The Thibaults (102 page)

Then his knowledge of the man suggested a pious expedient.

“What we must deplore,” he said, “is not that your earthly life is drawing to a close, but that it was not as it should have been. Still, even if your past life has not always been a source of edification, let the leaving of it, at least, furnish a fine example of a truly Christian end. Let your bearing, when that moment comes, be a pattern for all who have known you, a pattern to observe and to imitate!”

The dying man made a movement and freed his hand. The priest’s words were sinking in. Yes, let it be said that Oscar Thibault had had a noble end, worthy of a saint. He locked his fingers awkwardly, and closed his eyes; his under-jaw, the priest observed, was trembling. He was praying God to grant him the grace of an edifying death.

Now fear was giving way to a vague dejection, a sense of feebleness; he was a small, pathetic atom amongst myriads of others, all ephemeral like him. But after those cataclysms of terror, there was some relief in this self-pity.

The Abbé raised his head.

“The Apostle Paul has bidden us not to be sorry, as men without hope. You, my poor friend, are amongst those men. How sad that, at this crucial hour, your faith should have forsaken you! You have forgotten that God is your Father before He is your Judge, and you do your Father grievous wrong to doubt His mercy.”

The old man gazed at him with troubled eyes, and sighed.

“Come now, take heart!” the priest continued. “Be assured of the divine compassion, and remember that, granted sincere and thoroughgoing repentance, a pardon given in the extremity of death will cancel the sins of a lifetime. You are one of God’s creatures; does He not know, better than we do, the clay in which He has shaped us? For, mind you, He loves us as we are; and this assurance should be the cornerstone of our courage and our confidence. Yes,
confidence
; for in that word lies the whole secret of a Christian death.
‘In te, Domine. speravi.’
The Christian trusts in God, in His goodness and infinite compassion.”

The Abbé had a manner of his own, placid yet weighty, of emphasizing certain words; whenever he used them, his hand would rise with a slight gesture that added to their force. Yet there was little warmth in his monotonous delivery, any more than in the long-nosed, impassive face. And it was proof of the essential virtue of these hallowed words, it showed how centuries of usage had formed them to the exact requirements of the deathbed, that their effect was so immediate on such panic and revolt as M. Thibault’s.

His head had sunk, and his beard was brushing his chest. Stealthily a new emotion was permeating him, an emotion less sterile than self-pity and despair. Tears were rolling down his cheeks again, but tears of joy; and all his spirit yearned towards the Omnipotent Consoler. Now his one desire was to lay down the burden, yield his life to Him who gave it.

But then he clenched his teeth; the pain had come on again, shooting through his leg, from the thigh downwards. He ceased listening, stiffened. After a moment the pain died down.

“… like the climber,” the priest was saying, “who has reached the summit and looks back to see the path that he has travelled. And what a sorry retrospect is a man’s life! A series of struggles, never ending, unavailing, in a preposterously narrow field of action. Vain activities, tawdry pleasures, an undying thirst for happiness that nothing, nothing in the world can quench. Am I exaggerating? Such was your life, my friend; such, indeed, is the lot of every man on earth. How can a being created by God be content with a life like that? Has it anything worthy of an iota of regret? Very well! To what, I ask you, is it that you cling so much? Is it to your suffering body,, this weak, miserable body, that always plays you false, that shirks its proper functions, that nothing can safeguard from pain and decay? Ah, let us face the facts! It is a blessing that after being so long enslaved to our vile bodies, held prisoner by them, we can at last discard them, slough our mortal skins, cast them away, and leave them like a beggar’s rags upon the wayside.”

For the dying man the words had such immediate cogency that all at once the prospect of escape seemed utterly delightful. And yet —what was this new-found solace but once more the life-impulse, the stubborn hope of survival under a new disguise? And it struck the priest, whose insight had not failed him, that the prospect of another life, of living for eternity in God’s presence, is as necessary in the hour of death, as in life the certainty of living the next moment.

After a brief silence the Abbé spoke again.

