The Thibaults

  Much to Antoine’s surprise the worthy spinster had agreed almost without protest to the idea of the two brothers’ being installed outside the parental walls, though such a project must have run counter to all her notions of home-life as it should be lived, and played havoc with her views of the Family and Education. Antoine accounted for Mademoiselle’s attitude by the pleasure she felt at Jacques’s return, and the respect in which she held the decisions of M. Thibault, above all when they had the commendation of the Abbé Vécard.

  As a matter of fact there was another reason for Mademoiselle’s almost enthusiastic acquiescence: the relief she felt at seeing Antoine leave the flat. Ever since she had taken Gise under her wing the poor old lady had lived in constant terror of infectious diseases. One spring she had actually kept Gise imprisoned in her room for six weeks, not daring to let her take the air elsewhere than on the balcony and delaying the departure of the whole family to their summer residence, because little Lisbeth Friihling, the concierge’s niece, had whooping-cough and, to leave the house, it would have been necessary to pass in front of the concierge’s premises on the ground floor. Naturally Antoine, with his clothes redolent of the hospital, his medical books and instruments, seemed to her a source of daily peril in their midst. She had begged him never to take Gise on his knee. If, on coming home, by some unlucky chance he dropped his overcoat across a chair in the hall instead of taking it to his room, or if he arrived late and came to table without washing his hands—though she knew he did not wear an overcoat when seeing patients, and never left the hospital without first visiting the lavatory—she was too terrified, too obsessed by fears of “germs,” to eat, and, the moment dessert came on the table, would sweep Gise away with her to her room and inflict on her a fiercely antiseptic washing of throat and nostrils. To install Antoine on the ground floor meant creating a protective zone of two stories between Gisèle and him, and diminishing to that extent the peril of infection. Thus she displayed particular zest in preparing for the bearer of contagions this remote quarantine. In three days the rooms were scraped clean, washed, carpeted, and equipped with curtains and furniture.

  All was ready now for Jacques’s return.

  Every time she thought of him, her activity redoubled; or else she would indulge in a sentimental breathing-space, conjuring up before her melting eyes the well-loved face. Her affection for Gise had by no means ousted Jacques from his priority in her regard. She had doted on him since he was born; indeed she had loved him even longer than that, for she had loved and brought up, before him, the mother whom he had never known, whose place she had taken from the cradle. It was between her outstretched arms that one evening, tottering along the carpet in the hall, Jacques had taken, towards her, his first step; and for fourteen successive years she had trembled for him as now she trembled for Gisèle. And with boundless love went total incomprehension. The boy, from whom she scarcely ever took her eyes, remained a mystery to her. There were days when she gave up hope—so “inhuman” did she find the child—and then she would weep, recalling Mme. Thibault’s childhood, for Jacques’s mother had been as meek and mild as an angel out of heaven. She never tried to puzzle out from whom Jacques had inherited his propensity for violence, and could blame only the Devil. And yet there were days when one of those sudden, impulsive gestures in which the child’s heart suddenly flowered forth would quicken her emotion, making her weep again, but now with joy.

  She had never been able to get used to Jacques’s absence nor had she ever been able to understand the reasons for his exile. Now she wanted his return to be a festive occasion and his new room to contain everything he loved. Antoine had to put his foot down or she would have crammed the cupboards full of his old toys. She had brought down from her own room his favourite arm-chair, the chair in which he had always used to sit when a black mood was on him; and, on Antoine’s advice, she had replaced Jacques’s old bed by a brand-new sofa-bed which, folded up in the day, gave the room the dignity of a study.

  Meanwhile Gisèle had been left to her own devices for two days, but with plenty of work to keep her out of mischief. Try as she might, she could not fix her attention on her lesson-books. She was dying of curiosity to see what was happening down below. She knew her Jacquot was going to return, that all this commotion was on his account, and, to calm her nerves, kept pacing up and down the room, which seemed to her a prison-cell.

