“Damn all these books and arguments and phrases!” he exclaimed. “ ‘Words, words, words!’ ” He stretched his arms out towards some phantom of his mind, intangible; and all but wept. May I now begin to—live? he asked himself perplexedly. And again: Am I a child still, or a man?
His breath came and went in painful gasps; he felt crushed and broken. He could not have said what it was he asked of fate.
“To live!” he repeated. “To act!”
Then, “To love,” he added, and closed his eyes… .
He rose an hour later. Had he been in a daydream or asleep? His head was heavy and his neck smarted. Deep exhaustion, due at once to a vague boredom and excess of energy, put any mode of action out of reach and dulled his thoughts. He cast a glance round the room. Must he vegetate for two months in this house? Yet he felt some enigmatic destiny chained him here for the summer, and that elsewhere his plight would be still worse.
Going to the window, he rested his elbows on the sill. And suddenly his anguish lifted. Gisèle’s dress gleamed white across the lower branches of the chestnuts and now he knew her nearness would give him back the zest of youth and life.
He had meant to take her unawares, but her ears were on the alert, or else her book had little interest for her, for she swung round at once, hearing Jacques’s footstep behind her.
“No luck that time!”
“What’s this you’re reading?”
She refused to answer and hugged the book to her breast in her folded arms. Their eyes challenged each other with a sudden thrust of pleasure.
“One, two, three …”
He rocked the chair to and fro till she slipped off onto the grass. But she would not let go of her book and he had to grapple with her lithe, warm body for a strenuous minute before he could secure his booty.
“Le Petit Savoyard, Vol. I. My word! Are there many more of this?”
“Three volumes.”
“Congrats. Is it exciting, anyhow?”
She laughed.
“Why, I can’t even get through the Erst volume!”
“Why do you read trash like that?”
“I’ve no choice, you see.”
(After several experiences of the kind Mademoiselle had given her verdict: “Gisèle doesn’t care for reading.”)
“I’ll lend you some books instead,” Jacques proposed, pioneer as usual of disobedience and revolt.
But Gisèle did not seem to hear him.
“Don’t hurry away,” she begged, stretching herself on the grass. “Take my chair. Or lie down here if you like.”
He lay down beside her. The sun beat remorselessly on the villa some sixty yards away and on the sanded terrace round it, set with orange-trees in tubs; but here, under cover of the chestnut-trees, the grass was cool.
“So, Jacquot, now you’re free.” Then in a voice that vainly tried to sound detached, she added: “And what are you going to do next?” She bent in his direction, with eager, parted lips.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where will you go now that you have two months to do as you like?”
“Nowhere.”
“What? You’re going to stay-here with us for a bit?” She looked up at him; her eyes were round and glowing with dog-like devotion.
“Yes. I’m going to Touraine on the tenth, for a friend’s wedding.”
“And then?”
“I’m not sure.” He averted his eyes. “I’m thinking of staying at Maisons during my whole vacation.”
“Really and truly?” She leaned forward to study Jacques’s expression.
He smiled, rejoicing in her joy, and now he viewed with few or no misgivings the prospect of spending two months in the company of this simple, affectionate child whom he loved like a sister—far more than a sister. His presence here had always seemed unwanted and he had never dreamt his coming could bring such radiant happiness to her life; the revelation made him feel so grateful to her that he took the hand lying listless on the grass and stroked it.
“What a nice skin you have, Gisèle! Do you use cucumber lotion, too?”
She laughed and Jacques was impressed by her suppleness as lithely she snuggled up to him. She had the natural, playful sensuality of a young animal and in her full-throated laugh, when it had not a ring of childish glee, sounded an amorous, dove-like cooing. But there was peace between the virgin soul and the ripe, young body, thrilled though it might be by countless vague desires whose meaning she could not guess,
“Auntie still won’t let me join the tennis-club this season.” She made grimace. “You’ll be going there, I suppose?”
