The Thibaults (65 page)

At last the door was flung open; a young prostitute, draped in a mauve tunic, bustled in and as abruptly halted, facing him.

“Oh!” she gasped; he supposed she had entered the room by mistake. But then, as she recoiled towards the door which she had closed instinctively on entering, she stammered out one word:

“You!”

Even now he was far from sure that it was she.

“Is it you, Cricri?”

Keeping her eyes fixed on Jerome, almost as if she half expected him to whip out a revolver from his pocket, Rinette reached towards the bed, pulled off the bedspread, and wrapped herself up in it.

“What’s happened?” she asked. “Did someone send you?”

Vainly he tried to discover the childish Cricri he had known, behind the painted features of this showy harlot, with her bobbed hair and rather puffy cheeks. Even her country accent, her clear, young voice, had left her.

“What do you want of me?” she asked.

“I’ve come to see you, Cricri.”

For a moment she misconstrued the gentleness in his voice; he puzzled her. Then, averting her eyes, she decided, or so it seemed, to let things take their course.

“Please yourself,” she said.

She went to the sofa and sat down, keeping the bedspread wrapped round her body, but letting it fall a little from her neck and arms.

“Who told you to come here?” she repeated with lowered eyes.

The question nonplussed him. Standing awkwardly before her, he began explaining that he had come back to France after a long stay abroad and had only just received her letter.

“What letter?” she asked, raising her eyes.

Once again he saw the grey-green lustre of her pupils; they, anyhow, looked innocent as ever. He handed her the envelope; she stared at it bemusedly.

“Well, upon my word!” she exclaimed, casting a venomous look at him. Holding the letter she nodded emphatically several times. “Of all the low-down tricks! To think you didn’t even bother to answer it!”

“But, I tell you, Cricri, I only opened it this morning.”

“That’s neither here nor there; you might at least have answered me,” she persisted with an obstinate toss of her head.

“I did better than that; I came here myself right away,” he patiently explained. Then, unable to control himself, he asked: “And—the child?”

Her lips tightened, she gulped down her saliva and tried to speak, but the words would not come. Her eyes filled with tears.

At last she managed to speak.

“Dead. It was born too soon.”

Jerome sighed—but it sounded like a sigh of relief. Under Rinette’s vindictive stare, he felt cowed, humiliated, bereft of speech.

“To think it’s all your fault!” she continued in a voice that was less hostile than her eyes. “I wasn’t one of them fast ones, and very well you knew it. Twice I believed what you had promised me, twice over I gave up everything to live with you. Oh, how I cried when you left me again, for the second time!” She held him with a downward look, her shoulders hunched and mouth a little twisted; her eyes were shining greener than ever through her tears. He felt at once aggrieved and sick at heart; uncertain what line to take, he forced his lips into a smile… . How like Daniel he was with that crooked smile of his!

She dried her eyes and, unexpectedly, addressed him in a steady voice.

“And how is the mistress?”

Jerome realized at once that she meant Noémie. On his way he had decided not to allude to Mme. Petit-Dutreuil’s death, lest the news should prey on Cricri’s feelings, calling up sentiments or scruples which might thwart the plans he had in mind. So, without further thought, he kept to the story he had decided on.

“She’s on the stage, abroad.” It cost him an effort to go on. “She’s quite well, I believe.”

“On the stage!” Rinette echoed the words respectfully.

Now they were silent. She turned towards him with an expectant air. Smiling, she let the drapery fall a little lower on her neck and shoulders.

“But all that—it isn’t only for that you’ve come to see me,” she said.

At the least sign from him, Jerome was well aware, Cricri would be in his arms. But nothing, alas, survived of all the wild desire which had sped him all the day, like a hound in cry, hotfoot on her trail, tracking his quarry to her lair from end to end of Paris.

“That,” he replied, “is the only reason why I’ve come.”

Rinette looked surprised, almost offended.

“Well, let me tell you, here we’re not supposed to see … ordinary visitors.”

Jerome made haste to change the subject.

“Why have you cut your hair?”

“They prefer it short.”

He concealed his discomfiture with a smile, and could think of nothing else to say. And yet he could not make up his mind to leave. A secret discontent gnawed at his heart, compelling him to stay. It was as if something important remained to do. But what? … Poor Cricri! Well, the damage had been done; there was no way of mending it… . No way at all?

