The Thibaults (47 page)

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 inquired.

“She woke up, had something to drink, and went to sleep again.”

“Is M. 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 tip-toed 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 exclaimed 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, Mile. 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 inquiries 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 news-stand 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 connexion 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 identification 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. “Will you have lunch with me? Say yes!” She smiled, charmed by his eagerness, as of a greedy child who has not learned 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 hand 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 inquired.

“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 alined in a semicircle beside the windows that opened onto a covered-in arcade and, extending downwards to the sidewalk 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’oeuvre 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 quiet. 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!