“Please forgive me,” it ran, “for calling you a monitor. I’ve got over my temper. Let me come back.”
Antoine could not help smiling. Impulsively, in a sudden access of affection, he went to the door and opened it. Jacques was there, his arms dangling by his side. His nerves were still so much on edge that he kept his head bent and had to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing. Assuming a look of vexation and aloofness, Antoine went back to his chair.
“I’ve work to do.” His tone was curt. “You’ve already made me waste time enough for one evening. What do you want now?”
Jacques raised his eyes, in which the laughter lingered, and looked his brother in the face.
“I want to see Daniel again.”
There was a short silence.
“You know that Father’s set against it,” Antoine began. “What’s more, I’ve taken the trouble to explain to you his reasons. Do you remember? On that day it was settled that you agreed to the arrangement and wouldn’t make any attempt to get in touch with the Fontanins. I trusted you. And now, see what’s happened! You’ve let me down; at the first pretext, you’ve broken our pledge. Well, all that’s over now; I’ll never be able to trust you again.”
Jacques was sobbing.
“Please don’t say that, Antoine. It isn’t fair. You can’t understand. I know I oughtn’t to have written without telling you. But that was because there was something else I’d have been obliged to tell you— and I simply couldn’t!” In a low voice he added: “Lisbeth …”
Antoine cut him short.
“That has nothing to do with it.” At all costs he wanted to stave off a confession on that topic. It would have been even more embarrassing to him than to Jacques. To divert the conversation into a new channel, he went on at once: “Well, I’ll agree to give you one more chance. You’re going to promise me …”
“No, Antoine, I can’t promise you not to see Daniel again. It’s you who are going to promise me to let me see him. Listen to me, Antoine; I swear to you before God that never again will I hide anything from you. But I must see Daniel again—only I don’t want to do so without your knowing. Neither does he. I’d written to him asking him to reply in care of general delivery, but he wouldn’t. This is what he writes: ‘Why general delivery? We have nothing to conceal. Your brother has always been on our side. So I’m addressing this letter to him, and he can give it to you.’ At the end he refuses to come and meet me behind the Pantheon as I’d asked him to. Listen! ‘I have told Mother about it. The simplest way will be for you to come as soon as you can and spend a Sunday at our place. My mother likes you and your brother very much, and she’s told me to invite both of you.’ You see what a decent chap he is. Papa has no idea of it and condemns him without knowing a thing about him. I don’t feel bitter with Father; but with you, Antoine, it’s not the same thing. You’ve met Daniel, you know what he’s like, and you’ve seen his mother; there’s no reason for you to behave like Papa. You should be pleased I have a friend like Daniel. Haven’t I had my share of loneliness? Please forgive me; I don’t mean that for you, you know I don’t. But you must see; it isn’t the same thing, Daniel and you. I’m sure you have friends of your own age, haven’t you? You must know what it is to have a real friend.”
Seeing the look of happiness and affection that lit up Jacques’s face as he said the final word, Antoine ruefully admitted to himself that he had no real friend. And suddenly he felt an impulse to go up to his brother and put his arm round him. But there was an obduracy, a challenge in Jacques’s eyes that galled his pride and gave him a desire to match his will against it, fight it down. Still, he could not help being shaken by the boy’s determination.
Stretching out his legs, he began to turn the problem over in his mind. “Obviously,” he mused, “I’m broad-minded enough to admit that Father’s veto is absurd. That Fontanin boy can have nothing but a good influence on Jacques. Nothing could be better than the atmosphere of his home life. What’s more, it might be of help to me in handling Jacques. Yes, I’m sure she would help me; as a matter of fact, she’d have a better notion of what to do than I, and she’d soon get a great influence over the boy. What a fine woman she is! The devil of it is—supposing Father heard of it! Well, well! I’m not a child. After all, it’s I who’ve taken full responsibility for Jacques— so I’ve the right to decide things, in the last resort. I consider that, on the face of it, Father’s veto is absurd and unjust; well, then, I’ll ignore it. For one thing, it will make Jacques more attached to me. He’ll think: ‘Antoine isn’t like Papa.’ And then there’s Daniel’s mother… .” He saw himself standing again before Mme. de Fontanin, saw her smile as he explained: “Madame, I’ve made a point of bringing my brother to you myself.”
