The Thibaults (92 page)

The report was marked
Urgent
, and was brought to Antoine on a Sunday at 10 p.m. by a special messenger from the detective-bureau.

It was quite impossible for Antoine to leave the following morning, but M. Thibault’s condition was such that he dared not delay. After consulting his engagement-book and the time-table, he decided to take the Lausanne express on Monday evening. All that night he did not sleep a wink.

THAT Monday was already a particularly heavy day for appointments, but somehow Antoine, owing to his departure, had to fit into it several extra visits. He left for the hospital at an early hour and spent the rest of the day rushing to and fro in Paris, without even finding time to snatch a lunch at home. He did not get back fill after seven in the evening. The train left at eight-thirty.

While Léon packed his suitcase, Antoine ran up to see his father, whom he had not visited since the previous day. There had been, he noticed, a definite change for the worse. M. Thibault had been unable to take food; he was in a very weak state and in constant pain.

It was an effort for Antoine to greet him as usual with that cheery “Hallo, Father!” which acted on the old man as a never-failing tonic. He sat down in his usual chair and began putting the daily series of questions, eschewing like a pitfall the least interval of silence. Though outwardly he looked cheerful as ever, a thought kept running in his mind insistently: “He is very near his end.”

Several times he was struck by the brooding gaze his father cast on him, dark with unuttered questions.

Antoine wondered how far the dying man guessed the truth as to his actual condition. M. Thibault often spoke with resignation and solemnity of his approaching end. But what did he really think deep within his heart?

For some minutes father and son, each absorbed in his unspoken thoughts—the same thoughts, very likely—exchanged trivial remarks about symptoms and the latest treatments. Then Antoine rose, remarking that he had an urgent case to visit before dinner. M. Thibault, who was in pain, made no effort to detain him.

So far Antoine had let no one into the secret of his departure. His intention had been to tell no one but the nurse that he would be away for the next thirty-six hours. Unfortunately, when he was leaving the sick-room, she was busy with the invalid.

There was no time to lose. He waited some moments in the corridor; then, when she failed to appear, he looked in on Mile, de Waize, who was writing a letter in her room.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, Antoine,” she began at once. “You must lend me a hand! Do you know, a basket of vegetables has somehow gone astray!”

He had immense difficulty in making her understand that he had been summoned to the country that night for an urgent case, that he would probably not be back next day, but that there was no need for anxiety; Dr. Thérivier had been informed of his departure and would come immediately, if necessary.

It was after eight; Antoine had not a minute to lose. He told the taxi-driver to make haste, and, to the accelerated tempo of an adventure film, the Place du Carrousel, the sleek, black bridges and deserted quaysides scudded past the windows. For Antoine, who rarely travelled, there was a thrill in speeding thus across the darkness; the sense of sudden crisis, the myriad thoughts fermenting in his brain, and, most of all, the element of risk in his rash quest, had plunged him into an exciting world of high adventure.

The car in which his seat had been reserved was nearly full. In vain he tried to sleep. His nerves on edge, he began counting the stops. Towards the end of the night, when he was just dropping off, the engine emitted a long, lugubrious shriek; the train was slowing down for the Vallorbe station. After the customs formalities, after standing in line in bleak, cold passages, and gulping down a cup of strong Swiss coffee, he abandoned hope of getting to sleep again.

The visible world was slowly taking form in the tardy December dawn. The train was following the bed of a valley, and dim hillsides loomed on either hand. No colour anywhere; in the harsh grey light the landscape showed like a charcoal sketch, all in blacks and whites.

Antoine’s gaze registered the scene impassively. Snow crowned the hill-tops, and sprawled in slabs of melting whiteness along pitch-black ravines. Sudden shadows of tall fir-trees etched the grey slopes. Then all grew blurred: the train was passing through a cloud. Presently he had a glimpse of open country studded everywhere with pinpoint yellow lights glimmering through the mist, tokens of a thickly populated countryside and early-rising folk. Already clusters of houses were becoming visible and, as the tide of darkness ebbed, fewer lights shone in the buildings.

