The Thibaults

by Roger Martin Du Gard

  Jerome found a seat for her and they paced up and down the platform in front of her car, in silence. Rinette was thinking of something, of someone… . But she found no words to break the silence. Something, it seemed, was preying on Jerome’s mind as well, for several times he turned to her, as if about to speak, then looked away. At last, shunning her eyes, he blurted it out:

  “I didn’t tell you the truth, Cricri. Mme. Petit-Dutreuil is dead.”

  She asked for no details, but began to cry, and in her silent grief Jerome took heart of grace, thinking with flattering unction: “What kindness there is in all of us!”

  No more words passed between them till the train was due to leave. Had she dared to do so, Rinette would have snatched at any pretext to hand back the money and return to Mme. Rose, begging to be taken back. The delay was getting on Jerome’s nerves as well; the thought that he had achieved the rescue of this girl had lost its zest.

  Only when the train was pulling out did Rinette pluck up her courage.

  “Will you be so kind, sir, as to give my respects to M. Daniel?”

  But the noise of the train drowned her voice. She saw he had not heard her; her lips began to quiver, her fingers tightened upon her breast. Jerome, all smiles, delighted to see her go, waved her goodbye with a courteous sweep of his hat.

  A new thought had waylaid him and set him tingling with impatience; he would take the first train back to Maisons-Laffitte and, throwing himself at his wife’s feet, confess everything—well, nearly everything.

  “And then,” he murmured to himself as he lit a cigarette and moved away from the station with brisk steps, “about the yearly allowance—I’d better explain matters to Thérèse; she’s got a head on her shoulders and will see it’s properly attended to.”

  XIII

  ANTOINE had formed the habit of calling several times a week at Rachel’s place to take her out to dinner.

  One evening as Rachel was on her way towards the mirror, preparatory to going out, and taking her powder-box out of her bag, she let a scrap of folded paper drop to the floor. Antoine picked it up and held it out to her.

  “Eh? Oh, thanks!”

  He thought he had detected an uneasy tremor in Rachel’s voice; she read his thought at once.

  “Well?” she said, trying to pass it off with a joke. “What’s all the fuss about? It’s only a time-table.”

  He said nothing and she replaced the paper in her bag. A moment later he blurted out the question:

  “Are you going away?”

  And now the flutter of her lashes, her twisted smile, were not to be mistaken.

  “Well, Rachel …?”

  Her smile had gone; a spasm of anguish gripped him. No, he thought; no, I mustn’t let her. … I couldn’t do without her, even for a day or two!

  He went up to her and touched her arm; sobbing, she sank onto his breast.

  “But what … what ever …?” he stammered.

  She replied at once in brief, staccato sentences.

  “No, it’s nothing, nothing at all. Just my nerves. I’ll tell you; then you’ll see it’s nothing much really. It’s on account of baby’s grave; at Gué-la-Rozière, you know. I haven’t been to visit it for ages and ages; I really shall have to go there soon. You understand, don’t you? Imagine my frightening you like that! I’m sorry. So you’d be dreadfully cut up—would you?—if … if one day——”

  “Don’t go on!” he begged in a low voice. Now for the first time he realized the place that Rachel had come to occupy in his life, and it appalled him. “How long will you be away?” he faltered.

  Loosening her embrace, she ran off, with a forced laugh, to the washstand, to sponge her eyes.

  “Isn’t it silly, starting crying like that!” she exclaimed. “Do you know, the news came one evening—exactly like tonight—when I was just going out to dinner. I was at my place with some friends—people you don’t know. There was a ring at the bell; a wire. ‘Baby dangerously ill. Come.’ I knew what it meant. I rushed off to the station just as I was, in a light tulle hat and evening shoes, and caught the first train out. What a journey that was! I was all alone and almost off my head. It’s a wonder I wasn’t quite crazy by the time I got there.” She turned towards Antoine. “Wait just a bit longer! I’m letting them dry off; that’s the best way.” Her face lit up suddenly. “Antoine, do you want to do something very, very nice? Then you’ll come along there with me. It would only take two days, you know —Saturday and Sunday. We could stay the night at Rouen or Caudebec and go on next day to the Gué-la-Rozière cemetery. Wouldn’t it be great—to go off like that together, all on our own! Don’t you think so?”