He rose, took a few steps in the room, then halted in front of Jacques, who stood unmoving, summoning up all his will-power and resolved to fight down Antoine’s opposition to the bitter end,
“Well, Jacques,” he said, “now that you’ve forced my hand, I’ll have to tell you what my plan has always been about it. I’ve always intended to override Father’s opposition and let you see the Fontanins again. I’d even meant to take you there myself. What do you think of that? Only I preferred to postpone it till you were quite yourself again, anyhow till the beginning of the school term. Your letter to Daniel has precipitated matters. Very well, I’ll take the responsibility on myself. Father shall know nothing about it, nor the Abbé either. We’ll go there next Sunday, if you like.”
He paused a moment, then continued in a tone of affectionate reproach: “I hope you realize now how greatly mistaken you have been, and how wrong not to give me credit for better feelings towards you. Surely I’ve told you dozens of times, Jacques, that there must be perfect frankness between us, perfect confidence—or it’s the end of all we’ve hoped.”
“Next Sunday!” Jacques stammered. This unexpected victory without a struggle had made chaos of his thoughts. He had a vague feeling that he was the dupe of some stratagem too subtle for his comprehension. Then he was ashamed of his suspicion. Antoine was really and truly his best friend. What a pity he was so dreadfully old! But—next Sunday? Why so soon? And he began to wonder if he were really so anxious to see his friend again.
XI
ON THAT Sunday afternoon Daniel was seated beside his mother, sketching, when the little dog started barking. The bell had rung. Mme. de Fontanin put down her book.
“I’ll go, Mother,” Daniel said, when he saw her beginning to move towards the door. Lack of money had constrained her to dismiss first the maid, then, a month ago, the cook; Nicole and Jenny were helping with the housework.
Mme. de Fontanin had been listening to hear who the caller was; she recognized Pastor Gregory’s voice and, smiling, went out into the hall to greet him. She found him holding Daniel by the shoulders and, as he peered into the boy’s face, emitting his raucous laugh.
“What do you mean by it, boy, staying indoors on a fine day like this? You should be out taking some exercise. Oh, these Frenchmen, they don’t know what sport is—cricket, boating, and the rest of it.” The brilliance of his small black eyes, which seemed to have no whites, the pupils filling the entire space between the eyelids, was so overpowering at close quarters that Daniel turned away with an uneasy smile.
“Don’t scold him,” Mme. de Fontanin said; “he’s expecting a friend to call. It’s the Thibaults, you know.”
Screwing up his face, the pastor groped amongst his memories, then suddenly began rubbing his dry hands together with such demoniac vigour that they seemed to crackle with electric sparks, while his lips parted in an eerie, soundless laugh.
“I’ve got it!” he said at last. “It’s that bearded doctor man. A nice, decent young chap. Do you remember how flabbergasted he looked when he came and found our dear little girl risen from the dead? He wanted to test the resurrection with his thermometer. Poor fellow! By the way, where is she? Is she, too, shut up in her room on this lovely day?”
“No, you needn’t trouble about her; Jenny’s out with her cousin. They hurried through lunch and went out at once. They’re trying a new camera which Jenny was given for her birthday.”
Daniel, who had brought a chair for the pastor, raised his head and looked at his mother, whose voice had shaken a little as she spoke.
“What about this Nicole girl?” Gregory asked as he sat down. “Any news?”
Mme. de Fontanin shook her head. She did not want to discuss it in front of her son, who, at the mention of Nicole, had cast a furtive glance at the pastor.
“Now, my boy, tell me,” the latter asked abruptly, turning to Daniel, “what about your bearded doctor friend? What time exactly is he going to come and inflict himself on us?”
“I’m not sure. About three, I expect.”
