The Counterfeiters (6 page)

More than forty hours had gone by since that night. The day before, Vincent had not gone to Robert de Passavant’s, whose father seemed to be recovering; but that evening a telegram had summoned him. Robert wished to see him. When Vincent entered the room in which Robert usually sat—a room which he used as his study and smoking-room and which he had been at some pains to decorate and fit up in his own fashion—Robert
carelessly held out his hand to him over his shoulder, without rising.

Robert is writing. He is sitting at a bureau littered with books. Facing him the French window which gives on to the garden, stands wide open in the moonlight. He speaks without turning round.

“Do you know what I am writing? But you won’t mention it, will you? You promise, eh?—a manifesto for the opening number of Dhurmer’s review. I shan’t sign it, of course—especially as I puff myself in it.… And then as it’ll certainly come out in the long run that I’m financing it, I don’t want it known too soon that I write for it. So mum’s the word! But it’s just occurred to me—didn’t you say that young brother of yours wrote? What’s his name again?”

“Olivier,” says Vincent.

“Olivier! Yes; I had forgotten. Don’t stay standing there like that! Sit down in that arm-chair. You’re not cold? Shall I shut the window?… It’s poetry he writes, isn’t it? He ought to bring me something to see. Of course, I don’t promise to take it.… But, all the same, I should be surprised if it were bad. He looks an intelligent boy. And then he’s obviously
au courant
. I should like to talk to him. Tell him to come and see me, eh? Mind, I count on it. A cigarette?” And he holds out his silver cigarette-case.

“With pleasure.”

“Now then, Vincent, listen to me. I must speak to you very seriously. You behaved like a child the other evening … so did I, for that matter. I don’t say it was wrong of me to take you to Pedro’s, but I feel responsible, a little, for the money you’ve lost. I don’t know if that’s what’s meant by remorse, but, upon my word, it’s beginning to disturb my sleep and my digestion. And then, when I think of that unhappy woman you told me about … But that’s another story. We won’t speak of that. It’s sacred. What I want to say is this—that I wish—yes,
I’m absolutely determined to put at your disposal a sum of money equivalent to what you’ve lost. It was five thousand francs, wasn’t it? And you’re to risk it again. Once more, I repeat, I consider myself the cause of your losing this money—I owe it to you—there’s no need to thank me. You’ll pay me back if you win. If not—worse luck! We shall be quits. Go back to Pedro’s this evening, as if nothing had happened. The car will take you there; then it’ll come back here to take me to Lady Griffith’s, where I’ll ask you to join me later on. I count upon it, eh? The car will fetch you from Pedro’s.”

He opens a drawer and takes out five notes which he hands to Vincent.

“Be off with you, now.”

“But your father?”

“Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you: he died about …” He pulls out his watch and exclaims: “By Jove! how late it is! Nearly midnight.… You must make haste. Yes, about four hours ago.”

All this is said without any quickening of his voice, on the contrary, with a kind of nonchalance.

“And aren’t you going to stay to …”

“To watch by the body?” interrupts Robert. “No, that’s my young brother’s business. He is up there with his old nurse, who was on better terms with the deceased than I was.”

Then as Vincent remains motionless, he goes on:

“Look here, my dear fellow, I don’t want to appear cynical, but I have a horror of reach-me-down sentiments. In my early days I cut out my filial love according to the pattern I had in my heart; but I soon saw that my measurements had been too ample, and I was obliged to take it in. The old man never in his life occasioned me anything but trouble and vexation and constraint. If he had any tenderness left, it was certainly not to me that he showed it. My first impulses of affection towards him, in the days before I knew how to behave, brought me nothing
but snubs—and I learnt my lesson. You must have seen for yourself when you were attending him … Did he ever thank you? Did you ever get the slightest look, the smallest smile from him? He always thought everything his due. Oh, he was what people call a
character!
I think he must have made my mother very unhappy, and yet he loved her—that is, if he ever really loved anyone. I think he made everyone who came near him suffer—his servants, his dogs, his horses, his mistresses; not his friends, for he had none. A general sigh of relief will go up at his death. He was, I believe, a man of great distinction in ‘his line,’ as people say; but I have never been able to discover what it was. He was very intelligent, undoubtedly. At heart, I had—I still have—a certain admiration for him—but as for making play with a handkerchief—as for wringing tears out … no, thank you, I’m no longer child enough for that, Be off with you now! And join me in an hour’s time at Lilian’s. What! you’re not dressed? Absurd! What does it matter? But if it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll promise not to change either. Agreed! Light a cigar before you go and send the car back quickly—it’ll fetch you again afterwards.”

