The Thibaults

by Roger Martin Du Gard

  Annetta, let us forget those kisses, lightly given, lightly taken; let’s be children again. Dear Annetta, little, lovely girl. Little sister!

  Submissive lips, yes, but eager, too; moist, melting, clinging lips. Ah, fatal, criminal desire, who shall deliver us from this body of desire?

  Annetta, Sybil. Love rent in twain. Which? Why have to choose? I meant no wrong. Dual attraction; necessary, hallowed equilibrium. Twin impulses, equally legitimate, for they spring from the depth of my being. Why, in reality, irreconcilable? How pure it might be, under the free, broad light of day! Why this ban, if in my heart all is harmony?

  Only one solution: one of the three must drop out. Which?

  Sybil? Ah, vision unbearable! Sybil in pain; not Sybil. Annetta, then?

  Annetta, sorellina, forgive me.

  Not one without the other; well, then—neither! Renunciation, oblivion, death. No, not death; death’s likeness. Eclipse. Here a curse lies on all, an interdiction; the prison-house.

  Here life and love are impossible. Goodbye.

  Lure of the unknown, lure of a wholly new tomorrow, ecstasy. The past forgotten, take to the open road.

  Turn away. Hurry to the station. The first train to Rome. Rome, the first train to Genoa. Genoa, the first liner. To America, or to Australia.

  Suddenly he laughs.

  A woman, women? No, it’s life I love. Forward!

  Jack Baulthy.

  Antoine closed the magazine with a bang, crammed it into his pocket, and stood up. For a moment, dizzily, he blinked at the lights; then, feeling his head spinning, he sat down again.

  While he was reading, the room had gradually emptied; the band had stopped, the billiard-players gone off to dinner. Alone in their corner, the Jew and the youth who had been reading The Rights of Man were finishing off a game of backgammon, under the pert eyes of the girl beside them. Her friend was puffing at a dead pipe, and each time he threw the dice the minx rubbed her head against the Jew’s shoulder with a little provocative giggle.

  Antoine stretched his legs, lit a cigarette, and tried to set his thoughts in order. But for some minutes his mind kept wandering, like his gaze; there was no steadying it. The picture of Jacques and Gise kept rising before him; at last he thrust it aside, and regained some measure of calm.

  The crucial problem was to draw a sharp dividing line between facts and fiction. That stormy interview between father and son, he was convinced, had actually taken place as Jacques described it. Some of the phrases used by the old judge, Seregno, rang obviously true: “Huguenot intrigues”; “I’ll break you”; “I’ll cut you off”; “I’ll have you enlisted.” And the remark about a heretic “bearing our name.” Antoine could almost hear the angry voice of his father as he stood there raging on the terrace, hurling his curse into the darkness. And true, undoubtedly, was Giuseppe’s threat: “I am going to kill myself”— which at last explained M. Thibault’s fixed idea. From the very start, he had always refused to believe that Jacques was still alive, and he had telephoned four times a day to the Morgue. That too explained his remorse, his half-disclosed admission that he had been to blame for Jacques’s disappearance. Quite conceivably this rankling self-reproach might have some connexion with the attack of albuminuria the old man had had just before the operation. In the light of these facts many events of the past three years took on a new complexion.

  Antoine picked up the magazine and read again the dedication written in Jacques’s hand.

  Did you not say to me, on that famous November evening: “Everything is subject to the influence of two poles; the truth is always double-faced”? So, sometimes, is love.

  Jack Baulthy.

  Evidently, he mused, that would account for many things—the tangle Jacques had got into with those two love-affairs. If Gise was Jacques’s mistress and, at the same time, he was so desperately in love with Jenny, life must have been infernally difficult for him. And yet …

  Antoine could not help feeling that there remained something elusive and obscure which he so far had failed to grasp. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to think that Jacques’s departure was accounted for merely by what he had just learned of the boy’s emotional dilemma. That desperate resolve must have been enforced by other circumstances as well, some sudden impact of imponderable factors.

