The Thibaults (4 page)

But now there was no holding the priest.

“In any case, if you want proof of our assertions, here it is!” Dropping his hat onto the floor, he drew from his girdle a grey, red-edged exercise-book. “Please cast a glance over this, Madame. However cruel it may seem to kill your illusions, we feel it our bounden duty, and we are convinced that you will yield to the evidence.”

He moved towards Mme. de Fontanin as if he were going to force the book on her. She got up from her chair.

“I refuse to read a line of it. The idea of prying into the secrets of this child behind his back, in public, without giving him a chance to explain—it’s revolting! I have never treated him in such a manner, and I never will.”

The Abbé Binot gazed at her, his arm still holding out the book, a sour smile on his thin lips.

“Have it your own way,” he said at last, with a derisive intonation. He placed the book on the desk, picked up his hat, and sat down again. Antoine felt a great desire to grasp him by the shoulders and put him out. His disgust was visible in his eyes, which, meeting the Abbé Vécard’s eyes, found them in accord.

Meanwhile Mme. de Fontanin’s attitude had changed; she raised her head defiantly and walked up to M. Thibault, who had not risen from his chair.

“All this is beside the point, M. Thibault. I came here only to inquire what you propose to do. My husband is away from Paris at the moment and I have to act alone. What I really came for was to tell you that in my opinion it would be a great pity to call in the police.”

“The police!” M. Thibault shouted, so exasperated that he rose from his chair. “But, my good woman, don’t you realize that the police in every department of France are after them already? I telephoned myself this morning to the private secretary of the Chief of Police, asking that every possible step be taken, with the utmost discretion, of course. I have also had a telegram sent to the Town Council at Maisons-Laffitte, in case the truants have had the idea of hiding in a neighbourhood they both know well. All the railway companies, frontier posts, and ports of embarkation have been advised. And, Madame, if it weren’t for the scandal, which I want to avoid at all costs, I’d say it would be a very good thing to give those two young ragamuffins the lesson they need, and have them brought home in handcuffs, escorted by the police—if only to remind them that even in these degenerate days there’s still a semblance of justice in France, some deference to parental rights.”

Without replying, Mme. de Fontanin bowed and moved towards the door. M. Thibault regained his self-control.

“Anyhow, Madame, you may rest assured that, if we get any news, my son will communicate with you at once.”

She acknowledged the remark with an almost imperceptible nod. Antoine and, after him, M. Thibault escorted her to the door.

“The Huguenot!” Abbé Binot jeered, as soon as she was out of sight. The Abbé Vécard could not repress a gesture of reproach.

“What? A Huguenot?” M. Chasle stammered, and recoiled as if he had just trodden in some revolting offal from Saint Bartholomew’s shambles.

ON HER return Mme. de Fontanin found Jenny lying half asleep in bed. Her fever showed no signs of going down. She lifted her head, gave her mother a questioning look, then shut her eyes again.

“Please take Puce away, Mother. The noise hurts me.”

As soon as Mme. de Fontanin was back in her room a fit of dizziness came over her; she sank into a chair, without even taking off her gloves. “Am I, too, in for a spell of fever?” she wondered. “Just when I most need to keep my head, to be strong and confident.” She bowed her head in prayer. When she raised it, she had settled on her line of action; the principal thing was to find her husband, bring him back.

Crossing the hall, she paused in front of a closed door, then opened it. The room was cool and had evidently not been used for some time; a faint, bitter-sweet tang of verbena and lavender hovered in the air —a scent of perfumed soaps and hair-oils. She drew aside the curtains. A desk occupied the centre of the room; a layer of fine dust covered the blotter. There were no papers lying about, no addresses, no clues. All the keys were in the locks. The man who used the room was certainly of a trusting nature. She pulled out a drawer in the desk and saw a number of letters, a few photographs, a fan, and, in a corner, screwed up in a ball, a shabby black silk glove. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. A memory floated up into her mind and, in her daydream, she seemed to be gazing at a half-forgotten scene.