  On the third morning she could bear it no longer, and the temptation was so strong that at noon, noticing that her aunt had not come up again, she ran out of her room without more ado and raced down the stairs, four steps at a time. Antoine was just coming in. She burst out laughing. Antoine had a special way of looking at her—a stolid, concentrated glare he had invented for their mutual amusement— that never failed to send her off into peals of uncontrollable laughter, which lasted as long as Antoine could retain his gravity. Mademoiselle used to scold them both for it. But just now they were alone, and the occasion was too good to miss.

  “What are you laughing at?” he said at last, catching hold of her wrists. She struggled, laughing all the more. Suddenly she stopped.

  “I really must get out of this habit of laughing. If I don’t, you know, nobody will ever want to marry me.”

  “So you want to get married, do you?”

  “Yes,” she said, gazing up at him. There was a mildness in her gaze that brought to mind the eyes of a large, sentimental dog. Looking down at her plump little body, with its wild-flower grace, he reflected for the first time that this imp of eleven would one day become a woman, would marry. He let go her wrists.

  “Where were you rushing off to like that, by yourself, without even a hat or a shawl on? Don’t you know it’s lunch-time?”

  “I’m looking for Auntie. She’s given me a sum I can’t make out,” she added with a little giggle. Then, blushing, she pointed to the mystery-laden door from which a single ray of light was streaming. Her eyes were shining in the dimness of the vestibule.

  “You’d like to have a look at it, eh?”

  She made a “yes” with a flutter of her red lips, soundlessly.

  “You’re in for a scolding, I warn you,” Antoine smiled.

  She hesitated, eyed him boldly to see if he were joking. Then she made up her mind.

  “No, why should I be scolded? It’s not a sin.”

  Antoine laughed; he had recognized Mademoiselle’s phraseology for Right and Wrong. He fell to wondering what effect the old maid’s influence was having on the child. A glance at Gisèle reassured him; she was a healthy plant which would flourish in any soil and defy the gardener’s restraint.

  Her eyes were still fixed on the half-opened door.

  “Well, why don’t you go in and have a look round?” Antoine said.

  As she slipped in like a scared mouse, she stifled a cry of joy.

  Mademoiselle was alone. She had climbed onto the sofa-bed and, standing tip-toe, was straightening the crucifix she had just hung on the wall; it was the crucifix she had given Jacques for his first communion, and it was still to watch over her dear one’s sleep. She seemed gay, happy, young, and was singing as she worked. She had recognized Antoine’s step in the entrance-hall, and thought she must have forgotten the time. Meanwhile Gisèle had made an inspection of the other rooms and, unable to restrain her glee, had begun dancing and clapping her hands.

  “Good heavens!” Mademoiselle exclaimed, jumping down from the bed. In a mirror she saw her niece, her hair streaming in the breeze from an open window, capering like a young fawn, and screaming at the top of her voice.

  “Hurrah for lovely draughts! Hurrah!”

  She did not understand, did not try to understand. The idea that an act of willful disobedience might account for the little girl’s presence here never crossed her mind; for sixty-six years she had been in the habit of bowing to the exigencies of fate. She made a dash at the child and, unhooking her cape, wrapped her hastily in its folds, and without a word of reproach hurried her out. An
d, after making Gisèle run up the stairs even quicker than she had run down them, she did not draw breath till she had put the child in bed under a warm blanket and made her drink a bowl of boiling-hot herb-tea.

  It must be admitted her fears were not entirely groundless. Gisèle’s mother, a Madagascan whom Major de Waize had married in Tama-tave, where he was garrisoned, had died of tuberculosis, less than a year after the birth of the child; two years later the Major himself had succumbed to a slow, never fully diagnosed disease that was thought to have been transmitted to him by his wife. Ever since Mademoiselle, the orphan’s only relative, had had her sent home from Madagascar and taken charge of her, the dangers of hereditary disease had constantly obsessed her, though actually the child had never had a serious cold in her life, and the various doctors and specialists who examined her each year had never found the least flaw in her healthy constitution.

  The election for the Institute was taking place in a fortnight, and M. Thibault seemed in a hurry to have Jacques back. It was arranged that M. Faisme should personally escort him to Paris on the following Sunday.

