doctor, who was feverishly polishing the lenses of his pince-nez.
A vivid lightning-flash, closely followed by a deafening clap of thunder, lit up the window.
‘A bit previous, the applause,’ Antoine said to himself. ‘I hadn’t even taken up my lancet. The young woman didn’t turn a hair. It’ll cool things down; good for our nerves. Must be pretty nearly a hundred degrees in this room.’
He had laid out a series of compresses round the injured limb, delimiting the operative field. Now he turned towards the young woman.
‘A whiff of chloroform. That’ll do. Right!’
She obeys orders, he mused, like a soldier under fire. Women! Then, fixing his eyes on the swollen little thigh, he swallowed his saliva and raised the scalpel.
‘Here goes!’
With one neat stroke he cut the skin.
‘Swab!’ he commanded the doctor bending beside him. ‘What a thin child!’ he said to himself. ‘Well, we’ll be there all the sooner. Hullo, there’s little Dédette starting snoring! Good! Better be quick about it. Now for the retractors.’
‘Now, you,’ he said aloud, and the other let fall the blood-stained swabs of cotton-wool and, grasping the retractors, held the wound open.
Antoine paused a moment. ‘Good!’ he murmured. ‘My director? Here it is. In Hunter’s canal. The classical ligation; all’s well. Zip! Another flash! Must have landed pretty near. On the Louvre. Perhaps on the “gentlemen at Saint-Roch.” ’ He felt quite calm—no more anxiety for the child, none for death’s imminence—and cheerfully repeated under his breath: ‘the ligature of the femoral artery in Hunter’s canal.’
Zip! There goes another! Hardly any rain, too. It’s stifling. Artery injured at the site of the fracture; the end of the bone tore it open. Simple as anything. Still she hadn’t much blood to spare. He glanced at the little girl’s face. Hullo! Better hurry up. Simple as anything—but could be fatal, too. A forceps; right! Another; that will do. Zip! These flashes are getting a bore; cheap effect! I’ve only plaited silk; must make the best of it. Breaking a tube, he pulled out the skein and made a ligature beside each forceps. Splendid! Almost finished now. The collateral circulation will be quite enough, especially at that age. I’m really wonderful! Can I have missed my vocation? I’ve all the makings of a surgeon, sure enough; a great surgeon. In the silent interval between two thunder-claps dying into the distance, the sharp metallic click of scissors snipping the loose ends of the silk was audible. Yes; quickness of eye, coolness, energy, dexterity. Suddenly he pricked up his ears and his cheeks paled.
‘The devil!’ he muttered under his breath.
The child had ceased to breathe.
Brushing aside the woman, he tore away the gauze from the unconscious child’s face and pressed his ear above her heart. Doctor and young woman waited in suspense, their eyes fixed on Antoine.
‘No!’ he murmured. ‘She’s breathing still.’
He took the child’s wrist, but her pulse was so rapid that he did not attempt to count it. ‘Ouf!’ He drew a deep breath, the lines of anxiety deepened on his forehead. The two others felt his gaze pass across their faces, but he did not see them.
He rapped out a brief command.
‘You, doctor, remove the forceps, put on a dressing and then undo the tourniquet. Quickly. You, Madame, get me some note-paper—no, you needn’t; I’ve my note-book.’ He wiped his hands feverishly with a wad of cotton-wool. ‘What’s the time? Not nine yet. The chemist’s open. You’ll have to hurry.’
She stood before him, waiting; her tentative gesture—to wrap the dressing-gown more closely round her body—told him of her reluctance at going thus, half dressed, into the streets, and for the fraction of a second a picture of the opulent form under the garment held his imagination. He scribbled a prescription, signed it. ‘A two-pint ampoule. As quickly as you can.’
‘And if——?’ she stammered.
‘If the chemist’s shut, ring, and keep on hammering on the door till they open. Be quick!’
She was gone. He followed her with his eyes to make sure she was running, then addressed the doctor.
‘We’ll try the saline. Not subcutaneously; that’s hopeless now. Intravenously. Our last hope.’ He took two small phials from the sideboard. ‘You’ve removed the tourniquet? Right. Give her an injection of camphor to begin with, then the caffeine—only half of it for her, poor kid! Only, for God’s sake, be quick about it!’
He went back to the child and took her thin wrist between his fingers; now he could feel nothing more than a vague, restless fluttering. ‘It’s got past counting,’ he said to himself. And suddenly a feeling of impotence, of sheer despair, swept over him.
‘God damn it!’ he broke out. ‘To think it went off perfectly—and it was all no use!’
The child’s face became more livid with every second. She was dying. Antoine observed, beside the parted lips, two slender strands of curling hair, lighter than gossamer, that rose and fell; anyhow, she was breathing still.
He watched the doctor giving the injections. Neat with his fingers, he thought, considering his short sight. But we can’t save her. Vexation rather than grief possessed him. He had the callousness common to doctors, for whom the sufferings of others count only as so much new experience, or profit, or professional advantage; men to whose fortunes death and pain are frequent ministers.
But then he thought he heard a banging door and ran towards the sound. It was the young woman coming back with quick, lithe steps, trying to conceal her breathlessness. He snatched the parcel from her hands.
‘Bring some hot water.’ He did not even pause to thank her.
‘Boiled?’
‘No. To warm the solution. Be quick!’
He had hardly opened the parcel when she returned, bringing a steaming saucepan.
‘Good! Excellent!’ he murmured, but did not look towards her.
No time to lose. In a few seconds he had nipped off the tips of the ampoule and slipped on the rubber tubing. A Swiss barometer in carved wood hung on the wall. With one hand he unhooked it, while with the other he hung the ampoule on the nail. Then he took the saucepan of hot water, hesitated for the fraction of a second and looped the rubber tubing round the bottom of it. That’ll heat the saline as it flows through, he said to himself. Smart idea, that! He glanced towards the other doctor to see if he had noticed what he had done. At last he came back to the child, lifted her inert arm and sponged it with iodine. Then, with a stroke of his scalpel, he laid bare the vein, slipped his director beneath it and inserted the needle.
‘It’s flowing in all right,’ he cried. ‘Take her pulse. I’ll stay where I am.’
The ten minutes that followed seemed an eternity. No one moved or spoke.
Streaming with sweat, breathing rapidly, with knitted brows, Antoine waited, his gaze riveted on the needle. After a while he glanced up at the ampoule.
‘How much gone?’
‘Nearly a pint.’
‘The pulse?’
The doctor silently shook his head.
Five more minutes passed, five minutes more of sickening suspense. Antoine looked up again.
‘How much left?’
‘Just over half a pint.’
‘And the pulse?’
The doctor hesitated.
‘I’m not sure. I almost think . . . it’s beginning to come back a little.’
‘Can you count it?’
A pause.
‘No.’
If only the pulse came back! sighed Antoine. He would have given ten years of his own life to restore life to this little corpse. Wonder what age she is. Seven? And, if I save her, she’ll fall a victim to consumption within the next ten years, living in this hovel. But shall I save her? It’s touch and go; her life hangs on a thread. Still—damn it!—I’ve done all I could. The saline’s flowing well. But it’s too late. There’s nothing more to be done, nothing else to try. We can only wait. . . . That red-haired girl did her bit. A good-looker. She’s not the child’s mother; who can she be then? Chasle never breathed a word about all these people. Not his daughter, I imagine. Can’t make head or tail of it! And that old woman, putting on airs. . . . Anyhow, they made themselves scarce, good riddance! Curious how one suddenly gets them in hand. They all knew the sort of man they had to deal with. The strong hand of a masterful man. But it was up to me to bring it off. Shall I now? No, she lost too much blood on the way here. No signs of improvement so far, worse luck! Oh, damn it all!
His gaze fell on the child’s pale lips and the two strands of golden hair, rising and falling still. The breathing struck him as a little better. Was he mistaken? Half a minute passed. Her chest seemed to flutter with a faint sigh which slowly died into the air, as though a fragment of her life were passing with it. For a moment Antoine stared at her in perplexity. No, she was breathing still. Nothing to be done but to wait, and keep on waiting.
A minute later she sighed again, more plainly now.
‘How much left?’
‘The ampoule’s almost empty.’
‘And the pulse? Coming back?’
‘Yes.’
Antoine drew a deep breath.
‘Can you count it?’
The doctor took out his watch, settled his pince-nez and, after a minute’s silence, announced:
‘A hundred and forty. A hundred and fifty, perhaps.’
‘Better than nothing!’ The exclamation was involuntary, for Antoine was straining every nerve to withstand the flood of huge relief that surged across his mind. Yet it was not imagination; the improvement was not to be gainsaid. Her breathing was steadier. It was all he could do to stay where he was; he had a childish longing to sing or whistle. Better than nothing tra-la-la—he tried to fit the words to the tune that had been haunting him all day. In my heart tra-la-la. In my heart sleeps . . . Sleeps—sleeps what? Got it. The pale moonlight.
In my heart sleeps the pale moonlight
Of a lovely summer night . . .
The cloud of doubt lifted, gave place to radiant joy.
‘The child’s saved,’ he murmured. ‘She’s got to be saved!’
. . . a lovely summer night!
‘The ampoule’s empty,’ the doctor announced.
‘Capital!’
Just then the child, whom his eyes had never left, gave a slight shudder. Antoine turned almost gaily to the young woman who, leaning against the sideboard, had been watching the scene with steady eyes for the last quarter of an hour.
‘Well, Madame!’ he cried with affected gruffness. ‘Gone to sleep, have we? And how about the hot-water bottle?’ He almost smiled at her amazement. ‘But, my dear lady, nothing could be more obvious. A bottle, piping hot, to warm her little toes!’
A flash of joy lit up her eyes as she hastened from the room.
Then Antoine, with redoubled care and gentleness, bent down and drew out the needle, and with the tips of his fingers applied a compress to the tiny wound. He ran his fingers along the arm from which the hand still hung limp.
‘Another injection of camphor, old chap, just to make sure; and then we’ll have played our last card. Shouldn’t wonder,’ he added under his breath, ‘if we’ve pulled it off.’ Once more that sense of power that was half joy elated him.
The woman came back carrying a jar in her arms. She hesitated, then, as he said nothing, came and stood by the child’s feet.
‘Not like that!’ said Antoine, with the same brusque cheerfulness. ‘You’ll burn her. Give it here. Just imagine my having to show you how to wrap up a hot-water bottle!’
Smiling now, he snatched up a rolled napkin that caught his eye and, flinging the ring on to the sideboard, wrapped the jar in it and pressed it to the child’s feet. The red-haired woman watched him, taken aback by the boyish smile that made his face seem so much younger.
‘Then she’s—saved?’ she ventured to ask.
He dared not affirm it as yet.
‘I’ll tell you in an hour’s time.’ His voice was gruff, but she took his meaning and cast on him a bold, admiring look.
For the third time Antoine asked himself what this handsome girl could be doing in the Chasle household. Then he pointed to the door.
‘What about the others?’
A smile hovered on her lips.
‘They’re waiting.’
‘Hearten them up a bit. Tell them to go to bed. You, too, Madame, you’d better take some rest.’
‘Oh, as far as I’m concerned . . .’ she murmured, turning to go.
‘Let’s get the child back to bed,’ Antoine suggested to his colleague. ‘The same way as before. Hold up her leg. Take the bolster away; we’d better keep her head down. The next thing is to rig up some sort of gadget. . . . That napkin, please, and the string from the parcel. Some sort of extension, you see. Slip the string between the rails; handy things these iron bedsteads. Now for a weight. Anything will do. How about this saucepan? No, the flat-iron there will be better. We’ve all we need here. Yes, hand it over. To-morrow we’ll improve on it. Meanwhile it will do if we stretch the leg a bit, do you agree?’
The young doctor did not reply. He gazed at Antoine with spell-bound awe—the look that Martha may have given the Saviour when Lazarus rose from the tomb. His lips worked and he stammered timidly:
‘May I . . . shall I arrange your instruments?’ The faltered words breathed such a zeal for service and for self-devotion that Antoine thrilled with the exultation of an acknowledged chief. They were alone. Antoine went up to the younger man and looked him in the eyes.
‘You’ve been splendid, my dear fellow.’
The young man gasped. Antoine, who felt even more embarrassed than his colleague, gave him no time to put in a word.
‘Now you’d better be off home; it’s late. There’s no need for two of us here.’ He hesitated. ‘We may take it that she’s saved, I think. That’s my opinion. However, for safety’s sake, I’ll stay here for the night, if you’ll permit me.’ The doctor made a vague gesture. ‘If you permit me, I repeat. For I don’t forget that she’s your patient. Obviously. I only gave a hand as there was nothing else for it. That’s so, eh? But from to-morrow on I leave her in your hands. They’re competent hands and I have no anxiety.’ As he spoke he led the doctor towards the door. ‘Will you look in again towards noon? I’ll come back when I’m done at the hospital and we will decide on the treatment to follow.’
‘Sir, it’s . . . it’s been a privilege for me to . . . to . . .’
Never before had Antoine been ‘sirred’ by a colleague, never before been treated with such deference. It went to his head, like generous wine, and unthinkingly he held out both hands towards the young man. But in the nick of time he regained his self-control.
‘You’ve got a wrong impression,’ he said in a subdued tone. ‘I’m only a learner, a novice—like you. Like so many others. Like everyone. Groping our way. We do our best—and that’s all there is to it!’
Antoine had looked forward to the young man’s exit with something like impatience. To be alone, perhaps. Yet, when he heard approaching footsteps, the young woman’s, his face lit up.
‘Look here, don’t you intend to go to bed?’
‘No, doctor.’
He did not press her further.
The little girl moaned, was shaken by a hiccough, expectorated.
‘Good girl, Dédette,’ he said. ‘That’s a good girl.’ He took her pulse. ‘A hundred and twenty. Steady improvement.’ He looked at the woman, unsmiling. ‘I think I can say now that we’re out of the wood.’
She did not reply, but he felt she had faith in him. He wanted to talk to her and cast about for an opening.
‘You were very plucky,’ he said. Then—as was his wont when he felt shy—he went directly to the point. ‘What are you here, exactly?’
‘I? Nothing. I’m not even a friend of theirs. It’s only that I live on the fifth floor, just below.’
‘But who is the child’s mother then? I can’t make head or tail of it.’
‘Her mother is dead, I think. She was Aline’s sister.’
‘Aline?’
‘The servant.’
‘The old thing with the shaky hands?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the child’s not in any way related to the Chasles?’
‘No. Aline’s bringing up her little niece here—Monsieur Jules pays, of course.’
They spoke in undertones, bending a little towards each other, and Antoine had a nearer view of her lips and cheeks, and the pale beauty of her skin, touched with a curious glamour by fatigue. He felt over-tired and restless, at the mercy of every impulse.
The child stirred in her sleep. As they approached the bed together her eyelids fluttered, then closed again.
‘Perhaps the light worries her,’ the young woman suggested, taking the lamp and placing it further from the bed. Then, returning to the bedside, she wiped the beads of perspiration from the child’s forehead. Antoine followed her movements with his eyes and, as she stooped, he felt a sudden thrill; outlined as in a shadow-play under the flimsy dressing-gown, the young woman’s body was silhouetted, frankly provocative as if she stood naked before him. He held his breath; a dark fire seemed to sear his eyes, watching through misty shadows the languid rise and fall of her bosom, rhythmed to her breath. Antoine’s hands grew suddenly cold as ice, contracted in a spasm. Never before with such an urgency of passion had he desired another human being.
‘Mademoiselle Rachel,’ a voice whispered.
She drew herself up.
It’s Aline; she wants to come and see the child.’
Smiling, she seemed to plead the servant’s cause and, though vexed by the intrusion, he dared not deny her.
‘So your name’s Rachel,’ he stammered. ‘Yes, let her come.’
He hardly noticed the old woman kneeling beside the bed. He went to an open window; his temples were throbbing. No cooling breeze came from within; far above the housetops the distant glimmer of a star or two spangled the darkness. Now at length he realized his weariness; he had been on his feet for three or four hours on end. He looked round for a seat. Between the windows two small mattresses resting on the tiled floor formed a sort of couch. Here, no doubt, Dédette usually slept; the room was evidently Aline’s bedroom. He sank on to the pallet, propping his back against the wall, and again an uncontrollable desire swept over him—to see once again, half veiled beneath the tenuous fabric, Rachel’s firm breasts, their rhythmic rise and fall. But she was no longer standing in the light.
‘Didn’t the child move her leg?’ he enquired without rising. As she walked towards the bed, her body lithely swayed beneath the wrap.
‘No.’
Antoine’s lips were parched and he still felt a burning at the sockets of his eyes. How could he lure Rachel out into the lamplight?
‘Is she still as pale as she was?’
‘A little less.’
‘Move her head straight, will you? Quite flat and straight.’
Now she stepped into the zone of light, but only for a moment, as she passed between the lamp and Antoine. The moment sufficed, however, to quicken his desire anew. He had to shut his eyes, jam his back against the wall and thus remain, clenching his teeth, struggling to keep his eyelids closed upon their secret vision. The stench of cities in the summer, a mingled reek of horse-dung, smoke and dusty asphalt, stifled the air. Flies pattered on the lampshade, hovered on Antoine’s damp cheeks. Now and again thunder rumbled still, above the remoter suburbs.
Little by little, fever, heat and the very urgency of his emotion sapped his powers of resistance. He was unconscious of the slow tide of lethargy advancing; his muscles relaxed, his shoulders settled down against the wall, he fell asleep. . . .
It was as if a summons, gently insistent, were calling him from sleep and, still on the verge of dreams, he was vaguely aware of a pleasurable feeling. For a long while he hovered in an ecstatic limbo, unable to discover by what channel and at what point on the surface of his body the warm tide of well-being was seeping in. Presently he traced it to his leg and, at the same moment, grew conscious that someone was seated at his side; that the warmth along his thigh emanated from a living body; that this warmth and the body were Rachel’s and the sensation was really one of sensual pleasure, enhanced now that he knew its origin. Her body must have slipped towards him as she slept. He had self-control enough to sit quite still. . . . Now he was wide awake. All the feelings of his body were centred in a little space, no wider than a hand’s breadth, where, across the thin covering of their garments, thigh touched thigh. He stayed thus, motionless, breathing rapidly yet fully lucid, finding in the mingling of his body’s warmth with hers a thrill more potent than the subtlest of caresses.
Suddenly Rachel awoke and stretched her arms; drawing away from him, but without haste, she sat up. He made as if he, too, were just awakening, roused by her movement.
‘I dozed off,’ she confessed with a smile.
‘So did I.’
‘It’s almost daylight,’ she murmured as she raised her arms to settle her hair.
Antoine glanced at his watch; it was just on four.
The child lay all but motionless. Aline’s hands were clasped, as if in prayer. Antoine went to the bed and drew aside the blankets.
‘Not a drop of blood—that’s good.’
While his eyes followed Rachel’s movements, he took the child’s pulse; a hundred and ten.
How warm her leg was! he was thinking.
Rachel was examining her reflection in a strip of looking-glass, tacked with three nails to the wall, and smiling. With her shock of red hair, open collar, strong bare arms, and her bold, free-and-easy, slightly scornful air, she might have stood for an heroine of the Revolution; a ‘Marseillaise’ on the barricades.
‘I’m a fine sight!’ She pouted at her reflected self, though well aware that the young bloom of her cheeks lost, even in the acid test of waking, nothing of its charm. This was plain to read on Antoine’s face as, moving to her side, he peered into the mirror. She noticed that the young man’s gaze fastened not on her eyes, but on her lips.
But then Antoine took stock of his own appearance—sleeves rolled up, arms burnt with iodine, his shirt crumpled and stained with blood.
‘And to think I was due to dine at Packmell’s!’ he exclaimed.
A curious smile flickered on Rachel’s face.
‘Hullo! So you go to Packmell’s sometimes?’
Their eyes were smiling, and Antoine’s heart leapt with joy. He knew little of women other than those of easy virtue. Now suddenly Rachel seemed to become less inaccessible to his desire.
‘I’ll go downstairs to my flat,’ she said and turned to Aline who was watching them. ‘If I can be of any help, don’t hesitate to call me.’
Then, without bidding Antoine good-bye, she drew the flaps of her dressing-gown together and discreetly made her exit.
No sooner had she gone than he, too, felt a wish to leave. ‘A breath of fresh air,’ he murmured, glancing over the housetops towards the morning sky. ‘Must go home, too, and explain to Jacques. I can return when I’ve done with the hospital. Washed, presentable. Might have them send for her to help with the dressing. Or shall I look in on my way up? But I don’t even know if she’s living by herself.’
He explained to Aline what to do, should the child wake before his return. Then, just as he was leaving, a scruple held him back; how about M. Chasle?
‘His room opens into the hall alongside the stove,’ the servant explained.
Antoine discovered a cupboard door beside the stove, answering to her description. Opening it, he saw a triangular recess, lit from the far end by a makeshift window let into the party wall of the staircase. This was the so-called bedroom. M. Chasle lay fully dressed on an iron bedstead, his mouth wide open, placidly snoring.
‘Sure enough, the old loonie’s plugged his ears with cotton-wool!’ Antoine exclaimed.
He decided to wait a minute or two, hoping the old fellow would decide to open his eyes. Pious pictures on coloured cardboard mounts lined the walls. Books—devotional, too—filled a whatnot, on whose topmost shelf stood a terrestrial globe, flanked by two rows of empty scent-bottles.
‘The Chasle case!’ I’ve a mania for seeing ‘cases’ everywhere, Antoine reflected. Nothing complex about him, really; a reach-me-down face and a mug’s life! Whenever I try to see into people, I distort, exaggerate. Bad habit! That servant-girl at Toulouse, for instance. Now why should I think of her? Because her bedroom window opened on to a staircase, too? No; must be the stale smell of toilet-soap. Funny things, associations of ideas! . . . He was conscious of a vivid sense of pleasure in recalling that juvenile experience; the chamber-maid with whom, when travelling with his father to attend a congress, he had passed a night in an attic room at an hotel. And, at this very minute, he would have given much to possess the buxom maid as he had known her then between the rough sheets of her bed.
M. Chasle went on snoring. Antoine decided not to wait, and returned to the hall.
No sooner had he begun to descend the stairs than he remembered that Rachel occupied the floor below. Coming round the bend of the stairs, he glanced down towards her door; it was open! No other door was visible, so it must be hers. Why was it open?
No time to hesitate; it would seem odd if he halted on the way down. Soon he was on her landing.
Rachel was in the hall of her flat and, hearing footsteps outside, glanced round. Her hair was tidy, she looked neat and cool. The pink dressing-gown had given place to a white kimono. Above its silken whiteness her red hair glowed like the flame upon an altar candle.
He addressed her first.
‘Au revoir!’
She came to the door. ‘Won’t you come in, doctor, and have something before going out? I’ve just made some chocolate.’
‘No, really, thanks—I’m too filthy to come in. Au revoir!’
He held out his hand. A smile hovered on her lips, but she did not imitate his gesture.
‘Au revoir!’ he repeated. Smiling still, she still refrained from taking his proffered hand, to his surprise. ‘You won’t shake hands with me then?’
He saw the smile freeze on her lips, her eyes grow set. Then she held out her hand. But, before Antoine could touch it, she had grasped him firmly and, with a brusque movement, drawn him over the threshold. She slammed the door behind them. They stood in the hall facing each other. She had ceased to smile, but her lips were parted still; he saw the white gleam of her teeth. The perfume of her hair drifted towards him and he remembered a naked breast, the warm contact of her limbs. Deliberately, he brought his face near to Rachel’s, his eyes bored into hers, grown large in nearness. She did not flinch; he felt, or seemed to feel, her wavering in his embrace and it was she who raised her lips to his mouth’s kiss. Then with an effort she drew back from Antoine and stood with lowered head, smiling again.
‘A night like that works you up . . . !’ she murmured.
Through an open door at the far end of the passage he had a glimpse of a bed and, all about it, the glimmer of pink silk; under the waxing light the alcove, distant and so near, seemed the great calyx of a flower aglow there in the dawn.
On the same morning, at about half-past eleven, Rachel knocked at the Chasles’ door.
‘Come in!’ a shrill voice answered.