One summer evening two years before, as she had been going in a tram along the bank of the Seine, she had caught a glimpse of something that made her stiffen up abruptly. Yes, she had recognized her husband Jerome, bending over a girl who was sitting on one of the benches by the riverside. The girl was crying. How often since then her fancy had cruelly enlarged on that brief glimpse, taking a sad pleasure in elaborating the details: the young woman shamelessly parading her grief, with her hat clumsily askew, and hastily extracting from her skirt a large, coarse handkerchief! And Jerome’s expression, above all! How sure she was of having guessed aright the feelings that possessed him then! A little pity, to be sure, for she knew that he was weak and easily moved; and a good deal of exasperation at being involved in such a scene in public; and, behind it all, cruelty. Yes, in his very attitude as he bent forward solicitously but without real tenderness, she could see only too clearly the shallow compunction of the lover who has “had enough of it,” who is perhaps already in quest of new adventure, and who, despite his pity, despite a secret shame, has decided to exploit the woman’s tears to make the breach between them absolute. All this had been revealed to her in a flash of insight, and each time the haunting memory returned she felt the faintness she was feeling now.

She left the room hastily and locked the door.

A definite plan had suggested itself: that young maid she had had to dismiss six months ago—yes, she must see Mariette. Mme. de Fontanin knew the address of her new place. Mastering her distaste, without further hesitaton, she went there.

The kitchen opened onto a service-staircase, on the fourth floor. It was the unsavoury hour of washing-up. Mariette opened the door. She was a bright little thing with golden curls and candid eyes—hardly more than a child. When she saw her former mistress, she blushed, but her eyes lit up.

“It’s very nice seeing you again, Ma’am. … Is Miss Jenny all right?”

Mme. de Fontanin hesitated, an anguished smile on her lips.

“Mariette—please tell me my husband’s address.”

The girl blushed scarlet; her large, puzzled eyes filled with tears. The address? She shook her head, she didn’t know—not where he was
now
. The master hadn’t been living at the hotel where … No, he had dropped her almost immediately. “Then you don’t know, Ma’am?” she added innocently.

But Mme. de Fontanin was moving away towards the door, with lowered eyes; she could not bear hearing any more. There was a short silence. The water in a saucepan was boiling over, hissing as it fell onto the range. Without thinking, Mme. de Fontanin pointed to it.

“Your water’s boiling over,” she said. Then, still moving towards the door, she added: “Are you happy here, my dear?”

The girl made no reply. When Mme. de Fontanin looked up, it seemed to her that there was something of the animal in the eyes and the keen teeth that showed between the young, parted lips. After a pause that seemed interminable to both, the girl brought herself to speak.

“Couldn’t you ask … Mme. Petit-Dutreuil?” she stammered.

Mme. de Fontanin did not hear the burst of sobbing that followed. She was hurrying down the stairs as if the house were on fire. That name had cast a sudden light on a number of coincidences she had hardly noticed at the time and had forgotten immediately. Now they all came back, and each fell into place in a chain of damning evidence.

An empty cab was passing; she jumped into it—the sooner she was home, the better. But, on the point of giving her address, an uncontrollable impulse gripped her—she fancied she was obeying a prompting from above.

“Rue de Monceau,” she told the driver.

A quarter of an hour later she was ringing at the door of her cousin, Noémie Petit-Dutreuil.

A fair-haired little girl of about fifteen opened the door. Her eyes smiled a greeting to the visitor.

“Good morning, Nicole. Is your mother at home?”

She was conscious of the child’s stare of astonishment.

“I’ll go and fetch her, Aunt Thérèse.”

Mme. de Fontanin waited in the hall. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she pressed her hand to her breast and dared not take it away. She tried to bring her emotions under control. The drawing-room door was open and the sun was bringing out the sheen of the velvet curtains and the colours of the carpet. The room had the carless elegance of a bachelor’s “den.” “And they said her divorce had left her penniless,” Mme. de Fontanin murmured. The thought reminded her that her husband had not sent her any money for two months; how was she to meet this month’s bills? And, following it, another thought crossed her mind: could Noémie’s unexpected opulence have come from—him?

Nicole did not return. Not a sound could be heard. More and more ill at ease, Mme. de Fontanin entered the drawing-room and sat down. The piano was open; a fashion paper was lying on the sofa; cigarettes lay on a low table; there was a bunch of red carnations in a vase. The more she looked around her, the more disturbed she felt. What could it be?