Somewhat abashed by his silence, she stole a furtive glance at Jerome, a look more curious than hostile. Why had he come back? Could he be still just a little in love with her? The fancy stirred her with faint longings and suddenly a wild idea flashed through her mind: couldn’t she have another child by him? All her frustrated hopes flamed up again. Jerome’s son, Daniel’s little brother, a child of her own, and for her only! She all but cast herself at Jerome’s feet and clasped his knees, murmuring with a look of fond entreaty: “I want to have a child by you!” No! That would shatter, for a mere caprice, all the future which, inch by hard-won inch, she was now rebuilding. A brief emotion thrilled her body, and for a moment her eyes brooded on an elusive dream; but then she murmured through tight-set lips: “No, it can’t be done.”

“How’s Daniel?” she suddenly inquired.

“Who? My son?” Then in a constrained voice he added: “Do you know him?”

Rinette, though why she hardly knew, had hoped that Daniel had something to do with Jerome’s return. Now she was sorry that his name had crossed her lips, and decided to say nothing more about him; neither father nor son must ever guess her secret, the strange dilemma of her love;

She turned the question.

“Do I know him? Why, everyone in Paris knows him! Yes, I’ve met him.”

Jerome’s anxiety deepened, but he dared not put the question: “Was it here?”

“Where did you meet him?” he asked.

“Oh, all over the place. In cabarets.”

“Yes,” he observed, “I thought as much. I’ve told him more than once what I think of the life he’s leading.”

“Oh, that was ages ago,” she made haste to add. “I don’t know if he still goes to such places. Perhaps he’s turned over a new leaf— like me!”

He gazed at her in silence, sincerely grieving over the depravity of the younger generation, the collapse of moral codes—and, most of all, over this brothel, and this fellow-creature abandoned to the powers of evil.

Such is life, he mused, but why must it be so? And suddenly he felt crestfallen, conscience-stricken.

Rinette, lost once again in roseate visions of the future, the goal towards which henceforth all her efforts would be directed, gave utterance to her daydream, clicking her garter against her thigh.

“Yes, I’ve straightened things out at last—that’s why I’ve not got my knife into you any more. If I stick to my job and don’t play the fool, in another three years it’s goodbye to Paris for me! That godforsaken old Paris of yours!”

“Why in three years?”

“Why, it’s simple as shelling peas. I’ve been here just under a month now and I’m making fifty or sixty francs clear, day in, day out. Four hundred a week. That means, in three years—sooner, with any luck—I’ll have scraped together thirty thousand francs. When that day comes you’ll hear no more of Cricri, Rinette, and the bunch of ‘em; Miss Victorine will hop into the Lannion train with all her bags and baggage, and a wad of banknotes in her pocket. Goodbye to the whole lot of you!”

She chuckled.

“No,” Jerome reassured himself with desperate insistence, “surely I’m not so depraved as my acts would make me. No, the problem’s not so simple as all that; I’m better than the life I lead. Yet, only for me, this girl … Only for me!” And from the depths of memory the words came back to him once more: “Woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!”

“Are your parents alive?” he asked.

A notion, imprecise as yet, though even now he was at pains to keep it under, was slowly taking form within his mind.

“My old dad, he died last year, on Saint Yves’ day.” She paused, doubtful if she should cross herself or not; she decided against it. “I’ve only Auntie left. She has a little house on the market-square, just behind the church. You don’t know Perros-Guirec, do you? As it so happens, I’m the old dame’s only heir. ‘Tisn’t that she’s so mighty well-to-do, but the house is hers, that’s something. She lives on a pension, a thousand francs a year. She was in service with titled folk for years and years. She lets out the chairs in church, too, and that brings in a bit. Well”—she paused a moment, then her face brightened—”with thirty thousand francs’ capital Mme. Juju swears that I can have the same income, or as near as may be. I’ll find something to do to make up the difference, sure enough. And then we’ll keep house together. We always hit it off, her and I… . And down there,” she added, watching her toes twisting and turning in the tiny satin slippers, “down there nobody knows a mortal thing about me; it’ll all be done with, for good and all.”