  They left on the last Saturday in September. The afternoon was fine, the train almost empty, and they had the car to themselves. Antoine was delighted with his two days’ holiday in Rachel’s company ; a weight seemed lifted from . his shoulders and he looked younger. Like a schoolboy, he seemed unable to keep still, he laughed at everything and twitted Rachel about her luggage deployed along the rack. The better to feast his eyes upon her face, he refused to sit beside her.

  “That’ll do!” she protested when he got up again, this time to lower the blind. “I’m not going to melt.”

  “Perhaps not. But, when the sun’s on your face, I’m positively blinded.” And, indeed, when the light fell full on her cheeks and set her hair ablaze, his eyes grew dazzled if he looked long at her. “This is the first time we’ve travelled together,” he presently remarked. “Has that struck you?”

  She could not bring herself to smile. Her mouth was a little drawn, tense with resolve and contained emotion. He bent towards her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing. Only the journey.”

  He was silent, aware that selfishly he had forgotten the object of their pilgrimage. But then she explained what she meant.

  “Travelling always sets my nerves on edge. The landscape flying past. And always at a journey’s end … the unknown!” Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the transient horizon. “And I’ve travelled in so many of them, trains and boats.” Her look grew sombre.

  Antoine slipped across to her side and, stretching himself full length on the seat, laid his head on her lap.

  “ ‘Thy navel is like a round goblet … set about with lilies,’ ” he murmured. Then, after a moment’s silence, realizing that Rachel’s thoughts were far away, he asked her: “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.” She tried to speak lightly. “About your head-masterish tie, perhaps!” She slipped a finger under the silk. “To think that even when you travel you can’t manage to knot it a trifle looser, let it out a bit!” She stretched herself and smiled. “A stroke of luck—isn’t it?— having the car to ourselves. Now it’s up to you to talk. Tell me about things that have happened to you.”

  He laughed.

  “That’s more in your line—things that happen! I’ve only my ‘cases,’ examinations, and so forth. How on earth could I have anything to yarn about? I’ve always lived like a mole, underground; it’s you who’ve pulled me up to the surface and taught me to look at the world.”

  Never before had he confessed as much to her. Bending above the head she loved so well, pillowed on her knees, she took it between her hands, gazing into his eyes.

  “You mean that? You really mean it?”

  “Next year, you know,” he went on, without changing his position, “we won’t stay in Paris all the summer.”

  “No?”

  “I haven’t taken any leave this year; I’ll fix things up to get a fortnight off at least.”

  “Yes.”

  “Three weeks, perhaps.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll go abroad together, somewhere or other. Like the idea?”

  “Yes.”

  “To the mountains, if you like. The Vosges, or Switzerland. Or we might go further afield.”

  There was a faraway look on Rachel’s face.

  “What are you th
inking about now?” he asked.

  “About what you’re saying. Switzerland—rather!”

  “Or the Italian lakes, perhaps.”

  “No.”

  Lying on his back, lulled by the rhythms of the swaying train, he drowsily agreed.

  “All right then, we’ll go somewhere else.” After a moment’s silence he added lazily: “What have you got against the Italian lakes?”

  With the tips of her fingers she stroked Antoine’s forehead, his eyelids, and his temples, slightly sunken like his cheeks, and did not answer. His eyes were closed, but the question he had put still simmered in his brain.

  “Why won’t you tell me what you have against the Italian lakes?”

  She made a slight movement of impatience.

  “Because, if you must know, that’s where my brother died. My brother Aaron. At Pallanza.”

  He regretted his insistence, but did not drop the subject.

  “Had he settled in Italy, then?”

  “Oh, no, he was travelling. On his honeymoon.” Her eyebrows frowned; then, after a moment, as if she had read Antoine’s thought, she murmured: “No, there’s no denying it, I’ve had my share of queer experiences in my time!”

