The Thibaults (54 page)

“Thank you, thank you,” he stammered. “Ah, Thérèse, if you only knew …! The chief thing is to settle the doctor’s bill: five hundred florins.”

The cab had crossed a stone bridge spanning what looked like a wide river, crowded with shipping; now, after traversing some narrow suburban streets, it entered a small square and pulled up in front of a flight of steps abutting on a chapel. Jerome alighted, paid the cabman, and lifted out his wife’s bag. Then, without more ado, he helped Thérèse down from the vehicle, walked up the steps, and held the door ajar. It seemed to be neither a Catholic nor a Protestant church; a synagogue, perhaps.

“I must ask you to excuse me,” he whispered, “but I don’t want to drive up to the house. They keep a sharp lookout on strangers—I’ll explain later.” Then with a quick change of tone he became the man-about-town, making an affable suggestion. “Isn’t the air delicious this morning? I’m sure you won’t mind a short walk. I’ll lead the way, shall I?”

She followed him without comment. The cab was out of sight. Jerome took her along a vaulted passage leading down a flight of stone steps to the solitary quay of a canal; on the other side the houses came down straight to the edge of the water which lapped the basements. Sunlight played on brick walls and flashing window-panes; the sills were gay with nasturtiums and geraniums. The quay was crowded with people, trestle-tables, and baskets; an open-air market was being set up and, amidst the oddments and old junk, small craft were unlading boatloads of flowers whose perfumes mingled with the musty reek of stagnant water.

Jerome turned towards his wife.

“Not too tired, sweetheart?”

He gave a singing lilt to the word—-“sweetheart”—just as in the old days. She dropped her eyes and did not answer him.

Without an inkling of the emotions he had conjured up he pointed to a house with low eaves, to which a footbridge gave access.

“There it is,” he said. “Yes, it’s not much of a place. You must forgive me for this poor welcome.”

As he said, the house had a humble appearance, but the fresh coat of brown stucco and the white woodwork reminded her of a well-kept yacht. The flame-coloured blinds of the second floor were down, and on them she could read in unassuming letters:

PENSION ROOSJE-METHILDA.

So Jerome was living in some sort of hotel, a nondescript abode where the sensation that they were her hosts would not weigh too heavily; that, anyhow, was a relief.

They stepped onto the footbridge. There was a movement at one of the blinds. Was Noémie on the watch? Mme. de Fontanin drew herself erect. It was only then she noticed, between two ground-floor windows, a crudely painted metal sign depicting a stork beside its nest, whence a naked baby was emerging.

They went along a corridor, then up a staircase redolent of beeswax. Jerome halted on the landing and knocked twice. She could hear whispers behind the door, a peephole shutter was drawn aside, and presently the door was opened cautiously, just enough to let Jerome in.

“Will you allow me …?” he murmured. “I’ll just let them know.”

Mme. de Fontanin heard a brief colloquy in Dutch, and almost immediately Jerome opened the door wide. The others had gone. She followed him along an interminable, winding passage with a beeswaxed floor. Mme. de Fontanin felt ill at ease; the thought that she might encounter Noémie at any moment unnerved her and she had to summon up all her courage to preserve her calm demeanour. But there was no one in the room they entered; it was clean and cheerful, and gave onto the canal.

“Here, sweetheart,” said Jerome, “you are—at home!”

An unuttered question rose to her lips: “And what about Noémie?”

He read her thought.

“I must leave you for a moment,” he said. “I’ll just go and see if I’m needed.”

But, before leaving, he went towards his wife and took her hand.

“Oh, Thérèse, I must, I must tell you. … If you only knew what a terrible time I’ve been having! But, now you are here… .” His lips and cheek caressed Mme. de Fontanin’s hand. She shrank from his touch; he made no effort to coerce her. “I’ll come back for you in a moment… . You’re sure you don’t mind—seeing her again?” He began to move away.

Yes, she would see Noémie once again; she had come to this place of her own accord, and she would see it through. But after that, without wasting a moment, she would go away, whatever came of it. She made a gesture of assent, and, oblivious of Jerome’s stammered thanks, bent over her valise, pretending to hunt for something in it, till he had left the room.