Gregory sat up, so as to extract from his clerical waistcoat a silver watch as big as a saucer. “Very well. You’ve exactly an hour, lazybones. Off with your coat and start out at once for a good quick sprint round the Luxembourg Gardens-—in record time, mind you! Off you go!
Daniel exchanged a glance with his mother before rising.
“All right, I’ll leave you to yourselves,” he said mischievously.
“Cunning little rascal!” Gregory shook his fist playfully at him.
But once he was left alone with Mme. de Fontanin, a glow of kindliness lit up the dry, sallow face, and his eyes grew tender.
“And now,” he said, “the time has come when I want to speak to your heart, my dear, and to your heart alone.” For a few moments he seemed abstracted from his surroundings, as if in prayer. Then with a nervous gesture he ran his fingers through his straggly black hair, pulled a chair towards him, and sat astride it. “I’ve seen him.” He watched the colour ebbing from Mme. de Fontanin’s face. “He asked me to come and see you. He is repentant, and I can’t tell you how unhappy.” Gregory kept his eyes fixed on hers as if he hoped the joy that glowed in them persistently might alleviate the distress he was imposing on her.
“So he’s in Paris?” she murmured, without thinking of what she was saying, for she knew Jerome had come in person, on Jenny’s birthday, two days before, to leave the camera with the concierge. Wherever he might be, never had he forgotten the birthday of any member of the family. “So you’ve seen him?” She spoke in a faraway voice and her face betrayed as yet no definite emotion. For months she had been thinking about him incessantly, but in so vague a manner that, now he was being spoken about, a curious lethargy had crept over her mind.
“Yes, he’s so unhappy,” the pastor repeated with insistence, “and overwhelmed with remorse. That wretched creature of his is still singing at the theatre, and he is thoroughly disgusted with it all; he wants never to see her again. He says life is impossible for him apart from his wife and children—and I believe he means it. He begs your forgiveness and will make any undertaking you desire, if only he can remain your husband. He implores you to abandon your intention of divorcing him. And I discerned on his face the look of the just man, of one who is fighting the good fight.”
She said nothing, but gazed pensively into the middle distance. There was a gentleness about her face, the soft, sensitive lips, full cheeks, and rather heavy chin, that seemed instinct with compassion; and Gregory thought she was in a forgiving mood.
“He tells me you are going to appear, both of you, before the judges,” he continued, “for the preliminary attempt at reconciliation and that only if that fails, the actual divorce proceedings will begin. So he now craves your forgiveness, for he has undergone a change of heart; I’m convinced of it. He says he is not the man he seems to be, that he’s better at heart than we imagine. And that, too, I believe. And he’s quite decided to work now, if he can find work. So, if only you’ll consent, he will live here with you; he’ll choose the better path, and atone for his misdeeds.”
He saw her lips trembling, a nervous tremor convulsing her chin. Then, with a quick, decisive jerk of her shoulders, she turned to him.
“No!”
Her voice was clear, emphatic, and in her gaze there was a sombre dignity, giving the impression that her mind was made up irrevocably. Gregory leaned back and closed his eyes; for a long while he did not speak.
When at last he spoke his voice was remote; all the warmth had gone out of it. “Look here!” he began. “I’m going to tell you a story, if you’ll let me, a story that is new to you. It’s about a man who was in love. I ask you: listen well. This man, while he was still quite young, was engaged to a poor girl who was so good and beautiful, so truly beloved of God, that he too loved her.” His eyes grew dark, intense. “Yes, he loved her with his whole soul… .” For a moment he seemed to have lost the thread; with an effort he continued, speaking more quickly: “And then, after their marriage, this is how things went. One day the man discovered that his wife did not love him only; she loved another man, their friend, who was welcome at their house and like a brother to them both. The unhappy husband took his wife away on a long journey, to help her to forget; and then he came to understand that now she would always love that other man, their friend, and himself no more. Thus life became a hell for both of them. He saw his wife suffering adultery in her body, then in her heart, and at last even in her soul, for she was becoming unjust and wicked. Yes,” he continued in a slow, sad voice, “they came to a terrible pass, those two poor people; she growing evil because of thwarted love, and he too growing evil because the Negative was rooted in their lives. Well, what did he do then, that man? He prayed. And he thought: ‘I love this woman, and I must shield her soul from evil.’ And then, with joy in his heart, he summoned his wife and his friend into his study and, setting before them the New Testament, he said: ‘In the sight of God I solemnly declare that you twain are joined in holy wedlock.’ All three were weeping. But then he said: ‘Have no fears; I am leaving you and never shall I return to spoil your happiness.’ ”
Screening his eyes with his hand, Gregory added in a low voice:
“Ah, my dear, what a noble reward God made that man, in the memory of that great sacrifice, his love-offering!” He raised his head. “And the man did as he had said; he gave away all his money to them, for he had great riches and she was the poorest of the poor. He made a long journey, to the other side of the world, and I know that now, seventeen years later, he is still quite alone and all but penniless, earning his daily bread as I do, as a humble worker for the Christian Healers.”
