The Thibaults (2 page)

“When we came to let him out an hour later,” he continued, “he was sitting at the table, his head between his hands. He gave us a furious look; his eyes were tearless. When we bade him apologize, he did not answer. But he followed us quietly to our study. His hair was ruffled, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and there was a stubborn look on his face. We got him to pick up the fragments of the ill-fated paper-weight, but nothing would make him utter a word. So then we took him to the chapel where we thought it fitting that he should remain for a while in solitary communion with his Maker. After an hour we came and knelt beside him. He looked as if he had been crying, but the chapel was so dark that we couldn’t be sure of it. We said a rosary in a low voice, and then we remonstrated with him, picturing to him his father’s grief at hearing that an evil companionship had endangered his dear son’s purity. He kept his arms folded and held his head high, his eyes fixed on the altar, as if he did not hear us. Seeing that there was nothing to be done with him, we told him to return to the study room. There he stayed till the afternoon was over, at his place, with his arms folded and without opening a book. We thought it best to take no notice of this conduct. At seven o’clock he left as usual, but without coming to say goodnight.

“So now you have the whole story, M. Thibault.” The priest gave him a glance of eager curiosity. “We had meant not to inform you of these facts till we knew what action has been taken by the vice-principal of the lycée against that wretched young fellow Fontanin—summary expulsion, we presume. But, seeing you so upset …”

“M. l’Abbé,” M. Thibault broke in; he was as out of breath as if he had been running upstairs. “M. l’Abbé, I am horrified—but you can guess for yourself what my feelings are. When I think what the future may have in store for us, now that Jacques’s evil instincts have shown themselves—yes, I’m horrified,” he repeated in a pensive voice, almost in a whisper. He sat unmoving, his head thrust forward, his hands resting on his hips. His eyes were closed and had it not been for the almost imperceptible quivering of his underlip, which shook the short white beard under the grey moustache, he would have seemed asleep.

“The young blackguard!” he burst out suddenly, with a forward jerk of his chin. The vicious glance that shot forth from between the grey eyelashes showed what a mistake it would have been to take his inertia at its face value. Shutting his eyes again, he swung round towards Antoine. But the young man was in a brown study, tugging at his beard, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes fixed on the floor.

“I shall go to the hospital,” he said at last, “and tell them not to count on me tomorrow. The first thing in the morning I’ll go and see this Fontanin boy and put him through it!”

“The first thing in the morning?” M. Thibault repeated mechanically. He rose from his seat. “Meanwhile, I’ve a sleepless night before me.” Sighing, he moved ponderously towards the door.

The Abbé followed. On the threshold M. Thibault extended to the priest a flabby hand. “It’s been a terrible blow,” he murmured, without opening his eyes.

“We will pray God to help us in our time of trouble,” the priest replied in a polite tone.

Father and son walked a few steps in silence along the empty street. The wind had dropped and the night air was mild. The month of May was beginning.

M. Thibault was thinking of the runaway. “Anyhow, if he’s sleeping out, he won’t find it too cold.” Emotion made his legs go limp under him. He stopped and turned to his son. Antoine’s attitude made him feel less unsure of himself, and he felt drawn towards his first-born, and proud of him—especially so tonight, now that his younger son was more antipathetic than ever. Not that he was incapable of love for Jacques; to quicken his affection it would have been enough had Jacques provided some satisfaction for his pride. But the boy’s preposterous conduct and wayward impulses always galled him at his most sensitive point, his self-esteem.

“Let’s only hope it doesn’t cause too much scandal,” he muttered. Then he drew nearer to Antoine and his tone changed. “I’m delighted that you were able to get off duty tonight.” The feeling he was trying to express made him feel almost bashful. Still more embarrassed than his father, the young man kept silent. “Yes, Antoine, I’m glad to have you with me tonight, dear boy,” M. Thibault continued and, for the first time perhaps, linked his arm with his son’s.

ON THAT Sunday, Mme. de Fontanin, when she came home at about midday, had found a note awaiting her in the hall.

“Daniel tells me he’s been kept for lunch by the Bertiers,” she told Jenny. “Then you weren’t here when he came back?”