Mme. Chasle was at her wonted place beside the open window of the dining-room. She sat stiffly erect, her feet resting on a hassock, her hands, as usual, unemployed. ‘I’m ashamed of doing nothing,’ she sometimes explained, ‘but there comes a time of life when one can’t go on slaving oneself to death for others.’
‘How is the little girl?’ Rachel enquired.
‘She woke up, had something to drink and went to sleep again.’
‘Is Monsieur Jules in?’
‘No, he’s out,’ Mme. Chasle replied with a shrug of resignation.
Rachel felt chagrined.
‘All the morning,’ the old woman lamented, ‘he’s been going on like—like a mosquito! Sunday’s such a dreadful day with a man about the place. I hoped this accident would teach him to treat us better. No such luck! The first thing this morning I could see he had something else on his mind, the Lord knows what! Nosing around, and don’t I know that way of his? These fifty years now I’ve had to put up with it anyhow. He left for High Mass more than an hour too early. Now that’s a queer thing, and no mistake. And he’s not back yet. Look there!’ Her lips set tight. ‘There he comes! Talk of the devil . . . Really, please, Jules,’ she continued, craning her neck towards her son who had just tiptoed in, ‘don’t bang the doors like that! Not only because of my heart trouble; there’s Dédette as well to think of now—you’ll be the death of her.’
But M. Chasle showed no contrition; he looked worried and absent-minded.
‘Let’s go and see how she is,’ Rachel suggested. No sooner were they at the bedside of the sleeping child than she put a question to him. ‘Have you known him long—Dr. Thibault, I mean?’
‘What?’ M. Chasle explained with a look of consternation. Then he began to smile knowingly and ‘What?’ he murmured again, like an echo. After a pause he brusquely turned towards her as though he had a secret to impart.
‘Look here, Mademoiselle Rachel, you’ve been so kind about Dédette that I’m going to ask a small favour of you. I was so put out by that business that I seem to have lost my head this morning; honestly I must go back there. At once. But it’s—it’s awkward going back a second time to that office of theirs all by myself. Don’t say “No”!’ he implored. ‘I give you my word of honour that it won’t last more than ten minutes.’
Smiling, she assented, though she had no notion what he might mean. She foresaw amusement in humouring the old man’s foibles and meant to seize the opportunity of putting further questions concerning Antoine. But all the way he was deaf to her enquiries and did not open his mouth once.
It was well after noon when they reached the police-station. The Inspector had just left. M. Chasle seemed so upset by his absence that the police clerk was nettled.
‘I can do it for you just as well, you know. What exactly do you want?’
M. Chasle cast a furtive glance towards him and, lacking the courage to draw back, embarked on explanations.
‘It’s because I’ve been thinking things over. I want to add something to my statement.’
‘What statement?’
‘I came here this morning—I reported at the other end of the counter, over there.’
‘What name? I’ll turn up the file.’
Her curiosity aroused, Rachel came and stood beside M. Chasle. The clerk returned in a moment with some papers; he gave the old man a shrewd look.
‘Chasle? Jules-Auguste? That your name? Well, what do you want?’
‘It’s like this. I fear the Inspector didn’t quite gather where I found the money.’
‘In the Rue de Rivoli,’ the clerk replied, after perusing the record.
M. Chasle smiled as though he had just won a wager.
‘You see! No, that’s not quite right. I revisited the spot and some details came back which might be helpful, you know; one’s got to be quite honest, eh?’ He coughed into his hand. ‘It’s this. I can’t be quite sure that it was in the street; more likely in the Tuileries. Yes. I was in the garden, you see. I was sitting on a stone bench—the second from the newspaper-stall on the way from the Concorde to the Louvre. I was sitting there with my stick in my hand. You’ll see why I lay stress on this point. I saw a gentleman and lady passing in front of me, with a child following. They were talking. I remember saying to myself, “Well, there’s a couple that have managed to set up a family . . . a child and so forth.” You see, I’m telling you everything. Then, just when he was passing my bench, the child fell down and started crying. I’m not used to handling these delicate situations, so I didn’t budge. The child’s mother ran up. And then, when they were just in front, almost at my feet—not my fault, was it?—she knelt down to wipe the child’s face and took a handkerchief or something of the kind from the little bag she was carrying. I remained seated. Well’—he raised his index finger—‘it was after they had gone that, poking about in the sand with my stick, with the ferrule, you know, I happened to see the money. It all came back to me afterwards. I’ve always kept straight, as people say. This young lady will tell you so. Fifty-two years old and nothing on my conscience; and that’s what tells, eh? So there’s no need to beat about the bush. I’ve come to think that perhaps the lady with the little bag may have some connection or other with this business of the money; and I tell you honestly what I think.’
‘Couldn’t you have run after them?’ Rachel asked.
‘They had gone too far.’
The police clerk looked up from his papers.
‘Well, can you describe their appearance?’
‘I’m not sure about the gentleman. The lady, I know, wore dark clothes; looked thirty or thereabouts. The baby had a steam-engine. Yes, I’m sure about that detail—a little locomotive. Well, when I say “little” I mean about that size. He was dragging it behind him. You’re taking it all down?’
‘That’s all right. Anything more?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you.’
Rachel was already near the door. But M. Chasle did not follow her. Leaning on the counter, he stared at the clerk.
‘There’s another little detail.’ A deep blush came over his face. ‘I rather think I made a slight mistake when I handed in the money this morning. Yes.’ He paused and wiped his brow. ‘I rather think I made over two notes, didn’t I? Yes, yes. I’m sure of it now. That was a little mistake—an oversight, I should say. Because . . . well, you know . . . the money I found wasn’t exactly that. It was a single note, a thousand-franc note, do you see?’ His face was pouring with sweat and once again he passed his handkerchief over his brow. ‘Make a note of that, now that I remember it—though, in a way, it comes to the same thing, really.’
‘It doesn’t come to the same thing by any means,’ the clerk replied. ‘On the contrary, it’s an important point. The gentleman who lost a thousand-franc note might have come to us a dozen times but we shouldn’t have given him back the two five-hundreds.’ He stared at M. Chasle disapprovingly. ‘Look here, have you your identity papers with you?’
M. Chasle fumbled in his pockets.
‘No.’
‘This won’t do at all. I regret it, but under the circumstances I cannot let the matter drop. An officer will go with you to your residence and your concierge will have to certify that the name and address you gave are not fictitious.’
A mood of resignation seemed to have come over M. Chasle for, though he continued to mop his face, his expression was serene, almost cheerful.
‘Just as you please,’ he said politely.
Rachel burst out laughing. M. Chasle cast a mournful glance at her; then, after a moment’s hesitation, he nerved himself to approach her and address her haltingly.
‘Sometimes, Mademoiselle, there lies beneath the plain coat of a mere nobody a nobler heart—and when I say “nobler” I mean “more honest,” too—than under the silk lapels of one of the great ones of the earth, for all his name and titles.’ His underlip quivered; no sooner had he spoken than he regretted the outburst. ‘I don’t mean that for you, Mademoiselle, nor for you, officer,’ he added, turning without the least timidity towards the policeman who had just entered.
Rachel left M. Chasle and the policeman to their explanations in the concierge’s room and went up to her flat.
Antoine was waiting for her on the landing.
She was far from expecting to meet him there and, when she saw him, a sudden thrill of pleasure made her half-close her eyes, but hardly showed at all upon her face.
‘I rang and rang. I’d almost given up hope,’ he confessed.
Gaily their glances met and their lips smiled a mutual avowal.
‘What are your plans for this morning?’ he asked. He was delighted to find her so smart in her summery tailor-made and flower-trimmed hat.
‘This morning! But it’s after one. And I haven’t had lunch yet.’
‘Nor have I.’ He came to a sudden decision. ‘I say, will you have lunch with me? Do say Yes!’ She smiled, charmed by his eagerness, as of a greedy child who has not learnt self-control.
‘Say Yes!’
‘All right then . . . Yes!’
‘Good!’ he exclaimed. He took a deep breath. She opened the door of her flat.
‘Just a moment, I must let my charwoman know, and pack her off home.’
As he waited alone outside her door, his emotion of that morning when she had moved towards him came back in all its intensity. ‘Ah, how she gave me her lips!’ he murmured, and was so carried away that he steadied himself with his head against the wall.
Rachel returned.
‘Come along! I’m ravenous!’ she cried, with a smile of almost animal eagerness.
‘Would you rather go down by yourself?’ he ventured awkwardly, ‘I can join you in the street.’
She burst out laughing.
‘By myself? Why? I’m quite free and make no secret of anything I do.’
They entered the Rue de Rivoli. Once again Antoine observed the easy rhythm of her steps; she seemed to dance along, rather than walk.
‘Where would you like to go?’ he enquired.
‘Why not try that place over there—it’s getting late, you know?’ She indicated with her parasol a small restaurant at the street corner.
The room on the mezzanine was empty; small tables were aligned in a semicircle beside the windows that opened on to a covered-in arcade and, extending downwards to the pavement level, lighted the room from an unusual angle. Here the air was cool, the twilight never varied. They sat down facing each other with the air of two children starting to play a game.
‘Why, I don’t even know your name!’ Antoine suddenly exclaimed.
‘Rachel Goepfert. Age: twenty-six. Chin: oval. Nose: medium. . . .’
‘And all her teeth?’
‘See for yourself!’ she laughed, falling upon the sliced sausage in the hors d’œuvre dish.
‘Better be careful. I suspect garlic in it.’
‘What about it?’ she laughed again. ‘I’m all for anything that’s low!’
Goepfert. . . . A Jewess, very likely; and, with the thought, a dusty residue of his upbringing stirred in Antoine’s mind, adding a spice of the exotic, a piquant independence to the adventure.
‘My father was a Jew,’ she announced as if she had read the young man’s thought.
A white-cuffed waitress brought the menu.
‘A mixed grill?’ Antoine suggested.
A most unexpected smile, which obviously she was unable to control, lit up Rachel’s face.
‘What are you smiling at? It’s jolly good. A lot of tasty things from the grill—kidneys, bacon, sausages, cutlets. . . .’
‘With water-cress and puffed potatoes,’ the waitress put in as a garnish.
‘I know. That’ll do for me.’ The merriment which she had momentarily repressed seemed once again to sparkle in her enigmatic eyes.
‘What will you drink?’
‘Beer, please.’
‘So will I. Off the ice.’
He watched her nibble the leaves of a tiny raw artichoke.
‘I love things with a taste of vinegar,’ she confessed.
‘So do I.’
He wanted to resemble her and could hardly refrain from breaking in with a ‘So do I!’ after each remark she made. In all she said and did she was the woman of his dreams. She dressed exactly as he had always wished a woman to dress. A necklace of old amber was round her neck, and the heavy beads hung in long translucent ovals like pulpy fruit, huge Malaga grapes or golden plums aglow with sunlight. Behind the amber her skin took on a milk-white sheen that stirred his senses. Gazing at her, Antoine felt like a starved jungle creature whose raging hunger nothing, nothing could ever quell. As he recalled their kiss, the pressure of her lips on his, his pulses raced. And here she was, under his eyes—the selfsame Rachel!
Two mugs of foaming beer were set before them. He and she were equally impatient to taste it. Antoine amused himself by timing his gestures with hers, never taking his eyes off her; at the same moment as he felt the soapy, pungent brew lapping his tongue and thawing on it, an icy draught flowed cool on Rachel’s tongue—and it was as if their mouths were mingled once again. The emotion left him dazed with pleasure and a minute passed before he caught what she was saying.
‘. . . and those women treat him like a menial.’
He pulled himself together.
‘What women?’
‘His mother and the servant.’ He realized that Rachel was speaking of the Chasles. ‘The old woman always addresses him as “Woolly-head”!’
‘Well, you must admit that she’s not far out.’
‘No sooner is he back than she starts badgering him about. Each morning he has to clean their boots—even the child’s shoes—on the landing.’
‘What, the old boy?’ Antoine smiled as he recalled another picture; the worthy Chasle writing to M. Thibault’s dictation or solemnly receiving in his employer’s stead some colleague from the Institute.
‘And they join forces to bleed him dry; why, they even filch the money from his pockets, pretending they’re brushing his coat before he leaves. Last year the old woman signed IOU’s for three or four thousand francs, forging her son’s signature. The old chap nearly fell ill with the shock of it.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Why, he stumped up of course. In six months, by instalments. He dared not give his mother away.’
‘And to think we see him every day, yet nothing of that sort ever entered our heads!’
‘You’ve never been to his place before?’
‘Never.’
‘Nowadays their home looks poverty-stricken. But you should have seen how the little flat looked even two years ago; with the tiled floor, the panelling and cupboards, you’d think you were back in the time of Voltaire. Inlaid furniture, family portraits, even some fine old silver plate.’
‘What’s become of it?’
‘The two women disposed of it behind his back. One evening when the old man came home the Louis XVI davenport had decamped; another day it was the tapestry, the easy-chairs, the miniatures. They even sold the portrait of his grandfather—a fine figure of a man in uniform, with a cocked hat on his head and an open map in front of him.’
‘A distinguished soldier, perhaps?’
‘Yes, he’d made a name for himself. He saw service under Lafayette in America.’
He noticed that she was voluble, but had the knack of expressing herself well. The details she gave had local colour. Obviously she had brains, but, above all, a mental outlook, a gift for noting and remembering facts, that pleased him.
‘He never breathes a word of complaint,’ Antoine remarked, ‘when he’s with us at home.’
‘No doubt—yet I’ve come across him time and time again when he’d crept out on to the stairs to hide his tears.’
‘Well, I’d never have believed it!’ he exclaimed, and there was such vivacity in his look and smile that her thoughts veered from her narrative towards the young man himself.
‘Are they really so terribly hard up?’ he asked.
‘Not a bit of it! The two old women are hoarding all the money, they’ve hidden it away somewhere. And, I assure you, they’re lavish enough where they themselves are concerned; but they read him a curtain-lecture if he dares to buy a few acid-drops. The stories I could tell you of what goes on in that flat! Aline wanted—guess what!—to get the old fellow to marry her. Don’t laugh! She nearly brought it off, too. The old woman was backing her up. But, luckily enough, one day they fell out.’
‘And Chasle, did he agree?’
‘Oh, he’d have ended by giving in, because of Dédette. That child is all the world to him. When they want to squeeze something out of him they threaten to send her away to Aline’s home in Savoie; then he starts crying, and gives way all along the line.’
He hardly heard what Rachel was saying; he watched the movements of the mouth that he had kissed—a well-shaped mouth, fleshy at its centre and clean-cut as an incision at the edges. When in repose, the corners of her lips lifted a little, poised in a smile that was not mocking, but serene and gay.
So far were his thoughts from the sorrows of M. Chasle that he murmured under his breath: ‘I’m a lucky chap, you know!’ and blushed.
She burst out laughing. Last night beside the operating table, she had gauged this man’s true worth, and now she was enchanted to discover that he was half a child; it brought him nearer to her.
‘Since when?’ she asked him.
He equivocated.
‘Since this morning.’
Yet it was true enough. He recalled his feelings when he left Rachel’s place and plunged into the sunlight of the streets; never had he felt in such fine fettle. In front of the Pont-Royal, he remembered, the traffic had been dense but he had launched himself athwart it with amazing coolness, murmuring to himself as he threaded his way through the moving maze of vehicles: ‘How sure of myself I am, how well I have my energies in hand! And some people tell you there’s no free will!’
‘Let me help you to a fried mushroom,’ he suggested.
She answered him in English.
‘With pleasure.’
‘So you speak English?’
‘Rather! Si son vedute cose più straordinarie.’
‘Italian, too. How about German?’
‘Aber nicht sehr gut.’
He reflected for a moment. ‘So you’ve travelled?’
She repressed a smile. ‘A bit.’ There was an enigmatic quality in her voice that made him scan her face intently.
‘What was I saying . . . ?’ he murmured vaguely.
But their words little mattered—there was a strange telepathy at work, in every look and smile, in their least gestures and their voices.
After a long look at him she exclaimed:
‘How different you are to-day from the man I watched last night!’
‘I assure you it’s one and the same man.’ He raised his hands still stained with iodine. ‘But just now I can show off my surgical abilities on nothing better than a cutlet.’
‘I had a good look at you last night, you know.’
‘And what was your impression?’
She was silent.
‘Was it the first time you’d witnessed a performance of that kind?’
She stared at him, hesitated, then began to laugh.
‘The first time?’ she echoed, and her voice implied: I’ve seen a good many things in my time! But she turned the question adroitly.
‘And do you have operations like that every day?’
‘Never. I don’t go in for surgery. I’m a doctor, a child-specialist.’
‘But why aren’t you a surgeon? With your ability. . . .’
‘I suppose it wasn’t my vocation.’
They were silent for a moment; her words had conjured up a vague regret.
‘Pshaw! A doctor or a surgeon!’ he exclaimed. ‘People have a lot of false ideas about “vocations.” Men always imagine they have chosen their vocation. But it’s circumstances . . .’ She saw his face masked for a moment by the resolute look which had so deeply moved her at the child’s bedside. ‘What’s the good,’ he continued, ‘of raking up the ashes? The path we have always chosen is always the best one, provided it enables us to go ahead.’ Then suddenly his thoughts returned to the handsome girl seated in front of him and the place that in a few brief hours she had made for herself in his life. A shade of apprehension crossed his face. That’s all very fine, he thought, but first of all I must make sure this business won’t handicap my work, my future. . . .
She saw the shadow on his brow.
‘You’re terribly headstrong, I should say.’
He smiled.
‘Look here, don’t laugh at what I’m going to tell you. For many years my motto was a Latin word, Stabo: I will stand firm. I had it stamped on my note-paper and the first pages of my books.’ He drew forth his watch-chain. ‘I even had it engraved on this old seal which I still wear.’
She examined the pendant he showed her.
‘It’s very pretty.’
‘Really? You like it?’
She took his meaning and handed it back to him.
‘No.’
But he had already undone the clasp.
‘Do please. . . .’
‘But what’s come over you?’
‘Rachel. To remind you . . .’
‘Of what?’
‘Of everything.’
‘Everything?’ she repeated, her eyes still fixed on his, and laughing heartily.
Adorable she looks just now, he thought. It’s charming too, that unrestrained smile of hers, that almost boyish smile. She was as different from the ‘professionals’ he had known as from the girls or married women who had crossed his path in society functions or at holiday resorts, and whom he always found intimidating, seldom attractive. Rachel did not intimidate him; he met her upon an equal footing. She had the pagan charm and even a little of the frankness one finds in harlots who like their calling; but in Rachel that charm had nothing furtive or vulgar about it. How delightful she is! he thought, and saw in her more than an ideal playmate; for the first time in his life he had encountered a woman who might be a friend, a comrade, to him.
The idea had been simmering in his mind all the morning and he had built a castle in the air, a new design of life, in which Rachel had her place. One thing only was lacking: the consent of the other party to the contract. And now he was burning with childish impatience to take her hands and say: ‘You are the woman I have waited for. I want to have done with casual adventures. But, as I loathe uncertainty, I’d like our mutual relations settled once for all. You shall be my mistress. Let’s fix things up accordingly.’ Now and again he had conveyed a hint of such designs and let fall a word or two touching their future, but always she had seemed to miss his meaning. Knowing her non-committal attitude was deliberate, he hesitated to let her into his plans.
‘This is a nice place, isn’t it?’ she observed, nibbling at a cluster of crystallized red-currants which stained her lips with carmine.
‘Yes, it’s worth making a note of. In Paris you can find everything, even the atmosphere of a country town.’ He pointed to the empty tables. ‘And no risk of meeting anyone.’
‘Don’t you want to be seen with me?’
‘Oh come now! I was thinking about you, of course.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘About me?’ That he should find her so mysterious delighted her and she was in no hurry to make things clearer. But his unspoken anxiety was writ so large upon his face that she could not but confess: ‘As I told you, I’m absolutely on my own. I have enough to live on in a simple way and want nothing more. I am quite free.’
His anxious, drawn expression relaxed with frank relief. She guessed the meaning he read into her words: I am yours for the asking. It would have revolted her in any other man, but she had a genuine liking for Antoine. The pleasure of feeling that he desired her outweighed whatever irritation she might feel at his complete misjudgment of her.
Coffee was served. She was silent, lost in thoughts. For she, too, had not failed to weigh the chances of an understanding between them; indeed she had caught herself thinking only a moment earlier—‘I’ll get him to shave off that beard!’ All the same, he was a stranger to her and, after all, if she felt drawn towards him now, so she had felt to others in the past. He must, she thought, make no mistake about it, must not go on looking at her as he now did with as much complacency as hunger in his eyes.
‘A cigarette?’
‘No, thanks. I have my own—they’re milder.’
He held a match to her cigarette. She puffed a cloud of smoke towards him.
‘Thanks.’
Yes, she mused, the great thing was to avoid all misunderstanding, from the start. She could speak all the more freely because she knew she ran no risk. She moved her cup forward a little, rested her elbows on the tablecloth, her chin on her locked fingers. Her eyelids, puckered with the smoke, almost completely veiled her eyes.
‘I say that I am free.’ She weighed her words. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m—in the market! You see the point?’
Antoine was wearing his tragic air.
‘I must tell you that I’ve been through the mill, I haven’t always had my independence; two years ago I hadn’t it. But now I’ve got it—and I mean to keep it.’ (She believed she spoke sincerely.) ‘I set so much store by my freedom that for nothing in the world would I abandon it. Do you follow me?’
‘Yes.’
Now they were silent. He watched her intently. Her eyes were averted; there was the ghost of a smile on her lips as she stirred her coffee.
‘What’s more—to speak quite frankly—it’s not in me to be a real friend to a man, or even his trusted mistress. I like to indulge all my whims—every one of them. And for that you have to be free. . . . You see what I mean?’ With an air of unconcern she raised her cup and drank the coffee in little scalding sips.
For a moment Antoine felt quite desperate. The bitter end! . . . But no, there she was still in front of him; the battle was not lost, far from it! To give up anything on which his heart was set was quite beyond him; he had no precedents for failure. Anyhow there was no mistaking how things lay, and that was better than mirage. When one has all the facts, action can be taken. Never for an instant did it cross his mind that she might possibly slip through his fingers or meet his projects for their future with a blank refusal. That was Antoine’s way; he never doubted he would gain his end.
The great thing was to get to know her better; to rend the veils that still enveloped her.
‘So two years ago you were not free?’ His tone was frankly inquisitive. ‘And are you really free now; now and for the future?’
Rachel looked him all over as if he were a child, while a shade of irony hovered on her face, as though she said: ‘If I answer, it’s only because I choose to do so.’
‘The man with whom I used to live,’ she explained, ‘has settled in the Sudan. He will never return to France.’ She ended her explanation with a faint, soundless laugh and averted her eyes. Then, as though to close the subject once for all, she rose from her seat.
‘Let’s go!’
When they were outside she took a street leading to the Rue d’Alger. Antoine walked beside her saying nothing, wondering what to do. He could not bring himself to leave her so soon.
When they had reached the street-door, Rachel came to the rescue.
‘Will you have a look at Dédette?’ she asked. Then, taking herself up, she added: ‘But what am I thinking of? Very likely you’ve somewhere else to go.’
As a matter of fact Antoine had promised to return to Passy in the afternoon and visit the sick child. Moreover, he had to go over the proofs of a report that his Chief had sent him that morning, asking him to check the references. More important still, he was due to dine that evening at Maisons-Laffitte and meant to keep the appointment; he had firmly resolved to arrive there early so as to have a chat with Jacques before dinner. But all those good resolves went up in smoke, the moment he saw a possibility of staying in Rachel’s company.
‘I’m free all day,’ he boldly lied, making way for her to enter.
Qualms for the duties left undone, the upset to his scheme of life, glanced lightly off his conscience. So much the worse for them! . . . So much the better for me! he all but thought.
They climbed the stairs in silence.
At the door of her flat, as she put her key in the lock, she turned towards him. His features were aglow with candid, undisguised desire; desire untrammelled, jubilant, and not to be frustrated.
Jacques had rushed home from Packmell’s at headlong speed. When his concierge informed him that M. Antoine had been called away for an accident, his superstitious fear vanished into air, leaving him vexed with his credulity—that he had thought a passing fancy for a mourning suit could have brought about his brother’s death. The absence of the bottle of iodine which he needed for his boil was the last straw; he undressed in the mood of vague but fierce resentment which he knew only too well and always bitterly regretted, as unworthy of him. For a long time he could not sleep; he got no joy of his success.
