The Thibaults (109 page)

It was the first time the parallelism of the cases crossed his mind. For the present he had no time to think “that problem” out all over again, but he now perceived that there was no denying it—the issue was a graver one than he had thought it on that previous occasion. He understood that the decisive act he had carried out on the previous day in cold blood—an act which he still wholeheartedly commended— was something which he must now assimilate, as it were, with his personality, fit into his scheme of things. It was one of those crucial experiences which have a far-reaching influence on the shaping of a man’s character; and he felt that his mental centre of gravity would have to be readjusted to meet the stress of this new increment.

He returned to his flat in a brown study.

A youngster—hatless, with a muffler round his neck and cold-nipped ears—was sitting waiting for him in the hall. When Antoine came in, he stood up, blushing to the roots of his hair. It was the office-boy from the lawyer’s office, and Antoine, when he recognized him, felt a qualm of compunction for never having gone to see the two boys again.

“Hallo, Robert! Come this way. Well, what’s wrong?”

The boy’s lips moved, he was obviously struggling to say something but too shy to get the words out. Then from under his cape, he fished out a bunch of violets and held them towards Antoine, who understood at once.

“Thanks, my boy. Thanks very much. I’ll take your flowers upstairs. It was very nice of you to think of bringing them.”

“Oh, that was Eddie’s idea,” the boy put in at once.

Antoine smiled. “And how is Eddie getting on? What about you— still as smart as ever?”

“Sure!” Robert replied briskly. His shyness had passed off at once when Antoine smiled—he had not expected him to smile on such a doleful day. Now he was all eagerness to chatter—but that evening Antoine had no time to spare.

“Look here!” he said. “Come along with Eddie and see me some day soon. How about a Sunday?” He felt a genuine affection for these two children, whom he hardly knew. “Is it a promise?” he smiled.

Robert’s face grew suddenly earnest. “It’s a promise, sir.”

While Antoine was seeing the boy out into the hall, he heard M. Chasle’s voice in the kitchen.

“Someone else who wants to talk to me,” he muttered testily. “Oh, damn it! Better get it over!” He bade the little secretary enter his study.

M. Chasle trotted across the room, and perched himself on the furthest chair; a knowing smile flickered on his lips, though his eyes held a profound distress.

“What have you to say to me, M. Chasle?” Antoine inquired. His tone was friendly, but he remained standing, and began opening his letters.

“What have I to say?” M. Chasle looked startled.

Antoine folded the letter he had been reading. “Yes,” he murmured to himself, “I’ll try and get there tomorrow morning, after the hospital.”

M. Chasle was staring at his dangling feet. In a solemn voice he declared:

“Things like that, M. Antoine, shouldn’t be allowed.”

“What?” Antoine was opening another envelope.

“What?” M. Chasle parroted.

“What,” Antoine asked in exasperation, “what is it that shouldn’t be allowed?”

“Death.”

Somewhat startled by the answer, Antoine looked up and saw M. Chasle’s eyes blurred with tears. The little man took off his glasses, unfolded his handkerchief, and wiped his eyes.

“I’ve been to see the gentlemen at Saint Roch’s,” he began, pausing to sigh between each phrase. “I’ve asked them to say masses—to satisfy my conscience, M. Antoine, no more than that. Because, speaking for myself, till further … further evidence is forthcoming …” His tears continued flowing, but sparingly, in little spurts; now and again he carefully wiped his eyes, then spread his handkerchief on his knees, folded it up along the creases, and slipped it flat into an inner pocket, like a wallet.

Abruptly he swerved to a new subject. “I’d saved up ten thousand francs …”

“Aha!” Antoine smiled to himself. “Now we’re coming to it!” Then he said aloud: “I don’t know, M. Chasle, if my father had time to make provision for you in his will, but have no anxiety; my brother and myself will guarantee to you, for the rest of your days, the monthly salary you were drawing here.”

This was the first time Antoine had been called upon to settle a money matter in the capacity of his father’s heir. It seemed to him that, all things considered, he was dealing generously with M. Chasle in pledging himself thus to support him till his death. And it was pleasant to feel himself in a position to make such generous gestures. Despite himself, his thoughts strayed to the financial aspect of the situation: what would his father’s estate amount to, and what would be his share? But he had nothing definite to go on.