“Certainly not.”
“Will you go for bicycle rides?”
“Perhaps I will.”
“How lovely!” she exclaimed, and her look implied: Wonders will never cease. “You know, Auntie’s promised to let me go for rides with you. Would you like that?”
For a moment he peered into the dark pools of her eyes.
“You have pretty eyes, Gisèle.”
It seemed to him that they grew darker yet, ruffled by a strange unrest. Smiling still, she turned away. That blithe and laughing charm of hers, the first thing people usually noticed, showed not only in the sparkle of her eyes and the little dimples that played incessantly about the corners of her lips, but also in her ripely moulded cheeks, the blunt tip of her nose, the roguish roundness of her chin—it lit up all her small, plump face, vivid with health and cheerfulness.
She grew uneasy at his evasion of the question she had asked.
“Jacques, you will—won’t you?”
“Will what …?”
“Why, take me for bike rides in the woods, or to Marly, like last summer.”
She was so delighted to see him smile a vague assent that she wriggled still closer, and kissed him. They lay on their backs, side by side, their eyes exploring the green depths above.
Sounds reached their ears, the tinkle of a fountain, a chuckling chorus of frogs around the pond, and, now and again, voices of passers-by beyond the garden fence. The scent of petunias whose gummy whorls had toasted daylong in the sun slowly drifted from the flower-boxes on the veranda, lingering on the warm air.
“You are funny, Jacques. Always thinking! What ever do you think about?”
Propping himself on his elbow, he looked at Gisèle and saw the wonder on her parted, glistening lips.
“I was thinking what pretty teeth you have.”
She did not blush, but gave a little shrug.
“No, Jacques, I’m being serious.”
Her tone of childish gravity set Jacques laughing.
A bumble-bee, drenched in amber light, hovered round them, blundering like a tiny woolly ball against Jacques’s cheek; then, veering earthwards, it dived into a hole in the turf, humming like a threshing-machine.
“I was also thinking, Gise, that you remind me of that bee there.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He stretched himself out again on his back. “It’s round and black like you and, what’s more, its buzz is rather like the noise you make when you laugh.”
He made the announcement in such a serious tone that the words seemed to set Gisèle deeply pondering. Both were silent now. The slanting shadows lengthened on the sun-scorched lawn and a level ray caught Gisèle’s face. Spangles of gold played on her cheeks, fretting her eyes across the lids; the tickling on her face started her laughing again… .
A chime of the gate-bell announced Antoine’s arrival and when Jacques saw his brother at the end of the drive he rose promptly, as though it were all thought out beforehand, and hurried to meet him.
“You’re going back this evening?”
“Yes, by the ten-twenty.”
Jacques was impressed once again, not by the weariness so evident on Antoine’s features, but by their brightness, that gave him an unwonted, almost defiant, air.
He lowered his voice.
“Will Daniel be there?”
Jacques knew for a fact that he would not.
“Of course,” he said.
M. Thibault appeared at a window of the drawing-room, holding an open newspaper, and they ceased speaking.
“Ah, there you are!” he called to Antoine. “I am glad you were able to come.” He always spoke to Antoine with studied courtesy. “Stay where you are; I’ll join you.”
“That’s fixed up then?” Jacques whispered. “We can say we’re going for a stroll after dinner.”
M. Thibault had never withdrawn the veto he had pronounced long ago against any revival of Jacques’s relations with the Fontanins. For safety’s sake the hated name was never mentioned in his hearing. Was he unaware that for some time past his injunction had been disregarded? Impossible to be sure. So blind was his paternal pride, it well might be that the notion his orders were being persistently disobeyed never crossed his mind.
“Well, he’s passed,” said M. Thibault, descending with heavy tread the terrace steps, “so now we need feel no more anxiety about his future.” Then, as an afterthought: “Shall we take a stroll round the lawn before dinner?” The unusual proposal called for explanation. “I want to have a talk with you both. But, first of all”—he turned towards Antoine—”have you seen the evening papers? What do they say of the Villebeau bankruptcy? Have you seen anything about it?”
