The Thibaults (111 page)

“And in this coming spring,” she mused, “what place does he allow for me?”

A clock had just struck.

“Why, it’s nine!” Jacques said. His tone suggested it was time to go.

Gise, too, had heard the clock strike. “How many nights,” she thought, “have I spent here, with this lamp beside me, waiting, hoping! Hearing that hour strike as it struck now—and Jacques far away, lost. Now he is here, beside me. He is with me tonight. Hearing, with me, the clock strike… .”

Jacques had come back to the bed.

“Well, well,” he said, “it’s high time I let you go to sleep.”

“He is with me!” she was repeating to herself, her eyes half closed to watch him better. “And yet life, the outside world, everything round us is going on exactly as if nothing had happened, nothing changed.” And she had an impression, bitter as remorse, that, truth to tell, she had not changed either—had not changed enough.

Not wishing to seem in too much haste to leave her, Jacques had remained standing at the bedside. Without the least flicker of emotion he lightly clasped the small brown hand lying on the counterpane. He could smell the odour of the cretonne curtains, mingled tonight with a faint acid tang, which he rather disliked so long as he attributed it to her fever, but cheerfully inhaled when he saw a sliced lemon in a saucer on the bedside table.

Gise did not move. Her eyes, wide open, were brimming with the bright tears that she was keeping back.

He made as if he noticed nothing.

“Good night, then! Tomorrow you’ll be quite well.”

“Quite well? Oh, I’m not so keen about it, really!” she sighed, with a wan smile.

She hardly knew why she had spoken thus. Her indifference about recovering expressed her lassitude, her lack of courage to face life again—and, most of all, her sadness for the ending of this long-awaited hour, so disappointing, yet so sweet. Tense with emotion, her lips would hardly move, but somehow she managed to cry gaily:

“Thank you for having come to see me, Jacquot.”

Once more she was on the point of holding out her hand to him; but he had reached the door. Turning, he nodded to her cheerfully and went out.

She turned off the light and snuggled down between the sheets. Her heart was thudding violently. She crossed her arms, hugging her sorrow to her breast, as long ago she used to hug the “baby tiger.” Mechanically she murmured: “Holy Virgin, my guide and sovereign Queen, into thy dear hands I commend my hopes and comforts, my griefs and sorrows… .” She prayed in fervent haste, trying to lull her brain to rest with the sing-song cadences. Never did she feel so happy as when she was praying, praying her heart out, in a limbo of no thought. Her arms were tightly locked upon her breast. Everything was growing vague, merging into an insubstantial dream-world, till presently it seemed to her that she was clasping to her heart’s warmth a real baby, hers and hers alone; and, bending a little forward so as to enfold this phantom gift of love in a soft, safe nest, she strained him to her bosom, weeping over him, as she fell asleep.

ANTOINE was waiting for his brother to leave Gise’s room and come downstairs to bed; he proposed that night to sort out in a rough-and-ready way the personal papers left by M. Thibault, and he preferred to be alone when doing this. Not that he wished to keep Jacques in the dark with regard to any of his father’s affairs, but on the day following the old man’s death, when he was rummaging for the will, his eyes had chanced to fall on a sheet of paper headed “Jacques,” and though he had then lacked time to give it more than a brief glance, he had seen enough to realize it would make painful reading for his brother. Very likely there were other documents of the same order; it was undesirable for Jacques to light on them—for the present, anyhow.

Before going to the study, Antoine crossed the dining-room to see what progress M. Chasle was making with his task. The table had all its extra leaves in, and on it were stacked some thousands of envelopes and the printed notices of M. Thibault’s death to be sent out to friends and acquaintances. Instead of getting on with his job of addressing the envelopes, M. Chasle seemed absorbed in checking up the packets of notices which he was ripping open one after the other.

Puzzled by the sight, Antoine approached him.

“Ah, there’s a lot of dishonest folk in the world,” the old fellow grumbled, peering up at Antoine. “Each package ought to contain five hundred. Well, here’s one with five hundred and three in it, and another with five hundred and one.” As he spoke, he was tearing up the notices in excess of the round five hundred. “Of course, it’s nothing very serious,” he allowed indulgently, “but all the same, if we kept them, we’d soon be snowed under by these notices over and above …”

“Over and above … what?” Antoine was completely flabbergasted.

