Antoine had turned round and was facing him, decidedly ill at east and worried by the nearness of so many strangers. Still, despite his fear that Jacques might raise his voice, and apprehensive of what he might be going to say, Antoine did his best to put a good face on it.
But Jacques, who was leaning against a panel of the corridor, did not seem inclined to embark on further explanations.
Presently the passengers began to file out of the corridor to their seats in the crowded car, and soon Antoine and Jacques were sufficiently isolated to be able to talk without being overheard.
Jacques, who till now had been in a silent mood, seemingly reluctant to go on with the conversation, suddenly turned to his brother again.
“You know, Antoine, the really appalling thing is not feeling sure of what is … normal. No, not ‘normal’—that’s a stupid word. How shall I put it? Not knowing if one’s feelings, or, rather, instincts are … But you’re a doctor, of course; you must know.” His brows were knitted and his eyes fixed on the darkness. He spoke in a low tone, hesitating over his words. “Listen! There are things that work up one’s feelings; one gets a sort of sudden impulse towards this or that, an impulse that rushes up from what lies deepest in one. Isn’t that true? Well, it’s impossible to know if other people have similar feelings, similar impulses; or if one’s just a—a freak of nature. Do you see what I mean? You, Antoine, you’ve had to deal with so many people, so many cases, that I suppose you know what is—how shall I put it?—ordinary, and what is exceptional. But for the rest of us, who don’t know—well, you can guess how agonizing it can be. Let me give you an example. There are all sorts of inexplicable desires that crop up all of a sudden when a boy’s thirteen or fourteen— vague, incoherent thoughts that get hold of his mind, and he can’t shake them off. But he feels ashamed of them; they seem like festering sores and he tries to hide them from the world at all costs. Then one day he discovers that nothing’s more natural; why, they have even a beauty of their own! And that everyone, without exception, has the same desires. Do you see what I mean? Well, there are other dark impulses, things of the same sort, instincts that well up in one, and about which—even when one’s grown up, Antoine, even at my age—one wonders, one can’t be sure… .”
Suddenly his face grew tense, exasperated; a disturbing thought had flashed across his mind. He had just realized how quickly, how easily, the old allegiance to his brother had come back, linking him up, through Antoine, with his past and all its implications. Only yesterday that chasm had seemed unbridgeable. And now—a few hours together had been enough to …! He clenched his fists, lowered his eyes, fell silent.
A few minutes later, without once having raised his head or opened his lips again, he went back to his seat.
When, surprised by Jacques’s abrupt departure, Antoine decided to follow, he found his brother settled down for the night, it seemed, in the dimly lit compartment; his eyelids shut upon his tears, Jacques was feigning sleep.
PART VI
I
WHEN, at eight in the evening, just before taking the train to Lausanne, Antoine had looked in on Mile, de Waize, to tell her he would be away for twenty-four hours, his remarks had failed to take immediate effect on the old lady. For nearly an hour she had been seated at her desk struggling to concoct a letter to the railway company, complaining that a basket of vegetables had gone astray between Maisons-Laffitte and Paris; and exasperation had prevented her from thinking of anything else. It was only later on, when she had disposed of the letter more or less to her liking, had undressed for bed. and was saying her prayers, that one of Antoine’s remarks flashed back into her mind: “Please tell Sister Céline that Dr. Thérivier has been warned and will come, if needed, at a moment’s notice.” At once, all eagerness to shift her responsibility then and there, without troubling about the hour, without even finishing the prayer, she hurried across the flat to transmit the message to the nurse.
It was nearly ten o’clock. The lights were off, and M. Thibault’s room was in darkness but for the fitful glow from the log-fire, kept constantly burning to purify the air. Every day the need for ventilation made itself more acutely felt, and this expedient was proving inadequate to carry off the pungent vapour from the poultices, the smell of the menthol in the liniments, and, worst of all, the odours emanating from the old man’s person.
For the moment the pain had abated; the old man lay in an uneasy doze, snoring and groaning in the darkness. For many months he had not enjoyed the deep oblivion of real sleep. Going to sleep, for him, had ceased to mean the loss of consciousness; it meant only that for a brief spell he lost track of the slow lapse of time, minute by minute, and let his limbs sink into a partial torpor. But never for an instant did his brain stop working, calling up a stream of pictures, like an incoherent film in which fragments of his past life were flashed upon the screen; and though this pageant of the past might hold his interest, it was as exhausting as a nightmare.