  “You don’t hit it off with your sister-in-law, I suppose?” he suggested. “Anyhow you never speak of her.”

  The train was stopping; getting up, she looked out of the window. But she had heard Antoine’s question, for she turned round towards him.

  “Eh? What sister-in-law? Clara?”

  “The one who married your brother; he died, you said, on his honeymoon.”

  “She died at the same time. Didn’t I tell you about it? No?” She was still looking out of the window. “They were drowned in the lake. Nobody ever knew how it happened.” She hesitated. “Nobody, except, perhaps … Hirsch.”

  “Hirsch!” he exclaimed, propping himself on his elbow. “Hirsch was with them, was he? Then—weren’t you there, too?”

  “Please don’t let’s talk about it today,” she begged, returning to her seat. “Hand me my bag, please. Feeling hungry?” She unwrapped a bar of chocolate and, holding one end between her teeth, proffered the other end to Antoine, who gaily joined in the game.

  “It tastes better that way,” she observed with a greedy flicker of her eyelashes. Then a sudden, almost startling change came over her voice. “Clara was Hirsch’s daughter. Got it straight, now? I came to know Hirsch through his daughter. Haven’t I told you about it?”

  He shook his head, but refrained from putting further questions; he was trying to make these latest details tally with what he had already gleaned from her. Anyhow it was not long before Rachel launched forth again—as she never failed to do when he ceased questioning her.

  “You’ve never seen Clara’s photo, have you? I’ll hunt it up for you. She was a great pal of mine; I got to know her in the beginners’ class. But she only stayed a year at the Opera; didn’t have the stamina for it. And I suppose Hirsch preferred keeping her at home; that’s more than likely, in fact. She and I were thick as thieves, and I used to go to see her every Sunday at the Neuilly riding-school. That’s how I started learning riding, along with her. We got intc the way of going out for rides together, the three of us, and kept it up afterwards.”

  “Whom do you mean by ‘the three of us’?”

  “Why, Clara, Hirsch, and I, of course. From Easter on I used to join them at six o’clock sharp, three mornings a week. I had to be back at eight sharp at the Opera. We had the Bois de Boulogne to ourselves at that hour—and it was heavenly!” She paused a moment, and he gazed up at her, propping his elbows on the seat, and stayed thus without moving. Rachel harked back to her memories of the past. “A queer girl and no mistake! Full of grit and good-hearted as you make ‘em. Lots of charm—with a spice of the gutter in it, and now and then you’d catch that terrifying expression of her father’s on her face. Yes, Clara was the best friend I had in those days. Aaron had been keen on her for years; that was all he worked for, really —to marry her some day. But she wouldn’t consent; no more would Hirsch, needless to say. Then one day she made up her mind all of a sudden; at the time I couldn’t think why she did it. Why, even when the engagement was announced, I had no idea what was at the back of her mind. When I knew—it was too late to say anything.” She paused again. “Then, three weeks after their marriage, Hirsch wired to me to come to Pallanza. I didn’t know that he had gone off to join them, and the moment I heard he was there I knew something dreadful had happened… . Anyhow, there’s no secret about it; everyone could see the bruises round Clara’s neck. He must have strangled her.”

  “ ‘He’? Whom do you mean?”

  “Aaron. Her husband. He had engaged a boat that evening for a trip on the lake—all by himself. Hirsch didn’t try to stop him, it suited his book too well. He knew what he was about, I suppose, and guessed that Aaron meant to kill himself. Only Clara had an inkling of it, too; she picked a moment when Hirsch wasn’t watching her and sprang into the boat, just as Aaron was starting to row away. Anyhow that’s how I’ve pieced it together, bit by bit, for Hirsch …” She shuddered, then continued: “You never know what Hirsch has in his head.”

  Antoine broke the silence that ensued.