Alone now with her thoughts, she felt less sure of herself. Taking off her hat, she glanced into the mirror and noticed her tired face. She passed her hand over her forehead. What could have induced her to come here? She felt ashamed.

A knock at the door cut short her mood of weakness. She had no time to say “Come in” before it opened. The woman in a red dressing-gown who entered was obviously past her prime, despite her jet-black hair and made-up complexion. She put some questions in a tongue that Mme. de Fontanin did not understand, made an impatient gesture, and called in another woman who evidently had been waiting in the corridor. The new-comer was younger and she, too, wore a dressing-gown; hers was sky-blue. She greeted Mme. de Fontanin in a guttural voice:

“
Dag
, Madame. Good morning.”

The Dutchwomen held a brief colloquy, the older explaining what the other was to say. The younger woman paused a moment, then, turning amiably towards Mme. de Fontanin, addressed her, halting between each sentence:

“The lady says you shall take off the sick lady. You must pay the bill and move to one other house.
Verstaat U
? Understand you what I say?”

Mme. de Fontanin made an evasive gesture—all this was no concern of hers. The older woman broke in again; she seemed worried and determined to have her way.

“The lady says,” the young woman interpreted, “even if you pay not the bill at once, you must move, go away, take the sick lady to a room in an hotel somewhere else.
Verstaat U
? That is better for the
Politie
.”

The door was flung open and Jerome appeared. Going up to the woman in red, he began scolding her in Dutch, propelling her meanwhile over the threshold. The woman in blue said nothing; her bold eyes wandered from Jerome’s face to Mme. de Fontanin’s, and back again. The older woman was obviously in a blazing temper; raising an arm that jangled a full peal of bracelets like a gipsy’s, she spluttered incoherent phrases in which certain words recurred like a refrain:

“
Morgen . . , Morgen … Politie
…”

At last Jerome managed to ged rid of them, and turned the key.

“Really, I’m dreadfully sorry.” His face showed his vexation as he turned towards his wife.

Thérèse realized now that, instead of going to Noémie, he had adjourned to his room, to complete his toilet; he had just shaved, there was a touch of powder on his cheek, and he looked younger. And I, she thought, what a sight I must be, after travelling all night!

“I should have told you to lock yourself in,” he explained. “The old dame who runs the place is a decent soul in her way, but she talks too much and has no manners.”

“What did she want of me?” Thérèse inquired absent-mindedly. The odour of lavender that always floated round Jerome when he had just finished dressing had evoked the past, leaving her pensive for some moments, with parted lips and brooding eyes.

“I haven’t a notion what she was jabbering about,” he replied. “She probably mistook you for someone else who’s staying here.”

“The woman in blue told me several times to pay the bill and go elsewhere.”

Jerome laughed. She seemed to hear an echo from the past—that rather artificial, self-satisfied way he had of laughing, with his head flung back.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Too absurd for words!” he guffawed. “Perhaps the old hag thought I wouldn’t pay her.” He seemed to consider it unthinkable that he should ever be at a loss to pay his debts. Then suddenly his face fell. “Am I to blame? I tried my best, but no hotel would hear of taking us in.”

“But I gathered from her it had to do with the police.”

He seemed astounded.

“What? She mentioned the police?”

“Yes, I think so.” Once more she caught on Jerome’s face that look of dubious innocence which she associated with the darkest moments of her life; it gave her a sudden nausea, as though the air in the room were plague-infected.

“An old wives’ tale, all that! Why should there be a police inquiry? Just because there happens to be a consulting-room on the ground floor? No. The only thing that matters is to be able to pay that doctor fellow his five hundred florins.”

Mme. de Fontanin was as mystified as ever and this distressed her, for she always liked things made clear. But what grieved her most was to find that once again Jerome had let himself become entangled in a network of intrigues of which she hardly liked to think.

“How long have you been staying here?” she asked, hoping to get something definite out of him.

“Two weeks. No, not so long; ten or twelve days, more likely. I’ve lost track of things… .”

“And … her illness?” The tone was so insistent that he dared not evade her question.

“That’s just what the trouble’s about.” The reply came pat enough. “With these foreign doctors it’s so hard to make out what is really the matter. It’s a local disease of sorts, one of those—er—Dutch fevers, you know—something to do with the miasma from the canals.” He pondered for a moment. “This city reeks with malaria, you know; the air is full of infections the doctors don’t know much about.”