  On the previous Saturday evening, Antoine left the hospital at seven o’clock, dined at a neighbouring restaurant so as to escape the family dinner, and, round about eight, alone and in high spirits, took possession of his new domain, where he was to sleep that night for the first time. He found a pleasure in the feel of his private key turning in the lock, in slamming his own door behind him, and, after switching on all the lights, began to walk slowly from room to room, with the zest of a conqueror exploring a new-won kingdom. He had reserved for himself the side looking out on the street: two big rooms and a dressing-room. The first large room had little furniture in it: only a few chairs of various shapes and sizes grouped round a small circular table. This was to serve as the waiting-room, when patients came to consult him. Into the second room, which was the larger of the two, he had moved the furniture belonging to him in his father’s flat, his big desk, his bookshelves, his two leather arm-chairs, and all the various accessories of his industrious hours. His bed was in the dressing-room, which also contained a washstand and wardrobe.

  His books were stacked on the hall floor alongside his unopened trunks. The heating-apparatus was emitting a gentle warmth, and brand-new electric lamps shed an uncompromising brilliance on everything in the flat. Antoine had the rest of the evening before him to set his house in order; he made up his mind to have everything unpacked and in its appointed place—a congenial setting for the new life that was beginning—within the next few hours. He pictured the dinner in the flat above drawing to its dreary close: Gisèle drowsing over her dessert; M. Thibault, as usual, perorating. And Antoine relished the peace around him, and the inestimable boon of solitude.

  The glass over the mantelpiece reflected him half length. He drew near it, not without a certain self-satisfaction. He had a way of his own with mirrors, and always viewed himself full face, squared his shoulders, and clenched his jaws, while his eyes seemed boring almost angrily into their reflected selves. He preferred not to see his lanky torso, short legs, and somewhat puny arms, for the disproportion between his rather undersized body and the bulkiness of his head, the volume of which was increased by the thick beard, was distasteful to him. But he approved of himself; he regarded himself as a fine figure of a man, built on exemplary lines. What particularly pleased him was the look of grim determination on his face, for, by dint of creasing his forehead as if he felt obliged to concentrate his full attention on each incident of daily life, a bulge had formed at the level of his brows, which, overshadowing his eyes, imparted to them a curious piercingness that pleased him as the outward sign of an indomitable will.

  He decided to begin with his books, and, taking off his coat, started by giving a vigorous tug to the closed doors of the empty bookcase. Let’s see now, he mused. Lecture note-books at the bottom, dictionaries within easy reach; medical manual—yes, that’s the place for it. Tra la la! he hummed light-heartedly. Well, well, here I am, I got my way. The ground-floor flat; Jacques. It all panned out—who’d have believed that possible three weeks ago? He began to speak aloud, in a high-pitched voice, impersonating an admirer. “That chap Thibault has an in-dom-i-ta-ble will. Never knows when he’s beaten. Indomitable!” Casting a humorous glance at the mirror, he cut a caper, which all but dislodged the pile of books and pamphlets he was propping under his chin. Steady now! he adjured himself. That’s better. My shelves are coming to life again. Now for the manuscripts. Oh, for this evening, let’s put the files back into the file-case, as they were before. But one of these days we’ll have to sort them out, all those notes and comments. Quite a lot I’ve got together. The important thing is to have a simple, efficient system for classifying them; with an index, of course, that I keep absolutely up to date. Like Philip’s. Yes, a card-index. Of course, all the great doctors …

  Gaily, with an almost dancing step, he moved to and fro between the hall and the bookcase. Suddenly he emitted a boyish laugh, which came as a surprise. “Dr. Antoine Thibault!” he announced, haldng for a moment and straightening his shoulders. “It’s Dr. Thibault! Of course you’ve heard of him; the child specialist!” He side-stepped nimbly, made a rapid bow, then, sobering down, resumed his journeys to and fro between the hall and study. The wicker basket, next. In two years’ time I’ll annex the Gold Medal. House physician at a clinic. Hospital diploma. So I’m setting up here for three or four years at most. Again he mimicked a high falsetto voice: “Thibault is one of our youngest hospital staff doctors; Philip’s right-hand man.” I got on the right scent when I specialized at once on children’s diseases. When I think of Louiset, Touron, and the rest of them—the damned fools!