  Then all at once it struck him that these problems could very well wait. The important thing now was to make the most of the clues he had just lit on, and to get on his brother’s track as soon as possible.

  It would be an obvious blunder to write direcdy to the office of the review. That Jacques had given no sign of life proved that he was still determined to lie low. To risk letting him guess that his retreat had been detected involved the danger that he might be prompted to move on again, and be lost sight of irretrievably. Yes, Antoine mused, there was only one way to a successful issue and that was to launch a surprise attack, and in person—for he had no real confidence in anyone except himself.

  Promptly he pictured himself alighting from the train at Geneva.

  But what would he do, once there? Jacques might be living in London. No, the best thing would be first of all to send a detective to Switzerland, to ascertain Jacques’s whereabouts. “And then,” he murmured, rising from the table, “I’ll go and dig him out, wherever he is. If only I can take him by surprise, we’ll see if he escapes me!”

  That evening he gave his instructions to a detective-bureau.

  Four days later he received the following document:

  Private and Confidential

  M. Jack Baulthy is, as you surmised, resident in Switzerland. He is not living at Geneva, however, but at Lausanne, where, we learn, he has had several successive residences. Since April last he has been staying at the Pension Kammerzinn, 10 Rue des Escarliers-du-Marche.

  We have not yet been able to verify the date on which he entered Swiss territory. Meanwhile, however, we have taken steps to discover his position as regards the military authorities.

  From information elicited by private inquiries at the French Consulate we learn that M. Baulthy presented himself in January 1912, at the military bureau of the said consulate, bringing various identification and other papers in the name of Jacques Jean Paul Oscar-Thibault, of French nationality, born in Paris in 1890. We were unable to procure a copy of his description on the military registration form (this description is, however, identical with that already cited), but we would inform you that the said form shows that M. Baulthy was granted a provisional exemption from military service on the ground of functional disorder of the heart, in 1910, under an order of the Board of Military Examiners, in Paris; and an extension of the said exemption, in 1911, by virtue of a medical certificate submitted in 1911 to the French Consul at Vienna. He underwent another medical examination at Lausanne in February 1912; the decision of the Board was transmitted through the proper channels to the Recruiting Bureau of the Seine Department. A third extension was granted by the Bureau, and as a result he has nothing to apprehend from the French Authorities as regards the question of his military service.

  We gather that M. Baulthy is leading a respectable life, and his friends are for the most part journalists and students. He is a registered member of the Swiss Press Club. The literary work he does for several daily papers and periodicals assures him an honest livelihood. We are told that M. Baulthy writes under several names besides his own, which we shall be pleased to ascertain if further advices are received from you to that effect.

  The report was marked Urgent, and was brought to Antoine on a Sunday at 10 p.m. by a special messenger from the detective-bureau.

  It was quite impossible for Antoine to leave the following morning, but M. Thibault’s condition was such that he dared not delay. After consulting his engagement-book and the time-table, he decided to take the Lausanne express on Monday evening. All that night he did not sleep a wink.

  VI

  THAT Monday was already a particularly heavy day for appointments,
but somehow Antoine, owing to his departure, had to fit into it several extra visits. He left for the hospital at an early hour and spent the rest of the day rushing to and fro in Paris, without even finding time to snatch a lunch at home. He did not get back fill after seven in the evening. The train left at eight-thirty.

  While Léon packed his suitcase, Antoine ran up to see his father, whom he had not visited since the previous day. There had been, he noticed, a definite change for the worse. M. Thibault had been unable to take food; he was in a very weak state and in constant pain.

  It was an effort for Antoine to greet him as usual with that cheery “Hallo, Father!” which acted on the old man as a never-failing tonic. He sat down in his usual chair and began putting the daily series of questions, eschewing like a pitfall the least interval of silence. Though outwardly he looked cheerful as ever, a thought kept running in his mind insistently: “He is very near his end.”

  Several times he was struck by the brooding gaze his father cast on him, dark with unuttered questions.