Next morning Antoine met Jacques at the street-door, when the latter was just setting out for Maisons-Laffitte, having decided not to await his brother’s return. Antoine gave him a rapid account of the past night’s happenings, but did not breathe a word about Rachel. His eyes were bright and there was a combative expression on his face which his brother put down to the strain of the operation.
The church-bells were ringing full peal when Jacques left the Maisons-Laffitte station. There was no need to hurry; M. Thibault never missed High Mass, nor did Gisèle and Mlle. de Waize. He had ample time for a stroll before going to the house. The warm shadows in the park were an invitation to saunter. The avenues were empty. He sat down on a bench. No sounds broke the stillness but the hum of insects in the grass, and the sudden whirr of sparrows as, one by one, they left the branches above his head. He sat unmoving, a smile on his lips, thinking of nothing in particular, glad simply to be there.
The ancient domain of Maisons, bordering the forest of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, was bought under the Restoration by Laffitte, who sold off the fifteen hundred acres of the park in parcels, reserving only the château for his use. But the financier saw to it that the dispersion of the estate did not impair the grandiose vistas that radiated from the château, and that damage to the standing timber should be reduced to a minimum. Thanks to his foresight, Maisons remained a vast seigniorial domain; its avenues of lime-trees hundreds of years old offered magnificent approaches to a whole colony of small estates, unwalled and nestling in the woods.
M. Thibault’s summer residence lay north-east of the château in a grassy clearing, ringed with white palings and the shade of immemorial trees; in the middle of the greensward a round pond gleamed, set off by shrubberies of box.
Jacques made his way slowly towards this green retreat. As the house came into view in the far distance, he discerned a white dress pressed against the garden gate; Gisèle was looking out for him. Her eyes were fixed on the station road and she did not see him coming. Thrilled with sudden joy, he began to run. Then she saw him and, making a speaking-trumpet of her hands, called to him.
‘Passed?’
Though she had turned sixteen, she did not dare to go outside the garden without leave from Mademoiselle.
To tease her, he did not answer. But she read the good news in his eyes and began capering like a child. Then she flung herself into his arms.
‘Don’t be a silly kid,’ he growled, more out of habit than anything else. She drew away laughing, but a moment later threw herself once again into his arms, quivering with excitement. He saw her gleeful smile, tears flashing in her eyes; touched and grateful, he held her for a moment closely to his heart.
Laughing still, she lowered her voice.
‘I had to make up such a yarn to get auntie to go with me to Low Mass; I thought you’d be here at ten, you see. Father isn’t back yet. Come along!’ She led him towards the house.
Mademoiselle’s diminutive figure came into view at the far end of the hall; her back was hunched a little with the years. She hurried forward, her head shaking slightly with excitement. She halted at the edge of the terrace and, as soon as Jacques was near, stretched out her doll-like arms, nearly losing her balance as she kissed him.
‘You’ve passed? Yes?’ she mumbled as if she had something in her mouth.
‘Woa!’ he gaily implored. ‘Do mind my boil. It’s terribly painful.’
‘Turn round! Bless and save us!’ Jacques’ small infirmity evidently lay more within her province than examinations at the Ecole Normale, for she asked no more about his success, but led him off to have his neck bathed with boiled water and a soothing compress applied.
The minor operation was just ending in Mademoiselle’s room when the gate-bell tinkled. M. Thibault had returned.
‘Jacquot’s passed,’ Gisèle shouted from the window, while Jacques went down to meet his father.
‘Ah, there you are! What place?’ M. Thibault asked, a quick flush of satisfaction colouring his pasty cheeks.
‘Third.’
M. Thibault’s approval grew even more pronounced. His eyelids did not rise, but the muscles of his nose began to quiver, his glasses dropped to the end of their tether and he held out his hand.
‘Well, well! Not too bad!’ he muttered, pressing Jacques’ hand between his flabby fingers. He paused a moment, frowning. Then ‘How hot it is!’ he murmured. He drew his son to him and kissed him. Jacques’ heart beat faster. He raised his eyes towards his father, but M. Thibault had already turned away and was hurriedly ascending the terrace steps. He went to his study, dropped his prayer-book on the table and, taking out his handkerchief, mopped his face.
Lunch was on the table. Gisèle had placed a bunch of marshmallows at Jacques’ place and the family table wore a festive air. So blithe was her heart that she could not restrain her laughter. The life she led with the two old people was hard upon her youth, but, such was her vitality, it never weighed on her; with hopes of happiness to come why not be happy now?
M. Thibault came in, rubbing his hands.
‘Well, Jacques,’ he said, unfolding his napkin and planting his fists on either side of his plate, ‘now you mustn’t rest on your laurels. We’re no fools in the family and, as you’ve entered third, what’s to stop you, if you work hard enough, from coming out first in the Finals?’ Half closing an eye, he perked up his beard, with a knowing air. ‘For may we not assume that in every competitive examination someone must be first?’
Jacques greeted his father’s sally with an evasive smile. He was so used to play-acting at the family table that it cost him little effort to carry through his part; occasionally, however, he blamed himself for the habit, as lacking dignity.
‘To take a first place,’ M. Thibault continued, ‘in the Finals of such an Alma Mater as the Ecole Normale—your brother will bear me out—stamps a man for life; he is sure of being looked up to in whatever career he chooses. How is your brother?’
‘He said he was coming after lunch.’
The idea of telling his father that there had been an accident in M. Chasle’s household never for an instant crossed Jacques’ mind. All who came in contact with M. Thibault were involved in a conspiracy of silence; they had learnt how rash it was to give him any kind of information, for there was no knowing what conclusions that burly busybody would draw from even the smallest piece of news, or what steps he might not take, whether by interviews or correspondence, in the exercise of what he deemed his right of meddling in—and muddling—other people’s business.
‘Have you seen that the morning papers confirm the failure of our Villebeau Co-operative Society?’ he enquired of Mademoiselle, though he knew she never opened a newspaper. She answered, nevertheless, with an emphatic nod. M. Thibault emitted a short, brittle laugh; thereafter, till the meal ended, he said no more and seemed indifferent to the others’ conversation. Daily he grew more hard of hearing, more isolated from his family. Sometimes throughout a meal he stayed thus—devouring in silence the huge helpings that an appetite worthy of a boxer demanded, and lost in thoughts. At such moments he was pondering on some complicated scheme, and his inertia was that of a sedulous spider; he was waiting till the tireless workings of his mind had ravelled out some social or administrative problem. Thus, indeed, he had always worked—with eyes half shut, only his brain active, calm as a man of stone. Never had this great worker taken a note, or mapped out the sequence of a speech; everything took form, and was indelibly recorded down to the least detail behind that brooding forehead.
Mademoiselle sat in front of him, keeping a sharp eye on the servants. Her hands lay folded on the tablecloth, diminutive and comely hands which she kept in condition (a secret, as she thought) with a lotion made of milk of cucumber. She had almost given up eating. For dessert she took a mug of milk and a biscuit only; out of coquetry she never dipped the biscuit in the milk but nibbled it dry with her well-preserved, mouse-like teeth. She was convinced that everyone ate too much, and kept close watch on her niece’s plate. To-day, however, in honour of Jacques, she waived her principles so far as to suggest, when the meal ended:
‘Jacquot, will you try the jam I’ve been making?’
‘ “Delicious flavour, perfectly digestible,” ’ Jacques murmured, winking at Gisèle, and this standing joke of theirs, calling up a certain packet of bullseyes and their screams of laughter as children, set them off laughing as in the past, till the tears came to their eyes.
M. Thibault had not heard the remark, but smiled benevolently.
‘You’re a bold young scamp!’ Mademoiselle protested. ‘But just look how well they’ve set.’ On the dumb-waiter a squad of fifty jam-pots, filled with ruby jelly and protected by a strip of muslin against the flies’ offensive, glowed in anticipation of their caps of rum-soaked parchment.
The french windows opened from the dining-room on to a verandah bright with flower-boxes; and sunbeams, slipping past the blinds, streaked the floor with dazzling light. A wasp buzzed round the jar of greengages and, droning under the caress of noonday, set the whole house ahum. Jacques was destined to recall this meal as the only moment when his success in the examination gave him a fleeting thrill of pleasure.
Gisèle was wildly happy and, though habit kept her silent, exchanged clandestine glances with him, as if to share some unspoken secret. At everything Jacques said she broke into a merry peal of laughter.
‘Oh, Gise, that mouth of yours!’ Mademoiselle twittered; never could she get over the enormity of Gisèle’s mouth and her thick lips. No better could she abide the dusky warmth that glowed in the girl’s fair skin, her flattish nose and black, slightly fuzzy hair—all that reminded her only too well of Gisèle’s mother, the half-caste, whom Major de Waize had married during his stay in Madagascar. She never missed a pretext for alluding to her niece’s forebears on her father’s side. ‘When I was younger,’ she used to say, ‘my grandmother—the one with the Scotch shawl, you know—used to make me repeat “prunes and prisms, prunes and prisms” a hundred times a day, to make my mouth smaller.’ While she talked she was flicking her napkin at the wasp, trying to catch it, and laughing every time she missed it. There was nothing of the kill-joy about the worthy old creature; her life had been a hard one, but her contagious laugh rang blithe as ever. ‘Grandmother,’ she continued, ‘danced at Toulon with Count de Villèle, the cabinet minister. She’d be dreadfully unhappy if she had to live in these present times, for she couldn’t bear the sight of big mouths or big feet.’ Mademoiselle was very vain of her feet, shaped like a new-born babe’s, and always wore blunt-ended cloth shoes to keep her toes from losing their shape.
At three, the hour of Vespers, the house became empty. Jacques, left to himself, went up to his bedroom. It was an attic on the top floor, but a large, cool room, gay with a floral wall-paper; the view was restricted, but agreeably so, by the high branches of two chestnut-trees whose feathery leaves formed an attractive foreground.
Dictionaries, a text-book of philology and the like still littered the table; he bundled them all away into the bottom of a cupboard, and came back to his desk.
Am I still a child or am I a man? he suddenly wondered. Daniel . . . but that’s another matter altogether. But I—what am I really? He felt a world in himself, a world of warring impulses; a chaos, but a chaos of abundance. Pleased with his private universe, he set his gaze roaming over the expanse of smooth mahogany. Why had he cleared the table? Well, anyhow, he was not short of plans. For how many months had he not been repressing an impulse to set about doing something? ‘Wait till you’ve passed,’ he had admonished himself. And now that liberty deferred was here at last, he could see nothing worthy of his undertaking—not the Story of Two Young Men, not Fires, nor yet The Startled Secret.
He rose from the desk, took a few steps and glanced towards the shelf where he had been hoarding books (some of them acquired the year before) against the day that set him free. Which of them should be his first choice? he wondered; then, in a fit of petulance, flung himself on the bed, empty-handed.
‘Damn all these books and arguments and phrases!’ he exclaimed. ‘ “Words! Words! Words!” ’ He stretched his arms out towards some phantom of his mind, intangible; and all but wept. May I now begin to—live? he asked himself perplexedly. And again: Am I a child still, or a man?
His breath came and went in painful gasps; he felt crushed and broken. He could not have said what it was he asked of fate.
‘To live!’ he repeated. ‘To act!’
Then ‘To love’ he added, and closed his eyes. . . .
He rose an hour later. Had he been in a daydream or asleep? His head was heavy and his neck smarted. Deep exhaustion, due at once to a vague boredom and excess of energy, put any mode of action out of reach and dulled his thoughts. He cast a glance round the room. Must he vegetate for two months in this house? Yet he felt some enigmatic destiny chained him here for the summer, and that elsewhere his plight would be still worse.
Going to the window, he rested his elbows on the sill. And suddenly his anguish lifted. Gisèle’s dress gleamed white across the lower branches of the chestnuts and now he knew her nearness would give him back the zest of youth and life.
He had meant to take her unawares, but her ears were on the alert, or else her book had little interest for her, for she swung round at once, hearing Jacques’ footstep behind her.
‘No luck that time!’
‘What’s this you’re reading?’
She refused to answer and hugged the book to her breast in her folded arms. Their eyes challenged each other with a sudden thrust of pleasure.
‘One, two, three. . . .’
He rocked the chair to and fro till she slipped off on to the grass. But she would not let go of her book and he had to grapple with her lithe, warm body for a strenuous minute before he could secure his booty.
‘Le Petit Savoyard, Vol. I. My word! Are there many more of this?’
‘Three volumes.’
‘Congrats. Is it exciting anyhow?’
She laughed.
‘Why, I can’t even get through the first volume!’
‘Why do you read tosh like that?’
‘I’ve no choice, you see.’
(After several experiences of the kind Mademoiselle had given her verdict: ‘Gisèle doesn’t care for reading.’)
‘I’ll lend you some books instead,’ Jacques proposed, pioneer as usual of disobedience and revolt.
But Gisèle did not seem to hear him.
‘Don’t hurry away,’ she begged, stretching herself on the grass. ‘Take my chair. Or lie down here if you like.’
He lay down beside her. The sun beat remorselessly on the villa some sixty yards away and on the sanded terrace round it, set with orange-trees in tubs; but here, under cover of the chestnut-trees, the grass was cool.
‘So, Jacquot, now you’re free.’ Then in a voice that vainly tried to sound detached, she added: ‘And what are you going to do next?’ She bent in his direction, with eager, parted lips.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, where will you go now that you have two months to do as you like?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘What? You’re going to stay here with us for a bit?’ She looked up at him; her eyes were round and glowing with dog-like devotion.
‘Yes. I’m going to Touraine on the tenth, for a friend’s wedding.’
‘And then?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He averted his eyes. ‘I’m thinking of staying all the holidays at Maisons.’
‘Really and truly?’ She leant forward to study Jacques’ expression.
He smiled, rejoicing in her joy, and now he viewed with few or no misgivings the prospect of spending two months in the company of this simple, affectionate child whom he loved like a sister—far more than a sister. His presence here had always seemed unwanted and he had never dreamed his coming could bring such radiant happiness to her life; the revelation made him feel so grateful to her that he took the hand lying listless on the grass, and stroked it.
‘What a nice skin you have, Gisèle! Do you use cucumber lotion, too?’
She laughed and Jacques was impressed by her suppleness as lithely she snuggled up to him. She had the natural, playful sensuality of a young animal and in her full-throated laugh, when it had not a ring of childish glee, sounded an amorous, dove-like cooing. But there was peace between the virgin soul and the ripe young body, thrilled though it might be by countless vague desires whose meaning she could not guess.
‘Auntie still won’t let me join the tennis-club this season.’ She made a grimace. ‘You’ll be going there, I suppose?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Will you go for bicycle rides?’
‘Perhaps I will.’
‘How lovely!’ she exclaimed, and her look implied: wonders will never cease. ‘You know, auntie’s promised to let me go for rides with you. Would you like that?’
For a moment he peered into the dark pools of her eyes.
‘You’ve pretty eyes, Gisèle.’
It seemed to him that they grew darker yet, ruffled by a strange unrest. Smiling still, she turned away. That blithe and laughing charm of hers, the first thing people usually noticed, showed not only in the sparkle of her eyes and the little dimples that played incessantly about the corners of her lips, but also in her ripely moulded cheeks, the blunt tip of her nose, the roguish roundness of her chin—it lit up all her small, plump face, vivid with health and cheerfulness.
She grew uneasy at his evasion of the question she had asked.
‘I say, you will—won’t you?’
‘Will what . . . ?’
‘Why, take me for bike rides in the woods, or to Marly, like last summer.’
She was so delighted to see him smile a vague assent that she wriggled still closer and kissed him. They lay on their backs, side by side, their eyes exploring the green depths above.
Sounds reached their ears, the tinkle of a fountain, a chuckling chorus of frogs around the pond and, now and again, voices of passers-by beyond the garden fence. The scent of petunias whose gummy whorls had toasted daylong in the sun slowly drifted from the flower-boxes on the verandah, lingering on the warm air.
‘You are funny, Jacques. Always thinking! What ever do you think about?’
Propping himself on his elbow, he looked at Gisèle and saw the wonder on her parted, glistening lips.
I was thinking what pretty teeth you have.’
She did not blush, but gave a little shrug.
‘No, Jacques, I’m being serious.’
Her tone of childish gravity set Jacques laughing.
A bumble-bee, drenched in amber light, hovered round them, blundering like a tiny woolly ball against Jacques’ cheek; then, veering earthwards, it dived into a hole in the turf, humming like a threshing-machine.
‘I was thinking, Gise, as well, that you remind me of that bee there.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ He stretched himself out again on his back. ‘It’s round and black like you and, what’s more, its buzz is rather like the noise you make when you laugh.’
He made the announcement in such a serious tone that the words seem to set Gisèle deeply pondering. Both were silent now. The slanting shadows lengthened on the sun-scorched lawn and a level ray caught Gisèle’s face. Spangles of gold played on her cheeks, fretting her eyes across the lids; the tickling on her face started her laughing again. . . .
A chime of the gate-bell announced Antoine’s arrival and when Jacques saw his brother at the end of the drive he rose promptly, as though it were all thought out beforehand, and hurried to meet him.
‘You’re going back this evening?’
‘Yes, by the ten-twenty.’
Jacques was impressed once again, not by the weariness so evident on Antoine’s features, but by their brightness, that gave him an unwonted, almost defiant, air.
He lowered his voice.
‘I say, won’t you come with me after dinner to Madame de Fontanin’s?’ He knew his brother would demur and, averting his eyes, he added hastily: ‘I simply must call on them and I’d hate to have to go there alone to-morrow.’
‘Will Daniel be there?’
Jacques knew for a fact that he would not.
‘Of course,’ he said.
M. Thibault appeared at a window of the drawing-room, holding an open newspaper, and they ceased speaking.
‘Ah, there you are!’ he called to Antoine. ‘I am glad you were able to come.’ He always spoke to Antoine with studied courtesy. ‘Stay where you are, I’ll join you.’
‘That’s fixed up then?’ Jacques whispered. ‘We can say we’re going for a stroll after dinner.’
M. Thibault had never withdrawn the veto he had pronounced long ago against any revival of Jacques’ relations with the Fontanins. For safety’s sake the hated name was never mentioned in his hearing. Was he unaware that for some time past his injunction had been disregarded? Impossible to be sure. So blind was his paternal pride, it well might be that the notion his orders were being persistently disobeyed never crossed his mind.
‘Well, he’s passed,’ said M. Thibault, descending with heavy tread the terrace steps, ‘so now we need feel no more anxiety about his future.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Shall we take a stroll round the lawn before dinner?’ The unusual proposal called for explanation. ‘I wanted to have a talk with you both. But, first of all’—he turned towards Antoine—‘have you seen the evening papers? What do they say of the Villebeau bankruptcy? Have you seen anything about it?’
‘Your Workmen’s Co-operative Society?’
‘Yes, my dear boy. An absolute disaster—with a scandal behind it, too! Quick work, eh?’ He emitted a short laugh that sounded like a cough.
Ah, how she gave me her lips! Antoine was thinking, and a picture of the restaurant rose before his eyes: Rachel sitting opposite him, the light welling up from below—as on a stage—from windows that extended to the pavement. . . . I wonder why she laughed like that when I suggested a mixed grill!
He tried his best to be interested in his father’s conversation. Moreover, it puzzled him that M. Thibault should take this ‘disaster’ so calmly, for the philanthropist was a member of the group that had supplied the Villebeau button-makers with funds when, after the last strike, they had founded a co-operative workers’ union to demonstrate that they could do without their employers.
M. Thibault had reached his peroration.
‘In my opinion the money was not spent in vain. We have no reason to regret our conduct; we took the workers’ utopian projects seriously and volunteered to assist them with our capital. With this result: the enterprise went bankrupt in under eighteen months. As it happens, the middleman between the workmen’s delegates and ourselves did his work well. He’s an old acquaintance of yours, by the bye.’ He halted and turned to Jacques. ‘It’s Faisme, who was at Crouy in your time.’
Jacques made no comment.
‘He has a hold on all the men’s leaders, thanks to the letters those noble souls addressed us, asking for funds—letters penned during the worst phase of the strike. So none of them can think of climbing down.’ He emitted another little cough of self-satisfaction. ‘But that is not what I wish to consult you about,’ he added, moving forward again.
He walked with heavy steps and flagging breath, trailing his feet in the sand, with his body bent forward and hands behind his back; his unbuttoned coat flapped loosely round him. His two sons walked beside him. Jacques recalled a sentence he had read, though he could not place it: ‘Whenever I meet two men walking side by side and finding nothing to say to each other, I know them for father and son.’
‘It’s this,’ said M. Thibault. ‘I want your opinion on a plan I have in mind—on your behalf.’ They heard a note of sadness and a ring of sincerity in his voice, quite other than his usual tone. ‘You will find out, my sons, when you attain my age, that a man cannot but look back and ask himself: What will remain of my life’s work? I know very well—Abbé Vécard has often told me so—that all our efforts spent on doing good work together to the same end, are cumulative. Still—is it not cruel to think that all the strivings of a life may be utterly obliterated in the nameless jetsam each generation leaves behind? May not a father legitimately desire that his own children will keep some personal memory of him? . . . If only by way of an example to others.’ He sighed. ‘I can honestly say that I have your interests at heart, rather than mine. It has struck me that in future years you, as my sons, will prefer not to be confounded with all the other Thibaults in France. We have two centuries behind us—as commoners, if you like; but we can prove who we are. That, anyhow, is something. And I believe that, to the best of my ability, I have added to this worthy heritage, and have the right—this will be my reward—to hope there may be no misunderstanding as to your parentage, and to desire that you may bear my name in its entirety and transmit it intact to those who will be born of my blood. It lies with the Heralds’ College to deal with such requests. So, some months ago, I took the requisite steps to have a formal alteration of your names recorded; I expect very shortly to receive the deed-polls, which I shall ask you to sign. And, by the end of the holidays, I trust—in any case, not later than Christmas—each of you will have the legal right to call himself no longer just plain “Thibault,” but “Oscar-Thibault” with a hyphen; “Dr. Antoine Oscar-Thibault,” for example.’ Bringing his hands in front of him, he rubbed them together. ‘That is what I wanted to tell you. No thanks, if you please; we will not mention it again. And now to dinner; I see Mademoiselle beckoning.’ He laid a patriarchal arm around the shoulder of each of his sons. ‘If it so happens that this distinction helps you on in life, so much the better, my sons. Surely, in all conscience, it is only justice that a man whose heart was never set on worldly gain should endow his heirs with such prestige as he has himself acquired.’
There was a tremor on his voice and, to hide his emotion, he swerved from the path along which they were walking and hurried on by himself, stumbling over the hummocks, towards the house. Never before had Antoine and Jacques seen their father so profoundly moved.
‘Well, that beats everything!’ Antoine chuckled.
‘Oh don’t, Antoine!’ It seemed to Jacques that dirty hands, his brother’s, were pawing at his heart. Jacques rarely spoke of his father without a certain deference; he declined to judge him, and deplored his own clear-sightedness when (oftener than he would have wished) his father was its target. And to-night the agony of doubt that lay behind his father’s longing for survival had touched him deeply, for even Jacques, though only twenty, could never think of death without a sinking of the heart.
Why ever did I get Antoine to come? Jacques asked himself as, an hour later, he accompanied his brother down the green avenue, flanked by centenarian lime-trees, that led from the château to the forest. His neck was smarting; Mademoiselle had insisted on having the boil inspected by Antoine, who had thought fit to lance it, despite his victim’s protest—for the idea of paying a visit with a bandage on his neck did not at all appeal to him.
Antoine was tired but talkative; his thoughts were all for Rachel. Yesterday at this hour he did not know her yet, and now she filled every moment of his life.
