The Thibaults (9 page)

“Let’s walk,” he said, scowling at Daniel. “One can’t think properly sitting down.”

At four o’clock they were back at the quay. The
La Fayette
was the focus of an animated scene. A steady stream of dock-hands, with crates and boxes on their shoulders—like ants rescuing their eggs— was passing along the gangplanks. The two boys, Jacques in front, followed them. On the freshly scrubbed deck sailors were operating a winch above a yawning gulf, lowering baggage and cargo into the hold. A small, sturdy man with a beaked nose, hairy black hands and cheeks, and a smooth pink skin, was directing operations. He was wearing a blue jacket with gold braid on the sleeves.

At the last moment Jacques backed out.

“Excuse me, sir,” Daniel began, slowly removing his hat, “are you the captain?”

“Why do you want to know that?” the man inquired with a laugh.

“I’ve come with my brother, sir. We’d like to ask you …” Even before the end of the phrase Daniel was conscious he had taken a wrong line, that he had bungled it beyond redress. “… to—er—take us to Tunis on your ship.”

“All alone like that, eh?” the man asked with a sort of leer. There was something in his bloodshot eyes—a glint of unsavoury effrontery, almost maniacal—that suggested more than the words conveyed.

Daniel realized that there was nothing for it but to go on with their preconcerted story.

“We came to Marseille to join our father; he’s been given a job in Tunis, on a rice-farm, and—er—he has written to us to join him there. We have the money for our fares.” That improvised addition to their story, he realized, once he had made it, sounded as lame as all the rest.

“Right. Who are you staying with at Marseille just now?”

“With … with nobody. We’ve only just come from the station.”

“You don’t know any one at Marseille?”

“N-no.”

“And so you want to come on board today?”

Daniel was on the point of answering no and bolting without more ado. But he answered feebly:

“Well, yes, sir.”

“See here, my young beauties,” the sailor grinned, “you’re mighty lucky the Old Man didn’t find you here. He don’t have much time for jokers like you, that he don’t, and he’d have clapped you into irons and sent you off to the police, just to find out what your little game may be. And, now I think of it, I’m damned if that ain’t the best thing to do with little scallawags like you!” he suddenly roared, catching Daniel by the sleeve. “Hi there, Chariot! You nab the little chap, while I …”

But Jacques, who had seen his gesture, took a wild leap over the packing-cases, dodged Chariot’s outstretched arm with a wriggle, and was at the gangway in three strides. Slipping like a monkey between the dockers coming up it, he jumped onto the quay, turned left, and started bolting for dear life. Then suddenly he remembered Daniel, and looked back. Yes, Daniel was escaping, too. Jacques watched him thread his way between the ant-like file of dock-hands, dash off the gangway, and swerve to the right, while the supposed captain, leaning on the bulwarks, roared with laughter at their panic. Jacques started running again. He and Daniel could meet later; for the moment the thing to do was to hide among the crowd and to get away, to get away at all costs!

A quarter of an hour later, out of breath, in a deserted street on the outskirts of the city, he stopped. At first he felt a cruel glee in fancying Daniel had been caught. If he had been, he deserved it. Wasn’t it his fault their plans had come to grief? He hated him now and was half inclined to make off into the country and carry on the escapade alone, without bothering about Daniel. He bought cigarettes and began smoking. However, after making a long detour through a modern quarter of the town, he found himself back at the quayside. The
La Fayette
was still there. From where he was he could just see the three decks lined with people, packed like sardines; the liner was getting under way. He ground his teeth and turned on his heel.

Then he began to look for Daniel, feeling he must vent his anger on somebody. After wandering through various streets, he entered the Cannebiere, followed the stream of loiterers for a time, then turned on his tracks. The air was oppressive; a storm was brewing. Jacques was bathed in sweat. How was he to find Daniel among all those people? His desire to get in touch with his companion became more and more insistent, as his hopelessness of doing so increased. His lips, parched by the unaccustomed cigarettes and the fever in his blood, were burning.