  Antoine wondered how far the dying man guessed the truth as to his actual condition. M. Thibault often spoke with resignation and solemnity of his approaching end. But what did he really think deep within his heart?

  For some minutes father and son, each absorbed in his unspoken thoughts—the same thoughts, very likely—exchanged trivial remarks about symptoms and the latest treatments. Then Antoine rose, remarking that he had an urgent case to visit before dinner. M. Thibault, who was in pain, made no effort to detain him.

  So far Antoine had let no one into the secret of his departure. His intention had been to tell no one but the nurse that he would be away for the next thirty-six hours. Unfortunately, when he was leaving the sick-room, she was busy with the invalid.

  There was no time to lose. He waited some moments in the corridor; then, when she failed to appear, he looked in on Mile, de Waize, who was writing a letter in her room.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come, Antoine,” she began at once. “You must lend me a hand! Do you know, a basket of vegetables has somehow gone astray!”

  He had immense difficulty in making her understand that he had been summoned to the country that night for an urgent case, that he would probably not be back next day, but that there was no need for anxiety; Dr. Thérivier had been informed of his departure and would come immediately, if necessary.

  It was after eight; Antoine had not a minute to lose. He told the taxi-driver to make haste, and, to the accelerated tempo of an adventure film, the Place du Carrousel, the sleek, black bridges and deserted quaysides scudded past the windows. For Antoine, who rarely travelled, there was a thrill in speeding thus across the darkness; the sense of sudden crisis, the myriad thoughts fermenting in his brain, and, most of all, the element of risk in his rash quest, had plunged him into an exciting world of high adventure.

  The car in which his seat had been reserved was nearly full. In vain he tried to sleep. His nerves on edge, he began counting the stops. Towards the end of the night, when he was just dropping off, the engine emitted a long, lugubrious shriek; the train was slowing down for the Vallorbe station. After the customs formalities, after standing in line in bleak, cold passages, and gulping down a cup of strong Swiss coffee, he abandoned hope of getting to sleep again.

  The visible world was slowly taking form in the tardy December dawn. The train was following the bed of a valley, and dim hillsides loomed on either hand. No colour anywhere; in the harsh grey light the landscape showed like a charcoal sketch, all in blacks and whites.

  Antoine’s gaze registered the scene impassively. Snow crowned the hill-tops, and sprawled in slabs of melting whiteness along pitch-black ravines. Sudden shadows of tall fir-trees etched the grey slopes. Then all grew blurred: the train was passing through a cloud. Presently he had a glimpse of open country studded everywhere with pinpoint yellow lights glimmering through the mist, tokens of a thickly populated countryside and early-rising folk. Already clusters of houses were becoming visible and, as the tide of darkness ebbed, fewer lights shone in the buildings.

  Gradually the blackness of the soil was fading into green, and soon the whole plain showed as a bright expanse of luxuriant meadows, streaked with white bands marking each fold of the ground, each watercourse and furrow. In the low farmhouses squatting on their crofts like broody hens, all the little window-shutters were swinging open. The sun had risen.

  Gazing vaguely across the trembling pane, Antoine felt the melancholy of this foreign landscape colouring his mood. A sense of hopelessness came over him, and now the difficulties of his project seemed insuperable. Moreover, he was alarmingly conscious that after his sleepless night he was in the worst possible form to face them.

  Meanwhile Lausanne was drawing near; the train was already passing through the suburbs. He gazed at the still sleep-bound house-fronts; tiered with balconies, four-square and standing on its own ground, each block of flats looked like a miniature skyscraper. Quite possibly behind one of those light-hued Venetian blinds, Jacques was getting up at this very moment.

  The train stopped. An icy wind was sweeping the platform. Antoine shivered. The passengers were flocking down a subway. Dog-tired, his nerves In rags, his mind and will for once completely out of hand, he followed the crowd, wearily dragging his bag along, uncertain what step to take next. A notice, “Wash and Brush-up, Baths, Showers,” caught his eye. Just the thing! A warm bath first to relax his muscles, followed by an invigorating shower. He could shave, too, and change his shirt. His last chance of getting in trim again.