He watched Vincent go out, shrugged his shoulders, then went into his dressing-room to change into his dress suit, which was ready laid out for him on a sofa.

In a room on the first floor, the old count is lying on his death-bed. Someone has placed a crucifix on his breast, but has omitted to fold his hands over it. A beard of some days’ growth softens the stubborn angle of his chin. Beneath his grey hair, which is brushed up
en brosse
, the wrinkles that line his forehead seem less deeply graven, as though they were relaxed. His eye is sunk beneath the arch of the brow and the shaggy growth of the eyebrow. I know that we shall never see him again, and that is the reason that I take a long look at him. Beside the head of the bed is an arm-chair, in which is
seated the old nurse Séraphine. But she has risen. She goes up to a table where an old-fashioned lamp is dimly lighting the room; it needs turning up. A lamp-shade casts the light on to the book young Gontran is reading.…

“You’re tired, Master Gontran. You had better go to bed.”

The glance that Gontran raises from his book to rest upon Séraphine is very gentle. His fair hair, a lock of which he pushes back from his forehead, waves loosely over his temples. He is fifteen years old, and his face, which is still almost girlish, expresses nothing as yet but tenderness and love.

“And you?” he says. “It is you who ought to go to bed, you poor old Fine. Last night, you were on your feet nearly the whole time.”

“Oh, I’m accustomed to sitting up. And besides, I slept during the daytime—but you …”

“No, I’m all right. I don’t feel tired; and it does me good to stay here thinking and reading. I knew Papa so little; I think I should forget him altogether if I didn’t take a good look at him now. I will sit beside him till daylight. How long is it, Fine, since you came to us?”

“I came the year before you were born, and you’re nearly sixteen.”

“Do you remember Mamma quite well?”

“Do I remember your Mamma? What a question! You might as well ask me if I remember my own name. To be sure, I remember your Mamma.”

“I remember her too—a little.… But not very well.… I was only five when she died. Used Papa to talk to her much?”

“It depended on his mood. Your Papa was never a one to talk much, and he didn’t care to be spoken to first. All the same in those days he was a little more talkative than he has been of late.… But there now! What’s past is past, and it’s better not to stir it up
again. There’s One above who’s a better judge of these things than we are.”

“Do you really think that He concerns Himself about such things, dear Fine?”

“Why, if He doesn’t, who should then?”

Gontran puts his lips on Séraphine’s red, roughened hand. “You really ought to go to bed now. I promise to wake you as soon as it is light, and then I’ll take my turn to rest. Please!”

As soon as Séraphine has left him, Gontran falls upon his knees at the foot of the bed; he buries his head in the sheets, but he cannot succeed in weeping. No emotion stirs his heart; his eyes remain despairingly dry. Then he gets up and looks at the impassive face on the bed. At this solemn moment, he would like to have some rare, sublime experience—hear a message from the world beyond—send his thought flying into ethereal regions, inaccessible to mortal senses. But no! his thought remains obstinately grovelling on the earth; he looks at the dead man’s bloodless hands and wonders for how much longer the nails will go on growing. The sight of the unclasped hands grates on him. He would like to join them, to make them hold the crucifix. What a good idea! He thinks of Séraphine’s astonishment when she sees the dead hands folded together; the thought of Séraphine’s astonishment amuses him; and then he despises himself for being amused. Nevertheless he stoops over the bed. He seizes the arm which is farthest from him. The arm is stiff and will not bend. Gontran tries to force it, but the whole body moves with it. He seizes the other arm, which seems a little less rigid. Gontran almost succeeds in putting the hand in the proper place. He takes the crucifix and tries to slip it between the fingers and the thumb, but the contact of the cold flesh turns him sick. He thinks he is going to faint. He has a mind to call Séraphine back. He gives up everything—the crucifix, which drops aslant on the tumbled sheet, and
the lifeless arm, which falls back again into its first position; then, through the depths of the funereal silence, he suddenly hears a rough and brutal “God damn!” which fills him with terror, as if someone else … He turns round—but no! he is alone. It was from his own lips, from his own heart, that that resounding curse broke forth—his, who until to-day has never uttered an oath! Then he sits down and plunges again into his reading.