Without caring whether he attracted attention, or troubling about a distant growl of thunder, he started running desperately along the streets, peering in all directions till his eyes ached. Then a sudden change came over the city. The facades of the buildings stood out pale against a livid sky and a grey light seemed rising from the cobbles. The storm was rapidly approaching. Great drops of rain began to star the pavement. A violent clap of thunder, close at hand, set him trembling. He was walking past some steps, beneath a pillared entrance which he discovered was the porch of a church. The door was open; he ran in.

His steps echoed under the high roof and a familiar scent assailed his nostrils. Immediately he felt a vast relief, a sense of security. He was no longer alone; the presence of God was round him, sheltering him. But at the same moment a new fear gripped him. Since leaving home he had not once thought of God. And suddenly he felt hovering above him the unseen Eye that sees and penetrates the most secret places of the heart. He knew himself for a miserable sinner whose profanation of this holy place might well bring down on him God’s vengeance. Rain gushed down the roof, violent flashes lit up the windows of the apse, the thunder roared incessantly, echoing round him as he cowered in the incense-laden darkness; almost he fancied that the fires of heaven were seeking out the offender! Kneeling at a
priedieu
, Jacques humbled himself before the altar, with bowed head, and hastily recited a paternoster and some aves.

At last the crashes began to space out; a spectral light glimmered across the stained-glass windows: the storm was passing. All immediate danger was over. He had a feeling that he had cheated, had eluded just reprisals. Deep down in him the sense of guilt persisted, but tempered by a thrill of perverse arrogance at having escaped the hand of justice. And, though he had qualms about it, it gave him a certain pleasure. Night was closing in. Why was he lingering here? With the passing of his fear a curious apathy had come over him and, staring at the wavering candle-flames upon the altar, he was conscious of a vague feeling of dissatisfaction, almost of resentment, as though the church had been secularized. A sacristan came to close the doors. He fled like a thief, without the merest apology for a prayer, without a genuflexion. He knew well that he was not taking away with him God’s pardon.

A brisk wind was drying up the pavements. Few people were about. Jacques began to wonder where Daniel might be. He pictured the mishaps that might have befallen him and his eyes filled with tears, blurring the road ahead. He tried to keep them back by walking more quickly. At that moment had he seen Daniel crossing the street and coming towards him, he would have swooned with joy and affection for his friend.

A clock struck eight. Windows were lighting up. Feeling hungry, he bought some bread, then continued walking straight before him, haunted by his despair, without so much as troubling to scrutinize the people he encountered.

Two hours later, thoroughly fagged out, he noticed a seat under some trees in a deserted avenue. He sat down. From the branches of a plane-tree heavy drops fell on his head. … A peremptory hand was shaking his shoulder. He realized he must have fallen asleep. He saw a policeman examining him, and felt like fainting; his legs seemed giving way beneath him.

“Get home now, my lad; and look sharp about it!”

Jacques fled into the darkness. He had ceased wondering about Daniel, had ceased thinking about anything. His feet were sore. Whenever he saw a policeman he slunk out of his sight. He made his way back to the harbour. Midnight was striking. The wind had fallen; coloured lights, two by two, were dancing on the water. The wharf was deserted. He all but fell over the legs of a beggar snoring in a nook between two bales. Stronger than his fears, there came on him an irresistible desire to lie down, to sleep, no matter where, at all costs. He took a few steps, lifted the corner of a big tarpaulin, stumbled over boxes smelling of sodden wood, fell down, and was asleep at once.

Meanwhile Daniel was hunting high and low for Jacques. He had roamed round the station, round the hotel where they had slept and the offices of the shipping company; all in vain. He went back to the harbour. The
La Fayette’s
berth was empty, the port seemed dead; the storm was sending the loiterers home.