“Your Workmen’s Co-operative Society?”
“Yes, my dear boy. An absolute disaster—with a scandal behind it, too! Quick work, eh?” He emitted a short laugh that sounded like a cough.
Ah, how she gave me her lips! Antoine was thinking, and a picture of the restaurant rose before his eyes: Rachel sitting opposite him, the light welling up from below—as on a stage—from windows that extended to the sidewalk. … I wonder why she laughed like that when I suggested a mixed grill!
He tried his best to be interested in his father’s conversation. Moreover, it puzzled him that M. Thibault should take this “disaster” so calmly, for the philanthropist was a member of the group that had supplied the Villebeau button-makers with funds when, after the last stroke, they had founded a co-operative workers’ union to demonstrate that they could do without their employers.
M. Thibault had reached his peroration.
“In my opinion the money was not spent in vain. We have no reason to regret our conduct; we took the workers’ Utopian projects seriously and volunteered to assist them with our capital. With this result: the enterprise went bankrupt in less than eighteen months. As it happens, the middleman between the workmen’s delegates and ourselves did his work well. He’s an old acquaintance of yours, by the by.” He halted and turned to Jacques. “It’s Faîsme, who was at Crouy in your time.”
Jacques made no comment.
“He has a hold on all the men’s leaders, thanks to the letters those noble souls addressed us, asking for funds—letters penned during the worst phase of the strike. So none of them can think of climbing down.” He emitted another little cough of self-satisfaction. “But that is not what I wish to consult you about,” he added, moving forward again.
He walked with heavy steps and flagging breath, trailing his feet in the sand, with his body bent forward and hands behind his back; his unbuttoned coat flapped loosely round him. His two sons walked beside him. Jacques recalled a sentence he had read, though he could not place it: “Whenever I meet two men walking side by side and finding nothing to say to each other, I know them for father and son.”
“It’s this,” said M. Thibault. “I want your opinion on a plan I have in mind—on your behalf.” They heard a note of sadness, and a ring of sincerity in his voice, quite other than his usual tone. “You will find out, my sons, when you attain my age, that a man cannot but look back and ask himself: What will remain of my life’s work? I know very well—Abbé Vécard has often told me so—that all our efforts spent on doing good work together to the same end are cumulative. Still—is it not cruel to think that all the strivings of a life may be utterly obliterated in the nameless jetsam each generation leaves behind? May not a father legitimately desire that his own children will keep some personal memory of him? … If only by way of an example to others?” He sighed. “I can honestly say that I have your interests at heart, rather than mine. It has struck me that in future years you, as my sons, will prefer not to be confounded with all the other Thibaults in France. We have two centuries behind us—as commoners, if you like; but we can prove who we are. That, anyhow, is something. And I believe that, to the best of my ability, I have added to this worthy heritage, and have the right—this will be my reward—to hope there may be no misunderstanding as to your parentage, and to desire that you may bear my name in its entirety and transmit it intact to those who will be born of my blood. It lies with the Heralds’ College to deal with such requests. So, some months ago, I took the requisite steps to have a formal alteration of your names recorded; I expect very shortly to receive the deed-polls, which I shall ask you to sign. And, by the end of the vacation, I trust—in any case, not later than Christmas—each of you will have the legal right to call himself no longer just plain ‘Thibault,’ but ‘Oscar-Thibault’ with a hyphen; ‘Dr. Antoine Oscar-Thibault,’ for example.” Bringing his hands in front of him, he rubbed them together. “That is what I wanted to tell you. No thanks, if you please; we will not mention it again. And now to dinner; I see Mademoiselle beckoning.” He laid a patriarchal arm around the shoulder of each of his sons. “If it so happens that this distinction helps you on in life, so much the better, my sons. Surely, in all conscience, it is only justice that a man whose heart was never set on worldly gain should endow his heirs with such prestige as he has himself acquired.”