M. Chasle had gone scarlet. To keep himself in countenance, presumably, he had produced a penknife and begun trimming his nails.

“Not an annuity!” He spoke with an effort, emphatically, his eyes still fixed on his nails. In the same tone he added: “A lump sum, yes; not an annuity.” His voice grew sentimental. “Because of Dédette, M. Antoine; the little girl you operated on. You remember her, don’t you? You see, it’s just the same as if I had a daughter of my own. So an annuity’s no earthly use; there wouldn’t be a sou for me to leave the little pet.”

It all came back to Antoine: Dédette, the operation, Rachel, the sunlit bedroom, her body glowing golden in the shadowy alcove, the perfume of the amber necklace. With a faraway smile on his lips— he had dropped his letters on the table—he listened vaguely to the old man rambling on, following his movements with a casual eye. Suddenly he spun round on his heel; M. Chasle had nicked his penknife into his thumb-nail and calmly, like a man tapering off a cork, was slicing off at one stroke a crescent-shaped shred that rasped along the blade.

“Oh, stop it, M. Chasle!” Antoine exclaimed, his teeth on edge.

M. Chasle hopped off his chair.

“Yes, yes… . I’m wasting your time, of course. So sorry!”

But the issue at stake was so vitally important to him that he ventured on a last offensive.

“A little lump sum, M. Antoine, that’s the thing. What I need is capital. I’ve had a little scheme in mind for quite a while, you know. I’ll tell you about it,” he murmured in a faraway voice, “some other time. Later on.” Then, with a blank stare in the direction of the door, he added in a quite different tone: “Yes, it’s right and proper to say masses for him, I don’t deny it. But, if you ask my opinion, the deceased doesn’t need any help from us. A man like that leaves nothing to chance. No, in my opinion, it’s all fixed up. At this moment, M. Antoine, at this very moment …” With little rabbit-like skips he scurried to the door, nodding his grey head and repeating with an air of firm conviction: “At this very moment he—he has settled in already, in his Paradise.”

Hardly had M. Chasle left when Antoine had to face the tailor, to try on his mourning suit. His weariness had come back and this tiresome parade before the looking-glass was the last straw.

He had just decided for an hour’s rest when, as he was showing the tailor out, he found Mme. de Battaincourt at his door, her finger on the bell. She had rung up previously to make an appointment, and learned die sad news. So she had cancelled an engagement to come and see him.

Antoine greeted her politely, but did not invite her in. She squeezed his hand effusively, expressing her sympathy for his bereavement in a high-pitched voice and with a certain gusto. She showed no sign of leaving, and it seemed difficult to keep her standing there; the more so as she had contrived to make Antoine move back a step, and was now inside the flat.

Jacques had stayed the whole afternoon in his bedroom, the door of which was near by. It struck Antoine that his brother would hear this woman’s voice, recognize it, perhaps; and the notion was displeasing to him, though why, he could not have explained. Putting a good face on necessity, he opened his study door and slipped on his coat. He had been in his shirt-sleeves and the fact of having been caught thus unawares added to his annoyance.

During the past few weeks something of a change had come over his relations with his attractive patient. She had been coming to see him oftener, on the pretext of bringing news of her invalid daughter, who was spending the winter on the north coast, with her stepfather and the English nurse. For Simon de Battaincourt had cheerfully abandoned his country home and shooting, to settle down at Berck with the young girl and his wife—whereas the latter was always “having to run up” to Paris, on one pretext or another, and staying away several days each week.

She refused to sit down; bending lithely towards Antoine, her breast heaving with little sympathetic sighs, her eyes half closed, she was biding her time to squeeze his hand again. When looking at a man, she always kept her eyes fixed on his lips. Now, through her long lashes, she could see his gaze, too, hovering persistently upon her mouth—and her senses tingled. That evening Antoine struck her as downright handsome; there was more virility in his expression—it was as if the series of decisions he had had to make during the past few days had stamped his face with a look of self-reliance.

“You must be feeling it dreadfully, poor man!” She gave him a commiserating glance.

