The Thibaults (25 page)

He returned to his desk and sat down, resting his elbows on the table.

“Firstly: it’s quite likely that Jacques will put up with his elder brother’s authority more easily than with yours, and I’m inclined to believe that if he enjoys greater freedom, he may lose that spirit of revolt and insubordination which has been so distressing in the past.

“Secondly: as regards Antoine, his levelheadedness entitles him to our entire trust. If you take him at his word, I’m convinced he won’t reject this chance of freeing his brother. And, as to those regrettable tendencies we were talking of this morning, a small cause can have great results. In my opinion the fact of being responsible for the spiritual welfare of another will tend to counteract them, and we shall find him coming back to a less—a less anarchical conception of society, and morals, and religion.

“Thirdly: your parental authority, once it is spared the friction of everyday contacts which wear it down and disperse its efficacy, will keep its prestige intact; you’ll be able to use it for that general supervision of your sons which is its prerogative and—how shall I put it?—its main function.

“Finally” —his tone grew confidential— “I must confess that, at the moment of your election, it strikes me as desirable that Jacques shall have left Crouy, and that the whole unhappy episode should be put out of mind. Celebrity attracts all sorts of interviews and inquiries, and you would be a target for the indiscretions of the press. That’s an entirely secondary consideration, I know; yet all the same …”

M. Thibault could not restrain a glance betraying his uneasiness. Though he would not admit it to himself, he knew that it would salve his conscience if the “prisoner” were released; in fact the plan suggested by the priest had everything in its favour. It would save his face
vis-à-vis
Antoine and bring Jacques back to normal life without his having to trouble about the boy.

“If I could be sure,” he said at last, “that the young rascal after being released wouldn’t bring new scandals upon us …”

The Abbé knew that he had gained his point. He undertook to exercise a discreet supervision over the two boys, anyhow during the first few months. Then he accepted an invitation to dine on the following day, and to take part in an interview M. Thibault would arrange for with his son.

M. Thibault rose to go. A weight had been lifted off his heart and he felt a new man. Still, just as he was shaking hands with his confessor, he felt a final qualm of conscience.

“May God in His compassion forgive me for being the man I am.” There was a note of sadness in his voice.

The priest beamed on him, and recited in a low voice, like a benediction:

“ ‘What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?’ ” A sudden smile lit up his face; he raised a finger to emphasize the words. “ ‘I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.’ ”

ONE morning—it was barely nine—the concierge of the building where Mme. de Fontanin lived asked to have a word with her. A “young person,” it seemed, wanted to see her but would neither go up to the flat nor give a name.

“A ‘young person’? Do you mean a woman?”

“A little girl.”

Mme. de Fontanin’s first impulse was to refuse to see her; the visit had probably to do with one of Jerome’s love-affairs; or was it blackmail?

“She’s quite a child,” the concierge remarked.

“I’ll see her.”

It was indeed a child whom she found hiding in the darkness of the concierge’s “lodge,” a child who met her eyes reluctantly.

“Why, it’s Nicole!” Mme. de Fontanin cried when she recognized Noémie Petit-Dutreuil’s daughter. Nicole was on the point of throwing herself into her aunt’s arms, but she checked the impulse. All the colour had gone out of her face and she was looking haggard, but she was not crying, and though her eyes seemed unnaturally large and her nerves were obviously on edge, she had complete control of herself.

“I’d like to speak to you, Auntie.”

“Come along upstairs.”

“No, not in your flat.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather not, please.”

“But why? I’m all by myself in the flat this morning.” She realized Nicole was uncertain what to do. “Daniel’s at school and Jenny’s gone to her piano lesson. I shall be alone till lunch. Now come along upstairs.”

Nicole followed her without a word. Mme. de Fontanin led her to her bedroom.

“What’s the matter?” She could not conceal her mistrust. “Who told you to come here? Where have you come from?”

Nicole looked at her without lowering her eyes, but her eyelids were fluttering.

“I’ve run away.”

“Run away!” Mme. de Fontanin looked distressed. Yet, at the same time she felt relieved. “And what made you come to us?”

Nicole made a movement with her shoulders that implied: “Where could I go? There’s nobody else.”

“Sit down, darling. Now let’s see… . You’re looking dreadfully tired. By the by, are you hungry?”