She listened to him perfunctorily, but could not help noticing that, whenever Noémie was in question, Jerome’s attitude—the way he shrugged his shoulders, his casual air when speaking of her illness— was hardly that of a devoted lover. But she forbade herself to see in this an avowal of estrangement.

He did not observe the searching glance she cast on him; he had gone to the window, and, though he had not moved the blind, his eyes were fixed intently on the quay. When he came back to her, his face had assumed the earnest and sincere yet disillusioned air she knew so well and so much dreaded.

“Thank you, dear, you’re very good to me!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I’ve wounded you again and again—and yet you have come to me. Thérèse … Sweetheart …”

Shrinking away, she would not meet his eyes. But, such was her insight into others’ feelings—into Jerome’s most of all—she could not question the sincerity of his emotion and his gratitude at this moment. Yet she could not bring herself to answer, or prolong the conversation.

“Please take me … there,” she said.

After a brief hesitation, he gave way.

“Come.”

The moment she dreaded was at hand. “I must be brave,” she murmured as she followed him down the long dark corridor. “Is she still in bed … convalescent? What shall I say to her?” It struck her once more how worn out she must look after her journey, and she wished she had at least put on her hat again.

Jerome halted at a closed door. With a trembling hand Mme. de Fontanin settled her white hair. “She’ll find me looking terribly old,” she all but said aloud, and all her self-confidence oozed away.

Jerome opened the door noiselessly. So she’s in bed, Mme. de Fontanin decided.

Chintz curtains patterned with blue flowers were drawn across the window and a subdued light filled the room. Two women, whom she had not seen before, rose as she came in. One of them, who wore an apron and was busy knitting, was presumably a servant or an attendant; the other, a buxom matron some fifty years old, had a violet bandanna round her head and looked like an Italian peasant. As Mme. de Fontanin entered, the older woman began to beat a retreat, whispering something in Jerome’s ear as she went out.

Thérèse did not notice the woman’s departure, or the disorder of the room, the basin and the dirty towels littering the sheets. Her gaze was riveted on the sick woman stretched flat upon the pillowless bed. Would Noémie turn in her direction? She was snoring, seemingly asleep. A craven impulse urged Mme. de Fontanin to leave her to her rest, and go; but then Jerome signed to her to come to the foot of the bed and she dared not refuse. Then she saw that Noémie’s eyes were open and the stertorous breathing came in gasps from her wide-open mouth. As she grew used to the half-light she saw a bloodless face and ice-blue eyes, their pupils set in the glassy stare of butchered animals. In a flash it came to her that she was standing by a deathbed and in her consternation she turned quickly with a cry for help upon her lips. But Jerome was at her side, gazing at the dying woman; his grief was plain to read upon his face and she saw at once that he had nothing to learn from her.

“Since her last hemorrhage—it was the fourth attack,” he whispered, “she has never regained consciousness. She has been like that all night.” Tears gathered slowly at the edges of his eyelids, hung for a moment on the lashes, rolled down his sallow cheeks.

Mme. de Fontanin tried in vain to pull herself together; she could hardly bring herself to admit the evidence of her eyes.

Yes, Noémie was dying and would pass out of their lives; Noémie, whom only a moment ago she had pictured as triumphing over her! She dared not take her eyes of! the dying woman’s face where even now all movement was arrested—the rigid nostrils, dulled eyes, and bloodless lips through which the rattling breath, coming, it seemed, from very far away, rose and ebbed, and feebly rose again. She lingered on each feature, turn by turn, with curiosity (which was half terror) still unsated. Could that be Noémie—that shape of ashen, bloodless flesh, with a wisp of brown hair plastered across a dry, white-gleaming forehead? Drained of colour and expression, the face seemed wholly unfamiliar. How long was it since she last saw Noémie? Then it came back to her, the day live or six years ago when she had rushed to Noémie’s house to cry in vain: “Give me back my husband!” Her cousin’s shrill laugh seemed echoing in her ears, and she remembered with a shudder the handsome woman lolling on the sofa, and her glimpse of a plump shoulder stirring beneath the lace. That was the day when Nicole had run up to her in the hall and …