Gradually the blackness of the soil was fading into green, and soon the whole plain showed as a bright expanse of luxuriant meadows, streaked with white bands marking each fold of the ground, each watercourse and furrow. In the low farmhouses squatting on their crofts like broody hens, all the little window-shutters were swinging open. The sun had risen.

Gazing vaguely across the trembling pane, Antoine felt the melancholy of this foreign landscape colouring his mood. A sense of hopelessness came over him, and now the difficulties of his project seemed insuperable. Moreover, he was alarmingly conscious that after his sleepless night he was in the worst possible form to face them.

Meanwhile Lausanne was drawing near; the train was already passing through the suburbs. He gazed at the still sleep-bound house-fronts; tiered with balconies, four-square and standing on its own ground, each block of flats looked like a miniature skyscraper. Quite possibly behind one of those light-hued Venetian blinds, Jacques was getting up at this very moment.

The train stopped. An icy wind was sweeping the platform. Antoine shivered. The passengers were flocking down a subway. Dog-tired, his nerves In rags, his mind and will for once completely out of hand, he followed the crowd, wearily dragging his bag along, uncertain what step to take next. A notice, “Wash and Brush-up, Baths, Showers,” caught his eye. Just the thing! A warm bath first to relax his muscles, followed by an invigorating shower. He could shave, too, and change his shirt. His last chance of getting in trim again.

His ablutions proved a wonder-working tonic; he left the bathroom feeling a new man. Hastening to the cloak-room, he deposited his bag there, and set out determinedly on his quest.

Rain was coming down in torrents. He jumped into a street car bound citywards. It was barely eight, but the shops were already open, and many people up and about, silently going their busy ways, in raincoats and rubbers. Though there was no wheeled traffic in the street these people took care, he noticed, to keep to the pavements, which were crowded. “An industrious, levelheaded folk,” he observed to himself. Antoine was fond of quick generalizations. Helped by his map of Lausanne, he found his way to the little square beside the town hall. When he peered up at the belfry, it was striking half-past eight. The street where Jacques lived was at the far end of the square.

The Rue des Escaliers-du-Marché seemed to be one of the oldest streets in Lausanne. It was less a street, in fact, than a truncated alley, consisting of a steep ascent with houses only on the left. The little street climbed tier by tier; facing the houses rose a wall ribboned by an ancient wooden staircase, which was roofed over with medieval timberwork painted a purplish red. This sheltered staircase offered a convenient observation-post, of which Antoine took advantage. The few houses in the alley followed an irregular alinement; they were small and tumbledown, and the lower stories gave the impression of having served as small shops perhaps as far back as the sixteenth century. A low doorway, overweighted by its lavishly carved lintel, gave access to Number 10. On one of the panels was a weather-worn inscription: “Pension J. H. Kammerzinn.” So that was where Jacques lived.

After those three weary years without news, after feeling that the whole world lay between him and his brother, the thought that in a few minutes he would see Jacques again came with an unexpected thrill. But Antoine had the knack of mastering emotion-—his profession had schooled him well—and as he summoned up his energy, his thoughts grew lucid, untouched by feeling. “Half-past eight,” he said to himself. “He’s at home presumably. Half-past eight—why, it’s the usual time for police arrests! If he’s in, I’ll say I’ve an appointment and go straight into his room, unannounced.” Screening his face with his umbrella, he crossed the street with a determined tread and climbed the two steps leading to the street-door.

A paved hall led up to an old-fashioned staircase, flanked by banisters; it was wide and well kept, but dark. There were no doors. Antoine began going up the stairs. Presently he heard a vague murmur of voices. When his head was above the level of the landing he saw, through the glass door of a dining-room, some ten or twelve boarders seated round a table. “Lucky the stairs are so dark,” he thought. “They can’t see me.” Then: “The boarders are having their breakfast.
He
isn’t there yet. He’ll be coming down.” And suddenly—yes, it was Jacques, his voice and intonation. He had just spoken. Jacques was there, living, large as life!

Antoine tottered and, gripped by a sudden panic, hastily retreated a few paces. His breath came in gasps; surging up from the depths, that rush of affection seemed flooding his lungs, suffocating him. A nuisance, all those strangers! What was he to do? Go away for a bit? No. He pulled himself together; as usual, difficulty was a spur to his energies. There must be no delay; he must act promptly. He could see Jacques’s profile only now and then because of the people round him.