His exuberance contrasted with his brother’s mood; Jacques had passed a restful day and now, as he walked on, his thoughts were busy with a visit whose prospect stirred in him a fugitive emotion, sometimes akin to hope. He felt dissatisfied and mistrustful as he walked at Antoine’s side. Some cautionary instinct warned him against his brother, setting a wall of silence between them, though their conversation was cordial as ever. But, in reality, each was building up a screen of words and smiles, like hostile forces tossing up clods of earth to make a barrier against attack. Neither was hoodwinked by the other’s strategy. The tie of blood linked them so intimately that nothing of importance could remain a secret between them. The very tone of Antoine’s voice as he praised the fragrance of a late-flowering lime—it had called up a secret memory of Rachel’s scented hair—if it did not tell Jacques everything, was all but tantamount to a confession. So he was little surprised when Antoine, yielding to his obsession, caught his arm and, setting a faster pace, launched forth into an account of his eventful night, and of its aftermath. Antoine’s tone, his grown-up air, taken with certain broad details little in keeping with his normal, elder-brotherly reserve, made Jacques feel strangely ill at ease. He put a good face on it, smiled and nodded his approval—but he was distressed. He was angry with his brother for causing this distress, and even for the sentiment of disapproval which accompanied it. The more his brother hinted at the state of rapture in which he had been living for the last twelve hours, the more Jacques shrank back into his shell of cold disdain and felt the thirst for chastity grow strong within him. When Antoine, describing his afternoon, ventured to use the words ‘a day of love,’ Jacques was profoundly shocked, and showed it.
‘No, Antoine,’ he protested, ‘no, and no again! “Love”—that’s something quite different.’
A rather self-complacent smile hovered on Antoine’s lips; but he was taken aback for all that, and said no more.
The Fontanins were living in an old house, left them by Mme. de Fontanin’s mother, at the far end of the park, on the outskirts of the forest. The house abutted on the old park wall. A road, lined with acacias and so seldom used that patches of rank grass were growing on it, led from the main avenue to a postern-gate let into the garden wall.
Night was falling when they arrived, and lights shone in some of the windows. A bell tinkled and, at the bottom of the garden beside the house, Puce, Jenny’s dog, began to bark. Antoine and Jacques knew where to find them. After meals the Fontanins resorted to the far side of the house where, shaded by two plane-trees, a natural terrace overhung the ancient fosse. A car had pulled up in the drive and they had to grope their way around it.
‘Visitors!’ Jacques murmured, and suddenly regretted he had come.
But Mme. de Fontanin was already on her way to meet them.
‘I knew it was you!’ she exclaimed as soon as she saw their faces. She hastened towards them with brisk, glad steps, holding out her hands and smiling her greetings. ‘We were ever so pleased this morning when Daniel’s wire came.’ Jacques did not flinch. ‘But I knew you would pass,’ she continued, looking earnestly at Jacques. ‘Something told me so that Sunday in June when you came here with Daniel. Dear Daniel, how delighted, how proud he must feel! Jenny was delighted, too.’
‘So Daniel isn’t here to-night?’ Antoine remarked.
As they neared the circle of chairs, they heard a sound of gay voices. Jacques singled out at once a certain voice with a distinctive quality of its own, vibrant yet subdued; Jenny’s voice. She was seated beside another girl, her cousin Nicole, and a man some forty years of age towards whom Antoine advanced with an air of surprise; a young surgeon who had been his colleague at the Necker hospital. The two men shook hands cordially.
Mme. de Fontanin beamed. ‘So you know each other. Antoine and Jacques Thibault are great friends of Daniel’s,’ she explained to Dr. Héquet. ‘So you won’t mind letting them into the secret, will you?’ She turned to Antoine. ‘I’m sure my little Nicole will let me tell you about her engagement—won’t you, darling? It’s not really quite official yet, but, as you see, Nicole’s already brought her fiancé here to meet her aunt, and you need only look at them to guess their secret.’
Jenny had not gone to meet the brothers and did not rise till they were actually standing before her; she shook hands with them coldly.
‘Nico dear, come and see my pigeons,’ she said to Nicole before they had time to sit down again. ‘I’ve eight baby pigeons who are . . .’
‘Still on the bottle,’ Jacques broke in; his voice, which he meant to sound insolent, was merely ill-mannered and out of place. This he realized at once, and clenched his teeth.
Jenny did not seem to hear.
‘. . . who are just learning to fly,’ she continued smoothly.
‘But they’re all in bed by now,’ Mme. de Fontanin protested, to keep her from going.
‘So much the better. You can’t get near them in the daytime. Will you come too, Félix?’
Dr. Héquet, who was talking to Antoine, hastened to follow the two girls.
As soon as the engaged couple was out of earshot Mme. de Fontanin bent towards Antoine and Jacques.
‘It’s a most fascinating little match, you know. Our little Nicole has no means of her own and she was quite set against being on anyone’s hands. So for three years she’s been earning her living as a nurse. And now, just see how she has been rewarded! Dr. Héquet met her at the bedside of a patient and was so impressed by her devotion and intelligence, and the plucky way she was facing life, that he fell in love with her. There’s the whole story. Now don’t you think it’s perfectly charming?’
The romantic glamour of her tale, where virtue triumphed and every sentiment was lofty, enchanted her simple soul, and the light of faith shone in her eyes. Most of her remarks were addressed to Antoine and she spoke to him in a cordial manner that seemed to imply they saw eye to eye in everything. She liked his forehead and keen gaze, never reflecting that he was sixteen years her junior; that she might, or almost might, have been his mother. She was overjoyed when he assured her Félix Héquet was a first-rate surgeon with a great future before him.
Jacques took no part in the conversation. ‘On the bottle!’ He was furious with himself. Everything, even Mme. de Fontanin’s effusive amiability, had been ruffling his nerves ever since he came. He had not been able to hear her congratulations out, but turned away, feeling ashamed on her account—that she should seem to attach any importance to his success, the news of which, however, he had been at pains to telegraph to her. ‘Jenny at least spared me her compliments,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Did she realize that I am capable of better things, I wonder? No. Just indifference. Better things! “Still on the bottle!” I wonder if she even knows what the Ecole Normale means. Anyhow, what does she care about my future? She hardly said “Good evening” to me. But how about me? Why did I make that idiotic remark?’ He blushed, gritting his teeth again. ‘And while she said “Good evening” she went on listening to her cousin. Her eyes—inscrutable, they are. The rest of her face is almost childish, but her eyes . . . !’ At every moment painful twinges were reminding him of his boil, but he resented still more the bandage that all of them—not only Mademoiselle but Gisèle, too—had foisted on him. A hideous sight he must be looking!
Antoine was talking cheerfully, paying no heed to Jacques.
‘. . . and from the moral point of view . . .’ he was saying. When Antoine talks, Jacques thought, there’s no room for anybody else. Then suddenly his brother’s easy manners in society and that ‘moral point of view,’ following as it did avowals of a very different order, disgusted him as a piece of unforgivable hypocrisy. How different from him his brother was! Rushing to extremes, Jacques decided that he had not a single thing in common with Antoine. Sooner or later their ways would part, inevitably; their different bents were incompatible and had no point of contact. A mood of utter hopelessness came over him; even their five years of close communion, he realized, had failed to make them proof against this coming estrangement, could not prevent them from growing indifferent to each other, strangers, or even enemies! He all but rose, snatching at any pretext for escape. Ah, could he but wander away into the darkness, out into the forest, anywhere! One human being alone had smiled her way into his heart; little Gisèle. Yesterday’s success—how gladly would he forgo it, could he but be with her again at this very moment, lying on the grass, watching her face and eyes—so unmysterious, hers!—and hear her cry, ‘You will, won’t you?’ with that cooing laugh of hers! Now that he thought of it, never had he seen Jenny laugh; even her smile seemed disillusioned. Whatever has come over me? he wondered and tried to pull himself together. But the dark mood was stronger than his will, a bitter nausea filling him with loathing for everything and everybody; for Mme. de Fontanin’s remarks, Antoine’s degradation, people in general, his own wasted youth, the world at large—yes, and for Jenny too, who seemed so much at home in a world of futility.
‘What are your plans for the holidays?’ Mme. de Fontanin enquired. ‘Couldn’t you induce Daniel to spend a few weeks away from Paris? It would be so nice for you both and would benefit you in other ways.’ She was discovering with some dismay that the brilliant career on which she had hoped to see her son embark was slow to shape itself and, for all her reluctance to linger on such thoughts, she was sometimes worried by the life he led; it was too free, too easy-going and—though she shirked the thought—too dissipated.
When Jacques told her that he intended to stay at Maisons, she was delighted.
‘That’s splendid! I hope you’ll persuade Daniel to go out a bit; he never will take a holiday and I’m so afraid he will make himself ill. Jenny!’ She had noticed the girl returning with her friends. ‘Good news! Jacques will be here all the summer. That will mean some good tennis, won’t it? Jenny’s simply mad on tennis this summer; she spends all her mornings at the club. Our local tennis-club is quite famous in its way,’ she explained to Dr. Héquet who had taken the chair beside her. ‘Such nice young people! They all turn up there every morning. The courts are excellent and they’re always arranging matches, tournaments, and that sort of thing. I don’t know much about it,’ she added with a smile, ‘but it’s terribly exciting they tell me. And they’re always grumbling about the shortage of men. Are you still a member, Jacques?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good. Nicole, you must bring Dr. Héquet and stay a week or ten days with us this summer. That will be nice, won’t it, Jenny? I’m sure Dr. Héquet is a good player, too.’
Jacques turned towards Héquet. The drawing-room lamp shone through the open window, showing up the young surgeon’s lean, austere face, his close-cropped brown beard and temples prematurely streaked with silver. He looked quite ten years older than Nicole. The lamplight, glinting on his glasses, masked the expression of his eyes, out his thoughtful air was decidedly engaging. Yes, thought Jacques, there is a man—and I am only a child! A man who can inspire love. Whereas I . . .
Antoine had risen from his chair. He felt tired and did not want to miss his train. Jacques cast him an angry look. Though a few minutes before he himself had been in half a mind to snatch at any pretext for departure, now he could not bring himself to end the evening thus. Still, he would have to leave at the same time as his brother.
He moved towards Jenny.
‘Whom are you playing tennis with at the club this summer?’
She looked at him, and the slender line of her eyebrows knitted a little.
‘With anyone who happens to be there,’ she replied.
‘Meaning the two Casins, and Fauquet, and the Périgault crowd?’
‘Naturally.’
‘They’re just the same, I suppose, and as witty as ever?’
‘What about it? We can’t all be shining lights at the Ecole Normale!’
‘Yes, I dare say one has to be a bit of a fool to play tennis properly.’
‘Very likely.’ She threw him an aggressive look. ‘Anyhow you should know about that; you used to be pretty good at tennis once.’ Then, ostentatiously breaking off their conversation, she turned to her cousin. ‘You’re not going yet, Nicole darling, I hope.’
‘Ask Félix.’
‘What’s this you’re to ask Félix?’ said Dr. Héquet, who had approached the two girls.
Antoine’s eyes were fixed on Nicole; yes, he mused, the girl certainly has a dazzling complexion. But, beside Rachel’s . . . ! And suddenly his heart beat faster.
‘So, Jacques, we’ll be seeing you again quite soon,’ said Mme. de Fontanin. ‘Are you going to play to-morrow, Jenny?’
‘I don’t know, mamma—I hardly think so.’
‘Well, if it isn’t to-morrow, you’re bound to meet there one morning,’ Mme. de Fontanin continued in a conciliatory tone. And, despite Antoine’s protest, she insisted on escorting the two young men to the gate.
‘I must say, darling, you weren’t very nice to your friends,’ Nicole exclaimed as soon as the Thibaults were out of earshot.
‘To begin with, they’re not my friends,’ Jenny replied.
‘I’ve worked with Thibault,’ Héquet observed. ‘He’s a first-rate man and has already made his mark. I’ve no ideas about his brother but’—behind the glasses his grey eyes twinkled quizzingly—‘I’d be surprised if a duffer got through the Normale exam, at his first shot, and took a high place, too.’
A deep blush mantled Jenny’s cheeks, and Nicole came to her rescue. She had lived with the Fontanins long enough to learn the kinks in Jenny’s character, one of which was her shyness always at issue with her pride, and sometimes lapsing into a morbid readiness to take offence.
‘The poor boy had a boil on his neck,’ she put in good-naturedly, ‘and that doesn’t help a man to be his social best.’
Jenny made no comment, and Héquet did not insist. He turned to Nicole.
‘We must be getting ready now, dear.’ His tone was that of a man who always runs his life by clockwork.
Mme. de Fontanin’s return was the signal for a general move. Jenny went with her cousin to the bedroom where she had left her coat. Some minutes passed before she spoke.
‘So there’s my summer spoilt, absolutely ruined!’
Seated before the mirror, Nicole was tidying her hair for the sole benefit of her fiancé. She felt that she was looking her best, wondered what he was saying to her aunt downstairs, and pictured the long drive home in her lover’s car across the silent night. So she paid little heed to Jenny’s ill-humour. Noticing the sullen look on her friend’s face, she merely smiled.
‘What an infant you are!’
She did not see the look that Jenny flung her.
A motor-horn sounded and Nicole swung round gaily and darted towards her cousin to embrace her, with the mixture of affection, innocence and coquetry that made her so attractive. But Jenny, uttering an involuntary cry, swerved out of her reach. She shrank from being touched by anybody and had always refused to learn to dance, so physically repugnant to her was the contact of another’s arm. Once, in early childhood, she had sprained her ankle in the Luxembourg and had to be taken home in a carriage; she had preferred to climb the stairs trailing an injured limb, to letting the concierge carry her in his arms up to their landing.
‘What a touch-me-not you are!’ laughed Nicole. Then, with a cheerful glance at her cousin, she changed the subject, returning to their conversation before dinner in the rose-alley. ‘I’m ever so glad to have had my talk with you, darling. Some days I’m positively oppressed by my happiness. With you of course I’m always perfectly sincere—just myself, my real self, exactly as I am. Oh, how I hope, darling, it won’t be long before you, too . . .’
Under the headlights the garden had the glamour of a stage set for a gala night. Héquet had raised the bonnet of his car and was tightening a plug with the measured gestures of a skilled surgeon. Nicole suggested keeping her coat folded on her knees, but he insisted on her wearing it. He treated her like a little girl for whom he was responsible. Did he treat all women thus—like children? But Nicole gave in with a good grace that startled Jenny and roused in her a vague resentment towards the engaged couple. ‘No,’ she said to herself, with a shake of her head: ‘That sort of happiness. . . . Not for me, thanks!’
For a long while her eyes followed the flail of light that swept the trees before the receding car. Leaning against the garden wall, with Puce clasped in her arms, she felt such hopeless hope, such bitterness against she knew not what, that, lifting her eyes towards the star-strewn spaces, she wished for an instant or two that she might die thus, before attempting life’s adventure.
Gisèle was wondering why for some days past the daylight hours had seemed so short, summer so glorious, and why each morning as she dressed before her open window she could not help singing, smiling at everything—her mirror, the cloudless sky, the garden, the sweet-peas she watered on her window-sill, the orange-trees on the terrace which seemed to be curling themselves into balls, like hedgehogs, the better to screen themselves from the far-darting sun.
M. Thibault rarely spent more than two or three days at Maisons-Laffitte without making a business trip to Paris, where he stayed overnight. When he was away a brisker air seemed to pervade the house, meals came and went like games, and Jacques and Gisèle once more gave free vent to their bursts of childish glee. Mademoiselle, in gayer mood, pattered from pantry to linen-store, from kitchen to drying-room, lilting antiquated hymns that sounded like bygone music-hall refrains. On such occasions Jacques felt unconstrained, his brain alert and full of warring projects, and gave himself whole-heartedly to his vocation. He spent the afternoons in a corner of the garden, getting up, sitting down again, scribbling in his note-book. Gisèle, too, infected by a desire to turn her leisure to good account, posted herself on a landing whence she could watch Jacques coming and going beneath the trees and, immersed in Dickens’ Great Expectations—Mademoiselle, on Jacques’ suggestion, had sanctioned its perusal as being ‘good for Gisèle’s English’—wept ecstatically for having guessed from the outset that Pip would give poor Biddy up for the exotic charms of cruel Miss Estelle.
Jacques’ brief absence in the second week of August to attend Battaincourt’s wedding in Touraine—he had not dared to stand out against his friend’s request—sufficed to break the spell.
The day after his return to Maisons he awoke too early after a restless night; shaving warily, he noticed that his cheeks were innocent of rash and the boil had given place to an invisible scar, and now the prospect of resuming this too uniform existence seemed so exasperating that he suddenly stopped dressing and threw himself upon his bed. The weeks are passing, passing, he thought. Could this be the vacation to which he had looked forward so? He sprang up from the bed. ‘Exercise is what I need,’ he murmured in a cool voice that assorted ill with his fevered gestures. He took a tennis-shirt from the wardrobe, saw that his white shoes and racquet were in order, and a few minutes later jumped on his bicycle and was off post-haste to the tennis-club.
Two courts were in play; Jenny was one of the players. She did not seem to notice Jacques’ arrival and he made no haste to greet her. A new toss-up brought them into the same four; first against each other, then as partners. As players, there was little to choose between them.
No sooner were they together than they dropped back into their old-time unmannerliness. True, Jacques paid ample attention to Jenny, but always in an irritating, not to say offensive way; he jeered at her bad shots and obviously enjoyed contradicting her. Jenny gave him tit for tat, in a shrill voice that was quite unlike her. She could easily have replaced him by a less churlish partner, but apparently did not want to do so; on the contrary she seemed set on having the last word. When it was lunch-time and the players began to disperse she challenged Jacques in a voice that had lost nothing of its hostility.
‘Play four up with me!’
The energy she put into her play was so intense, so combative, that she beat Jacques four-love.
The victory made her generous.
‘There’s nothing in it, you know; you’re out of training. One of these days you’ll have your revenge.’
Her voice had once again the soft, brooding tone that was natural to her. We’re just two kids, Jacques thought. It pleased him that they shared a failing and he seemed to see a gleam of hope. A wave of shame traversed his mind when he recalled his attitude to Jenny, but when he asked himself what other to adopt he found no answer. There was no one with whom he longed so keenly to be natural; yet in her company he found it utterly impossible.
Noon was striking when they left the club together, wheeling their bicycles.
‘Au revoir,’ she said. ‘Don’t wait for me. I’m so hot that I might catch a chill if I started riding now.’
Without replying, he continued walking at her side.
Jenny disliked the clinging type of person; to be unable to dislodge a companion at the moment of her choice always annoyed her. Jacques had no idea of this; he meant to return for another game next day and cast about for a pretext to justify this sudden assiduity.
‘Now that I’m back from Touraine,’ he began awkwardly. The tone of mockery had left his voice. Last year she had noticed the same thing; when they were alone, he dropped his teasing ways.
‘So you were in Touraine,’ she repeated, for want of anything better to say.
‘Yes. A friend’s wedding. But of course you know him, I met him at your place—Battaincourt.’
‘Simon de Battaincourt?’ Her tone implied that she was piecing her memories of him together She summed them up bluntly. ‘Ah yes—I didn’t like him.’
‘Why ever not?’
She resented being cross-examined in this fashion.
‘You’re too hard on him,’ Jacques continued, seeing she would not answer. ‘He’s a good sort.’ Then he thought better of it. ‘No, you’re right, really; there’s nothing much in him.’ She vouchsafed an approving nod which delighted him.
‘I didn’t know you were so attached to him,’ she observed.
‘Hardly that,’ Jacques smiled. ‘He attached himself to me. It happened on our way back from some show or other. It was very late and Daniel had deserted us. Without a word of warning, Battaincourt launched out into a plenary confession. The way he unloaded his life-story on me made me think of a fellow handing his money over to a banker: “Look after my capital; I put myself in your hands!” ’
Jacques’ description interested her up to a point and, for the moment, she ceased wishing to shake him off.
‘Do many people confide in you?’
‘No. Why should they? . . . Well, perhaps they do.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, quite often. Does that surprise you?’ There was a note of defiance in his voice.
He was touched to hear her answer quickly:
‘No, not at all.’
Gusts of warm wind wafted towards them the fragrance of the gardens beside the road, a fume of freshly watered mould, and the thick pungency of marigolds and heliotropes. Jacques found nothing more to say and it was she who broke the silence first.
‘And by dint of all those confessions, you brought off the marriage?’
‘Certainly not, quite the opposite. I tried my best to prevent him from doing anything so silly. Think of it! A widow, fourteen years older than he, with a child, what’s more! And now his people have dropped him completely. But there was no holding him.’ He remembered that he had often used the word ‘possessed’—in its theological sense—when speaking of his friend and it struck him as felicitous. ‘Battaincourt is positively possessed by that woman.’
‘Is she pretty?’ Jenny asked, disregarding the strong term he had used.
He pondered so deeply that she pursed her lips.
‘I’d no notion I was setting you such a poser!’
But he remained, unsmiling, in a brown study.
‘Pretty? Well, hardly that. She’s sinister. I can’t find any other word for it.’ He paused again. ‘Oh, it’s a queer world!’ he exclaimed. He caught the look of surprise on Jenny’s face. ‘Yes, I mean it. Everyone’s so queer. Even quite uninteresting people. Have you ever noticed, whenever you speak of a person you know to others who know him too, how many small points that are really suggestive and revealing seem to have escaped them? That’s why people misunderstand each other so often.’
He looked at her again and felt that she had been listening attentively and was repeating to herself what he had just said. And suddenly the cloud of mistrust which hung over his relations with Jenny seemed to lift, giving place to radiant understanding. To make the most of her attention, so rarely given him, and rouse her interest further, he fell to describing certain incidents at the wedding which were still fresh in his mind.
‘Where was I?’ he murmured hazily. ‘Oh, I’d love to write that woman’s life one day—from the little I learnt of her! She was once a shopgirl in one of the big stores, they say. That woman’s a ruthless climber’ (he quoted a tag he had jotted down in his note-book), ‘a Julien Sorel in petticoats! Do you like Le Rouge et le Noir?’
‘No, not a bit.’
‘Really? Yes. I see what you mean.’ After a pensive moment he smiled and spoke again. ‘But, if I switch off on to side-issues, I’ll never get to the end of it. Sure I’m not taking up too much of your time?’
She answered without thinking, reluctant to betray her desire to hear more.
‘Oh no; we won’t lunch till half-past twelve to-day, on Daniel’s account.’
‘So Daniel’s at home?’
She had to fall back on a downright lie.
‘He said he might come,’ she replied with a blush. ‘But how about you?’
‘I needn’t hurry, as father’s in Paris. Shall we take the shady side? What I really want to tell you about is the wedding breakfast. Nothing much happened, yet, I assure you, it was a very poignant experience. Let’s see! The setting, to begin with: an old-world château of sorts with a dungeon restored by Goupillot. Goupillot was her first husband, a remarkable fellow too; he started as a haberdasher in a small way, but he had big business in the blood, and died a multi-millionaire after providing every French provincial town with its “Goupillot’s Stores.” You must have come across them. The widow, by the way, is enormously wealthy. I’d never met her before. How shall I describe her? A thin, lithe, ultra-smart woman, with rather shrewish features and a haughty profile; pale eyes that show up against a rather muddy complexion—eyes of a moleskin grey, with a sort of gloss upon them, like stagnant ooze. Does that give you an idea of her? She has the manners of a spoilt child—far too youthful for her looks. She has a shrill voice and laughs a lot. Now and again—how shall I describe it?—you catch a flicker of grey fire between her eyelids, along the lashes, and, all of a sudden, the childish small-talk she reels off seems to have something macabre behind it and you can’t help recalling what people said soon after Goupillot’s death, that she had poisoned him by inches.’
‘She gives me the shivers!’ Jenny exclaimed, no longer trying to repress the interest Jacques’ narrative roused in her. He felt the change and was pleasantly elated by it.
‘Yes, you’re right; she’s rather terrifying. That was just what I felt when we took our seats and I saw her standing with that mask of steel upon her face behind the white flowers on the table.’
‘Was she in white?’
‘Almost. It wasn’t absolutely a wedding-dress; more of a garden-party costume, rather theatrical, a rich, creamy white. Breakfast was served at separate tables. She went on asking people right and left to sit at her table, quite regardless of the number of places at it. Battaincourt, who was near her, looked worried. “I say, you’re muddling everything up, my dear,” he protested. You should have seen the look that passed between them—a curious look! It struck me that all that was young and vital had died out of their relations; they were living on the past.’
Perhaps, thought Jenny, perhaps he is not so spoiled as I imagined, not so callous and . . . In a flash it dawned on her that she had always known Jacques to be sensitive and gentle. The discovery thrilled her and now, as she listened to his narrative, she found herself snatching at each phrase that might confirm her new and kindlier judgment of him.