  “But why should he have killed himself?” - “Aaron was always talking about suicide. He had it on the brain, even as a child. That’s just why I didn’t dare say anything to him, and let the marriage take place. Oh,” she exclaimed in a tone of deep distress, “how I’ve reproached myself for it, since! Perhaps if I’d spoken out in time—” She gazed at Antoine, as though it lay with him to justify her to her conscience. “I’d found out their secret, you see. But was that a reason for letting Aaron know about it? What could I do? He had told me several times that he’d kill himself if Clara didn’t marry him. And it’s sure he’d have done it, if I’d told him what I had discovered—quite by accident, too. Don’t you think so?”

  Antoine could not answer; he repeated her words.

  “By accident?”

  “Yes, quite by accident. I’d gone to join Clara and Hirsch for a morning ride. I went straight upstairs to Clara’s room; when I was near it I heard a scuffle going on and started to run. The door was ajar. Clara had no blouse on, her arms were bare and her riding skirt hampered her movements; then, just as I flung the door wide open, I saw her snatch up her riding-whip from a chair and slash him across the face with it as hard as she could. Hirsch felt it all right!”

  “What? Her own father …?”

  “Yes, my dear. That was a scene if you like—I often think of it!” She chuckled with vindictive glee. “The sight he was that morning, I shan’t forget it in a hurry! His face went yellow, while the weal grew darker and darker. He was pretty free with his fists, himself, and, when he was at it, he hit hard. But that time it was his turn to get a cut across the face, for a change!”

  “But … I don’t follow.”

  “Well, I never knew exactly what had happened that morning. It struck me at once that, now she was engaged, Clara must have told him to … well, to leave her alone. Various details I’d already noticed, things that had puzzled me at the time, came back to me. In a flash I understood… . Hirsch marched out of the room with a high and mighty air, without saying a word to me. He seemed quite confident that I’d hold my tongue, and, as you know, he wasn’t far wrong there. I ferreted the whole story out of Clara. But she swore to me—I’m sure she meant it, too—all that was over and done with, and she was marrying just to get away from it. To get away from Hirsch? Or did she mean from her own infatuation? That’s what I should have asked myself that morning. I ought to have guessed it wasn’t done with, not by any means, if only from the way she talked of Hirsch.” After a pause, she went on in a brooding voice: “When you hear a woman say she hates a man as much as that, you may be sure she’s hankering after him all the time.”

  Again she seemed lost in her musings and stayed a minute thus, with lowered forehead, eyes downcast. At
last she spoke again:

  “Yes, and it only shows how true that is, what I’ve just said; it was Clara herself, right in the middle of their honeymoon—would you ever believe it?—who asked Hirsch to come to Italy. I don’t know exactly what happened after that. Anyhow, Aaron must have caught them together; otherwise he wouldn’t have wanted to drown himself. The one thing I’ve never quite made out is just what Clara was after. Why did she jump into the boat alongside her husband? To stop him from killing himself? Or did she intend to die with him? Either theory would fit. Think of that last talk of theirs together, out on the lake in the middle of the night! What passed between them there? Over and over again I’ve put myself the question. Did she blurt out the whole truth in that cynical way she had? She was quite capable of doing so. Did Aaron decide to do away with her, just to make sure that could never happen again after he was dead? Their boat was recovered next day, empty; the bodies were found together several days later. But the queerest thing of all to my mind is that Hirsch should have sent for me to come quite early that evening, before the telegraph-office closed and before even the search party had gone out to look for them… . Anyhow,” she continued after some pensive moments, “you must have seen all about it in the papers—only you didn’t pay much attention, I suppose. The Italian police held an inquiry, and the French police took a hand in it too, They had searches made at my place and Aaron’s, but they never solved the mystery; I know more about it than they do.”

  “And they never got on the tracks of your friend Hirsch?”

  She drew herself up abruptly.

  “No,” she coolly replied, “they did not get on the tracks of my friend Hirsch.”

  There was a hint of truculence in her voice and in the glance she flung at Antoine, but he took no notice, for often, when she talked of her experiences, she affected a rather provocative tone; it seemed as if she took a delight in startling the man who, on the evening when first they met, had impressed her so profoundly.