That night M. Thibault’s torpor was not profound enough to free him from a haunting dread, which, mingling with his hallucinations and growing stronger every moment, set him running before an invisible pursuer, across the buildings of his old school, along the dormitory, down the corridors, through the chapel, and out into the playground. There, outside the gymnasium door, in front of the statue of Saint Joseph, he crumpled up, his head buried in his arms. And then, suddenly, from a coign of darkness, that terrifying, nameless Thing, which had been on his track night after night, leapt forth upon him. Just as it was about to crush his life out, he awoke with a start.
Behind the screen, an unwonted candle was lighting up a corner usually left in darkness; two shadows wavered on the wall, cornice-high. He heard whispering: Mademoiselle’s voice. Once before she had come like that, by night, to call him; Jacques was having convulsions. One of the children ill? What time was it?
Then Sister Céline’s voice recalled him to the present. He could not quite catch what they were saying; holding his breath, he listened hard.
A few words came clear: “Antoine told me the doctor had been warned … will come at once …”
Someone ill? Of course—he was ill. But—why the doctor?
Again that nameless form of fear was prowling in the shadows. Was he worse? What had happened? Had he slept? He had not noticed any change for the worse in his condition. Still, the doctor had been called in. In the middle of the night. He was dying. No hope left.
Then all he had said—without believing it—announcing that his last hour was near, came back to his mind. A cold sweat broke out on his body.
He tried to shout: “Help! Antoine!” But all that passed his lips was a wordless cry—so agonizing, however, that Sister Céline, thrusting aside the screen, rushed to the bed and turned on the light.
Her first notion was that he was having some sort of fit. The old man’s face, usually a sickly yellow, had turned scarlet; his eyes were wide open, his lips working inarticulately.
M. Thibault, meanwhile, paid no attention to what was happening round him. Centred on its fixed idea, his brain was functioning with ruthless clarity. In a few seconds he had reviewed the whole course of his illness: the operation, the months of respite, the relapse, and then the gradual decline of his strength, the way his pain was growing more and more recalcitrant to treatment. It all linked up together, everything grew clear. And all at once a bottomless abyss yawned where a few minutes ago there had been that bedrock of security, lacking which it is impossible to live. So sudden was the glimpse of the abyss that his whole balance was thrown out; his mind went limp, incapable of thought. Human reason is so vitally bound up with the future that once all likelihood of a tomorrow is ruled out, and every prospect seems converging on the blind alley that is death, the faculty of thinking falls to pieces.
The old man’s hands clutched at the sheets in blind, desperate panic. He tried to cry out, but in vain. The world was toppling over, dissolving into chaos, and he was being swept under, foundering i
n floods of darkness. Then fear forced a way across his strangled throat in a hoarse gasp that rose and fell, choked out at once.
Unable to straighten up her bent back so as to look at the bed, Mademoiselle began screaming.
“Bless and save us! What is it? What’s happening, Sister?”
The nurse did not answer. The old woman fled from the room.
Somebody must be sent for—but who? Antoine was away. Then she remembered the priest, Abbé Vécard.
The servants were still in the kitchen; they had heard nothing. At Mademoiselle’s first words Adrienne crossed herself, while Clotilde, pinning her shawl round her shoulders and picking up her purse and keys, made for the door.
II
THE ABBÉ VÉCARD lived in the Rue de Grenelle, near the administrative offices of the Archbishopric, where he was now in charge of the Department of Diocesan Charities. When Clotilde came he was still up, working at his desk. She had kept her taxi and, a few minutes later, they were at M. Thibault’s door.
Perched on one of the hall chairs, Mademoiselle was waiting for them. At first the priest failed to recognize her, so different she seemed without the braids encircling her forehead; tightly drawn back, her hair fell squirming down her dressing-jacket in corkscrew wisps.
“Please, M. l’Abbé,” she pleaded, “oh, please go to him at once, to make him less afraid.”
Nodding to her, without stopping, he went to the sick-room.
M. Thibault had flung away the counterpane; to get-away from this bed, from this accursed house, was now his one idea—anywhere to escape the Thing hounding him down. He had got back his voice and was hurling abuse at the women.
