The Thibaults (13 page)

“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 into his mouth. And how well she knew them, too, those long, veined hands that the lighted match changed suddenly to two translucent, 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 no longer knew 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 naiively 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 really, 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 leaned forward, his eyes focused 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 Mme. 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 inescapably 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, 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 past 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 tonight, 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, he 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 naively 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 fingertips. 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 tonight, please. Tomorrow, 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-day 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, Mme. 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 goodbye 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: “Tomorrow, Jerome. I’ll see you tomorrow, 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 tomorrow!”

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, Mme. 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. What ever was he going to say to his father? He felt at his wit’s 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’s 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 v

“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.”