M. Chasle raised a monitory finger, with a little knowing cackle of laughter.

“Exactly. That’s the point.”

Antoine turned on his heel, leaving it at that. He was smiling to himself. “The oddest thing, is that when one talks to that old loon, one always gets the impression, for a moment, that one’s even loonier than he!”

Once in the study, he turned on all the lights, drew the curtains, and closed the door.

M. Thibault’s papers were arranged methodically. “Charities” had a cupboard to themselves. In the safe were a few stock certificates, but mostly old ledgers and documents relating to the administration of the Thibault property. As for the desk, the left-hand drawers contained deeds, contracts, and business papers; those on the right—the ones in which Antoine was interested just now—seemed reserved for personal and private matters. In one of them he had found the will and, under the same cover, the paper relative to Jacques.

He knew where he had replaced it. It turned out to be merely an excerpt from the Bible. Deuteronomy xxi, 18-21.

If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother …

Then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place;

And they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious …

And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and all Israel shall hear, and fear.

The sheet was headed “Jacques,” and underneath was written: “
Stubborn and rebellious
.”

Antoine read it with emotion. There were signs it had been written fairly recently. The verses had been carefully copied; each letter was neatly rounded off. The whole document seemed to breathe an atmosphere of moral certitude, of ripe reflection, and tenacity of purpose. And yet did not the very existence of this sheet of paper which the old man had (deliberately, Antoine felt quite sure) placed in the envelope that contained his will—did it not testify to certain qualms of conscience, a desire to justify himself?

Antoine picked up his father’s will again. It was a huge affair, with numbered pages, divided into chapters, subdivided into clauses, like an official report, and boxed in boards. It was dated July 1912. So M. Thibault had made his will at the start of his illness, shortly before the operation. No reference was made to Jacques; the testator spoke throughout of “my son,” “my heir,” in the singular.

On the previous day Antoine had only glanced through the chapter headed “Instructions for the Obsequies.” Now he studied it in detail.

I desire that, after a low mass has been said at Saint Thomas Aquinas’s Church, my remains shall be taken to Crouy. I desire that my obsequies shall be solemnized in the Chapel of the Institution in the presence of the assembled children. I desire that, unlike the funeral service at Saint Thomas Aquinas’s Church, the ceremonies at Crouy shall be performed with all the dignity the Committee may deem fitting to accord my mortal remains. I wish to be carried to my last resting-place by representatives of the charitable societies which for many years have availed themselves of my wholehearted service; and also by a delegation from the Institute of France, whose reception of myself into their midst was the proudest moment of my life. Further, in view of my rank in the Order of the Legion of Honour, I desire, provided the regulations admit of it, that military honours may be accorded me by our army, whose cause I have defended my life long in all I have said and written, and by my vote as an elector. Lastly, I wish that those who may express a wish to say a few words of farewell beside my grave may be permitted to do so without hindrance.

Let there be no mistake: in writing thus, I have no illusions as to the vanity of posthumous encomiums. I tremble at the thought that one day I shall stand before the Judgment Seat. But, after seeking heavenly guidance in prayer and meditation, I am led to believe that my true duty is to shun the counsels of an unprofitable humility, and to take steps that, when death befalls me, my light may, God willing, for the last time so shine before men that other Christians who belong to our great French middle class may be encouraged to devote themselves likewise to the service of the Faith and Catholic Charity.

A clause followed, headed: “Detailed Instructions.” M. Thibault had gone to the trouble of arranging the whole ceremony step by step, and Antoine had no say in the matter. Up to the last moment the head of the family was exercising his authority; and, indeed, Antoine found a certain grandeur in the old man’s determination to play his patriarchal part up to the very end.