“Well, a bit,” she confessed with a timid smile.

“Why ever didn’t you say so at once?” Mme. de Fontanin smiled and led Nicole into the dining-room. When she saw with what appetite the little girl fell on the bread and butter, she went and fetched what remained of some cold meat from the sideboard. Nicole ate without saying a word, ashamed of showing such voracity but unable to conceal her hunger. The colour was coming back to her cheeks. She drank two cups of tea in quick succession.

“How long is it since your last meal?” Mme. de Fontanin asked. She was looking even more upset than the little girl. “Are you feeling cold, dear?”

“No, thank you.”

“But you must be. You’re shivering.”

Nicole made a petulant gesture; she was always angry with herself for not being able to conceal her moments of weakness.

“I travelled all night. I expect that’s why I’m feeling a bit cold.”

“You travelled all night! Where on earth have you come from?”

“From Brussels.”

“Good heavens! All by yourself?”

“Yes,” Nicole answered in a level voice, “all by myself.” The firmness of her tone showed that she had acted not on caprice but a set purpose. Mme. de Fontanin took her hand.

“You’re freezing, child! Come along to my bedroom. Wouldn’t you like to lie down and sleep a bit? You can tell me all about it later.”

“No, I’d rather tell you now, while we’re alone. Besides, I’m not sleepy. Really, I’m quite all right now.”

It was one of the first days in April. Mme. de Fontanin wrapped a shawl round the little runaway, lit the fire, and tried to get her to sit in front of it. At first the child resisted, but at last she gave way. She seemed in a highly nervous state, her eyes were shining with a hard, unnatural fixity, and she was staring at the clock on the mantelpiece. Obviously she was eager to speak, but, now she was seated beside her aunt, had suddenly become tongue-tied. Not to increase her embarrassment, Mme. de Fontanin refrained from looking at her.

Minutes passed, and still Nicole did not say anything. Mme. de Fontanin decided to speak first.

“Whatever you’ve done, dear, no one here will ask you anything about it. Keep your secret, if you’d rather do so. I’m grateful to you for having thought of coming to us. You’re like a daughter here, you know.”

Nicole stiffened up, startled by the thought that she was being suspected of having done something wrong, something she disliked confessing. She made a sudden movement that let slip the shawl from her shoulders, revealing the curves of a healthy young body, strangely incongruous with her haggard cheeks and the immaturity of her features.

“It’s not that at all!” Her eyes were flashing. “And now I’m going to tell you everything.” Her voice had an almost aggressive harshness as she began her story.

“You remember, Auntie, the day you came to see us at our flat in the Rue de Monceau …?”

“Yes, indeed!” Mme. de Fontanin sighed, and again a look of anguish crossed her face.

“Well, I heard everything, every word!” The words came with a rush; her eyelids were quivering.

There was a pause.

“I knew it, my dear.”

The child stifled a sob and hid her face with her hands as if the tears were flowing from her eyes. But almost at once she took her hands away; her eyes were dry, and her lips tightly set—which changed not only the expression of her face but the quality of her voice.

“Don’t think hardly of her, please, Aunt Thérèse. She’s so dreadfully unhappy, you know. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes.” A question was hovering on Mme. de Fontanin’s lips, and she looked at the girl with a calm that carried no conviction. “Tell me, is—is your Uncle Jerome at Brussels, too?”

“Yes.” For a moment she was silent, then her eyebrows lifted and she added: “Why, it was he who gave me the idea of running away, of coming here.”

“What! He told you to run away?”

“Well, no, not exactly that. You see, he’d been coming every morning all last week. He gave me some money to buy myself food, as I’d been left all alone. Then the day before yesterday he said: ‘If some kind soul would find room for you, it would be much better for you than staying here.’ ‘Some kind soul,’ he said, and of course I thought of you at once, Aunt Thérèse. And I’m sure he had the same idea. Don’t you think so?”

“Very likely,” Mme. de Fontanin murmured. And suddenly a feeling of such happiness swept over her that she all but smiled.

Eagerly she asked: “How did you come to be alone? Where ever were you?”

“At home.”

“In Brussels?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know your mother had gone to live in Brussels.”