  His ablutions proved a wonder-working tonic; he left the bathroom feeling a new man. Hastening to the cloak-room, he deposited his bag there, and set out determinedly on his quest.

  Rain was coming down in torrents. He jumped into a street car bound citywards. It was barely eight, but the shops were already open, and many people up and about, silently going their busy ways, in raincoats and rubbers. Though there was no wheeled traffic in the street these people took care, he noticed, to keep to the pavements, which were crowded. “An industrious, levelheaded folk,” he observed to himself. Antoine was fond of quick generalizations. Helped by his map of Lausanne, he found his way to the little square beside the town hall. When he peered up at the belfry, it was striking half-past eight. The street where Jacques lived was at the far end of the square.

  The Rue des Escaliers-du-Marché seemed to be one of the oldest streets in Lausanne. It was less a street, in fact, than a truncated alley, consisting of a steep ascent with houses only on the left. The little street climbed tier by tier; facing the houses rose a wall ribboned by an ancient wooden staircase, which was roofed over with medieval timberwork painted a purplish red. This sheltered staircase offered a convenient observation-post, of which Antoine took advantage. The few houses in the alley followed an irregular alinement; they were small and tumbledown, and the lower stories gave the impression of having served as small shops perhaps as far back as the sixteenth century. A low doorway, overweighted by its lavishly carved lintel, gave access to Number 10. On one of the panels was a weather-worn inscription: “Pension J. H. Kammerzinn.” So that was where Jacques lived.

  After those three weary years without news, after feeling that the whole world lay between him and his brother, the thought that in a few minutes he would see Jacques again came with an unexpected thrill. But Antoine had the knack of mastering emotion-—his profession had schooled him well—and as he summoned up his energy, his thoughts grew lucid, untouched by feeling. “Half-past eight,” he said to himself. “He’s at home presumably. Half-past eight—why, it’s the usual time for police arrests! If he’s in, I’ll say I’ve an appointment and go straight into his room, unannounced.” Screening his face with his umbrella, he crossed the street with a determined tread and climbed the two steps leading to the street-door.

  A paved hall led up to an old-fashioned staircase, flanked by banisters; it was wide and well kept, but dark. There were no doors. Antoine began going
up the stairs. Presently he heard a vague murmur of voices. When his head was above the level of the landing he saw, through the glass door of a dining-room, some ten or twelve boarders seated round a table. “Lucky the stairs are so dark,” he thought. “They can’t see me.” Then: “The boarders are having their breakfast. He isn’t there yet. He’ll be coming down.” And suddenly—yes, it was Jacques, his voice and intonation. He had just spoken. Jacques was there, living, large as life!

  Antoine tottered and, gripped by a sudden panic, hastily retreated a few paces. His breath came in gasps; surging up from the depths, that rush of affection seemed flooding his lungs, suffocating him. A nuisance, all those strangers! What was he to do? Go away for a bit? No. He pulled himself together; as usual, difficulty was a spur to his energies. There must be no delay; he must act promptly. He could see Jacques’s profile only now and then because of the people round him.

  A little old man with a white beard was sitting at the head of the table; five or six men of various ages were in the other seats. Opposite the old man was a good-looking, fair-haired woman, still young, with a little girl on each side of her. Jacques was bending forward, speaking in quick, eager tones. He seemed at ease amongst these people. Antoine, whose presence hovered like an impending threat over his brother’s peace of mind, was struck by the unawareness of what the next instant is to bring, the insouciance, that attends the most critical moments of a lifetime. The others seemed interested in the discussion, the old man was laughing; Jacques appeared to be holding his own against two youths sitting opposite him. Twice, to emphasize a remark, he made that commanding gesture with his right hand which Antoine had forgotten. Unexpectedly, after a swift exchange of repartee, he smiled. Jacques’s smile!