M. Thibault had even drawn up the notice of his death for circulation to his friends, and Antoine had sent it on, as it stood, to the printer’s. M. Thibault’s numerous distinctions were set forth in an order that had evidently been meticulously worked out, and took up a full dozen lines of print. MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE was in capital letters. Following this came not only such descriptions as 
Doctor of Laws
and
Sometime Member for the Lure Department
, but also
Honorary President of the Joint Committee of Catholic Charities in the Diocese of Paris, Founder and President of the Social Defence League, Chairman of the Governing Board of the Child Welfare Society, Sometime Treasurer of the French Branch of the United Catholic Defence League, President of the Church Council in the Parish of Saint Thomas Aquinas
. Antoine could make little of certain descriptions, such as
Corresponding Member of the Brotherhood of Saint John Lateran
. The imposing catalogue concluded with a list of Orders, that of the Legion of Honour coming after the Orders of Saint Gregory and Saint Isabella, even after that of the Southern Cross. The insignia of all these Orders were to be pinned above the coffin.

The greater part of the will consisted of a long list of legacies to various charities and individuals, many of whom were unknown to Antoine.

Then his eye was caught by Gise’s name. M. Thibault bequeathed, in the form of a dowry, a large sum of money to “Mile. Gisèle de Waize,” whom he had “brought up and regarded almost as a daughter.” She was charged to provide, from this sum, for “the declining years of her good aunt.” Thus the girl’s future was comfortably secured.

Antoine stopped reading for a moment, to savour the enjoyable surprise of finding the self-centred old man capable of such kindness, such open-handedness. He blushed with pleasure, and he felt a thrill of gratitude and respect, fully justified by what he learned from the succeeding pages. M. Thibault seemed to have spared no pains to ensure the welfare of those around him: his servants, the concierge, the gardener at Maisons-LafBtte—-not one was forgotten.

The last sheet dealt with various endowments, all of which were to. bear Oscar Thibault’s name. Antoine dipped at random into the lengthy list. There was an “Oscar Thibault Bequest” to the French Academy: a prize for moral excellence. Naturally! Antoine smiled. An “Oscar Thibault Prize,” to be awarded quinquennially by the Institute of Moral Science for the best literary work “serving to further the fight against prostitution, and to combat the tolerance that the present Government of the French Republic”—obviously!—”shows towards the social evil.” Antoine smiled again. Gise’s legacy inclined him to indulgence. Moreover, in this constantly expressed desire of the testator to promote the spiritual well-being of mankind, Antoine could discern—not without emotion’—an obscure craving, from which he himself, for all his maturity of mind, was not wholly immune: the craving to outlive his death in the temporal world.

The least foreseeable, most naive, of the bequests was the granting of a fairly large sum to the Bishop of Beauvais, for the annual publication of an
Oscar Thibault Annual
. As many copies as possible were to be printed, and sold at a low price at all the stationers’ and bookshops in the diocese. Described as a “mine of daily information for gardeners and agriculturists,” it was to include “an entertaining section of edifying stories for recreation on Sundays and winter evenings,” and steps were to be taken to see it found its way into every Catholic home.

Antoine folded up the will. He was anxious to get on with his task. As he slipped the bulky document back into its case, he caught himself thinking, not without satisfaction: “If he could be so lavish in his bequests, it means he’s leaving us a pretty handsome sum.”

The first drawer contained a large leather portfolio, inscribed “Lucie,” Mme. Thibault’s given name.

As he undid the strap Antoine had a vague feeling of discomfort—-quite unjustified, he reminded himself.

Miscellaneous objects, to begin with. An embroidered handkerchief; a small box with a little girl’s earrings in it; a white satin purse ribbed with ivory and containing a confession note folded in four, with some writing in ink that had become illegible. Some faded photographs that Antoine had never seen before showed his mother as a child, and in her teens. Antoine was surprised that a man so unsentimental as his father should have preserved these tender relics, especially in the drawer which stood nearest to his hand. His heart warmed towards the merry, winsome girl shown in the photographs, though as he scanned them he was thinking more of himself than of his mother. When Mme. Thibault died, at Jacques’s birth, he had been nine. A serious-minded, stubborn, rather priggish little boy, with —he had to admit it—not much natural affection. Without lingering over these distasteful memories, he investigated the other pocket of the portfolio.