Antoine found nothing to reply. Ever since she had come, he had been keeping up a vaguely solemn air which, though it helped him through the interview, involved a certain strain. He continued watching her furtively; and suddenly, when his eyes fell on the breasts rising and falling under the light tissue, swift fire coursed through his veins. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of little, dancing lights flickering in her eyes; a project, tempting for all its rashness, was taking form behind the pretty forehead—but she was careful not to betray it.

“The hardest time,” she said in a soft, sentimental voice, “is—afterwards. When one’s caught up again by life, and finds nothing but emptiness everywhere. I hope you’ll lfet me come and see you sometimes—may I?”

He looked her up and down. Then with a sudden rush of hatred, he flung out brutally, his lips twisted in a mirthless smile:

“Your sympathy is wasted, Madame. I did not love my father.”

At once he bit his lip remorsefully. He was more shocked at having thought such a thing than at having said it. “And,” he reflected bitterly, “who knows if it wasn’t the truth she wrung from me then, the minx!”

For the moment Mme. de Battaincourt was too taken aback to reply; not so much startled by the words as cut to the quick by Antoine’s tone. She moved back a step, to collect her wits.

Then, “In that case …!” she exclaimed, and began laughing. After all the make-believe, that strident laugh at last rang true.

While she slipped on her gloves her lips were working oddly, whether with suppressed rage or an incipient smile it was impossible to tell. With truculent eyes Antoine watched the enigmatic, fluttering mouth, prolonged by a slim streak of colour vivid as a scratch. At that moment, had she indulged in a frankly brazen smile, very likely he would have been unable to keep himself from throwing her out, then and there.

Reluctantly he found himself inhaling the scent with which her lingerie was liberally sprinkled, and once more his eyes lingered on the amply moulded bosom heaving beneath the flimsy blouse. And as he crudely, unashamedly pictured her nakedness, a thrill ran through his body.

After buttoning her fur-coat she moved further away, and faced him coolly, with an air of asking: “Are you afraid?”

They confronted each other with the same cold fury, the same rancour—yet with more than these; with perhaps the same sense of disappointment, the vague impression of a lost opportunity. Then, as he still said nothing, she turned her back, opened the door for herself, and went out, paying no further heed to him.

The front door slammed behind her.

Antoine turned on his heel. But instead of re-entering his study, he stayed thus for a moment, unable to move. His hands were clammy, and his ears buzzing with the tumult of his blood; greedily he inhaled the insidious perfume that lingered like a living presence in the hall, playing havoc with his thoughts. For a brief moment only the notion flicked his mind like a whiplash, that, after so brutally wounding that ungovernable nature, it was going to be a perilous feat trying to win her back. His eyes fell on his hat and overcoat hanging on the wall; he snatched them off the hook and, with a furtive glance in the direction of Jacques’s room, hurried outside.

GISE had not left her bed. Her body ached all over and the least movement hurt her. From where she lay half asleep, she could hear a muffled sound of footsteps in the passage on the far side of the wall, just behind her head—the steady stream of callers entering and leaving the flat. One thought shone bright and steadfast in the twilight of her mind: “He has come back. He’s here, quite close; at any moment I may see him. He’s sure to come.” She listened for his footstep. But all Friday, then all Saturday went by, and he did not come.

Not that Jacques had put Gise out of mind; the truth was that he was haunted, harassed by thoughts of her. But he dreaded this interview too much to go out of his way to bring it on; he was biding his time. Moreover, he had deliberately dug himself in, in the ground-floor flat, hardly going out at all, lest he should be recognized and spoken to. Only at nightfall had he gone upstairs, crept into the flat like a thief, and settled down again in a corner of the death-chamber, where he had stayed till dawn.

On Saturday evening, however, when Antoine casually asked him if he had seen Gise again, he brought himself, after dinner, to go and knock at her door.

Gise was recovering. Her temperature was almost normal, and Thérivier had told her she could get up next day. She was just dozing off when Jacques knocked.

“Well, how are you feeling?” he asked in a cheerful tone. “I must say you’re looking remarkably fit.” In the soft, golden light of the little bedside lamp her eyes shone large and lustrous, and indeed she looked the picture of health.

He had halted at some distance from the bed. After an embarrassed moment it was she who held out her hand. The loose sleeve fell back and he saw her bare arm glowing in the lamplight. Taking her hand, he played at being the doctor, and instead of clasping-it, patted the soft skin; it was burning hot.