There was a tremor in his voice and, to hide his emotion, he swerved from the path along which they were walking and hurried on by himself, stumbling over the hummocks, towards the house. Never before had Antoine and Jacques seen their father so profoundly moved.
“Well, that beats everything!” Antoine chuckled.
“Oh, don’t, Antoine!” It seemed to Jacques that dirty hands, his brother’s, were pawing at his heart. Jacques rarely spoke of his father without a certain deference; he declined to judge him, and deplored his own clear-sightedness when (oftener than he would have wished) his father was its target. And tonight the agony of doubt that lay behind his father’s longing for survival had touched him deeply, for even Jacques, though only twenty, could never think of death without a sinking of the heart.
Why ever did I get Antoine to come? Jacques asked himself as, an hour later, he accompanied his brother down the green avenue, flanked by centenarian lime-trees, that led from the château to the forest. His neck was smarting; Mademoiselle had insisted on having the boil inspected by Antoine, who had thought fit to lance it, despite his victim’s protest-—for the idea of paying a visit with a bandage on his neck did not at all appeal to him.
Antoine was tired but talkative; his thoughts were all for Rachel. Yesterday at this hour he did not know her yet, and now she filled every moment of his life.
His exuberance contrasted with his brother’s mood; Jacques had passed a restful day and now, as he walked on, his thoughts were busy with a visit whose prospect stirred in him a fugitive emotion, sometimes akin to hope. He felt dissatisfied and mistrustful as he walked at Antoine’s side. Some cautionary instinct warned him against his brother, setting a wall of silence between them, though their conversation was cordial as ever. But in reality each was building up a screen of words and smiles, like hostile forces tossing up clods of earth to make a barrier against attack. Neither was hoodwinked by the other’s strategy. The tie of blood linked them so intimately that nothing of importance could remain a secret between them. The very tone
of Antoine’s voice as he praised the fragrance of a late-flowering lime—it had called up a secret memory of Rachel’s scented hair—if it did not tell Jacques everything, was all but tantamount to a confession. So he was little surprised when Antoine, yielding to his obsession, caught his arm and, setting a faster pace, launched forth into an account of his eventful night, and of its aftermath. Antoine’s tone, his grown-up air, taken with certain broad details little in keeping with his normal, elder-brotherly reserve, made Jacques feel strangely ill at ease. He put a good face on it, smiled and nodded his approval —but he was distressed. He was angry with his brother for causing this distress, and even for the sentiment of disapproval which accompanied it. The more his brother hinted at the state of rapture in which he had been living for the past twelve hours, the more Jacques shrank back into his shell of cold disdain and felt the thirst for chastity grow strong within him. When Antoine, describing his afternoon, ventured to use the words “a day of love,” Jacques was profoundly shocked, and showed it.
“No, Antoine,” he protested, “no, and no again! ‘Love’—that’s something quite different.”
A rather self-complacent smile hovered on Antoine’s lips; but he was taken aback for all that, and said no more.
The Fontanins were living in an old house, left them by Mme. de Fontanin’s mother, at the far end of the park on the outskirts of the forest. The house abutted on the old park wall. A road, lined with acacias and so seldom used that patches of rank grass were growing on it, led from the main avenue to a postern gate let into the garden wall.
Night was falling when they arrived, and lights shone in some of the windows. A bell tinkled and, at the bottom of the garden beside the house, Puce, Jenny’s dog, began to bark. Antoine and Jacques knew where to find them. After meals the Fontanins resorted to the far side of the house where, shaded by two plane-trees, a natural terrace overhung the ancient fosse. A car had pulled up in the drive and they had to grope their way around it.
“Visitors!” Jacques murmured, and suddenly regretted he had come.
But Mme. de Fontanin was already on her way to meet them.
The Thibaults Page 40