The Age of Reason (43 page)

Marcelle did not answer. She bit her underlip and eyed the notes with an air of incredulity: she had suddenly aged. She looked at Mathieu with a sad but still confiding air. And she said: ‘I thought...’

Mathieu interrupted her, and said briskly: ‘You’ll be able to go to the Jew. It seems he’s famous. Hundreds of women in Vienna have been through his hands. Women in good society, wealthy patients.’

The light in Marcelle’s eyes went out. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’

She had taken a safety-pin out of the box of dressings and was nervously opening and shutting it. Mathieu added: ‘I’ll leave the money with you. I fancy Sarah will take you to him, and you will pay the fee, he wants to be paid in advance, confound him.’

There was silence, and then Marcelle asked: ‘Where did you get the money?’

‘Guess,’ said Mathieu.

‘Daniel?’

He shrugged his shoulders: she knew quite well that Daniel had refused to lend a penny.

‘Jacques?’

‘Certainly not. I told you yesterday on the telephone.’

‘Then I give it up,’ she said curtly. ‘Who?’

‘No one
gave
it to me,’ he said.

Marcelle smiled faintly: ‘You’re not going to tell me that you stole the money?’

‘That’s just what I did.’

‘You stole it,’ she replied with bewilderment. ‘It isn’t true?’

‘It is. From Lola.’

A silence followed. Mathieu wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ he said.

‘You stole it!’ repeated Marcelle slowly.

Her face had turned grey: and she, with eyes averted, said: ‘How you must have wanted to get rid of the child.’

‘What I did want was to prevent you going to that old woman.’

She pondered: her mouth had resumed its hard and cynical expression.

‘Do you blame me,’ he asked, ‘for having stolen the money?’

‘Good heavens — no.’

‘Then what’s the matter?’

With a sudden movement of her hand Marcelle knocked the box of dressings on to the floor. They both looked at it, and Mathieu thrust it aside with his foot. Slowly Marcelle turned her head towards him, she looked astonished.

‘Tell me what’s the matter,’ repeated Mathieu.

She laughed shortly.

‘What are you laughing at?’

‘At myself,’ she said.

She had taken the flower from her hair, and was twirling it in her fingers. And she murmured: ‘What a fool I’ve been.’

Her face had hardened. She sat with her mouth open as though she wanted to speak to him, but the words would not come; she seemed to be afraid of what she had in mind to say. Mathieu took her hand, but she drew it away. She said, without looking at him: ‘I know you have seen Daniel.’

It was out! She had jerked herself backwards and was convulsively clutching the sheets: she looked both frightened and relieved. Mathieu also felt relieved: all the cards were on the table: they must go through with it now. They had all night before them.

‘Yes, I’ve seen him,’ said Mathieu. ‘How did you know? I suppose it was you who sent him? You fixed it all up between you, eh?’

‘Don’t talk so loud,’ said Marcelle, ‘you’ll wake my mother. It wasn’t I who sent him, but I knew he wanted to see you.’

‘How rotten of you,’ said Mathieu regretfully.

‘Oh yes; it was rotten of me,’ said Marcelle bitterly.

They were silent: Daniel was there, he was sitting between them.

‘Well,’ said Mathieu. ‘We must have a frank explanation. That’s all we can do now.’

‘There’s nothing to explain,’ said Marcelle. ‘You have seen Daniel. He told you what he had to tell you, and you promptly went off and stole four thousand francs from Lola.’

‘Yes. And you have been receiving Daniel secretly for months past. There are plenty of things to be explained, you see. Look here,’ he said, brusquely: ‘What went wrong the day before yesterday.’

‘The day before yesterday?’

‘Don’t pretend not to understand. Daniel told me that you were hurt by my attitude on that day.’

‘Never mind now,’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

‘Please don’t be obstinate, Marcelle,’ said Mathieu. ‘I do assure you I mean well, I’ll admit anything that I shouldn’t have done. But tell me what went wrong the day before yesterday. We should get on so much better if we could recover a little confidence in each other.’

She hesitated; she was looking sullen and rather listless.

‘Please —’ he said, taking her hand.

‘Well... it was just as usual, you couldn’t be serious about what was in my mind.’

‘And what was in your mind?’

‘Why do you want to make me say? You know quite well.’

‘Yes,’ said Mathieu. ‘I think I know.’