“We had to, at the end of November. Everything was sold up at our place in Paris. Mummy never has any luck, she’s always in trouble, with bailiffs coming round for money. But now the debts have been paid off, she’ll be able to return.”

Mme. de Fontanin looked up quickly, on the brink of asking: “
Who
is paying them?” And so obvious was the question in her gaze that she could read its unspoken answer on the little girl’s lips. She could not restrain herself from asking:

“And
he
—he left in November, with her, I suppose?”

There was such anguish in her voice that Nicole did not answer for a while. At last she forced herself to speak.

“Auntie, you mustn’t be cross with me; I don’t want to hide anything from you, but it’s so difficult to explain everything, all at once. Do you know M. Arvelde?”

“No. Who is he?”

“He’s a wonderful violinist who used to give me lessons here. He’s a really great artist, you know; he plays in concerts.”

“Well?”

“He lived in Paris, but he’s a Belgian really. That’s why, when we had to run away, he took us to Belgium. He has a house of his own in Brussels, and we stayed there.”

“With him?”

“Yes.” She had understood the question and did not shirk it; indeed she seemed to find a certain perverse pleasure in vanquishing her reticence. But for the moment she did not dare to say more.

After a rather long pause Mme. de Fontanin spoke again.

“But where were you living during these last few days, when you were by yourself and Uncle Jerome came to see you?”

“There.”

“At that Belgian gentleman’s house, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“And did your uncle visit you there?”

“Why, of course.”

“But how did you come to be alone?” Mme. de Fontanin’s voice had lost none of its gentleness.

“Because M. Raoul is on tour just now, in Lucerne and Geneva.”

“M. Raoul? Who is that?”

“M. Arvelde.”

“So your mother left you alone in Brussels to go to Switzerland with him?” The little girl’s gesture was so desperate, so pitiful, that Mme. de Fontanin blushed. “You must forgive me, darling,” she added weakly. “Don’t let’s talk any more about all this. You’ve come here and that’s quite all right, and I hope you’ll stay with us.”

Nicole shook her head energetically.

“No, no, there’s not much more to tell.” She took a deep breath, then broke into a voluble explanation. “This is what’s happened, Auntie. M. Arvelde has gone to Switzerland. But Mamma didn’t go with him. He had got her an engagement at a theatre in Brussels; she’s playing in a light opera—because of her voice, you know; he made her work hard at her singing, and she’s been awfully successful, really. They talk about her in the papers; I’ve got the clippings in my bag—would you like to see them?” She stopped suddenly, uncertain of her ground. A curious look came into her eyes as she went on. “So you see it was just because M. Raoul went to Switzerland that Uncle Jerome came, but it was too late. When he arrived Mamma had left the house. One evening she came and kissed me. No, that’s not true.” Her eyebrows knitted, and she continued in a low, forlorn voice: “She didn’t kiss me, she almost beat me, because she didn’t know what on earth to do with me.” Raising her eyes, she forced a smile to her lips. “Oh, no, she wasn’t really angry with me; it wasn’t that at all.” A sob broke from the smiling lips. “She was so awfully unhappy, Aunt Thérèse; you simply can’t imagine. She had to go, as someone was waiting for her downstairs, and she knew Uncle Jerome would be coming soon, because he’d been to see us several times; he even played music with M. Raoul. But, the last time, he said he wouldn’t come again while M. Arvelde was there. So, just before she went out, Mamma told me to tell Uncle Jerome that she’d gone away for a long time, that she was leaving me behind and he was to look after me. I’m sure he would have done so, only I didn’t dare to say it when I saw the way he looked when he came and found her gone. He was so terribly angry, I was afraid he might go after them, so I had to tell him a lie. I said Mamma was coming back next day; and every day I told him I was expecting her. He kept on hunting for her high and low; he thought she was still in Brussels. But everything was so awful, I felt I simply couldn’t stay there any longer—because of M. Raoul’s valet especially. He’s such a nasty man; I hate him!” She shivered. “Oh, Aunt Thérèse, he has such horrible eyes—I can’t bear him! So, the day Uncle Jerome spoke to me about some kind soul, all of a sudden I made up my mind. Yesterday morning, when he gave me a little money, I went out at once so that the servant shouldn’t take it from me. I hid in churches until the evening, and I caught the slow night train.”