‘Simon had made me sit on his left. I was the only one of his friends to turn up. Daniel had promised, but backed out of it. Not a single member of Simon’s family was present, not even the cousin with whom he had been brought up, and whom he had been counting on till the last train had gone. One felt sorry for the poor devil! He’s a sensitive, rather nice-minded fellow really; I know a lot of decent things about him. He looked at the people round him—strangers all! He thought of his family. “I never dreamt,” he told me, “that they’d be so terribly unrelenting. They must have it in for me!” He came back to it during the meal. “Not a word from them, not even a wire! It looks as if they’d blotted me out of their lives. What do you think?” I didn’t know what to reply. “But,” he made haste to add, “I don’t mention this so much on my account—I don’t care a damn! It’s Anne I’m thinking of.” As luck would have it, the sinister Anne was opening a telegram that had just been delivered when he spoke. Battaincourt went quite pale. But the telegram was really for her, from a friend. That was the last straw; regardless of all the people watching, even of Anne with her impassive face and steely eyes intent on him, he burst into tears. She was furious, and he realized it soon enough. He was sitting next to her, of course. Putting his hand on her arm, he stammered out excuses like a naughty child: “Do forgive me!” It was dreadful to hear him. She never turned a hair. And then—it was even more painful to witness than his fit of weeping—he began talking cheerfully, cracking jokes, and sometimes, while he was saying something or other in a tone of forced gaiety, you could see the tears come to his eyes and, still talking away, he brushed them off with the back of his hand.’
Jacques’ emotion made it all so vivid that Jenny, too, was carried away.
‘How horrible!’
Now, for the first time in his life, perhaps, he knew the thrills of authorship. An ecstasy. But he masked it disingenuously and made as if he had not heard her cry.
‘Sure I’m not boring you?’ He paused, then hurried on with his story. ‘That’s not all. When dessert was served, they started shouting at the other tables: “The Bride and Bridegroom!” Battaincourt and his wife had to stand up, smile, and go the round of the room, lifting their glasses of champagne. Just then I observed a little incident that was touching in its way. On their tour round the tables they overlooked her daughter by husband number one—a little girl eight or nine years old. The kid ran after them. They’d got back to their seats by then. Anne embraced the little girl rather roughly, rumpling the child’s collar. Then she pushed her daughter towards Battaincourt. But, after that melancholy, unfriended tour of the room, his eyes were swimming with tears; he noticed nothing. Finally they had to put the little girl on his knee; then, with a ghastly, forced smile, he bent towards the other man’s child. The kid held her cheek towards him; sad eyes she had, I shall never forget them. At last he kissed her and, as she stayed where she was, he started tickling her chin in a silly sort of way, like this, with one finger—do you see what I mean? It was painful to watch, I assure you; but it makes a good story, doesn’t it?’
She turned towards Jacques, struck by the tone in which he had said: ‘a good story.’ And now she noticed that the brooding, almost bestial look that so displeased her had left his face; the pupils of his eyes showed crystal-clear, sparkling with emotion and vivacity. Oh, why isn’t he always like that? she thought.
Jacques began to smile. Painful as the experience had been, its poignancy weighed little beside the interest he took in other people’s lives, in any display of human thoughts and feelings. Jenny shared his taste and, perhaps in her case just as in his, the pleasure was now enhanced by the knowledge that she was not alone.
They had reached the end of the avenue and the outskirts of the forest were in sight. Under the sun the grass shone like a burnished mirror. Jacques halted.
‘I’ve been boring you with all this talk.’
She made no protest.
But, instead of bidding her good-bye, he ventured a suggestion.
‘As I’ve come so far, I’d like to have a word with your brother.’
The reminder of the lie she had told was decidedly ill-timed, and she was the more annoyed that he had so readily believed it. She did not answer him, and Jacques took her silence to mean that she had had enough of his company.
He felt chagrined, but could not bring himself to leave her thus, with an unfavourable impression of him—now, least of all, when it seemed to him that something new had come into their relations, something after which, for months, perhaps for years, he had been yearning unawares.
They walked in silence between the acacias lining the road that led to the garden gate. Jacques, who was a little behind Jenny, could see the pensive, graceful outline of her cheek.
The further he advanced, the less excuse he had for leaving her; minute linked minute in a chain. Now they were at the gate. Jenny opened it; he followed her across the garden. The terrace was deserted, the drawing-room empty.
‘Mother!’ Jenny called.
No one answered. She went to the kitchen window and, bound by her lie, enquired:
‘Has my brother come?’
‘No, miss. But a telegram has just been brought.’
‘Don’t disturb your mother,’ Jacques said at last. ‘I’m off.’
Jenny remained stiffly erect, an obdurate look on her face.
‘Au revoir,’ Jacques murmured. ‘See you to-morrow, perhaps?’
‘Au revoir,’ she said, making no move to see him to the gate.
The moment Jacques had turned to go she entered the hall, slammed her racquet into the press and flung it upon a wooden chest, venting her ill-humour in a display of needless violence.
‘No, not to-morrow,’ she exclaimed. ‘Certainly not to-morrow!’
Mme. de Fontanin, who was in her bedroom, had not failed to hear her daughter calling, and had recognized Jacques’ voice, but she was too upset to feign an air of calmness. The telegram she had just opened came from her husband. Jerome announced that he was at Amsterdam, penniless and friendless, with Noémie, who had fallen ill. Mme. de Fontanin had come to a speedy decision: she would go to Paris that very day, draw out all the money in her account, and send it to the address given by Jerome.
When her daughter entered the room, she was dressing. Jenny was shocked by the anguish on her mother’s face and the sight of the telegram lying on the table.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ she exclaimed, while the thought flashed through her mind: Something’s happened and I wasn’t there. It’s all Jacques’ fault!
‘Nothing serious, darling,’ Mme. de Fontanin replied. ‘Your father . . . your father’s short of money, that’s all.’ Then, ashamed of her own weakness and, most of all, thus to disclose a father’s failings to his child, she blushed and hid her face between her hands.
Behind the misted windows dawn was rising. Huddled in a corner of the railway-carriage, Mme. de Fontanin watched with unseeing eyes the green plains of Holland slipping past.
She had gone to Paris on the previous day and found another telegram from Jerome awaiting her at home:
Doctor given Noémie up. Cannot stay here alone. Implore you to come. Bring money if possible.
She had not been able to get in touch with Daniel before the night train left, and had scribbled a note telling him she was leaving and he must look after Jenny.
The train stopped. Voices were crying, ‘Haarlem!’
It was the last stop before Amsterdam. The lights were switched off. The sun, invisible as yet, sheeted the sky with a pearly lustre, mottled with rainbow gleams. Her fellow-travellers awoke, stretched their limbs and bundled up their traps. Mme. de Fontanin remained unmoving, trying to prolong the apathy which spared her still, to some extent, from realizing what she had undertaken. So Noémie was dying. She tried to peer into her mind. Was she jealous? No. For jealousy—that meant the fiery gusts of feeling that had seared her heart during their early years of married life, when she still kept open house to doubt and blinded herself to reality, fighting back a hateful horde of visual obsessions. For many years past not jealousy had rankled, but a sense of the injustice done her. And had it really rankled, truth to tell? Her trials had been of a quite different order. Had she really been at any stage a jealous woman? Her real grief had always been to discover—ever too late—that she had been duped; her feeling towards Jerome’s mistresses was oftener than not a rather distant pity, sometimes touched with fellow-feeling, as towards sisters in distress.
Her fingers were trembling when it was time to fasten up her luggage. She was the last to leave the compartment. The rapid, startled glance she cast about her did not meet the look whose impact she expected. Surely he had got her wire. It might be that his eyes were fixed on her, and at the thought she pulled herself together and followed the outgoing stream of passengers.
Someone touched her arm. Jerome stood before her, looking diffident but delighted. As, with bared head, he bowed towards her, despite his care-worn features and the slight stoop he had developed, he had still the exotic charm of some Eastern potentate. They were caught in the rush of travellers before he could shape a phrase of welcome for Thérèse, but he took her bag from her hands with tender solicitude. So she is not dead, Mme. de Fontanin reflected, and shuddered at the thought that she might have to watch her die.
They entered the station yard in silence and M. de Fontanin hailed an empty cab. Suddenly, as she was stepping into it, a wave of emotion that was almost joy flooded her senses; she heard Jerome’s voice. While he was talking to the cabman in Dutch, telling him where to go, she paused a moment on the step in vibrant immobility, then, opening her eyes again, she sank on to the seat.
No sooner was he seated in the open carriage than he turned in her direction; once again she looked into the darkly glowing eyes she knew so well and felt their ardency envelop her like a caress. He seemed about to take her hand, to touch her arm; the gesture was so ill-assorted with the courteous reticence of his demeanour that she felt almost shocked, as if he had offered her an insult, yet thrilled by the intimation of a living love, all hope of which had died.
She was the first to break the silence. ‘How is . . . ?’ Stumbling at the name, she hastily went on: ‘Is she in pain?’
‘No, no. That’s all over now.’
Though she would not meet his eyes, the way he spoke convinced her that Noémie was much better; it seemed to her that he was feeling some embarrassment at having summoned his wife to the bedside of a sick mistress. A pang of regret shot through her heart. Now she could not imagine what evil genius had prompted her to take this ill-considered step. What business had she here—now that Noémie would recover, and life go on its way again, unchanged? She decided to leave at once.
‘Thank you, Thérèse,’ Jerome murmured. ‘Thank you.’
There was a note of affection in his voice, of diffidence and respect. She noticed that Jerome’s hand, resting on his knee, was thinner, and trembling a little; the massive signet-ring hung slack upon his finger. She would not raise her eyes, but fixed them on his gloveless hand, and now she could not bring herself to regret the impulse that had brought her here. Why go away? She had acted spontaneously, prayer had inspired the impulse, surely no harm could come of it! Now that she could fall back on her faith, as bidding her reject all thoughts of drawing back, her confidence revived. Never had her heavenly guide left her for long the prey of doubts.
They were entering a vast and spacious city, laid out in endless vistas. At this early hour the shutters were still drawn across the shop-fronts, but the pavements were loud with workmen hastening to their tasks. The cab turned into a narrower street where short stretches of causeway alternated with hump-backed bridges, spanning a sequence of parallel canals. Tall, slender houses lined the water-front and the red façades, bare of ornaments but studded with white windows, were mirrored in the almost stagnant water between the branches of elms that drooped beside the quays. Mme. de Fontanin realized that France was very far away.
‘How are the children?’ Jerome enquired.
She had noticed his hesitation in putting the question; he was moved, and for once made no attempt to hide his emotion.
‘Quite well.’
‘What’s Daniel doing?’
‘He’s at Paris, working. He comes to Maisons whenever he is free.’
‘So you’re at Maisons?’
‘Yes.’
He was silent; the park, the house beside the forest that he knew so well, rose up before his eyes.
‘And . . . Jenny?’
‘She is quite well.’ An unspoken question hovered in his eyes. ‘Jenny’s grown much taller,’ she went on; ‘very much changed, in fact.’
Jerome’s eyelids quivered and his voice was shaken by emotion when he answered her.
‘Yes, I suppose that’s so. She must have changed a lot.’ Looking away, he relapsed into silence. Then, passing his hand over his forehead, he exclaimed in a sombre voice: ‘How ghastly it all is!’ And, almost in the same breath, added: ‘I have practically no money left, Thérèse.’
‘I’ve brought some,’ she answered impulsively.
She had heard such agony in Jerome’s cry that, with the knowledge she could set his fears at rest, her immediate feeling was one of thankfulness. But close upon it came another thought, that stung her: the report of Noémie’s illness had, quite likely, been exaggerated—it was for the money, only for that, they had lured her here! And she felt sick with disgust when, after a slight hesitation, in a voice thickened by shame, Jerome blurted out the question:
‘How much?’
She fought back a brief temptation to understate the sum.
‘All I could scrape together,’ she replied. ‘A little over three thousand francs.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he stammered. ‘Ah, Thérèse, if you only knew . . . ! The great thing is to settle the doctor’s bill: five hundred florins.’
The cab had crossed a stone bridge crossing what looked like a wide river, crowded with shipping; now, after traversing some narrow suburban streets, it entered a small square and pulled up in front of a flight of steps abutting on a chapel. Jerome alighted, paid the cabman and lifted out his wife’s bag. Then, without more ado, he helped Thérèse down from the vehicle, walked up the steps and held the door ajar. It seemed to be neither a Catholic nor a Protestant church; a synagogue, perhaps.
‘I must ask you to excuse me,’ he whispered, ‘but I don’t want to drive up to the house. They keep a sharp look-out on strangers—I’ll explain later.’ Then with a quick change of tone he became the man about town, making an affable suggestion. ‘Isn’t the air delicious this morning? I’m sure you won’t mind a short walk. I’ll lead the way, shall I?’
She followed him without comment. The cab was out of sight. Jerome took her along a vaulted passage, leading down a flight of stone steps to the solitary quay of a canal; on the other side the houses came down straight to the edge of the water which lapped the basements. Sunlight played on brick walls and flashing window-panes; the sills were gay with nasturtiums and geraniums. The quay was crowded with people, trestle-tables and baskets; an open-air market was being set up and, amidst the oddments and old junk, small craft were unlading boatloads of flowers whose perfumes mingled with the musty reek of stagnant water.
Jerome turned towards his wife.
‘Not too tired, sweetheart?’
He gave a singing lilt to the word—‘sweet-heart’—just as in old days. She dropped her eyes and did not answer him.
Without an inkling of the emotions he had conjured up he pointed to a house with low eaves, to which a footbridge gave access.
‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s not much of a place. You must forgive me for this poor welcome.’
As he said, the house had a humble appearance, but the fresh coat of brown stucco and the white woodwork reminded her of a well-kept yacht. The flame-coloured blinds of the second floor were down, and on them she could read in unassuming letters:
PENSION ROOSJE-MATHILDA
So Jerome was living in some sort of hotel, a nondescript abode where the sensation that they were her hosts would not weigh too heavily; that, anyhow, was a relief.
They stepped on to the footbridge. There was a movement at one of the blinds. Was Noémie on the watch? Mme. de Fontanin drew herself erect. It was only then she noticed, between two ground-floor windows, a crudely painted metal sign depicting a stork beside its nest, whence a naked baby was emerging.
They went along a corridor, then up a staircase redolent of beeswax. Jerome halted on the landing and knocked twice. She could hear whispers behind the door, a peep-hole was drawn aside and presently the door was opened cautiously, just enough to let Jerome in.
‘Will you allow me . . . ?’ he murmured. ‘I’ll just let them know.’
Mme. de Fontanin heard a brief colloquy in Dutch, and almost immediately Jerome opened the door wide. The others had gone. She followed him along an interminable, winding passage with a beeswaxed floor. Mme. de Fontanin felt ill at ease; the thought that she might encounter Noémie at any moment unnerved her and she had to summon up all her courage to preserve her calm demeanour. But there was no one in the room they entered; it was clean and cheerful, and gave on to the canal.
‘Here, sweetheart,’ said Jerome, ‘you are—at home!’
An unuttered question rose to her lips. ‘And what about Noémie?’
He read her thought.
‘I must leave you for a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go and see if I’m needed.’
But, before leaving, he went towards his wife and took her hand.
‘Oh, Thérèse, I must, I must tell you. . . . If you only knew what a terrible time I’ve been having! But, now you are here . . .’ His lips and cheek caressed Mme. de Fontanin’s hand. She shrank from his touch; he made no effort to coerce her. ‘I’ll come back for you in a moment. . . . You’re sure you don’t mind—seeing her again?’ He began to move away.
Yes, she would see Noémie once again; she had come to this place of her own accord, and she would see it through. But after that, without wasting a moment, she would go away, whatever came of it. She made a gesture of assent, and, oblivious to Jerome’s stammered thanks, bent over her valise, pretending to hunt for something in it, till he had left the room.
Alone now with her thoughts, she felt less sure of herself. Taking off her hat, she glanced into the mirror and noticed her tired face. She passed her hand over her forehead. What could have induced her to come here? She felt ashamed.
A knock at the door cut short her mood of weakness. She had no time to say ‘Come in’ before it opened. The woman in a red dressing-gown who entered was obviously past her prime, despite her jet-black hair and made-up complexion. She put some questions in a tongue that Mme. de Fontanin did not understand, made an impatient gesture, and called in another woman who evidently had been waiting in the corridor. The new-comer was younger and she, too, wore a dressing-gown; hers was sky-blue. She greeted Mme. de Fontanin in a guttural voice.
‘Dag, Madame. Good-morning.’
The Dutchwomen held a brief colloquy, the elder explaining what the other was to say. The younger woman paused a moment, then, turning amiably towards Mme. de Fontanin, addressed her, halting between each sentence.
‘The lady says you shall take off the sick lady. You must pay the bill and move to one other house. Verstaat U? Understand you what I say?’
Mme. de Fontanin made an evasive gesture—all this was no concern of hers. The older woman broke in again; she seemed worried and determined to have her way.
‘The lady says,’ the young woman interpreted, ‘even if you pay not the bill at once, you must move, go away, take the sick lady to a room in an hotel somewhere else. Verstaat U? That is better for the Politie.’
The door was flung open and Jerome appeared. Going up to the woman in red, he began scolding her in Dutch, propelling her meanwhile over the threshold. The woman in blue said nothing; her bold eyes wandered from Jerome’s face to Mme. de Fontanin’s, and back again. The older woman was obviously in a blazing temper; raising an arm that jangled a full peal of bracelets like a gipsy’s, she spluttered incoherent phrases in which certain words recurred like a refrain.
‘Morgen. . . . Morgen. . . . Politie. . . .’
At last Jerome managed to get rid of them, and turned the key.
‘Really I’m dreadfully sorry.’ His face showed his vexation as he turned towards his wife.
Thérèse realized now that, instead of going to Noémie, he had adjourned to his room, to complete his toilet; he had just shaved, there was a touch of powder on his cheek, and he looked younger. And I, she thought, what a sight I must be, after travelling all night!
‘I should have told you to lock yourself in,’ he explained. ‘The old dame who runs the place is a decent soul in her way, but she talks too much and has no manners.’
‘What did she want of me?’ Thérèse enquired absent-mindedly. The odour of citron that always floated round Jerome when he had just finished dressing had evoked the past, leaving her pensive for some moments, with parted lips and brooding eyes.
‘I haven’t a notion what she was jabbering about,’ he replied. ‘She probably mistook you for someone else who’s staying here.’
‘The woman in blue told me several times to pay the bill and go elsewhere.’
Jerome laughed. She seemed to hear an echo from the past—that rather artificial, self-satisfied way he had of laughing, with his head flung back.
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Too absurd for words!’ he guffawed. ‘Perhaps the old hag thought I wouldn’t pay her.’ He seemed to consider it unthinkable that he should ever be at a loss to pay his debts. Then suddenly his face fell. ‘Am I to blame? I tried my best, but no hotel would hear of taking us in.’
‘But I gathered from her it had to do with the police.’
He seemed astounded.
‘What? She mentioned the police?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Once more she caught on Jerome’s face that look of dubious innocence which she associated with the darkest moments of her life; it gave her a sudden nausea, as though the air in the room were plague-infected.
‘An old wives’ tale, all that! Why should there be a police enquiry? Just because there happens to be a consulting-room on the ground-floor? No. The only thing that matters is to be able to pay that doctor fellow his five hundred florins.’
Mme. de Fontanin was as mystified as ever and this distressed her, for she always liked things made clear. But what grieved her most was to find that once again Jerome had let himself become entangled in a network of intrigues of which she hardly liked to think.
‘How long have you been staying here?’ she asked, hoping to get something definite out of him.
‘A fortnight. No, not so long; ten or twelve days, more likely. I’ve lost track of things. . . .’
‘And . . . her illness?’ The tone was so insistent that he dared not turn her question.
‘That’s just what the trouble’s about.’ The reply came pat enough. ‘With these foreign doctors it’s so hard to make out what is really the matter. It’s a local disease of sorts, one of those—er—Dutch fevers, you know—something to do with the miasma from the canals.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘This city reeks with malaria, you know; the air is full of infections the doctors don’t know much about.’
She listened to him perfunctorily, but could not help noticing that, whenever Noémie was in question, Jerome’s attitude—the way he shrugged his shoulders, his casual air when speaking of her illness—was hardly that of a devoted lover. But she forbade herself to see in this an avowal of estrangement.
He did not observe the searching glance she cast on him; he had gone to the window, and, though he had not moved the blind, his eyes were fixed intently on the quay. When he came back to her, his face had assumed the earnest and sincere, yet disillusioned air she knew so well and so much dreaded.
‘Thank you, dear, you’re very good to me,’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘I’ve wounded you again and again—and yet you have come to me. Thérèse. . . . Sweetheart. . . .’
Shrinking away, she would not meet his eyes. But, such was her insight into others’ feelings—into Jerome’s most of all—she could not question the sincerity of his emotion and his gratitude at this moment. Yet she could not bring herself to answer or prolong the conversation.
‘Please take me . . . there,’ she said.
After a brief hesitation, he gave way.
‘Come.’
The moment she dreaded was at hand. ‘I must be brave,’ she murmured as she followed him down the long dark corridor. ‘Is she still in bed . . . convalescent? What shall I say to her?’ It struck her suddenly how worn-out she must look after her journey, and she wished she had at least put on her hat again.
Jerome halted at a closed door. With a trembling hand Mme. de Fontanin settled her white hair. ‘She’ll find me looking terribly old,’ she all but said aloud, and all her self-confidence oozed away.
Jerome opened the door noiselessly. So she’s in bed, Mme. de Fontanin decided.
Chintz curtains, patterned with blue flowers, were drawn across the window and a subdued light filled the room. Two women, whom she had not seen before, rose as she came in. One of them, who wore an apron and was busy knitting, was presumably a servant or an attendant; the other, a buxom matron some fifty years old, had a violet bandanna round her head and looked like an Italian peasant. As Mme. de Fontanin entered, the older woman began to beat a retreat, whispering something in Jerome’s ear as she went out.
Thérèse did not notice the woman’s departure, nor the disorder of the room, the basin and the dirty towels littering the sheets. Her gaze was riveted on the sick woman, stretched flat upon the pillowless bed. Would Noémie turn in her direction? She was snoring, seemingly asleep. A craven impulse urged Mme. de Fontanin to leave her to her rest, and go; but then Jerome signed to her to come to the foot of the bed and she dared not refuse. Then she saw that Noémie’s eyes were open and the stertorous breathing came in gasps from her wide-open mouth. As she grew used to the half-light she saw a bloodless face and ice-blue eyes, their pupils set in the glassy stare of butchered animals. In a flash it came to her that she was standing by a death-bed and in her consternation she turned quickly with a cry for help upon her lips. But Jerome was at her side, gazing at the dying woman; his grief was plain to read upon his face and she saw at once that he had nothing to learn from her.
‘Since her last hæmorrhage—it was the fourth attack,’ he whispered—‘she has never regained consciousness. She has been like that all night.’ Tears gathered slowly at the edges of his eyelids, hung for a moment on the lashes, rolled down his sallow cheeks.
Mme. de Fontanin vainly tried to pull herself together; she could hardly bring herself to admit the evidence of her eyes.
Yes, Noémie was dying and would pass out of their lives; Noémie whom, only a moment ago, she had pictured as triumphing over her! She dared not take her eyes off the dying woman’s face where even now all movement was arrested—the rigid nostrils, dulled eyes and bloodless lips through which the rattling breath, coming, it seemed, from very far away, rose and ebbed, and feebly rose again. She lingered on each feature, turn by turn, with curiosity, that was half terror, still unsated. Could that be Noémie—that shape of ashen, bloodless flesh, with a brown wisp of hair plastered across a dry, white-gleaming forehead? Drained of colour and expression, the face seemed wholly unfamiliar. How long was it since she last saw Noémie? Then it came back to her, the day five or six years ago when she had rushed to Noémie’s house to cry in vain: ‘Give me back my husband!’ Her cousin’s shrill laugh seemed echoing in her ears, and she remembered with a shudder the handsome woman lolling on the sofa, and her glimpse of a plump shoulder stirring beneath the lace. That was the day when Nicole had run up to her in the hall and . . .