“Turn your eyes Heavenwards now, my friend. Now you have judged how little it is, what you are leaving, see what awaits you! An end of all the pettiness of life, its harshness and injustice. And ended, too, its trials and responsibilities. Ended, those daily acts of sin, with their aftertaste of remorse. Ended, that anguish of the sinner torn between good and evil. There, in the Kingdom of Heaven, you will find peace and plenitude, and the rule of divine order. You are leaving behind the things that are corruptible, to enter into the realm of things everlasting. Do you understand, my friend? ‘
Dimitte transitoria, et quaere aeterna
! You were afraid of dying; your imagination pictured some vague horror of great darkness. But a Christian death is just the opposite of that; it opens out a vista of unfading light. It brings us peace, the peace that passes understanding, rest eternal. What am I saying? It does more than that. It brings Life to its perfection, consummates the union of human and divine. ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life.’ Not merely an escape, a sleep, or a forgetting; but an awakening, the opening of a flower. To die is to be born again. Death is a resurrection to a new life, in the fullness of understanding, in the communion of the saints. Death, my friend, is not merely the rest that nightfall brings when the labourer’s task is done; it is a progress upward and onward into the light of an eternal dawn.”

While the priest was speaking, M. Thibault had nodded several times, approvingly. Now a smile was hovering on his face. The shadows had lifted, a dazzling effulgence was kindling facets of the past. With his mind’s eye he saw himself a little boy kneeling at the foot of his mother’s bed, this very bed on which he now was lying; his mother was clasping his childish fingers while in the radiant light of a summer morning he repeated one of the prayers which first had opened heaven to him: ‘Gentle Jesus, who art in Paradise …” He saw himself at his first communion, trembling with awe before the Host, for the first time vouchsafed to him. And then he saw himself as a young man, one Whit-Sunday after mass, walking with his fiancee up the garden path at Darnetal, between the peonies. Back with those sunny memories, he had forgotten his old, dying body; he was smiling.

Not merely had all fear of death departed, but what troubled him just now was that he had still to live, if only for a little while. The air of this world had become unbreathable. “A little patience,” he thought, “and I’ll have done with it all.” It seemed to him that he had discovered his true centre of gravity, had reached the vital core of his being; he had found himself at last. And this gave him happiness such as he had never known before. True, his energies seemed broken up, dispersed, lying as it were in havoc round him. What matter? He had ceased to belong to them; they were the rags and tatters of an earthbound being, with whom he felt that he had broken for good and all; and the prospect of a still more complete disruption, very near at hand, gave him an intense delight—the only joy of which he now was capable.

The Holy Spirit was hovering in the room. The Abbé had risen, full of thankfulness to God. And with his humble gratitude mingled a very human self-satisfaction—like that of a lawyer who has won his suit. No sooner was he conscious of this feeling, than he upbraided himself for it. But this was no time for self-analysis. A sinner was about to appear before his Maker.

Bowing his head, he folded his hands under his chin and prayed aloud:

“O Lord, the hour has come. Father of mercies and God of all comfort, I beseech Thee to vouchsafe this last grace, and grant me to die in peace and in Thy love.
De projundis
, out of the darkness, from the deep pit where I lay trembling with dread,
clamavi ad te, Domine
, have I called to Thee, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice. The hour has come; I am on the brink of Thy eternity, when at last I shall see Thee face to face, Almighty God. Consider my contrition, accept my prayer, and let me not be outcast in my unworthiness. Let Thy gaze fall upon me, pardoning my sins.
In te, Domine, commendo
. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit. My hour has come. Father, O Father, forsake me not.”

The dying man’s voice came like an echo: “Forsake me not.”

There was a long silence. Then the Abbé bent over the bed.

“Tomorrow morning I will bring the holy oil. Meanwhile, my friend, make your confession, so that I may give you absolution.”

M. Thibault’s swollen hps began to move; with a fervour he had never shown before, he stammered a few phrases, in which the confession of his sins had less place than a passionate avowal of repentance. Then, raising his hand, the priest murmured the words that wash all sins away.

“ ‘
Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
.’ ”

The man on the bed was silent. His eyes were wide open—open as if they were never to close again—and in his gaze there was at yet only the faintest hint of questioning or wonder. The bland innocence of the eyes made the dying old man look strangely like the pastel portrait of Jacques, hanging on the wall above the lamp.