“No, I didn’t see him,” Jenny replied without looking up. She had just dropped on all fours, trying to catch her dog Puce, which was hiding under an arm-chair. It seemed to take her a long time, but at last she caught the dog up in her arms and ran off with it to her room, hugging and petting the little animal.

She did not reappear till lunch-time.

“I’m not a bit hungry,” she said, “and I’ve got a headache. I’d like to go to my room and lie down in the dark.”

Her mother put her to bed and drew the curtains. Eagerly Jenny snuggled down between the sheets. But sleep would not come to her. The hours dragged on. Several times in the course of the day Mme. de Fontanin came and laid her cool hand on the little girl’s forehead. Towards evening, in a sudden rush of affection and anxiety, Jenny caught hold of her mother’s hand and began fondling it, unable to keep back her tears.

“You’re overstrung, darling. I’m afraid you must have a touch of fever.”

Seven o’clock struck, then eight. Mme. de Fontanin was waiting for her son before beginning dinner. Never did Daniel miss a meal without telling her in advance; least of all would he have left his mother and sister to dine by themselves on a Sunday. Mme. de Fontanin went out onto the balcony. The evening was mild, but at this hour there were few people about in the Avenue de l’Observatoire. The shadows were deepening between the dark masses of the trees. Several times she fancied she recognized Daniel by his walk, under a street-lamp. There was the roll of a drum in the Luxembourg Gardens. The gates were being shut. Now it was quite dark.

She put on her hat and hurried to the Bertiers’ house; they had been in the country since the day before.

So Daniel had lied!

Mme. de Fontanin was not unused to lies of that sort, but that Daniel, her Daniel, should have lied to her was appalling. His first lie. And he was only fourteen!

Jenny had not gone to sleep yet; she was listening intently to every sound. She called to her mother.

“Where’s Daniel?”

“He’s gone to bed. He thought you were asleep and didn’t want to wake you.” She tried to speak naturally; there was no point in alarming the child.

After glancing at the clock Mme. de Fontanin settled down in an arm-chair, leaving the door on the corridor ajar, so as to hear the boy when he returned.

So the night passed; a new day came… .

Just before seven Puce started growling. The bell had rung. Mme. de Fontanin ran into the hall; she preferred to open the door herself; the less the servants knew, the better. An unknown, bearded young man stood at the door. Had there been an accident?

Antoine gave his name, saying he would like to see Daniel before he left for the lycée.

“I’m afraid … as it so happens, my son can’t be seen this morning,” she stammered.

Antoine made a gesture of surprise. “Forgive me if I insist, Madame, but my brother, who’s a great friend of your son’s, has been missing since yesterday. Naturally, we’re very anxious.”

“Missing?” Her fingers tightened on the fabric of the light veil she had drawn round her hair. She opened the drawing-room door; Antoine followed her in.

“Daniel didn’t come home yesterday, either. And I’m feeling worried, too.” She had lowered her eyes; she looked up as she added: “All the more so as my husband is away from home just now.”

There was a simplicity, a frankness, about her that Antoine had never seen in any other woman. Taken off her guard in this moment of anxiety, after a sleepless night, she made no effort to conceal her feelings from the young man; each successive emotion showed on her features in its natural colours. For a few moments they gazed at each other with all but unseeing eyes. Both were following the vagaries of their own thoughts.

Antoine had sprung out of bed with real detective zest. For he had not taken Jacques’s escapade tragically, and only his curiosity was involved. So he had come here to put the other boy, Jacques’s accomplice, “through it.” But now again it looked as if things would be more complicated than he had foreseen. And that by no means displeased him. Whenever, as now, he came up against the unforeseen, a steely look came into his eyes, and under the square-cut beard his chin, the strong Thibault chin, set like a block of granite.

“What time yesterday morning did your son leave home?” he asked.

“Quite early. But he returned soon after.”

“Ah! Was it between half-past ten and eleven?”

“About that.”

“Like his friend! Yes, they’ve run away together.” His tone was brisk; he sounded almost cheerful about it.

At that moment the door, which till now had stood ajar, was flung wide open and a child’s body, clad only in a chemise, fell forward onto the carpet. Mme. de Fontanin gave a cry. Antoine had already picked up the little girl—she had fainted—and was holding her in his arms. With Mme. de Fontanin showing the way, he carried the child to her room and placed her on the bed.