Because
he
was here, and his presence filled the room. It was he who had pushed the piano at that angle to the window, exactly as in her own home. It was he who had left it open or, if not he, it was for his sake that music lay scattered on it. It was he who had insisted on that wide, low sofa and the cigarette-box within easy reach. And it was he whom she now pictured there, lolling amongst the cushions, spruce and debonair as usual, gay eyes flashing under the long lashes, an arm dangling over the sofa edge, a cigarette between his fingers.

A soft, rustling sound made her start. Noémie had just entered, in a lace-trimmed dressing-gown, her arm resting on her daughter’s shoulder. She was a tall, dark, and rather plump woman of thirty-five.

“Good morning, Thérèse; you must excuse me. I’ve had such a frightful headache all day, it’s laid me out completely. Nicole dear, will you pull down the blind?”

The sparkle of her eyes and the healthy pink cheeks gave her the lie. Her volubility betrayed the embarrassment she felt at Thérèse’s visit, an embarrassment that grew to alarm when the latter, turning towards the child, said gently:

“There’s something I want to talk to your mother about, darling. Would you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

“Run off to your room, Nicole, and do your lessons there.” Noémie turned to her cousin with a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “Children of that age are so annoying, aren’t they?—always wanting to show off in the drawing-room. Is Jenny like that? I’m afraid I was just the same, do you remember? It used to drive poor Mother to despair.”

The object of Mme. de Fontanin’s visit had been only to get the address she required. But now she was here, Jerome’s presence had made itself so strongly felt, the injury done her seemed so flagrant, and the sight of Noémie flaunting her rather vulgar beauty in this room offended her so deeply that once again she gave way to impulse and came to a sudden, desperate decision.

“Do sit down, Thérèse,” Noémie said.

Instead of sitting down, Thérèse walked towards her cousin and held out her hand. The gesture was not in the least theatrical; it was too spontaneous,’ too dignified for that.

“Noémie, give me back my husband!” The words came with a rush. The smile froze on Mme. Petit-Dutreuil’s lips. Mme. de Fontanin was still holding her hand. “You needn’t answer. I’m not blaming you—I know only too well what he is.” She paused for a moment, breathless. Noémie did not take advantage of the moment to defend herself, and Mme. de Fontanin was glad of her silence, not that it was tantamount to a confession but because it showed that she was not so hardened as to be able to parry such a home-thrust on the spur of the moment.

“Listen, Noémie,” Mme. de Fontanin continued. “Our children are growing up. Your daughter … and my two children as well. Daniel’s over fourteen now. You know the terrible effects of bad examples, how contagious evil is. Things can’t go on like this any longer—I’m sure you agree. Soon I shan’t be the only one to watch him … and to suffer.” A note of pleading came into her voice. “Yes, give him back to us, Noémie.”

“But, Thérèse, I assure you… . Why, you must be off your head!” The younger woman was recovering her self-composure, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes, and her lips were set. “Yes, you must be mad, Thérèse, to think of such a thing. It was silly of me to let you go on talking like that, but I couldn’t believe my ears. You’ve been dreaming—or else been listening to a lot of ridiculous gossip. Now I want you to explain.”

Mme. de Fontanin gave her cousin a pensive, almost affectionate glance that seemed to say: “Poor stunted soul! Still, your heart is better than your way of living.” But then her eyes fell on the smoothly rounded shoulder, the soft voluptuous flesh that seemed fluttering, like a trapped dove, beneath the gauzy lace. And the picture that rose before her eyes was so realistic that she had to close them. A look of hatred, then of grief, flitted across her face. She felt her courage failing, and decided to put an end to the interview.

“Well, perhaps I’m mistaken. But do, please, give me his address. No, not his address. I only ask you, let him know that I have need of him.”

Noémie stiffened up. “Let him know? Do you think
I
know where he is?” She had gone very red. “Look here, Thérèse, I’ve had about enough of your nonsense. I admit Jerome comes to see me now and then. Why not? We make no secret of it. After all, we’re cousins. Why shouldn’t we?” Instinct gave her the words that would cut deepest. “He’ll be
so
tickled when I tell him that you came and made this absurd scene. I wish you could be here then!”