‘What about Nicole?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Nicole?’
‘Have you let her know?’
‘No.’
How was it she did not think of this herself, when leaving Paris? She drew Jerome aside.
‘You must, Jerome. She’s Nicole’s mother.’
The look of entreaty on his face gave her the measure of his weakness, and her resolution faltered, too. To think of Nicole coming to this hateful house, entering such a room, confronting Jerome by this bedside! But she insisted, though her tone was less assured.
‘You must!’
The curious earth-brown hue which darkened Jerome’s dusky skin still more whenever he was thwarted, came to his cheeks; his narrow lips set in a harsh grimace, baring his teeth.
‘Jerome, Nicole must be sent for,’ she repeated gently.
His slender eyebrows drew together, drooped, and for a while he still held out. At last, raising his hard eyes to hers, he yielded.
‘What is her address?’
When he had left to send the telegram she returned to the bed; somehow she could not tear herself away from it. She stood beside it with drooping arms, her fingers locked. What had possessed her to imagine Noémie out of danger? And why did Jerome not seem more distressed? What were his plans? Would he come back to live with her? Certainly no such suggestion would cross her lips; yet she would not deny him shelter, if he asked it.
A grateful mood of peace, almost of happiness, crept over her; the feeling shamed her and she sought to banish it. To pray. To pray for this departing soul which was returning to the Universal Soul. Poor soul, she thought, that takes so little with her on her way! Yet, in the ineluctable ascent of all towards a higher plane, through the vast sequence of our earthly incarnations, does not each upward effort, however feeble, tell in favour of the one who makes it? Does not each trial mean a step forward on the pathway of perfection? That Noémie had suffered Thérèse could not doubt. Despite the specious glamour of her life, surely there had rankled in the poor woman’s heart a deep unrest, the dull ache of a conscience that, for all its unconcern, trembled in secret at its degradation. And now that suffering would be accounted to the poor soul’s credit in another, better life; and her love, too, despite its guilt and the evil it had done. This, in her present mood, Thérèse could readily forgive. Still, she reflected, such forgiveness did her little honour. For, there was no denying it, she could not persuade herself that Noémie’s death would be a great misfortune. For anyone. Her feelings were evolving with remorseless speed; she, like Jerome, was growing used to the notion that Noémie was to pass out of their lives. Less than an hour had gone since first she knew—and, already, almost her only feeling was one of resignation. . . .
When, two days later, Nicole stepped down from the Paris express, her mother had been dead for thirty-six hours; the funeral was to take place on the following morning.
Everyone concerned seemed eager to have done with it—the proprietress of the pension, Jerome, and, most of all, the young doctor, recipient of the five hundred florins, who had signed the death-certificate without even coming upstairs to view the body, after a brief parley in one of the ground-floor rooms.
Harrowing though the task would have been, Thérèse expressed a desire to help in laying-out the body; she wished to be able to tell Nicole that she had carried out this pious duty in her stead. But, at the last moment and on trivial grounds, they had refused her access to the room; the midwife had insisted on attending to the laying-out—‘After all, she’s used to it,’ Jerome had observed—in the presence of the nurse alone.
Nicole’s arrival brought a welcome change. Hour by hour Mme. de Fontanin had been finding her encounters in the corridor with pension-keeper, doctor and the nurse, more and more unbearable; indeed, from the moment she had come, the atmosphere she was breathing in this house seemed to suffocate her. Nicole’s open face, her youth and health brought a breath of fresh, cleansing air into the place. The violence of her grief, however—Jerome was so unnerved by it that he took refuge in another room—struck Mme. de Fontanin as disproportioned to the girl’s true feelings towards a mother she had cast out of her life. The childish extravagance of her outburst bore out the elder woman’s view of her niece’s mentality; a warm-hearted girl, she thought, but lacking real depth of character.
Nicole wanted to bring her mother’s body back to France; as she declined to have anything to do with Jerome, whom she still held responsible for her mother’s lapse, her aunt volunteered to sound him on the matter. Jerome met the proposal with an emphatic veto. He expatiated on the exorbitant railway charges in such cases, the endless formalities involved and, finally, the inquest on which, needless though it was, the local police would certainly insist; they delighted, Jerome averred, in putting foreigners to inconvenience. So Nicole’s plan had to be dropped.
Exhausted though she was by her emotions and the journey, Nicole insisted on keeping vigil beside the coffin. The three of them passed the night, in silence and alone, in Noémie’s room. The coffin, spread with flowers, rested on two chairs. So heady was the perfume of jessamine and roses that they had to keep the window wide open. The night was hot, and bright as day with dazzling moonlight. Now and again they heard low sounds of water lapping round the piles which supported the house. Near at hand the passing hours chimed from a clock-tower. A moonbeam, gliding across the floor, crept every minute nearer to an over-blown white rose fallen beside the coffin’s foot, making it seem translucent, almost blue. Nicole’s indignant eyes took in the squalor of the room; here her mother had lived, perhaps; assuredly had suffered. She was counting up, perhaps, the printed flowers on yonder curtain when first she heard death’s summons and, in a tragic pageant, the follies of her wasted life had passed before her dying eyes. Had she given her daughter then a last, belated thought?
The funeral took place very early next day. Neither midwife nor pension-keeper put in an appearance. Thérèse walked between Jerome and Nicole, and the only other mourner was an old clergyman whom Mme. de Fontanin had sent for to attend the funeral and read the Burial Service.
To spare Nicole another visit to the odious house beside the canal, Mme. de Fontanin decided to take the girl directly to the station on leaving the graveyard. Jerome would follow up with the luggage. Moreover, Nicole refused to take over any object whatsoever associated with her mother’s life abroad; the decision to leave Noémie’s trunks behind made the final settlement with the proprietress a much simpler matter.
When all the bills had been paid and Jerome was on his way to the station, he found he had a good deal of time on his hands before the train was due to leave; yielding to a sudden impulse, he directed the cabman to take another road, and revisited the graveyard for the last time.
He lost his way several times before finding the grave again. When he sighted in the distance a mound of newly-turned earth, he took off his hat and walked towards it with measured steps. Here lay all that remained of their six years of life in common, of quarrels, jealousy and reconcilements; six years of memories and secrets shared—all to end in the final, most tragic secret whose upshot lay before his eyes.
‘After all, things might have turned out worse; I do not seem to feel it much,’ he consoled himself, though his care-worn forehead and blinding tears seemed to belie the thought. Was he to blame if rejoicing over his wife’s return outweighed his grief? Surely there had been one love only in his life—Thérèse! But would she ever understand that? Would she ever forgo her cold austerity and realize that, appearances notwithstanding, she alone fulfilled the life of this too wayward lover, who yet had loved with all his soul one woman only? Would it ever come to her that, beside the whole-hearted devotion he bestowed on her, no other love of his was more than a passing fancy? Surely this very moment bore him out—Noémie’s death had left him neither lost nor lonely. So long as Thérèse lived, though she were even more aloof from him, though she might fancy every bond between them severed, he was not alone. For an instant he tried to picture Thérèse lying there under the flower-strewn turf; but found the thought unbearable. He hardly blamed himself at all for any of the sufferings he had brought on his wife, so firm was his conviction at this solemn moment that he had deprived her of nothing which really mattered, but had devoted to her all that was best and most enduring in his heart—so sure was he that he had never for a moment been unfaithful to her. What are her plans for me? he asked himself, but with no anxiety. Surely she would want him to come back to her and to the children. His head was bowed, his cheeks were wet with tears—but in his heart hope glowed insidiously.
If it weren’t for Nicole, all would be for the best! he thought. He recalled the girl’s hostile silence and her steely eyes. He saw her again bending above the grave, and heard again the dry, racking sob she had not been able to keep back.
Yes, the thought of Nicole was a torment to him. Was it not on his account that, angered beyond bearing, she had fled her mother’s house? A passage from the Gospels echoed in his memory: ‘Woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!’ How shall I make amends? he wondered. He could not endure the thought that anyone disapproved of him. . . . Suddenly he had an inspiration. Why not adopt her as his daughter?
Yes, that settled everything! In his mind’s eye he pictured it—the little flat that he would share with Nicole; she would, of course, arrange it to her liking, keep house for him, help him to entertain. How everybody would admire his gesture of contrition! Thérèse, too, would approve.
He put on his hat again and, turning his back on the grave, walked briskly to the cab.
The train had been in for some time when he reached the station. The two women had already taken their seats. Mme. de Fontanin was perturbed by her husband’s delay in coming. Had some complication arisen at the pension? Almost anything seemed possible. Would Jerome be prevented from leaving? Was her dream of bringing him back to Maisons, of smoothing the way for his return to her and, it well might be, for his repentance—was her fond dream so soon to vanish like mirage? Her apprehension grew to panic when she saw him approaching with rapid strides and an anxious air.
‘Where is Nicole?’
‘Why, over there, in the corridor,’ Mme. de Fontanin replied with some surprise.
The window was half down and Nicole stood beside it, idly gazing at the gleaming network of rails. She felt sad, but weary most of all; sad, yet happy too, for to-day’s sorrow could not even for an instant quell her secret joy. Her mother was dead—but was not the man she loved awaiting her? And once again she tried to ban the thought, as something impious, from her mind, that her mother’s death could not but prove, for her lover anyhow, a relief—a lifting of the one and only shadow that hitherto had dimmed their future.
She did not hear Jerome’s step behind her.
‘Nicole, I implore you—for your mother’s sake—forgive me!’
She started and turned round. He stood before her, hat in hand, his eyes aglow with humble entreaty. And now his face, ravaged by sorrow and remorse, no longer disgusted her; she was touched by pity. She could almost fancy that this opportunity for kindliness was of her seeking; yes, she would forgive him.
Without answering, impulsively, she held out her little black-gloved hand, and he pressed it with unfeigned emotion.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured. Then he moved away.
Some minutes passed. Nicole did not move. Things were better so, she thought, if only for her aunt’s sake; and then, of course, there would be Félix to tell about this touching little incident. People were bustling along the corridor, jostling her with their luggage. At last the train began to pull out. The sudden stresses helped to dispel her lethargy, and she returned to the compartment. Latecomers occupied the seats which only a moment earlier were empty. At the far end, ensconced in a corner-seat facing Mme. de Fontanin, one arm lolling in the leather window-strap and eyes fixed on the landscape, her uncle Jerome, she observed, was munching a ham-sandwich.
Jacques spent the evening trying to reconstruct, word for word, his talk with Jenny. He made no attempt to analyse what exactly it was that drew his thoughts so urgently towards that conversation, yet it obsessed his mind. He woke up several times in the course of the night and harked back each time to the same theme with unabated eagerness. So, naturally enough, he was bitterly disappointed when he went to the tennis-club next morning only to find that Jenny had not turned up.
He was asked to join in a set and thought it better to comply, but he played badly, for his eyes strayed all the time towards the entrance-gate. The morning passed and soon it was too late to hope that Jenny would come. He made his escape the moment he could decently do so. His hope had failed him, but he was not hopeless yet.
Then he saw Daniel coming towards him.
‘Where’s Jenny?’ he asked at once. Daniel’s presence at this hour was unexpected, but he made no comment on it.
‘She’s not playing this morning. Are you leaving now? Then I’ll come along with you. I’ve been at Maisons since yesterday evening.’ As soon as they had left the club grounds he explained. ‘Mother’s been called away, you see; she asked me to sleep at home so that Jenny wouldn’t be alone at night—our house is such miles from anywhere. It’s another of my father’s little games and mother, poor thing, can never say “no” to him.’ A shadow flitted across his face, but soon was vanquished by a resolute smile, for Daniel had a short way with disagreeable thoughts. ‘And how are you getting on?’ His eyes conveyed affectionate concern. ‘I’ve been thinking quite a lot about your Startled Secret; I like it as much as ever, you know. And the more I think about it the better I like it. Psychologically it’s in a class by itself—a trifle brutal, perhaps, and a bit obscure in places. But you’ve hit on a fine idea and your two heroes are very life-like and, what’s more, original.’
‘No, Daniel,’ Jacques broke in, unable to master his annoyance. ‘You mustn’t judge me by that. To begin with, the style’s abominable. Flatulent, lumpy, long-winded!’ And to himself he added, raging inwardly: ‘Heredity, no doubt!’
‘The theme, too,’ Jacques continued, ‘is still far too conventional, too made-to-order. A man’s mental underworld. . . . Oh, I see quite well what’s wanted, only——’ He broke off abruptly.
‘What are you working at now? Have you started on something else?’
‘Yes.’ Jacques felt a blush rising to his cheeks, though he knew no reason for it. ‘But I’m mostly resting; I was more run down than I suspected, after a year’s cramming. And then I’ve only just come back from attending poor old Battaincourt’s wedding—that’s one for you, you slacker!’
‘Yes, Jenny told me about it.’
Jacques blushed again. At first he felt a brief annoyance—that yesterday’s talk had ceased to be a secret shared by Jenny and himself alone; but then he was agreeably thrilled to learn that she set store by what he said and it had so impressed her that she had spoken of it that very evening to her brother.
‘Shall we take a stroll as far as the bank of the Seine?’ he suggested, linking his arm in Daniel’s. ‘We can talk on the way.’
‘Can’t be done, old chap. I’m off to Paris by the 1.20. I’m prepared to play the watchdog at night, you see; but in the daytime——’ His smile conveyed the nature of the appointment that called him back to Paris; Jacques was displeased by it, and withdrew his arm.
‘Look here,’ Daniel hastily suggested, anxious to ease the tension, ‘you’d better lunch with us. Jenny’ll be delighted.’
Jacques lowered his eyes to hide a new emotion and feigned some indecision. As his father was not back, there would be no bother about his missing a meal. He was dumbfounded by the rapture that swept over him, but mastered it enough to answer his friend.
‘Thanks very much. I’ll just drop in to warn them at home. You go ahead. I’ll meet you in the Castle Square.’
Some minutes later he rejoined his friend, who was waiting for him, lying on the grass in front of the château.
‘Isn’t it topping here!’ Daniel exclaimed, stretching his legs out in the sunshine. ‘The park’s at its best this morning. You’re a lucky chap to live in such surroundings.’
‘And so could you,’ Jacques observed, ‘if you chose to.’
Daniel stood up.
‘Yes, no doubt I could,’ he admitted musingly but with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But I—well, it’s not my pigeon! Look here, old fellow!’ He moved towards Jacques and a change came over his voice. ‘I rather think I’m in for a perfectly marvellous adventure.’
‘The green-eyed girl?’
‘Green-eyed? I don’t . . .’
‘At Packmell’s, you know.’
Daniel stopped short and stared for a few seconds at the grass. Then a curious smile crossed his face.
‘Ah, Rinette, you mean. No, someone new—streets ahead of her.’ He paused a while, lost in thought, before he spoke again. ‘Rinette! Yes, that was a queer girl, if you like! Just fancy, it was she who dropped me after a day or two!’ He laughed—the laugh of one whose way such an experience had never come before. ‘As a novelist, you’d have thought her thrilling, very likely. Personally, I found her boring. I’ve never known a woman one could make so little of. Why, even now I’ve no idea whether she was ever keen on me for ten consecutive minutes; but, when the loving mood was on her, well . . . ! A bit queer, I should say. She must have had a pretty shady past and couldn’t shake it off. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to learn that she belonged to some secret society or other.’
‘So you’ve quite lost touch with her?’
‘Absolutely. I don’t even know what’s become of her, she never showed up at Packmell’s again. Sometimes I rather miss her,’ he added after a pause. ‘Anyhow it would have had to end pretty soon; I couldn’t have stuck her very long. You’ve no idea how tactless she could be. Always asking questions about my private life, yes—damn it!—about my family, my mother and sister . . . my father, even!’
He walked on in silence.
‘Still, when all’s said and done, I’m indebted to her for a priceless experience—that evening at Packmell’s when I wiped Ludwigson’s eye.’
‘And, with the same shot, brought down your prospects, I suppose?’
‘Meaning, I got the sack?’ Daniel’s eyes twinkled and a wide grin displayed his teeth. ‘I’d never had such an opportunity of taking friend Ludwigson’s measure; well, he pretended not to remember a thing about it. You may think what you like about him, old chap; what I say is, he’s a great lad in his own way.’
Jenny had stayed at home all the morning. When Daniel proposed escorting her to the tennis-club she had emphatically declined, professing to be busy. But she felt listless, at a loose end, and the time hung heavy on her hands.
When, from her window, she saw the two young men crossing the garden, her first feeling was one of vexation. She had looked forward to having her brother to herself, and here was Jacques spoiling everything! Still her ill-humour was not proof against Daniel’s exuberance, as he cried to her through the half-open window:
‘Guess whom I’ve brought back to lunch!’
I’ve time to change my dress, she thought.
Jacques was strolling to and fro in the garden; never as to-day had he appreciated the quiet beauty of Jenny’s home. After the park, studded with villas, it had all the charm of an old-world farmhouse secluded on the margin of the forest. The central portion with its tall windows had evidently been a hunting-lodge, many times restored; more or less incongruous annexes had been built on to it at different periods. A flight of wooden steps, like the open ladders clamped to barns, led under a penthouse to the more lofty of the two wings. Jenny’s pigeons scudded to and fro along the shelving tiles and the walls were rough-coated with a bright pink distemper which drank up the sunlight like an Italian stucco. A tangled conclave of tall fir-trees cast dry, cool shadows on the house and sunburnt grass, and the air beneath them had a brisk tang of resin.
Daniel was in great form at lunch and his gaiety was contagious; he had had an exhilarating morning and the afternoon promised well. He congratulated Jenny on her blue frock and pinned a white rose in her blouse, calling her ‘sister mine.’ He was amused by everyone and everything, even his own high spirits.
He insisted on being escorted to the station and seen into his train by Jacques and Jenny.
‘Will you be back for dinner?’ she enquired. Sometimes, Jacques noticed with a vague distress, a jarring undertone—which certainly was not intentional—crept into Jenny’s voice, contrasting with her gentle, unassuming ways.
‘It’s quite on the cards,’ Daniel replied. ‘Anyhow I’ll do my level best to catch the seven o’clock train. In any case I shall be back before dark, as I promised mamma in my letter.’ The small-boyish voice in which Daniel spoke the last words and his mature appearance were so charmingly incongruous that Jacques could not help laughing and even Jenny, as she stooped to clip the leash on her little dog’s collar, looked up with a smile of amusement.
When the train came in Daniel noticed that the front carriages were empty and ran towards them; from where they stood they saw him leaning out of the window and waving with his handkerchief a frivolous farewell.
Now they were alone, and the situation found them unprepared to deal with it; Daniel’s high spirits had carried them off their feet. They managed, however, to keep up a tone of easy intimacy, as if Daniel still were serving as a link between them; and this new truce was such a relief to both that they were careful not to break its amity.
Rather depressed to see her brother leave, Jenny recalled his all too frequent absences from home.
‘Couldn’t you get Daniel to stop spending his holidays running backwards and forwards like this? He doesn’t realize how sad it makes mother, seeing so little of him this summer. But, of course, you’ll stick up for him,’ she added, though without the least aggressiveness.
‘No, I’ve not the least wish to do so,’ he replied. ‘Do you imagine I approve of the life he’s leading?’
‘Well, do you let him know that, anyhow?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘And he won’t listen to you?’
‘He listens all right. But it goes deeper than that. I rather think he doesn’t understand me.’
‘You mean, that he has ceased to understand you?’
‘Very likely. . . . Yes.’
From the outset their conversation had taken a serious turn. With Daniel as their theme there was a mutual understanding between them that since yesterday was no new thing; but it had never before been given such free play. And, when they were about to turn into the park, it was from her that the suggestion came:
‘How about going by the high road? Then you could see me home through the forest. It’s quite early, and such a lovely day!’
He made no effort to conceal the happiness that flooded his heart, but dared not let it master him. Fearing to snap the golden thread of sympathy between them, he hastily reverted to their common interest.
‘Daniel has such a zest for living.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know it only too well. For living without control. But a life that’s uncontrolled is very—very dangerous.’ Averting her eyes, she added: ‘And . . . impure.’
‘Impure,’ he repeated gravely. ‘Yes, I agree with you, Jenny.’
Impurity! A word he little cared to use, yet one which very often rose to his lips, and now on hers he heard it with a sudden thrill. Yes, all Daniel’s ‘affairs’ were sullied by ‘impurity,’ and so was Antoine’s passion. All carnal lusts were tainted in the same way. One thing, one only, in the world was pure—the nameless feeling which had been growing up within him for months and months and since yesterday unfolding, in gradual beauty, like a flower.
Steadying his voice, he continued.
‘Sometimes I’m furious with him for the attitude he has taken up towards life, a sort of——’
‘Perverseness,’ she added ingenuously; it was a word that often crossed her thoughts, her name for all that seemed obnoxious to her innocence.
‘Personally, I’d rather call it cynicism,’ he amended, using in his turn an incorrect expression which he had twisted to his uses. But no sooner had he spoken than he felt he was not being wholly loyal to himself. ‘Don’t imagine,’ he exclaimed hastily, ‘that I approve of a nature that is always fighting against itself. I prefer——’ He paused, and Jenny hung on his words, eager to take his meaning—as though what he had just said were of exceptional importance in her eyes. ‘I prefer people who make a point of living according to their natures. All the same, they shouldn’t——’ He broke off. Several instances he did not think fit for Jenny’s ears had crossed his mind.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And I’m so afraid that Daniel may end by losing—what should I call it?—the sense of sin. Do you see what I mean?’
He nodded approval and now he, too, could not refrain from gazing at her intently, for the earnestness of her look added significance to her words. How she betrayed herself unwittingly, he mused, in that last remark!
She had her features well under control, but her set lips and laboured breathing vouched for the effort she was making to fight down one of those gusts of wild emotion which so often swept across her, emotion which she always did her utmost to conceal.
What can it be, Jacques wondered, that makes her face so apt to wear that hard, aloof expression? Is it because the line of her eyebrows is rather narrow, too precise? No, I fancy it must be the two dark cavities her pupils form in the grey-blue of the iris, when they retract. And, from this moment on he forgot about Daniel; his thoughts were all for Jenny.
For some minutes they walked on without speaking, and to them the silent interval, though it lasted quite a while, seemed very short. But, when they wanted to pick up the fallen strand of conversation, they found their thoughts had wandered far afield, almost, it seemed, in opposite directions. Neither could find a word to break the silence.
It so happened that they were passing a garage; the road was lined with cars under repair and the noise of running engines gave little scope for conversation.
A decrepit, mangy old dog shambled across the grease-stains on the road towards Puce, and began to show an interest in her; Jenny picked up her little dog in her arms. No sooner had they passed the workshop entrance than they heard cries behind them. A skeleton chassis, driven by a youngster of fifteen, had clattered out of the repair-shop and swung round so sharply that, despite the lad’s belated cry of warning, the old dog had no time to get out of the way. Jacques and Jenny, who had turned round at the cry, saw the chassis catch the unfortunate animal in the side and two wheels pass over his body in quick succession.
Jenny gave a scream of horror.
‘Oh, he’s killed! He’s killed!’
‘No. He’s got up again.’
The dog had struggled up and fled in a blind panic, yelping and covered with blood. His shattered hindquarters trailed on the ground, making him move in zig-zags, collapsing every few yards.
Jenny’s face was twitching and she went on crying monotonously:
‘He’s killed! Oh, he’s killed!’
The dog turned into a courtyard, its cries grew less frequent, then ceased altogether. The garage hands, glad of an excuse for knocking off work, followed up the trail of blood. One of them went as far as the house with the courtyard and shouted:
‘He’s dead! Not a kick left!’
With a gesture of relief, Jenny let her dog slip from her arms, and they set off again towards the forest. The emotion they had shared brought them still nearer to each other.
‘I shall never forget,’ said Jacques, ‘your face and your voice when you called out just now.’
‘One loses one’s head—it’s silly. What did I say?’
‘ “He’s killed!” That’s an interesting point, isn’t it? You’d seen the dog run over by the car, pounded into a shapeless, bleeding mass—that was the really sickening part of it. And yet the real tragedy began only at the moment, the dreadful moment, when the poor beast who’d been alive a second earlier had to lie down and die. Don’t you agree? The most moving thing of all is the unknowable transition, the headlong fall from life into nothingness. It haunts us all, the terror of that moment; it’s a sort of—of mystical awe, always waiting on the threshold of our thoughts. Do you often think of death?’