He thought to himself: ‘That’s done it, I shall marry her.’ All was now clear. ‘I must indeed have been a swine to imagine I could get out of it.’ She was there, she was in distress, she was wretched and resentful, only one gesture was needed to restore her peace of mind. He said: ‘You want us to get married, don’t you?’

She snatched her hand away, and leapt to her feet. He eyed her with bewilderment: she had turned sickly pale and her lips were quivering: ‘Yes... Was it Daniel told you that?’

‘No,’ said Mathieu, disconcerted. ‘But that’s what I assumed.’

‘That’s what you assumed!’ she laughed. ‘That’s what you assumed! Daniel told you I was upset, and you assumed I wanted to get married. So that’s what you think of me, Mathieu, after seven years.’

Her hands too had now begun to tremble. Mathieu longed to take her in his arms, but did not dare.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I oughtn’t to have thought that.’

She seemed not to hear.

‘Look here,’ he went on; ‘There were excuses for me: Daniel had just told me you were seeing him without letting me know.’

She still did not answer, and he added gently: ‘I suppose you want to have the baby?’

‘That,’ said Marcelle, ‘is no concern of yours. What I want is no longer any concern of yours.’

‘Please,’ said Mathieu: ‘there is still time...’

She shook her head: ‘That’s not true, there isn’t time.’

‘But why, Marcelle? Why won’t you talk things over with me quietly? An hour would be enough: everything could be settled and cleared up...’

‘I won’t.’

‘But why? —Why?’

‘Because I no longer respect you. And also because you don’t love me any more.’

She had spoken with assurance, but she herself was surprised and frightened by what she had just said: there was nothing now in her eyes but an uneasy interrogation. She continued in a melancholy voice: ‘If you think like that of me, you must have completely ceased to love me...’

It was almost a question. If he took her in his arms, if he told her that he loved her, the situation might yet be saved. He would marry her, they would have the child, they would live side by side for the rest of their lives. He had got up: he was about to say to her — I love you. He swayed slightly, and then said in a clear voice: ‘Well, it’s true... I no longer love you.’

Some while after the words had been spoken he still heard them, to his amazement. And he thought: ‘That’s the end of everything.’ Marcelle had started back, uttering a cry of triumph, but almost immediately she laid her hand to her mouth and signed to him to be silent. ‘Mother —’ she murmured anxiously.

They both stood listening, but could hear no sound but the distant mutter of traffic.

‘Marcelle,’ said Mathieu: ‘I still care for you very deeply...’ Marcelle laughed disdainfully. ‘Of course. Only you care — differently. Is that what you mean?’

He took her hand, and said: ‘Listen...’

She jerked her hand away: ‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘That’s enough. I know what I wanted to know.’

She brushed back from her forehead a few meshes of hair now soaked in perspiration. Suddenly she smiled, as though at a recollection.

‘But look here,’ she resumed with a flash of malicious joy: ‘that isn’t what you said yesterday, on the telephone. You said in so many words — I do love you — though no one asked you the question.’

Mathieu did not answer. She said with a crushing look: ‘The fact is — you despise me.’

‘I don’t despise you,’ said Mathieu. ‘I...’

‘Go,’ said Marcelle.

‘You’re crazy,’ said Mathieu. ‘I won’t go, I really must explain to you that I...’

‘Go,’ she repeated hoarsely, her eyes closed.

‘But I still care for you deeply,’ he exclaimed in desperation: ‘I have no notion of giving you up. I want to stay with you all my life, I’ll marry you, I...’

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Go, I can’t see you any more; go, or I won’t answer for myself. I’ll start screaming.’

She had begun to quiver all over. Mathieu took one step towards her, but she repulsed him violently.

‘If you don’t go, I shall call Mother.’

He opened the wardrobe and took out his shoes, he felt ridiculous and detestable. Addressing his back, she said: ‘Take your money with you.’

Mathieu turned round. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s a separate matter. There’s no sense in...’

She took the notes from the night-table and flung them in his face. They fluttered across the room and dropped beside the bed, near the box of dressings. Mathieu did not pick them up: he looked at Marcelle. She had begun to laugh in hysterical paroxysms, her eyes still closed.

‘Oh, how funny it all is! And I who thought...’

