The Thibaults (31 page)

Antoine shrugged his shoulders.

“And, what’s more, let me tell you I’m sick and tired of it all.” Jacques’s 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 in care of general delivery. 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 Mme. de Fontanin was in the secret. Had she authorized the clandestine correspondence?

For the first time Antoine was thinking: “Well, I suppose it’s up to me to play the ‘stern father’!” He remembered that not so very long ago he might have found himself adopting towards M. Thibault the very attitude Jacques was adopting towards 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. “Tonight 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 monitor!” 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 a monitor! He’ll 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’ll 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 stupid little ass. A monitor, 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 have 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 Mme. 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 a monitor. 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 in care of general delivery, but he wouldn’t. This is what he writes: ‘Why general delivery? 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 Pantheon 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’s 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’s 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 broad-minded 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; as a matter of fact, 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 Mme. 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, Jacques, 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 his 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. Mme. 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.

Mme. 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, boy, 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,” Mme. 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?”

Mme. 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.