‘Yes. Well, I mean . . . not so very often. Do you?’
‘Personally, I’m almost always thinking about it. Most of my thoughts bring me back to the idea of death. But’—he sounded discouraged—‘however often one comes back to it, it’s only a notion of the mind. . . .’ And there he left it. For the moment he looked almost handsome, his face aglow with fervour, a zest for life mingled with dread of death.
They walked a little way before she broke the silence.
‘I can’t think what’s brought it into my head—really it has nothing to do with what you were saying,’ she began in a hesitating voice. ‘But I’ve just remembered something . . . the first time I saw the sea. But perhaps Daniel’s told you already?’
‘No. Tell me about it.’
‘It’s ancient history, you know—when I was fourteen or fifteen. It was near the end of the holidays and mamma and I were going to join Daniel at Tréport. He’d asked us to get out at some station or other on the way, and met us there with a farm-cart. As he didn’t want to spoil my first impression of the sea by casual glimpses at the bends of the road, he blindfolded me—a silly idea, wasn’t it? After a while he told me to get down and led me by the hand. I followed him, stumbling at every step. A terrific gale lashed my face and there was a perfectly fiendish din, roaring and shrieking in my ears. I was scared to death and begged him not to take me any further. At last we came to the summit of the cliff, and Daniel slipped behind me and untied the handkerchief. Before my eyes lay the open sea and far beneath, where the cliff fell sheer, the waves were breaking on the rocks. On every side was sea, sea everywhere as far as eye could reach. I stopped breathing and collapsed into Daniel’s arms. It took me some minutes to come to, and then I started sobbing, sobbing. They had to take me home and put me to bed; I had a temperature. Mamma was terribly upset. But now—do you know?—I don’t regret it one bit; I feel I really know the sea.’
Jacques had never seen her thus; no trace of melancholy on her face, her look unclouded, almost ecstatic. Then, suddenly, the fervour died from her face.
Little by little Jacques was discovering an unknown Jenny. Her abrupt changes of mood, from reticence to sudden outbursts, brought to his mind a choked but copious spring, which only flowed in sudden gushes. Here lay, he guessed, the secret of that innate sadness which gave her face its contemplative air and lent such charm to her rare, transient smiles. And suddenly the thought appalled him, that such a walk as this must have an end.
‘No need to hurry, is there?’ he tentatively suggested, now they had passed beneath the arch of the old forest gate. ‘Let’s take the long way round. I don’t mind betting you’ve never tried that lane.’
A sandy track, soft underfoot, led down into the darkness of a glen. Flanked at first by wide strips of grass, it narrowed as it went on. Here the trees thrived ill, their meagre leafage let the sunlight through on every side.
They walked on, not in the least troubled by their silence.
What’s come over me? Jenny was wondering. He’s so different from what I thought. Yes, he’s . . . he’s . . . But she could not find the word she wanted. How alike we are! she thought, with a strange thrill of certitude and joy. But then she grew anxious. What thoughts were in his mind?
But Jacques’ mind was empty, lulled by a bliss devoid of thoughts. He walked beside her and asked nothing more of life.
‘I’m afraid I’m taking you into one of the ugliest parts of the forest,’ he murmured at last.
She started at the sound of his voice and the same thought flashed across the minds of both: that their brief silence had been of crucial import for the vague dream that haunted both alike.
‘Yes, I agree with you,’ she replied.
‘Why, it isn’t even real grass!’ Jacques prodded the ground with his toecap. ‘It’s a sort of dog-grass.’
‘Well, Puce certainly seems to take to it—just look!’
They spoke at random; common words seemed to have completely changed their sense and value for them.
That’s a charming blue, thought Jacques, looking at her dress. How is it that a soft, greyish blue is so exactly her colour? Then his thoughts flew off at a tangent.
‘I want to tell you something!’ he exclaimed. ‘What makes me so dense is that I never can switch my attention off what’s going on in my mind.’
‘I’m just the same.’ Jenny fancied she was capping his remark. ‘I’m nearly always day-dreaming. I like it awfully; so do you, don’t you? The things I dream are quite my own and I like to feel I needn’t share them with anyone. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, absolutely!’
A sweet-brier grew beside the lane; some branches were in flower and on one the tiny hips were forming. Jacques was in half a mind to proffer them to her and quote: ‘I bring thee flowers and fruit and leafy boughs. And with them all . . . my heart!’ Then he would pause, observing her. But his courage failed him. When they had passed the bush, he said to himself: ‘What a littérateur I am!’
‘Do you like Verlaine?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Sagesse, that Daniel used to like so much, is my favourite.’
He murmured:
Beauté des femmes, leur faiblesse, et ces mains pâles
Qui font souvent le bien et peuvent tout le mal . . .
‘And how about Mallarmé?’ he continued, after a pause. ‘I’ve quite a decent anthology of modern poets. Would you like me to bring it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you care for Baudelaire?’
‘Not so much. He’s rather like Whitman. Anyhow I don’t know much of Baudelaire.’
‘Have you read Whitman?’
‘Daniel read me some of his poems last winter. I can quite understand Whitman’s appeal for him. But, as for me——’ Again the word ‘impurity’ which they had used a little while ago rose to their minds. How like me she is! Jacques thought.
‘As for you,’ he went on, ‘that’s just the reason why you don’t like Whitman so much as he does, isn’t it?’
She nodded, grateful to him for uttering her unsaid thought.
The pathway, wider now, debouched into a clearing where a bench was set between two oak-trees stripped of their foliage by caterpillars. Jenny threw her wide-brimmed hat of supple straw on to the grass, and sat down.
‘There are times,’ she exclaimed impulsively, as though she were thinking aloud, ‘when I almost wonder how it is you’re such a bosom friend of Daniel’s.’
‘Why?’ He smiled. ‘Do I strike you as being so very different from him?’
‘Very different indeed—to-day.’
He lay down on a grassy bank a little way from her.
‘My bosom friend . . .’ he repeated musingly. ‘Does he ever talk to you about me?’
‘No. I mean, yes. Now and then.’
She blushed; but he was not looking her way.
‘Yes,’ he continued, nibbling a blade of grass, ‘nowadays there’s a solid bond of affection between us; it’s calm and tolerant. But we weren’t always like that.’ Pausing, he pointed to a snail, translucent as an agate, that, clinging to a grass-halm, timidly probed the sunlight with its viscid horns. ‘When I was working for the exam., you know,’ he added inconsequently, ‘I often used to think for weeks on end that I was going off my head; my brain was seething with such a ferment of ideas. And then—I was so lonely!’
‘But you were living with your brother, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, luckily enough. And I was quite free—that, too, was a stroke of luck. Otherwise I think I’d have gone mad, really mad. Or else run away.’
For the first time in her life she recalled the Marseilles escapade with something like indulgence.
‘I felt misunderstood.’ His voice grew sombre. ‘Misunderstood by everyone, even by my brother; often enough, even by Daniel, too.’
Just as I did! was her unspoken comment.
‘When I was in those moods I couldn’t summon up the faintest interest in my studies. I doped myself with reading—everything in Antoine’s library, all the books Daniel could supply. I must have sampled nearly every modern novelist, French, English and Russian. You simply can’t imagine the thrills I got from books! And, afterwards, everything else seemed so deadly dull—my tutors, all their pedantic fumbling with texts, their precious cult of respectability. No, most decidedly that wasn’t in my line at all!’ He talked about himself without a trace of self-conceit; like all young people he was full of himself and could imagine no keener pleasure than to dissect his personality under attentive eyes; and his pleasure was infectious. ‘Those were the days,’ he continued, ‘when I used to write Daniel thirty-page letters that I’d spent all night concocting. Letters where I poured out all my day’s enthusiasms and, most of all, disgusts. I suppose I ought to laugh at all that, now. But, no, I can’t.’ He pressed his hand against his forehead. ‘The life I led in those days made me suffer far too intensely for me to make my peace with it, as yet. I had Daniel give me back my letters and I read them over again! They read like the confessions of a madman in his lucid intervals. Sometimes there were several days between them, sometimes only a few hours. Each was a sort of volcanic outburst, the eruption of a mental crisis, and, often as not, in flat contradiction with the one that went before it. A religious crisis, really, for I’d just been soaking myself in the Gospels, or the Old Testament—or else in Comte and positivism. What a letter I wrote just after reading Emerson! I’d been through all the usual maladies of youth: a galloping “Baudelairitis,” a sharp attack of Vinci. But none of them was chronic; they came and went! One day I rose a classicist and went to bed romantic, and made a secret holocaust of my Boileau and Malherbe in Antoine’s laboratory. I performed the rite in solitude, laughing like a fiend. Next day everything that had to do with literature seemed to me utterly stale and unprofitable. I started delving into geometry, from the primers on; I’d set my heart on unearthing new laws that would turn all previous theories inside out. Then I had a spell of poetizing. I wrote odes for Daniel, Horatian epistles of two hundred lines, dashed off with hardly one erasure. The oddest thing of all’—his voice had suddenly grown calm—‘was a pamphlet I composed in English, yes, entirely in English, and entitled “The Emancipation of the Individual in Relation to Society.” I gave it a preface, a short one, I grant, in—would you believe it?—modern Greek!’ (The last detail was untrue; he merely remembered his intention to compose such a preface.) He burst out laughing. ‘No, I’m not really so mad as I seem,’ he exclaimed after a pause. Then he fell silent again and, half laughingly, but without the least trace of vanity, declared: ‘Anyhow, I was quite different from the rest of them.’
Jenny was in a brown study, stroking her little dog. How often in the past had she pictured Jacques as a disturbing, almost a dangerous personality! Now, however, she could not but admit her views had changed; he had ceased to be alarming.
Jacques was stretched out on the grass, staring in front of him, glad to have unburdened his heart so freely.
‘Isn’t it pleasant here under the trees?’ he murmured lazily.
‘Yes. What’s the time?’
Neither of them had a watch. Anyhow they were at the confines of the park and need not hurry. From the bench Jenny could see the tops of two familiar chestnut-trees and, further on, the cedar beside the forester’s lodge, a tracery of palm-like foliage etched in black against the blue.
She bent towards the dog which was crouching against her skirt and took care not to look in Jacques’ direction when next she spoke.
‘Daniel has read me some of your poems.’
His silence was so portentous that now she could not help stealing a glance at him. A blush had mounted from cheeks to brow, to the peak-point of his hair, and he was glaring angrily about him. She, too, began to blush.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that!’ she exclaimed.
But already Jacques regretted his annoyance and was trying to overcome it; yet he could not bear to think that someone—and that someone, Jenny—should choose to judge him by his fumbling first attempts; he was all the more touchy on this count because he knew only too well that he had never done himself justice—a thought that never ceased to rankle in his mind.
‘My poetry, why, it’s—rubbish!’ he exclaimed brutally. She did not protest or stir a finger; he was grateful for her reticence. ‘You must have a very poor opinion of me, if you . . . if anyone . . .’ He broke off, then passionately exclaimed: ‘Oh, if anyone could guess the things I mean to do!’ The all-absorbing topic, the woodland peace, Jenny’s proximity, stirred him to such emotion that his voice faltered and his eyes began to smart as if he were on the brink of tears. ‘Take, for instance,’ he went on after a pause, ‘take the people who congratulate me on getting into the Ecole Normale. You can’t imagine how I feel about all that! I’m ashamed of it. Yes, positively ashamed. Not merely ashamed of having got in at all, but of having bowed to . . . to the opinions of all those. . . . If you knew what they really are, those people! All shaped in the same mould, by the same books. Books and books and books! And to think I had to cringe to them! I! That I gave in to their . . . Just imagine it!’ Words failed him yet again. He fully realized that he had given no plausible motive for his aversion; the true and valid arguments for it had sunk their roots too deeply into his being to be dragged forth to order and paraded on the surface. ‘Yes, I despise the whole crowd of them!’ he exclaimed. ‘And myself still more for having had any truck with them. No, I shall never, never—yes, it’s unforgivable, all that!’
She kept her self-control the better for seeing him so uncontrolled. Though she had no clear insight into Jacques’ mind, she had noticed that he often gave vent to a vague rancour of this sort, and his reluctance to forgive. How he must have suffered! Yet—and this was the difference between them—his faith in the future and happiness in store was unmistakable. A ceaseless undertone of hope and confidence pervaded his invectives; boundless as his ambition might seem, it was untouched by doubt. Hitherto Jenny had never speculated on Jacques’ future, yet she was not surprised to learn that he aimed high, very high indeed; even in the days when she had thought of Jacques as a brutal, oafish schoolboy, she never failed to recognize that his was a force to be reckoned with. To-day his feverish outburst and her glimpse of the dark fires that preyed upon his heart made her feel dizzy; it was as if she, too, were being drawn against her will into a maelstrom of emotions. So vivid was the sense of insecurity it gave her that she stood up to go.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Jacques stammered nervously, ‘only, you see, I take these things so dreadfully to heart.’
Taking a path that closely followed, like a sentinel’s beat, each zig-zag of the old-time fosse, they came to the further gate between the forest and the park; its iron grille bristled with spikes and the lock creaked like a dungeon bolt.
The sun was high, and it was only four o’clock; there was no necessity to end their walk so soon. What prompted them to choose a path that brought them home at once?
There were people strolling in the park and, though Jacques and Jenny had walked along the selfsame avenue on the previous day without the least self-consciousness, they both felt bashful now at the thought of being seen walking together by themselves.
‘I say,’ Jacques ventured when they came to a cross-roads, ‘hadn’t I better leave you now? What do you think?’
Her answer came promptly. ‘Oh, yes. I’m practically home now.’
He stood before her, feeling, though he ignored the reason for it, rather ill at ease, forgetting even to raise his hat. Embarrassment brought back to his face the sullen, uncouth look that he so often wore but, during their walk, she had not once observed. He did not hold out his hand to her, but tried to smile and, just as he was turning away, ventured a timid glance in her direction.
‘Oh why,’ he murmured in a voice shaken by emotion, ‘why can’t I always be . . . like this . . . with you?’
Jenny did not seem to hear, but walked straight on, without one look behind, across the grass. That last remark of his—was it not almost word for word what, since yesterday, she had been saying to herself time and time again? But suddenly a surmise that she hardly dared put into words flashed into thought; supposing Jacques had meant: ‘Why shouldn’t I spend all my life with you beside me, as you’ve been to-day?’ and the thought seared her mind like wildfire. She quickened her pace and fled for refuge to her bedroom; her limbs were trembling, her cheeks aflame, and she forbade herself to think.
The rest of her afternoon was spent in feverish bursts of energy; she reorganized her bedroom, changing the position of the furniture, tidied out the linen-cupboard on the landing, and replenished the flower-vases throughout the house. Now and again she picked up her little dog, hugged it to her breast and lavished caresses on it. When for the last time she glanced at the clock and it was certain Daniel would not be back for dinner, a mood of despair came over her. Unable to face the empty dining-room, she dined off a plate of strawberries on the terrace and, to escape the tedious agony of the dying day, took refuge in the drawing-room, where she lit all the lamps. She picked up a Beethoven Album but, changing her mind, set it back on the shelf and ran to the piano with Chopin’s Etudes under her arm. . . .
That evening daylight seemed exceptionally long in dying, for the moon had risen unseen behind the trees and, little by little, moonlight had effaced the last gleams of the sunset.
Without any definite plan in mind, Jacques slipped into his pocket the book of modern poems he had mentioned to Jenny. On such a night as this the tedium of the domestic scene was past endurance and he went out for a stroll into the park. He could not keep his wandering wits on any subject. In less than half an hour he found himself hurrying along the path between the acacias, with only one thought in his mind: Let’s hope the gate hasn’t been locked for the night!
It was not locked. When the bell tinkled he started like a trespasser caught red-handed. A warm, resinous fragrance, mingled with the acrid fume of anthills, drifted towards him from the shadow of the firs. Only the muted throb of a piano ruffled the stillness of the garden with faint sounds of life. Jenny and Daniel, he supposed, were having a musical evening together. The drawing-room lay on the far side of the house; all the windows facing Jacques were closed and the house seemed asleep. But, to his surprise, the roof was flooded with a ghostly light. Looking round, he saw the moon had risen above the tree-tops, spreading the tiles with a pale sheen and striking white fire from the dormer-windows. His heart beat faster as he neared the house; the thought of coming on them unawares abashed him, and he was relieved when Puce rushed up to him, barking. But there was no pause in the music; the sound of the piano must have drowned Puce’s noisy greeting. Stooping, he took the little dog in his arms and lightly touched her silken forehead with his lips. Walking round a wing of the house, he reached the terrace on to which the tall french windows of the drawing-room opened. He moved towards the light, trying to recognize the piece that Jenny was playing. The melody seemed to hesitate, poised in mid-air between smiles and tears, to soar at last into an empyrean where joy and pain alike were meaningless.
When he reached the threshold it seemed as though the room were empty. At first he could see only the Persian shawl that draped the piano, and the knick-knacks standing on it. Then, in the gap between two vases, he made out a face, wraithlike in the misty candle-light—Jenny’s face convulsed by the stresses of her inward vision. Her expression was so unstudied, so bare of all disguise, that he recoiled instinctively; it was as if he had surprised her naked.
Pressing the little dog to his shoulder and trembling like a thief, he waited outside the house under cover of the shadows till she had finished playing. Then he called loudly to Puce to make it seem that he had only just entered the garden.
Jenny started when she recognized his voice and stood up hurriedly. Her face still bore traces of the emotion felt in solitude, and her startled eyes parried Jacques’ gaze, as though to keep inviolate their secret.
‘I hope I didn’t startle you,’ he said.
She frowned, but could not utter a word.
‘Isn’t Daniel back yet?’ he asked, adding, after a pause: ‘Here’s the anthology I spoke about this afternoon.’
He fumbled in his pocket and produced the book. Taking it, she fluttered the pages mechanically, without sitting down or asking him to do so. Jacques realized that he had better go, and retreated to the terrace. Jenny followed.
‘Please don’t bother to see me to the gate,’ he stammered nervously.
But she persisted in accompanying him, for she fancied this the quickest way to have done with it, and somehow did not dare hold out her hand and break off then and there. Once they were clear of the trees the moonlight was so bright that, when he turned to Jenny, he could see her eyelashes fluttering. The blue dress seemed unreal, spectral pale.
They crossed the garden in silence. Jacques opened the postern-gate and stepped outside. Jenny followed him unthinkingly and stood in the middle of the narrow road, haloed with moonlight. Then, on the whitely gleaming wall, he saw a graceful shadow, Jenny’s profile, neck and chin, her plaited hair, even the set of her lips—like a silhouette cut in black velvet, exact in every detail. He pointed to it. Suddenly a fantastic notion stirred in his mind and, without giving himself time to reflect, ardent with the temerity that only visits timid natures, he bent towards the wall and kissed the shadow of the beloved face.
Jenny stepped back hastily, as though to wrest her shadow from his lips, and vanished through the doorway. The moonlit vista of the garden faded as the gate swung to. Jacques listened to her flying steps along the gravelled path and then he, too, launched himself into the darkness.
He was laughing.
Jenny ran and ran as though all the phantoms, black and white, haunting the eerie silence of the garden, were at her heels. She fled into the house, ran upstairs to her room, flung herself on the bed. She was shivering, in a cold sweat, there was a pain at her heart and she pressed her trembling hands against her bosom, crushing her forehead against the pillow. Her whole will was bent on one aim only: to forget. A sense of shame oppressed her, checking her rising tears. A feeling till then unknown had mastered her: fear of herself.
Downstairs Puce was barking; Daniel had come home.
Jenny heard him climb the stairs, humming a tune, and pause a moment at her door. No light showed through the chinks; thinking his sister was asleep, he dared not knock. But then—why were the drawing-room lamps alight? Jenny did not move; she wanted to be left alone, in the darkness. But, when she heard her brother’s steps recede, an anguish gripped her heart and she jumped down from the bed.
‘Daniel!’
The light of the lamp he was holding revealed her haggard face and staring eyes. It struck him that his late return must have alarmed his sister and he fumbled for excuses. She cut him short.
‘No. I’m all nerves to-night.’ Her voice was shrill. ‘That friend of yours! I couldn’t get rid of him, he kept following me, he stuck to me like a leech.’ White with rage, she rapped out every syllable. Then a sudden flush spread on her cheeks and she began to sob. Worn out by her emotion, she sank on to the edge of the bed. ‘Daniel, I beg you, tell him . . . ! Send him away! I can’t, no, I simply can’t. . . . !’
He stared at her perplexedly, struggling to guess what might have passed between them.
‘But—what is it?’ he murmured. A suspicion flitted across his mind, but he hardly dared give words to it. He screwed his lips into a forced smile. ‘Poor old Jacques!’ he suggested tentatively. ‘Why, I shouldn’t wonder if he’s . . .’
He had no need to end the sentence; the tone conveyed his meaning well enough. To his surprise, Jenny betrayed no emotion; her eyes were lowered and she seemed indifferent. She was pulling herself together. When her silence had lasted so long that he had ceased to expect an answer, she spoke.
‘Possibly.’ Her voice had regained its usual intonation.
So she’s in love with him! Daniel thought, and so amazing was the discovery that it left him speechless, dumbfounded. But at that moment Jenny’s eyes met his and read his thought. It spurred her to revolt; an angry light flashed into her eyes, her look grew challenging. She did not raise her voice, but her eyes bored into Daniel’s and she shook her head peremptorily.
‘Never! Never! Never!’
Daniel seemed unconvinced, and his face wore a look of affection and elder-brotherly concern that stung her like an insult; she went up to him, settled a vagrant lock of hair upon his forehead and patted his cheek.
‘Anyhow tell me, you ridiculous old thing, have you had dinner yet?’
Standing in front of the fireplace, in pyjamas, Antoine was chopping up a slab of plum-cake with a Malayan kris.
Rachel yawned.
‘A thick one for me, Toine dear,’ she murmured lazily. She was lying on the bed, naked, her hands behind her head.
The window stood wide open but, mellowed by the drawn blind, the light inside the room was golden, like the warm twilight of a tent under the sun. Paris was sweltering in the blaze of an August Sunday. No sound came from the streets below and the house, too, was silent, empty perhaps but for the flat above; there, no doubt, Aline was reading the newspaper aloud for the benefit of Mme. Chasle and the little invalid who, though convalescent, had to lie flat for some weeks yet.
‘I’m starving!’ Rachel murmured, exhibiting an open mouth, pink as a cat’s.
‘The water can’t have boiled yet.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Give me one!’
He tipped a thick slice of cake on to the plate and placed it on the edge of the bed. Slowly, without rising, she slewed her head and shoulders round and, leaning on her elbow, with her head thrown back, began to eat, rolling pellets of cake between her fingers and letting them drop into her open mouth.
‘How about you, dear?’
‘Oh, I’ll wait till the tea’s ready,’ he replied, sinking among the cushions on the easy-chair.
‘Tired?’
He answered her with a smile.
The bed was low and open on all sides, and the alcove hung with curtains of pink silk, setting off Rachel’s nakedness in all its splendour; she might have been some fabled daughter of the sea, ensconced within a glimmering shell.
‘If I were a painter . . .’ Antoine murmured.
‘That settles it; you must be tired.’ A smile came and went on Rachel’s face. ‘When you start being artistic, it always means you’re tired.’
She flung her head back, and her face, framed in the fiery halo of her hair, was lost in shadows. A pearly lustre emanated from her body. Her right leg lay in an easy, flowing curve upon the mattress, sinking a little into it; the other, flexed and drawn up in the opposite direction, displayed the graceful outline of her thigh, lifting an ivory knee towards the sunlight.
‘I’m hungry,’ she whimpered. But, when he went to the bed to fetch her empty plate, she flung her strong arms round his neck and drew his face towards her.
‘Oh, that beard of yours!’ she exclaimed, but did not let him go. ‘When shall we abate the nuisance?’
He stood up, cast an anxious look at the glass, and brought her another slice of cake.
‘Yes, it’s just that I like so much in you,’ he declared, watching her teeth close on an ample mouthful.
‘My appetite?’