A little old man with a white beard was sitting at the head of the table; five or six men of various ages were in the other seats. Opposite the old man was a good-looking, fair-haired woman, still young, with a little girl on each side of her. Jacques was bending forward, speaking in quick, eager tones. He seemed at ease amongst these people. Antoine, whose presence hovered like an impending threat over his brother’s peace of mind, was struck by the unawareness of what the next instant is to bring, the insouciance, that attends the most critical moments of a lifetime. The others seemed interested in the discussion, the old man was laughing; Jacques appeared to be holding his own against two youths sitting opposite him. Twice, to emphasize a remark, he made that commanding gesture with his right hand which Antoine had forgotten. Unexpectedly, after a swift exchange of repartee, he smiled. Jacques’s smile!

Then, without more ado, Antoine went up the steps again, walked to the glazed door and softly opened it, taking off his hat.

Ten faces swung round towards his, but he did not see them. He did not see the little old man rising from his chair to put a startled question. Gay and resolute, his eyes were fixed on Jacques, and Jacques returned his brother’s gaze, his pupils large with wonder, his lips half parted. Cut short in the midst of a remark, he still had on his frozen features the look of merriment that had accompanied it, changed to an odd grimace. The deadlock lasted only a few seconds; Jacques rose to his feet, with one idea in his head—above all, to pass it off and to avoid any appearance of a “scene.”

With hurried steps, with a clumsy effusiveness meant to give the impression that his caller was expected, he walked straight up to Antoine, who, playing his part, moved back towards the landing. Jacques joined him there, then closed the door behind him. Neither was conscious of shaking hands, though they must have done so, automatically. Neither could utter a word.

Jacques seemed to hesitate, made an awkward gesture, as if inviting Antoine to follow, and began walking upstairs.

TWO, three flights of stairs. Jacques walked heavily up, clinging to the banisters, without looking back. Behind him, Antoine was feeling perfectly calm and collected; so much so that he was surprised at being so little moved. Indeed, there had been occasions in his life when he had asked himself not without a qualm: “What’s one to make of a composure so easily come by? Is it presence of mind, or just absence of emotion, callousness?”

On the fourth floor there was one door only; Jacques opened it. Once they were in the room he turned the key, and for the first time looked his brother in the eyes.

“What do you want of me?” he asked in a low, grating voice.

But the truculence of his gaze could not stand up against Antoine’s affectionate smile; under his geniality, Antoine was shrewdly biding his time, willing to temporize, but prepared to hold his own. Jacques lowered his eyes.

“What do you want of me?” he repeated. The tone was bitterly indignant, but tremulous with apprehension, almost plaintive. An’ toine was surprised at feeling so little stirred by it. He had to feign emotion.

“Jacques!” he murmured, drawing nearer. While he played his part, he was studying his brother with keen, observant eyes. Jacques’s commanding presence surprised him, as did his general aspect and expression, all so changed from what they once had been, from what he had imagined.

Jacques’s eyebrows contracted. Vainly he tried to control his feelings; it was all he could do to keep his lips closed on the sobs that welled up from his heart. Then suddenly his ill-temper passed out in a deep sigh, he seemed to give up the struggle, and, yielding to his weakness, let his forehead sink on Antoine’s shoulder.

“Oh, Antoine,” he cried again, “what do they want of me? Tell me!”

Antoine had an intuition that he must answer at once, and strike hard.

“Father is in a very bad way. He is dying.” After a pause he added: “That’s why I’ve come to fetch you, old man.”

Jacques had not flinched. So his father was dying? But why suppose that, in this new life he had carved out for himself, his father’s death could affect him, draw him forth from his retreat, or change one jot of the circumstances that had compelled him to leave home. Nothing in what Antoine had just said had deeply moved him; nothing except the last two words, “old man!” What years since he had heard them!

The silence was so embarrassing that Antoine hastened to continue: “I’m all by myself.” Then he had a sudden inspiration. “Mademoiselle doesn’t count, of course, and Gise is away in England.”