With lowered head he started back to the centre of town, the rain beating on his shoulders. After buying some food for Jacques and himself he took a seat at the cafe which they had visited in the morning. It was coming down in torrents in this part of the city. At every window the sun-blinds were being hauled in and the waiters at the cafe, with napkins on their heads, were rolling up the large awnings above the terraces. Trams sped past, their trolleys flashing vivid sparks along the wires against the leaden sky, their wheels cutting like ploughshares through the torrent on the road and throwing the water up on either side. Daniel’s feet were sopping, his temples throbbing. What could have become of Jacques? Even more painful to him than the fact that he had lost touch with the younger boy was the thought of his anxiety and distress, all alone. He told himself that he would catch sight of him just over there, at that corner by the bakery, and watched intently. With his mind’s eye he pictured Jacques trudging through the puddles, his face ghastly white and his eyes desperately hunting for his friend in every direction. Time and time again he was on the point of calling out—but it was not Jacques, only an unknown little boy dashing into the baker’s and emerging with a loaf tucked under his coat.

Two hours passed. The rain had stopped and darkness was falling. Daniel dared not go; he felt sure Jacques would turn up the moment he left the place where he was waiting. At last he made a move, towards the station. The white globe above the door of their hotel was lit up. It was a badly lighted neighbourhood; would they be able to recognize each other, he wondered, if they met in this obscurity?

A voice cried: “Mummy!” He saw a boy of his own age crossing the street and joining a lady, who kissed him. She had opened her umbrella to protect herself from the drips off the roofs. Her son linked his arm with hers; affectionately talking, they disappeared into the darkness. An engine whistled. Daniel felt too exhausted to fight down his depression.

Ah, what a fool he had been to follow Jacques! Only too well he knew it now; indeed, he had been conscious of it all the time, from the very start, since their early morning meeting at the Luxembourg, when they had decided on the mad adventure. No, never for a moment had he been able to shake off the idea that if, instead of running away, he had hastened to explain things to his mother, far from reproaching him she would have shielded him from everything and everybody, and no harm would have come to him. Why had he given way? He simply could not understand what had possessed him to act as he had done.

He saw himself again, that Sunday morning, in the hall. Jenny, hearing his footsteps, had run up to him. On the tray had lain a yellow envelope with the lycée stamp—announcing his expulsion, he assumed. He had hidden it under the tablecloth. Silently Jenny had gazed at him with her keen eyes; she had guessed that some alarming event had happened, and followed him to his room. She had seen him pick up the wallet in which he kept his savings. Then she had thrown herself on him and clasped him in her arms, kissing him, holding him so tightly that he could hardly breathe. “What’s the matter? What are you going to do?” He had confessed that he was running away, that he was in trouble at school, he was falsely accused and all the masters were leagued against him; that it was essential he should disappear for a few days. “Alone?” she had asked. No, he was going with a friend. “Who is it?” Thibault. “Take me with you!” He had drawn her to him as he had used to do when they were little, and had asked in a low voice: “What about Mother?” She had burst into tears. Then he had said: “Don’t be afraid, and don’t believe anything they may say. In a few days I’ll write, and I shall come back. But swear to me, swear that you will never tell Mother, or anyone else—never, never—that I came home and you saw me and you knew I was going away.” She had given a quick nod. Then he had tried to kiss her, but she had run off to her bedroom, sobbing bitterly. Her last cry of utter, heartrending despair still rang in his ears… . He stepped out more briskly.

Walking straight ahead, without looking where he was going, he soon found himself at some distance from the city, in the suburbs. The pavements were deep in slush, and street-lamps few and far between. Black gulfs of darkness yawned on either side: the entrances of yards and evil-smelling alleys. Children swarmed in the squalid tenement-houses, and in a sordid tavern a gramophone was grinding away. Turning, he walked for some time in the opposite direction. And now he realized that he was dead-tired. A lighted clock-tower showed up, and he knew that he was back at the station. The hands marked one. A long night lay before him; what was he to do? He looked round for some place where he could stop and take breath. A gas-lamp was burning at the entrance of a blind alley; crossing the tract of light, he crouched down in the darkness. A high factory wall rose on his left; resting his back against it, he closed his eyes.

A woman’s voice woke him with a start. “You don’t propose sleeping there all night, do you? Where do you live?”

She led him out under the light. He stared at her, tongue-tied.

“I can see,” she went on. “You’ve had a row with your dad, and you daren’t go back home. That’s it, eh?”

Her voice was gentle. He saw no need to undeceive her.

“Yes, Madame,” he said politely, hat in hand.