He felt the last threads linking his soul to the world of men strained almost to the point of snapping; but their tenuity, their brittleness, filled him with abounding joy. He was no more now than a frail flame gently flickering out. Life was flowing on without him, as a river goes on flowing after the swimmer has made the further shore. And he felt not only beyond life, but beyond death as well. He was rising, floating up into a zenith, bathed, as is sometimes a midsummer-night sky, with supernatural light.

There was a knock at the door. The Abbé ceased his prayer, crossed himself, and went towards it. The doctor had just come; Sister Céline was with him.

“Please continue, M. l’Abbé,” Thérivier said, when he saw the priest.

The Abbé caught the nun’s eye, and discreetly moved aside.

“Come in, doctor,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve finished.”

Thérivier went up to the bed, rubbing his hands. He thought it best to assume a hearty, hopeful tone—his bedside manner.

“Well, well? What’s the trouble tonight? A touch of fever, eh? That’s the new injection doing its job, of course.” Stroking his beard, he glanced at the nun, as if calling her to witness. “Antoine will be back any moment. Meanwhile, there’s no need to worry. I’ll put you right. That new serum, you know …”

Without saying a word, M. Thibault watched this man lying to him. He could see through it all now—the doctor’s cheerfulness-to-order, his professional play-acting. He was no longer taken in, as he had been too often and too readily, by these infantile “explanations.” The make-up had worn thin; he knew them all for what they were: mummers in a macabre comedy that they had been playing for his benefit, for months. Was Antoine really coming back? Could anything they said be trusted? In any case, it was all the same to him. Nothing mattered; nothing whatever mattered now.

It did not even surprise him to read so clearly other people’s minds… . The universe was a closed system, something apart, remote, in which he, the dying man, had no place. He stood outside it all. Facing the great mystery alone. Alone with his Creator. So utterly alone that even God’s nearness left him still alone.

Unwittingly he had let his eyelids fall. He had ceased caring to distinguish vision from reality. A great peace, murmurous with music, had descended on him. He submitted to the doctor’s tedious examination without a murmur; inert, aloof, indifferent—in another world.

IN THE night train that was taking them back to Paris, the two brothers had long given up any idea of sleep; but each, lying back in his corner seat, half stupefied by the stuffy air in the dimly lit compartment, persisted in feigning slumber, so as to be left alone to his own devices as long as might be.

Antoine’s anxiety was keeping him awake. Now that he had started on the return journey, the alarming state in which he had left his father had come back vividly to his mind and, through the long hours of semi-darkness loud with the roaring wheels, his imagination ran riot, picturing the worst. But steadily, as the train came nearer Paris, his fears diminished; once he was on the spot, he could attend to the situation, take charge again. Then another complication crossed his mind. How should he announce to M. Thibault the fugitive’s return? How let Gise know? The letter he proposed to send immediately to London was not an easy one to write; he would have to inform Gise not only that Jacques was safe and sound and had been traced, but that he had returned to Paris; nevertheless, somehow she must be prevented from rushing home at once.

Someone uncovered the ceiling-light; the passengers in the car began to stretch their limbs. Jacques and Antoine opened their eyes, looked at each other. The expression on Jacques’s face, resigned yet hagridden, was so poignant that Antoine felt a swift compassion.

He tapped his brother’s knee. “Slept badly, eh?”

Jacques made no attempt to smile; with a vague gesture of indifference he turned towards the window and relapsed into a silent lethargy which, it seemed, he had neither the power nor the will to shake off. The train sped through the suburbs, still in darkness. A hasty cup of coffee in the dining-car—grinding brakes—the platform in the grey chill before dawn—a few steps in Antoine’s wake as he hunted for a taxi—there was a curious unreality about it all; each successive act seemed blurred in the dank, fogbound air, yet guided by some dark necessity that spared him conscious acquiescence.

Antoine said little, just enough to tide over the difficult moment, making only casual remarks which Jacques did not have to answer. Indeed, he managed to give such a matter-of-fact air to the whole proceedings that Jacques’s homecoming took the aspect of a perfectly ordinary event. Jacques found himself alighting on the pavement, then standing in the entrance-hall, without having any clear idea of what was happening, even of his own supineness. And when Léon, hearing the door open, stepped out of the kitchen, it was with perfect self-possession, though without meeting his servant’s startled gaze, that Antoine bent above the pile of letters on his hall-table, and remarked in a completely casual tone: