The Counterfeiters
Read The Counterfeiters Online
Authors: Andre Gide
VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, February 1973
Copyright 1927, 1951 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
Copyright Renewed 1955 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
The Counterfeiters
was published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1927. Originally published in French as
Les Faux-Monnayeurs
. Copyright 1925 by Librairie Gallimard, Paris.
Journal of “The Counterfeiters”
was originally published in French as
Journal des Faux-Monnayeurs
. Copyright 1927 by Librairie Gallimard, Paris.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Gide, André Paul Guillaume, 1869–1951.
The counterfeiters.
Reprint of the 1951 ed.
1. Gide, André Paul Guillaume, 1869–1951. Le journal des Faux-monnayeurs. English. 1973. II. Title. III. Title: Journal of The Counterfeiters.
[PZ3.G3613C018] [PQ2613.I2] 843′.9′12
eISBN: 978-0-307-81932-1 72–8064
C9876543
v3.1
I dedicate this, my first novel
,
to
ROGER MARTIN DU GARD
in token of profound friendship
A.G
.
Contents ParisThe Luxembourg Gardens
“The time has now come for me to hear a step in the passage,” said Bernard to himself. He raised his head and listened. Nothing! His father and elder brother were away at the law-courts; his mother paying visits; his sister at a concert; as for his small brother Caloub—the youngest—he was safely shut up for the whole afternoon in his day-school. Bernard Profitendieu had stayed at home to cram for his
“bachot”;
1
he had only three more weeks before him. His family respected his solitude—not so the demon! Although Bernard had stripped off his coat, he was stifling. The window that looked on to the street stood open, but it let in nothing but heat. His forehead was streaming. A drop of perspiration came dripping from his nose and fell on to the letter he was holding in his hand.
“Pretending to be a tear!” thought he. “But it’s better to sweat than to weep.”
Yes; the date was conclusive. No one could be in question but him, Bernard himself. Impossible to doubt it. The letter was addressed to his mother—a love-letter—seventeen years old, unsigned.
“What can this initial stand for? A ‘V’? It might just as well be an ‘N.’ … Would it be becoming to question my mother?… We must give her credit for good taste. I’m free to imagine he’s a prince. It wouldn’t advance matters much to know that I was the son of a rapscallion. There’s no better cure for the fear of taking
after one’s father, than not to know who he is. The mere fact of enquiry binds one. The only thing to do is to welcome deliverance and not attempt to go any deeper. Besides which, I’ve had sufficient for the day.”
Bernard folded the letter up again. It was on paper of the same size and shape as the other twelve in the packet. They were tied up with pink ribbon which there had been no need for him to untie, and which he was easily able to slip round the bundle again to keep it tight. He put the bundle back into the casket and the casket back into the drawer of the console-table. The drawer was not open. It had yielded its secret from above. Bernard fitted together the pieces of wood which formed its top, and which were made to support a heavy slab of onyx, re-adjusted the slab carefully and gently, and put back in their places on the top, a pair of glass candelabra and a cumbersome clock, which he had been amusing himself by repairing.