He made as though to approach her, but she opened her eyes, and leapt backwards, pointing to the door. ‘If I stay, she’ll begin to scream,’ he thought... He turned on his heel and went out of the room in his socks, carrying his shoes in his hand. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he put on his shoes, paused for an instant, his hand on the latch of the front door, and listened. He suddenly heard Marcelle’s laugh, a low-pitched ominous laugh, that gradually shrilled into something like a horse’s neigh and then cascaded downwards. A voice cried: ‘Marcelle! What’s the matter? Marcelle!’

It was her mother. The laugh broke off short, and silence fell. Mathieu listened for an instant longer, and, as he could hear nothing more, he quietly opened the door and went out.

H
E THOUGHT
to himself: ‘I’m a swine,’ and was vastly astonished at the fact. There was nothing left in him but exhaustion and amazement. He stopped at the second floor landing to get his breath. His legs were unsteady; he had only had six hours’ sleep for three days, perhaps not even that: ‘I’ll go to bed.’ He would throw his clothes down anyhow, stagger to his bed, and fall into it. But he knew he would stay awake all night, staring into the darkness. He went on upstairs: the door of his flat was still open. Ivich must have fled; the reading lamp was still alight in his study.

He went in and saw Ivich. She was sitting on the sofa, stiffly upright.

‘I didn’t go,’ she said.

‘So I see,’ said Mathieu, dryly.

They remained for a moment silent: Mathieu could hear the strong and steady pulse of his own breathing. Ivich said, with eyes averted: ‘I was horrid.’

Mathieu did not answer. He looked at Ivich’s hair and he thought: ‘Is it for her I did it?’ She had bent her head, he eyed her soft brown neck with laborious affection: he wanted to feel that he was more fond of her than of anyone else in the world, so that his act might at least have had so much justification. But he was conscious of nothing but an aimless anger, and the act was behind him, naked, elusive, incomprehensible: he had committed a theft, he had deserted Marcelle in her pregnancy,
for nothing
.

Ivich made an effort and said politely: ‘I oughtn’t to have intruded my advice on you...’

Mathieu shrugged his shoulders: ‘I have just broken with Marcelle.’

Ivich raised her head, and said in a toneless voice: ‘You have left her... without money?’

Mathieu smiled: ‘Of course,’ he thought. ‘If I had done so, she would be blaming me for it now.’

‘No, I fixed that up.’

‘You got the money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where from?’

He did not answer. She looked at him uneasily. ‘But you didn’t...’

‘I did. I stole it, if that’s what you mean. From Lola. I went up to her room when she wasn’t there.’

Ivich blinked, and Mathieu added: ‘I shall return it to her, of course. It’s a forced loan, that’s all.’

Ivich looked bewildered; she repeated slowly, as Marcelle had done not long before: ‘You stole it from Lola.’

Her shocked expression annoyed Mathieu, and he said briskly: ‘Yes, it wasn’t much of an achievement, you know: just a stair to climb and a door to open.’

‘Why did you do it?’

Mathieu laughed shortly: ‘If I only knew!’

She stiffened abruptly and her face assumed the hard, remote look that came over it when she turned round in the street to look at a pretty woman or a young man who had just passed by. But this time it was Mathieu she was looking at. Mathieu realized that she was blushing. He continued conscientiously: ‘I didn’t want to leave her in the lurch. Just to give her the money so that I shouldn’t have to marry her.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ said Ivich.

She didn’t in the least look as if she understood, her eyes were still upon him. He went on, with eyes averted: ‘It was pretty rotten, you know: it was she who sent me away. She took it very badly, I don’t know what she expected.’

Ivich did not answer, and Mathieu was silent, in a sudden access of anguish. ‘I don’t want her to make it up to me,’ he thought.

‘You are a fine fellow,’ said Ivich.

Mathieu was appalled to feel his bitter love revive within him. It seemed to him that he was deserting Marcelle for the second time. He said nothing, he sat down beside Ivich and took her hand. She said: ‘You look so terribly alone.’

He felt ashamed, and after a while he said: ‘I wonder what you really think, Ivich? This was a dreadful business, you know: I was half crazy when I stole the money, and now I feel remorseful.’

‘I can see you do,’ said Ivich, with a smile. ‘I think I should feel remorseful in your place: one can’t help it for a day or so.’

Mathieu squeezed the small rough hand with its pointed nails.

‘You are wrong, I’m not...’

‘Say no more,’ said Ivich.