  Damned fools! he repeated absent-mindedly. His arms were full of all sorts of objects and he was looking round perplexedly for the best place for each. Pity Jacques doesn’t want to be a doctor. I could help him, I’d see him through. Two Thibaults as doctors! Why not, after all? It’s a career worthy of a Thibault. Hard, I grant you, but how rewarding, when one has a taste for fighting against odds, and a bit of. personal pride! Think of all the attention, memory, will-power it demands! And one never gets to the end of it. And consider what it means when one’s made good! A great doctor, that’s somebody! A Philip, for instance. One has to learn, of course, how to adopt that gentle, assured manner. Very courteous, but distant. Yes, it’s pleasant to be someone, to be called in for consultations by the colleagues who’re most envious of one!

  Personally I’ve chosen the most difficult branch: children. Yes, they’re the trickiest cases; never know how to tell you what’s wrong and, when they do, lead you all astray. That’s it; with children one can count only on oneself; got to face up to the disease and hit the diagnosis. X-rays luckily … A competent doctor today has got to be a radiologist, and know how to use the apparatus himself. Soon as I’ve taken my M.D., I’ll take a course on X-rays. And later on, next door to my consulting-room, there’ll be an X-ray room. With a nurse. No, a male assistant’s better; in a white coat. On consulting days, for every case that’s in the least complicated—zip!—a photo.

  “What gives me confidence in Dr. Thibault is that he always begins with an X-ray examination.”

  He smiled at the sound of his own voice, and winked towards the mirror. Why, yes, I don’t deny it, that’s Pride, with a capital P! He laughed ironically. The Thibault pride, as Abbé Vécard calls it. My father, too, of course. But I—oh, well, let it go at that! It’s pride. Why not? Pride comes in very useful as a driving force. I make good use of it, too. Why shouldn’t I? Isn’t it up to a man to make the most of his talents? What are my talents, now? He smiled. Easy to answer that. For one thing, I’m quick at getting things, and I’m retentive; what I know sticks. Next, I can work. “That chap Thibault works like a horse!” So much the better; let ‘em say it if they want to, they’d all like to be able to do as much. And then, what more? Energy. Definitely that. “An extraor-di-nar-y energy!” He said it out loud,
syllable by syllable, turning again to the mirror. It’s like a battery; well, a charged cell, always on tap for any effort I require of it. But what would all those talents come to, if there wasn’t a driving force to actuate them? Tell me that, M. l’Abbé! He was holding in his hand a flat, nickel-plated instrument-case that gleamed under the ceiling light, and was wondering where to put it. Finally he reached up and placed it on the top of the bookcase. “Eh, lad, it’s naught to be ashamed of!” he shouted in the jovial, bucolic Norman voice his father sometimes affected. “And there’s a lot in pride, saving your respects, M. l’Abbé.”

  The wicker basket was nearly empty. From its depths Antoine took two little portraits in plush frames and gazed at them musingly. They were photographs of his maternal grandfather and his mother. The former portrait showed a handsome old man standing beside a table piled with books, on which his hand was resting; the other, a young woman with fine features and indefinite, rather gentle eyes. She was wearing an open square-cut bodice and two silky tresses fell upon a shoulder. He was so familiar with this likeness of his mother that it was thus he always pictured her, though the portrait dated from the time of Mme. Thibault’s engagement, and he had never known her with her hair like that. He had been nine years old at Jacques’s birth, when she had died. He could remember better his grandfather, Couturier the economist and friend of MacMahon, who had just missed being made Prefect of the Seine Department on the fall of M. Thiers, and had been for some years Dean of the Institute. Antoine had never forgotten his pleasant face, his white muslin cravats, an his razors with mother-of-pearl handles, one for every day of the week, in their sharkskin case.