Lilian half sat up and put the tips of her fingers on Robert’s chestnut hair. “Take care, my dear. You are hardly thirty yet and you’re beginning to get thin on the top. Baldness wouldn’t be at all becoming to you. You take life too seriously.”

Robert raised his face and looked at her, smiling. “Not when I am with you, I assure you.”

“Did you tell Molinier to come?”

“Yes, as you asked me to.”

“And … you lent him money?”

“Five thousand francs, as I told you … and he’ll lose it, like the rest.”

“Why should he lose it?”

“He’s bound to. I saw him the first evening. He plays anyhow.”

“He’s had time to learn.… Will you make a bet that to-night he’ll win?”

“If you like.”

“Oh, please don’t take it as a penance. I like people to do what they do willingly.”

“Don’t be cross. Agreed then. If he wins, he’ll pay the money back to you. But if he loses, it’s you who’ll pay me. Is that all right?”

She pressed a bell.

“Bring a bottle of Tokay and three glasses, please.… And if he comes back with the five thousand and no more—he shall keep it, eh? If he neither loses nor wins.… ”

“That’s unheard of. It’s odd what an interest you take in him.”

“It’s odd that you don’t think him interesting.”

“You think him interesting because you’re in love with him.”

“Yes, my dear boy, that’s true. One doesn’t mind admitting that to
you
. But that’s not the reason he interests me. On the contrary—as a rule, when my head’s attracted, the rest of me turns cold.”

A servant came in with wine and glasses on a tray.

“First of all let’s seal our bet, and afterwards we’ll have another glass in honour of the winner.”

The servant poured out the wine and they drank to each other.

“Personally, I think your Vincent a bore.”

“Oh, ‘my Vincent’!… As if it hadn’t been you who brought him here! And then, I advise you not to go repeating everywhere that you think him a bore. Your reason for frequenting him would be too obvious.”

Robert turned a little to put his lips on Lilian’s bare foot; she drew it away quickly and covered it with her fan.

“Must I blush?” said he.

“It’s not worthwhile trying as far as I am concerned. You couldn’t succeed.”

She emptied her glass, and then:

“D’you know what, my dear friend? You have all the qualities of a man of letters—you are vain, hypocritical, fickle, selfish.… ”

“You are too flattering!”

“Yes; that’s all very charming—but you’ll never be a good novelist.”

“Because?”

“Because you don’t know how to listen.”

“It seems to me I’m listening admirably.”

“Pooh!
He
isn’t a writer and he listens a great deal better. But when we are together,
I
am the one to listen.”

“He hardly knows how to speak.”

“That’s because you never stop talking yourself.”

“I know everything he’s going to say beforehand.”

“You think so? Do you know the story of his affair with that woman?”

“Oh! Love affairs! The dullest things in the world!”

“And then I like it when he talks about natural history.”

“Natural history is even duller than love affairs. Does he give you lectures then?”

“If I could only repeat what he says.… It’s thrilling, my dear friend. He tells me all sorts of things about the deep seas. I’ve always been particularly curious about creatures that live in the sea. You know that in America they make boats with glass let into the sides, so that you can go to the bottom of the sea and look all round you. They say that the sights are simply marvellous—live coral and … and … what do you call them?… madrepores, and sponges, and sea-weeds, and great shoals of fish. Vincent says that there are certain kinds of fish which die according as the water becomes more salt or less, and that there are others, on the contrary, which can live in any degree of salt water; and that they swim about on the edge of the currents, where the water becomes less salt, so as to prey on the others when their strength fails them. You ought to get him to talk to you about it.… I assure you it’s most curious. When he talks about things like that, he becomes extraordinary. You wouldn’t recognize him.… But you don’t know how to get him to talk.… It’s like when he tells me about his affair with Laura Douviers—yes, that’s her name.… Do you know how he got to know her?”