Mme. de Fontanin gazed at him, deeply moved.
“But wait!” His voice grew suddenly shrill, excited. “Let me tell you now the end of the story.” His features were working with emotion, his arms were resting on the back of the chair on which he sat astride, with the emaciated fingers feverishly interlocked. “That poor man thought he was bequeathing happiness to those two people, and taking away with him all the evil that had marred their lives. But God moves in a mysterious way and it was of them that Evil took possession. They mocked at him. They betrayed the Spirit. They accepted his sacrifice with crocodile tears, but in their hearts they scoffed. They told lies about him to their mutual friends. They showed his letters round. They even used against him his act of generosity, calling it ‘connivance,’ and went so far as to say he had left his wife without a penny, deserted her to run away to another woman’s arms, in Europe. Yes, they said all that. And they brought a judgment of divorce against him.”
He dropped his eyes for a moment, and an odd noise that sounded almost like a chuckle came from his throat. Then he rose and very carefully put back his chair in the place from which he had taken it. All signs of grief had left his face.
“Well,” he said, bending over the motionless form of Mme. de Fontanin, “such is love, and so incumbent on us is forgiveness that if at this very instant that dear, faithless woman appeared beside me, saying: ‘James, I have come back to live again under your roof. You shall be once more my abject slave, and when I feel inclined, I’ll make a mock of you again’—well, even if s
he said all that, I’d reply: ‘Come, take all the little I possess. I thank God for your return. And I shall strive so ardently to be truly good in your eyes, that you, too, will become good; for Evil does not exist.’ Yes, it’s the truth, dear, if ever my Dolly comes back to me, asking me to give her shelter, that’s how I shall deal by her. But I shan’t say: ‘Dolly, I forgive you,’ but only:. ‘Christ watch over you!’ And so my words will not come back empty, because Good is the power, the only power, capable of holding in check the Negative.” Folding his arms, he fell silent, nursing his pointed chin in the hollow of his hand. At last he spoke again, in the sing-song intonation of the professional preacher. “And you, Mme. de Fontanin, should go and do likewise. For you love this man with your heart’s love, and Love is Righteousness. Christ has said: ‘Except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.’ ”
She shook her head sadly.
“You don’t know him, James,” she said in a low voice. “The very air’s unbreatheable beside him. Everywhere he brings evil. He would only destroy all our happiness again—and contaminate the children.”
“When Christ touched the leper’s sore with His hand, the hand of Christ was not infected, but the leper was cleansed.”
“You say I love him—no, that isn’t true! I know him too well now. I know what his promises are worth. I’ve forgiven him far too often.”
“When Peter asked Our Lord how often he should forgive his brother, saying: ‘Till seven times?’ Jesus answered: ‘I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.’ ”
“I tell you, James, you don’t know him.”
“Who has the right to think: ‘I know my brother’? Christ said: ‘I judge no man.’ And I, Gregory, I say to you: if a man leads a life of sin without being vexed and sore at heart, that is because there is still blindness in his soul. But one who weeps because he has lapsed into a sinful life, verily his eyes are open , to the light of truth. I tell you he is stricken with remorse and his face was. the face of a just man.”
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