“Leave her to me, Madame. I’m a doctor. Some cold water, please. Have you any smelling salts?”

After a few minutes Jenny came to. Her mother gave her an affectionate smile, but the child’s eyes were unresponsive.

“She’s all right now,” Antoine said. “All she needs is to have some sleep.”

Whispering: “You hear, darling?” Mme. de Fontanin laid her hand on the child’s clammy forehead. Presently the hand slipped down over the eyelids and held them closed.

They stood for a while unmoving on either side of the bed. The fumes of sal volatile hovered in the air. Antoine, whose eyes had so far been fixed on the graceful hand and outstretched arm, now discreetly took stock of Mme. de Fontanin. The lace wrapped round her head had come loose and he could see now that her hair was fair, sprinkled with strands of grey. He took her age for about forty, though her manner and the vivacity of her face were those of a much younger woman.

Jenny seemed on the point of sleeping; the hand that rested on her eyes withdrew, lightly as a feather. They went out on tip-toe, leaving the door ajar. Mme. de Fontanin, who was walking in front, turned round.

“Thank you,” she said, holding out both hands towards Antoine. The gesture was so spontaneous, so masculine, that Antoine checked his first impulse courteously to press his lips to them.

“She’s so nervous, poor child,” Mme. de Fontanin explained. “She must have heard Puce bark and thought her brother had come back. She hasn’t been at all well since yesterday morning; she’s had fever all night.”

They sat down. Mme. de Fontanin slipped her hand inside her bodice and produced the note Daniel had written her on the previous day. As Antoine read it, she kept her eyes on him. In her relations with others she always let herself be guided by her first impressions, and from the very first she had felt that she could trust Antoine. “A man with a forehead like that,” she thought, “is incapable of an unworthy act.” He wore his hair brushed back and his beard came up rather high upon his cheeks; framed in dark auburn hair, the whole expression of his face seemed concentrated in the deep-set eyes and pale expanse of forehead. He folded up the letter and handed it back to her. He appeared to be turning its contents over in his mind; actually he was wondering how to break certain matters to her.

“I think,” he began tentatively, “we may infer a connexion between their flight and the fact that their friendship—well, their intimacy— had just been detected by their teachers.”

“ ‘Detected’?”

“Yes. The correspondence they had been keeping up, in a special grey exercise-book, had just been found.”

“What correspondence?”

“They used to write letters to each other during lessons. Letters, it seems, of a … a very special nature.” He looked away from her. “So much so that the two offenders had been threatened with expulsion.”

“ ‘Offenders’? Really, I’m afraid I don’t follow. What was wrong about their writing to each other?”

“The tone of their letters was, I gather, so very …”

“ ‘The tone of their letters’?” Obviously she still did not understand. But she was too sensitive not to have noticed Antoine’s growing embarrassment. Suddenly she shook her head.

“Anything of that sort is out of the question,” she said in a strained voice that shook a little. It was as if a gulf had suddenly opened out between them. She stood up. “That your brother and my son may have planned some sort of schoolboy prank together is quite possible, though Daniel has never uttered in my presence the name of …”

“Thibault.”

“Thibault!” The name, it seemed, surprised her. “That’s curious. My little daughter had a bad dream last night and I distinctly heard her pronounce that name.”

“She may have heard her brother speaking of his friend.”

“No, I tell you that Daniel never …”

“How else could she have learned the name?”

“Oh, these ‘supranormal’ phenomena are fairly common, really.”

“What phenomena?”

“The transmission of thought.” There was an intense, almost otherworldly look on her face.

Her explanation and the tone in which she spoke were so new to him that Antoine looked at her curiously. There was more than earnestness on Mme. de Fontanin’s face; it was illuminated, and on her lips there flickered the gentle smile of the believer who is used to braving the scepticism of the rest of mankind.

For a while they were silent. Then Antoine was struck by an idea that rekindled his detective enthusiasm.

“May I ask you a question, Mme. de Fontanin? You say your daughter spoke my brother’s name. And that all day yesterday she was suffering from an inexplicable attack of fever. Mayn’t that be because your son confided in her before going away?”