‘No, your fitness. Your body with its splendid circulation. You’re bracing, like a tonic. . . . I’m pretty well-built, too,’ he added, and, turning to the mirror, viewed his reflected self. Squaring his shoulders, he straightened up his chest and puffed it out, but failed to realize how undersized his limbs appeared in proportion to his head; he always persuaded himself that his physique as a whole had the same look of vigour as the facial expression he had cultivated. During the past two weeks his sense of power and plenitude had been stimulated beyond all measure by the emotions love engendered. ‘Do you know,’ he concluded, ‘you and I are built to see a century through?’
‘Together?’ she whispered, with half-shut, tender eyes. And then a passing shadow dimmed her happiness: the dread that one day his appeal for her, the source of so much present joy, might lose its power.
Opening her eyes, she lightly stroked her legs, running her palms over the lissom skin.
‘Personally,’ she declared, ‘if no one murders me, I’m certain to die old. Father was seventy-two when I lost him and he was hale as a man of fifty. He died quite by accident, really—the after-effects of a sunstroke. As a matter of fact it runs in our family, death by misadventure, I mean. My brother was drowned. I shan’t die in my bed, either; a revolver-shot will be the end of me, I feel it in my bones.’
‘How about your mother?’
‘Mother? She’s very much alive. Every time I see her she looks younger. No wonder, of course, considering the life she leads.’ Her voice had a curious inflexion as she added: ‘She’s shut up—at Saint Anne’s.’
‘The asylum?’
‘Hadn’t I told you?’ Her smile seemed almost apologetic and she made haste to satisfy his curiosity. ‘She’s been there for seventeen years. I can hardly remember what she was like—before. When one’s only nine, you know . . . Anyhow she’s cheerful, doesn’t seem to worry in the least, always singing. Yes, as a family, we’re a tough lot! I say, the water’s boiling!’
He hurried to the gas-ring and, while the tea was brewing, surveyed himself in the dressing-table glass, covering his beard with his hand to see how he would look clean-shaven. No. It suited him, that dark mass at the bottom of his face; it emphasized so well the pale rectangle of his forehead, the curve of his eyebrows, and his eyes. Moreover, some instinct made him chary of unmasking his mouth—almost as if it were a secret better kept concealed.
Rachel sat up to drink her tea, then lit a cigarette and stretched herself again on the bed.
‘Come near me. What are you up to, mooning about over there?’
Gaily he slipped beside her and bent above her face. In the warm alcove the perfume of her loosened hair enveloped him, honey-sweet yet piquant, clinging and almost cloying; sometimes he ached for it and sometimes turned away, for, if he inhaled it too long, it left his throat and lungs filmed with a bitter-sweet aroma.
‘What are you after now?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking at you.’
‘Toine darling!’
When their lips parted he bent over her again, gazing down at her with insatiable eyes.
‘What on earth are you staring at like that?’
‘I’m trying to make out your pupils.’
‘Are they so hard to find?’
‘Yes; it’s because of your eyelashes. They form a sort of golden haze in front of your eyes. That’s what makes you look so . . .’
‘So what?’
‘So sphinx-like.’
She gave a little shrug.
‘My pupils are blue, if you want to know.’
‘So you say.’
‘Silvery blue.’
‘Not a bit of it!’ He set his lips to Rachel’s, then teasingly withdrew them. ‘Sometimes they look grey, and sometimes mauve. A muzzy sort of colour . . . blurred.’
‘Thanks very much!’ Laughing, she rolled her eyes from side to side.
He gazed at her musingly. ‘Only a fortnight,’ he said to himself, ‘but it seems like months. Yet I couldn’t have described the colour of her eyes. And her life—what do I know of it? Twenty-six years she’s lived without me, in a world so different from mine. Years crowded with a host of things, adventurous years. Mysteries, too, that I’m beginning to discover, bit by bit.’ He would not admit the pleasure each discovery afforded him; still less give her an inkling of his pleasure: He never asked her anything, but she was always ready to talk about herself. He listened, ruminated, set facts and dates together, trying to understand, but above all amazed, taken aback at every turn. He was at pains to hide his wonder, but it was not chicanery that prompted him to do so. For years now his pose had been that of the man who understands everything; the only people he had learned to question were his patients. Surprise and curiosity were feelings that his pride had taught him to conceal, as best he might, under a mask of quiet interest and knowingness.
‘One would think you’d never seen me before, the way you’re staring at me to-day,’ she said. ‘That’s enough, drop it now for goodness’ sake!’
Under his scrutiny she was growing restive and, to escape it, shut her eyes. He began prising her lids apart with his fingers.
‘Look here! That’s quite enough of it! I won’t have your eyes prying into mine like that.’ She crooked her arm over her eyes.
‘So you want to keep me in the dark, little sphinx?’ He sprinkled kisses on the shining, shapely arm, from shoulder to wrist.
Secretive, is she? he asked himself. No, a trifle reserved, but not secretive. Quite the contrary; she likes chattering about herself. In fact she gets more talkative every day. And that’s because she loves me, he thought delightedly. Because she loves me. . . .
Putting her arm round his neck, she drew his face beside hers once more. When she spoke again, there was a graver note in her voice.
‘That’s a fact, you know; one has no idea how one can give oneself away in a mere look.’ She paused. He heard, deep down in her throat, the silent little laugh which so often preceded her evocations of the past. ‘That reminds me. . . . It was by his look, just the look on his face, that I hit upon the secret of a man with whom I’d been living for months. At a table, in a Bordeaux restaurant. We were facing each other, talking. Our eyes were going to and fro, from the plates to each other’s faces, or glancing round the room. Suddenly—I’ll never forget it—for the fraction of a second I caught his eyes fixed on a point behind me, with an expression . . . I was so startled that I couldn’t help turning in my chair to see.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, that just shows,’ she continued in a changed voice, that one should mind the look in one’s eyes.’
‘And what did you find out?’ The question was on the tip of Antoine’s tongue, but he dared not utter it. He had a morbid dread of making himself ridiculous by putting futile questions. Once or twice already he had ventured to ask for explanations at such moments and Rachel had looked at him with surprise, followed by amusement, laughing with an air of gentle mockery that deeply galled him.
So he held his tongue and it was she who broke the silence.
‘All those old memories give me the blues. Kiss me. Again. Better than that.’ But evidently the subject had not left her thoughts, for she added: ‘As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t have said “his secret,” but “one of his secrets.” You could never get to the bottom of that man’s mind.’
Then, to break away from the past and, perhaps, to elude Antoine’s unspoken query, she rolled right over on the bed, with a slow, lithe, snake-like wriggle of all her body.
‘How supple you are!’ He stroked her body appreciatively, like a fancier stroking a thoroughbred.
‘Yes? Did you know I’d had ten years’ training at the Opera School of Dancing?’
‘What? At Paris?’
‘Yes, my lad! What’s more, when I left I was a leading ballerina!’
‘Was that long ago?’
‘Six years.’
‘Why did you give it up?’
‘My legs.’ Her face darkened for a moment. ‘After that, I almost joined a circus—as a trick-rider,’ she continued quickly. ‘Are you surprised?’
‘Not a bit,’ he replied coolly. ‘What circus was it?’
‘Oh, not a French one. A big international show that Hirsch was touring all over the world at the time. Hirsch, you know—that’s the fellow I told you about, who’s settled in the Sudan. He wanted to exploit my talent, but I wasn’t taking any!’ While she spoke, she amused herself crooking and straightening out each leg in turn with the effortless agility of a trained gymnast. ‘What gave him the idea was that he’d persuaded me to try my hand at trick-riding some time before that, at Neuilly. I loved it. We had a fine stable then, and we made the most of it, you may be sure!’
‘Were you living at Neuilly?’
‘No; but he was. He owned the Neuilly riding-school in those days; he was always mad keen on horses. So was I. Are you?’
‘I ride a bit,’ he replied, straightening his back. ‘But I haven’t had many opportunities for getting on a horse—or the time for it.’
‘Well, I had opportunities all right. And to spare. Why, we were once on horseback for twenty-two days on end!’
‘Where was that?’
‘At the back of beyond. In Morocco.’
‘So you’ve been to Morocco?’
‘Twice. Hirsch was selling obsolete “Gras” rifles to the tribes in the South, and an exciting job it was! Once there was a regular pitched battle round our camp. We were under fire for twenty-four hours; no, all night and the following morning. They don’t often make night-attacks. It was a terrifying business; we couldn’t see a thing. They killed seventeen of our bearers and wounded over thirty of them. I threw myself between the crates of rifles at each volley. But they got me all right!’
‘What? You were wounded?’
‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘Only a scratch it was.’ She pointed to a silky scar on the line of her waist, just under the ribs.
‘Why did you tell me you’d had a carriage-accident?’ Antoine enquired unsmilingly.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed with a little shrug, ‘that was our first day together. You’d have thought I was trying to show off.’
They were silent. So she’s capable of lying to me, Antoine thought.
Rachel’s eyes grew darkly pensive, then suddenly brightened again—but with a glint of hatred that quickly came and went.
‘He’d got it into his head that I’d follow him anywhere and always. Well, he was wrong.’
Antoine felt an uneasy satisfaction every time she cast such rancorous glances at her former life. ‘Stay with me—always!’ he felt inclined to say. Pressing his cheek against the little scar, he waited. His ear, true to its professional training, followed the languid vascular flux and reflux murmuring deep down in her chest, and heard, remote yet clear, the full-toned throbbing of her heart. His nostrils quivered. On the warm bed all Rachel’s body breathed the perfume of her hair, but subtler, more subdued; a faint, yet maddening odour with a tang of spices in it, a humid fragrance redolent of a curious range of scents—hazel-leaves, fresh butter, pitch-pine and vanilla candy; less of a perfume, truth to tell, than a fine vapour, almost a flavour, leaving an after-taste of spices on the lips.
‘Let’s drop the subject,’ she said. ‘Give me a cigarette. No, the ones on the little table. They’re made by a girl I know; she puts a dash of green tea in with the Virginia leaf. They smell of burning leaves, camp-fires and—yes, that’s it—shooting-parties in September; the smell of gunpowder, you know, when you shoot the coverts and the smoke hangs in the mist.’
He stretched himself out beside her under the smoke-rings, and his hands caressed the almost phosphorescent whiteness, hardly pink at all, of Rachel’s belly, ample as a vase turned on the potter’s wheel. She had acquired, probably in the course of her travels, the habit of Eastern unguents and, in its maturity, her skin still kept the fresh and flawless smoothness of a young child’s body.
‘Umbilicus sicut crater eburneus,’ he murmured, recalling as best he could the sonorous Latin of the Vulgate which had so thrilled him in his sixteenth year. ‘Venter tuus sicut—like a what?—sicut cupa.’
‘What on earth does it mean?’ She sat up on the bed. ‘Wait a bit! I’ll try and guess. Culpa; I know that word. Mea culpa, that’s it; a fault, a sin. “Thy belly is a sin,” eh?’
He burst out laughing. Since she had come into his life, he no longer kept a hold on his high spirits.
‘No, cupa. “Thy belly is like a goblet,” ’ he amended, leaning his head on Rachel’s hip, and proceeded with his slightly garbled versions of the Song of Solomon. ‘Quam pulchrae sunt mammae tuae soror mea! “How beautiful are thy two breasts, my sister!” Sicut duo (what’s the Latin for them?) gemelli qui pascuntur in liliis. “Like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” ’
Delicately she held them up, first one and then the other, with a tender little smile for each, as if they were two friendly little animals.
‘They’re awfully rare, you know, pink tips like that—really pink, like the buds on apple-trees,’ she declared with almost judicial gravity. ‘As a doctor, you must have noticed that.’
‘Yes, I believe you’re right. A skin without pigmental granulation. White on white, with pink shadows.’ Shutting his eyes, he crushed himself against her. ‘Soft, soft shoulders . . .’ he murmured sleepily. ‘I can’t bear flappers with their skimpy little shoulders.’
‘Sure?’
‘I love your delicious plumpness, every curve’s so smooth and firm; its texture’s like . . . like soap! Don’t move; I’m comfy.’
Suddenly a galling memory crossed his mind. ‘Like soap!’ . . . A few days after Dédette’s accident he had travelled with Daniel from Maisons to Paris. They were alone in the compartment. Antoine’s mind was full of Rachel and the thought that now at last he could regale this expert amorist with an adventure of his own had proved too tempting; he could not contain himself, but launched into an account that lasted out the journey, of his dramatic night, the operation in extremis, the anxious vigil at the child’s bedside and his sudden passion for the handsome red-haired girl dozing beside him on the couch. Then he had used those very words, ‘delicious plumpness,’ ‘texture like soap.’ But he had not dared to tell Daniel of what followed; describing how, as he went down the stairs, he noticed Rachel’s open door, he had added—less from motives of discretion than an absurd anxiety to prove his strength of will—: ‘Did she expect me? Should I take the opportunity? Anyhow, I sized things up, pretended not to see, and passed the door. What would you have done in my place?’ Then Daniel, who so far had heard him out in silence, looked him up and down, and rapped out: ‘Why, I’d have acted just as you did—you humbug!’
Daniel’s exclamation echoed in his cars, sceptical, ironic, almost cutting, but with just the touch of geniality it needed not to be offensive. Whenever he recalled it, it stung him to the quick. A humbug! Well, of course he was apt to lie upon occasion; or, more accurately, to catch himself out lying. . . .
Meanwhile, that ‘delicious plumpness’ had given Rachel, too, to think.
‘I’ll grow into a fat old dame, quite likely,’ she said. ‘Jews, you know. . . . Still my mother wasn’t fat and I’m only half a sheeny. But you should have seen me sixteen years ago when I joined the beginners’ class. A regular little pink mouse I looked!’
She slipped off the bed before he had a chance of stopping her.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got an idea . . .’
‘Anyhow you might give a fellow some warning.’
‘Least said, soonest mended.’ Laughing, she eluded his outstretched arm.
‘Lulu dear . . . Come back and sleep a bit,’ he murmured lazily.
‘No more bye-bye to-day! Closing time!’ She slipped into her wrap.
She ran to her desk, unlocked it and pulled out a drawer full of photographs. Then she came back and sat on the edge of the bed, resting the drawer on her knees.
‘I love looking over old photos. Some nights I take the whole collection to bed with me and spend hour after hour turning them over, thinking. Don’t move! Have a look at them too, if it won’t bore you.’
Antoine, who had been lying curled up on the bed behind her, sat up at once; his interest was aroused and, resting his arms on the mattress, he settled into a comfortable position. As Rachel pored over her photographs he saw her in profile; her face had grown earnest and her drooping lashes showed like a faint filigree in pale gamboge along her slotted eyes. She had hastily put up her hair; against the light it shone like a chain-helmet woven of fine-spun silk, and almost orange-red; at every movement sparks seemed to flicker round her neck and at the corners of her temples.
‘Here’s the one I was hunting for. See that little ballet-girl? It’s me! I got a rare telling-off that day, as a matter of fact, for spoiling the flounces of my ballet-skirt, crushing them against the wall like that. Aren’t I weird with my elbows like pin-points, my hair all over my shoulders and that flat, high-cut bodice? I don’t look over-cheerful, do I? Look here, that’s me in my third year; my calves were filling out a bit. Here’s the dancing-class, the bunch of us lined up along the practice-bar. Can you spot me amongst them? Yes, that’s me. That’s Louise over there—the name doesn’t mean anything to you, eh? Well, you’re looking at the famous Phytie Bella; we went through the school together and in those days she was just plain Louise to us. Louie, for short. We ran neck to neck for the first place. Yes, I might have been their star dancer to-day, only for my phlebitis. . . . Like to have a look at Hirsch? Ah, now you’re interested, I can see. Here he is. What do you think of him? I’m sure you didn’t guess he was so old. But, for all that he’s fifty, there’s lots of kick in the old dog yet, you may take my word for it. Loathsome creature! Look at that neck, that bull’s neck of his wedged between his shoulders; when he turns his head all the rest goes round with it. At first sight you might take him for almost anything—a horse-coper, or a trainer, perhaps—don’t you think so? His daughter was always saying to him: “Your Royal Highness reminds me of a slave-dealer!” That used to start him laughing every time, with that fat stomach-laugh of his. But they’re worth looking at—his skull and that hook nose like a hawk’s, the curve of his lips. Ugly, I grant you, but he’s got style all right. Just look at his eyes; he’d seem even more of a brute if it wasn’t for that—well, the kind of eyes he has; I don’t know how to describe them. And doesn’t he look self-confident, a real tough customer, hot-tempered, too? What? Hot-tempered and sensual as they’re made. How that man loves life! For all my loathing of him I can’t help saying what one says of some kinds of bull-dog; “He’s so ugly that he’s a beauty!” Don’t you agree? Hullo, that’s papa! Papa with his work-girls round him. That’s how he always was; in his shirt-sleeves, with his little white beard and scissors dangling. He’d build you a fancy-dress with a couple of dish-clouts and half a dozen pins. That was taken in the work-room. Do you see the draped lay-figure at the end of the room, and the designs on the walls? He’d been appointed costumier at the Opera and given up working for private customers. Just go and ask the Opera people what they thought of old Father Goepfert in those days! When my mother had to be put away and he and I were left alone, he wanted to take me on as his partner, poor old chap; he meant to leave the business to me. A good paying business it was; it’s thanks to it that I can carry on now without working. But you know how it would affect a kid—seeing actresses about the place all day. I’d only one ambition: to be a dancer. He let me have my way; what’s more he got old Madame Staub to take me under her wing, and it was a real joy to him to see me getting on so well at it. He was always harping on my career. Well, it’s a good thing the poor old boy can’t see how I’ve gone downhill since those days. I cried, you know, when I had to give up dancing. Women as a rule haven’t much ambition; they take things as they come. But, on the stage, we’re at it all the time—struggling to make good; and one soon gets to enjoy the struggle as much as one’s actual successes. So it seems the end of the world when one has to say good-bye to all that and live a humdrum life with nothing to look forward to. Look, here are my travel photos! All in a jumble, of course! There we’re having lunch; I’m not sure where—in the Carpathians, I think. Hirsch was on a shooting trip. He sported a long, drooping moustache in those days; rather like a Sultan, isn’t he? The Prince always addressed him as “Mahomed.” Do you see that sunburnt fellow standing behind me? It’s Prince Peter, who became King of Servia. He gave me the two white whippets lying down in front; see the way they’re curled up—just like you! That man there, who’s laughing, don’t you think he’s very like me? Look hard! No? Well, it’s my brother all the same. He was dark like papa, while I take after mother—fair; well it’s auburn, if you like. Don’t be so absurd! Oh well, have it your own way; carroty! But I’ve inherited my father’s character, and my brother took after mother. Look, he comes out better in this one. . . . I’ve no photo of mother, not one; papa destroyed the lot. He never spoke of her to me, or took me to Saint Anne’s. But all the same he used to go and see her there, himself, twice a week; year in, year out, he never missed a visit. The attendants told me about it, later. He used to sit there in front of her for an hour—sometimes longer. Quite futile it was, as she didn’t recognize him or anyone else. But he simply adored her. He was much older than she. He never got over the worry she gave him. One evening, I remember it so well, papa was sent for, at the work-room, as mother’d been arrested. She had been caught stealing from a counter at the Louvre Stores. What a to-do! Madame Goepfert, the costume-maker at the Opera—just think! They found a child’s jersey and a pair of socks in her muff. She was released at once; a fit of kleptomania, they said. You know all about that of course. That was the beginning of her breakdown. Well, my brother took after her in many ways. He got into dreadful trouble with a bank. Hirsch helped him out. But he’d have gone mother’s way sooner or later, if there hadn’t been that accident. No, leave that one alone! Drop it, there’s a good man! I tell you, it’s not a photo of me; it’s . . . it’s a little godchild, who died. Look at this one instead. It’s . . . it was taken . . . just outside Tangiers. No, don’t take any notice, Toine dear, it’s over now; I’ve stopped crying, can’t you see I’ve stopped? The Bubana plain, our camp by the Si Guebbas caravanserai. That’s me; beside the Marabout of Sidi-Bel-Abbès. Do you see Marrakesh in the background? What do you think of this one? It was taken near Missum-Missum, or it might be Dongo; I can’t remember. Those are two Dzem chiefs, and a rare job I had taking ’em! They’re cannibals; oh yes, they still exist all right! Now that’s a ghastly one! Look, don’t you see? Just there, that little heap of stones. Got it? Well, there’s a woman beneath that heap. Stoned to death. Horrible, isn’t it? Try to imagine it—a decentish sort of woman whom her husband had deserted for no earthly reason three years before. He’d vanished and, as she thought he was dead, she’d married again. Two years later he came back. Bigamy in those tribes is reckoned the crime of crimes. So they stoned her. Hirsch made me come to Meched just to see it, but I took to my heels and stayed half a mile away. I’d seen the woman dragged through the village the morning before the execution, and that was sickening enough, I assure you. But he saw it out; yes, he pushed his way to the front. Listen! It seems they dug a hole, a very deep hole, and led the woman to it. She lay down in it of her own accord, without saying a word. Would you believe it? She didn’t utter a sound, but the crowd were yelling for her death so loudly that I could hear them, even at that distance away. Their high-priest gave the lead. First of all he read out the sentence. Then he picked up a huge boulder and hurled it with all his force into the hole. Hirsch told me she didn’t utter a cry. That started the crowd off. They’d big piles of stones stacked up ready, and each of them took what he wanted there and flung his quota into the hole. Hirsch swore to me that, for his part, he didn’t throw any. When the hole was full—brimming over, as you can see—they stamped it down, yelling all the time, and then they all decamped. Hirsch insisted on my coming back to take a snapshot, as it was I who had the camera. I had to give in. Why, even now the mere thought of it sets my heart palpitating—don’t you feel it? There she lay, under those stones. Dead, most likely. . . . No, not that one! Hands off!’
Antoine, craning his neck over Rachel’s shoulder, had just time to catch a glimpse of tangled, naked limbs before Rachel deftly clapped her hands over his eyes. The warmth of her palms upon his eyelids brought back to him, with less of feverish insistence but in all else the same, her gesture at the climax of her ecstasy, to veil from her lover’s eyes the passion on her face. He made a playful effort to free himself. Suddenly she sprang down from the bed, pressing to her dressing-gown a sheaf of photographs tied up together. Laughing, she ran to the desk, slipped the package into a drawer and turned the key.
‘For one thing,’ she explained, ‘they aren’t mine. I’ve no rights over them at all.’
‘Whose are they?’
‘They belong to Hirsch.’
She returned and sat at Antoine’s side.
‘Now will you promise to be sensible? I’ll carry on, then. Sure you’re not bored? Look here; that’s another travel picture of sorts. A donkey-ride in the Saint-Cloud woods. As you can see, those kimono sleeves were just coming in. That was a fetching little dress I’d on, wasn’t it now?’
Always, Mme. de Fontanin mused, I am lying to myself; were I to face the facts, I’d give up hope.
Standing at a window of the drawing-room, she observed across the silk-net curtain the trio in the garden, Jerome, Daniel and Jenny, pacing to and fro.
‘How easily even the most honest of us can make themselves at home in a world of lies!’ she murmured. But, just as she so often failed to hold in check a rising smile, so now she could not stem the tide of happiness that, wave on wave, came surging through her heart.
Leaving the window she went out to the terrace. It was the hour when eyes grow tired of trying to discern the forms of things, and on an iridescent sky some pale and early stars were glimmering. Mme. de Fontanin sat down, letting her eyes linger for a moment on the familiar scene. Then she sighed. Only too well she knew Jerome would not continue living at her side as for the past fortnight he had done; that this renewal of their home life would prove short-lived, as ever. For did she not discern, with mingled joy and apprehension, in his whole attitude towards her, yes, even in his sedulous affection, the selfsame Jerome that she had always known? Did it not prove that he had never changed and soon would leave her once again? Already the crestfallen, ageing Jerome whom she had brought back home with her from Holland, the husband who had clung to her for succour like a drowning man, was changed out of recognition. Even now, though in her presence he might affect the manner of a contrite child, and despite the seemly sighs of resignation that escaped him when he remembered his bereavement—even now he had unpacked a summer suit, and (though he was unaware of it) was looking vastly younger. ‘Why not call for Jenny at the club this morning? That will give you a nice walk,’ she had suggested. True, he had feigned indifference; yet he had risen without demur, and