Jerome had risen. His plan was taking definite shape, obsessing his mind. For a moment or two he paced to and fro. An act of generosity … to make amends!

He halted in front of Rinette.

“You’re really fond of your home—of Brittany, aren’t you, Victorine?”

So taken aback was she by his punctilious “Victorine” that she could not reply at once.

Then, “I should say so!” she rejoined.

“Well, you’re going back there. Yes, you are. Now listen!”

Again he fell to his restless pacing to and fro, eager to have his way, like a spoilt child. “It’s now or never,” he reflected. “Otherwise I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

“Listen!” He jerked out the words. “You’re going back there.” Then, looking her boldly in the eyes, he added peremptorily: “This very night.”

She laughed.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“To Perros?”

“To Perros.”

Now she had ceased to laugh; with malevolent eyes and lowered brows she looked him up and down. What business had he to play the fool with her? Was it a subject to make jokes about?

“If you had a thousand francs a year like your aunt …” he began.

His smile convinced her that he meant her well. But what could he be after with his “thousand francs a year”? She worked it out composedly: twelve into a thousand.

The smile had left his lips.

“Is there a notary in your village? What’s his name?”

“A notary? Who do you mean? M. Benic?”

Jerome puffed his chest out.

“Well, Cricri, I give you my word of honour that every year, on the first of September, M. Benic will hand you a thousand francs on my behalf. Here’s the money for this year.” He pulled out his pocket-book. “And here’s another thousand to pay your expenses settling in.” He held out the money.

She opened her eyes wide and bit her lip without replying. There the money lay, within her reach; she had only to stretch out her hand. So simple-minded was she still, in spite of all, that the proposal left her wonder-struck, but not incredulous. Patiently Jerome held out the notes and at last she took them; after folding and refolding them as small as possible she slipped them inside her stocking and stared at Jerome, tongue-tied. It never entered her head that she might kiss him; she had forgotten not only what she now was but what they had been to each other. He was once more M. Jerome, Mme. Petit-Dutreuil’s friend, and she was as shy of him now as the first time she had set eyes on him.

“But,” he added, “it’s on one condition—that you leave this place at once.”

She was not prepared for that.

“What? At once? This afternoon? No, I can’t manage that, sir; really, it’s impossible.”

But rather than retard the issue of his good intentions even for a day, he would have preferred to drop them altogether.

“This afternoon without fail, my dear, and, what’s more, I’ll see you off.”

Now there was no mistaking his determination, she flew into a temper. At once? What nonsense! For one thing, this was just the time she started work. Then, what about her things at the hotel? And the girl friend who shared the room with her? And Mme. Juju? And all her washing at the laundry? And anyhow the people here wouldn’t hear of her going off like that. She fussed and fluttered like a netted bird.

“I’ll go and fetch Mme. Rose!” she exclaimed at last, with tears in her eyes, when all her protests proved of no avail. “Then you’ll see it simply can’t be done. And, what’s more, I don’t want to do it!”

“Fetch her at once!”

Jerome foresaw a heated argument and was prepared to take a firm line with the lady. Mme. Rose’s amiable smile came as a surprise.

“Of course she can. Why not?” she replied, for she had scented a police trap from the start. “All our young ladies are quite free; they can leave when they like.” Turning to Rinette, she addressed her in a peremptory tone, rubbing her plump hands together. “Run along, my dear, and get dressed. Can’t you see the gentleman’s waiting?”

Rinette, clasping her hands, stared at her “madame” and at Jerome, turn by turn, in blank bewilderment. Big tears were sluicing down her make-up. Her mind was in a ferment of conflicting emotions, of mingled helplessness and rage and consternation. At that moment she hated Jerome. Moreover, she was reluctant to leave the room before conveying to him that he must not breathe a word about the money hidden in her stocking. Mme. Rose ended by flying into a towering passion and, grasping Rinette’s arm, she ejected her forcibly. “Will you do as you’re told, you!” she shouted at the girl, then hissed under her breath: “And never show your dirty, spying face here again!”

Half an hour later a taxi set Jerome and Rinette down at the hotel where the latter had a room. Rinette had ceased crying and, as she had no personal initiative to take, was coming to accept, though still reluctantly, the over-hastiness of the proceedings. But now and then a protest rose to her lips, like a refrain.