“Filthy strumpets! Bitches! Ah, I know all about you and your beastliness!”
Suddenly his eyes fell on the priest standing in the doorway, lit up by the hall lamp. He showed no surprise, and merely paused a moment before crying:
“Not you! I want Antoine. Where’s Antoine?”
Dropping his hat on a chair, the priest moved quickly forward. Impassive as ever, his features did not reveal how deeply he was moved; only the slightly raised arms, the half-opened hands, conveyed his longing to help his old friend. Going up to the bed, without a word, in all simplicity, he made the sign of benediction.
Then his voice rose through the silence, saying the Lord’s Prayer:
“Pater noster, qui es in ccelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.
“Fiat voluntas tua sicut in coelo et in terra!’
M. Thibault had ceased tossing to and fro and was gazing up at the Abbé. His lips began quivering and a wry look settled on his face, the look of a child who is on the brink of tears. His head swayed slowly this side and that, then sank onto the pillow. Gradually the sobs, which sounded like suppressed guffaws, grew fewer, ceased altogether.
Meanwhile the Abbé had gone up to the nun.
“Is he in much pain just now?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not much. I’ve just made an injection. Usually the pain doesn’t come back till after midnight.”
“Good. Leave us alone now. But please ring up the doctor,” he added with a gesture that seemed to imply: “I can’t work miracles!”
Quietly Sister Céline and Adrienne left the room.
M. Thibault seemed almost unconscious. Before the priest had come he had sunk thus several times into a sort of coma. But these welcome lapses never lasted long; abruptly he came back to the surface, where panic lay in wait for him, and once more with a new lease of strength began the desperate struggle.
The priest guessed that the lull would be brief; he must make the most of it while it lasted. He felt the blood coming to his head; of all the duties of his calling, ministration to the dying was the one he dreaded most.
He went up to the bed.
“You are suffering, my friend. You are going through an hour of bitter trial. Do not try to fall back on yourself, but open your heart to God.”
M. Thibault turned towards his confessor, and there was such anguish in his look that the priest’s gaze faltered. For a moment the sick man’s eyes darkened with anger and malevolent contempt. Only for a moment. The look of dreadful fear came back almost immediately. And now it was so terrible in its intensity that the priest could not face it, and turned away.
The dying man’s teeth were chattering; he was muttering feebly: “Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me! I’m so frightened.”
The priest pulled himself together.
“I have come to help you,” he said in a gentle voice. “First, let us pray. Let us invoke God’s presence in ourselves. Now, my friend, we will pray together.”
M. Thibault cut him short. “But … but …! Don’t you see? I’m … I’m at the point …” He dared not affront death by naming it.
Frantically his eye ranged the dark corners of the room. Was there no help, none anywhere in all the world? The shadows were deepening, deepening round him. From his lips came a scream that jarred the silence, and to the priest was almost a relief. Then, with all his might, he shouted:
“Antoine! Where’s Antoirie?” The Abbé made a vague gesture. “No, I don’t want you. Antoine!”
The priest changed his methods. Drawing himself up, he gazed sadly down at the furious face on the pillow, and with a sweeping gesture, as if he were exorcizing a man possessed, blessed him a second time.
His calmness was the last straw for M. Thibault. Propping himself on an elbow, despite the agony the effort cost him, he shook his fist.
“Ah, the swine! The ruffians! And now you and your claptrap— I’ve had enough of it.” Then a despairing sob broke from his lips. “I’m … I’m dying, dying, I tell you! Will no one help me?”
The Abbé gazed down, and did not contradict him; convinced though the old man was already that his end was near, the priest’s silence came as a final blow. Shaking from head to foot, feeling what little strength remained ebbing away, unable even to keep back the saliva dribbling down his chin, he kept on repeating in a tone of pitiful entreaty, as though perhaps the priest had not heard him, or had failed to understand:
“I’m dying. I’m dy-ing.”
The Abbé sighed, but made no gesture of denial. It is not always the truest charity, he thought, to lavish vain illusions on the dying; when the last hour is actually at hand, the only remedy against the terrors that invest it is not to deny its onset—against which the body, warned by instinct, is already up in arms—but to look death in the eyes, and be resigned to meet it.
He let some seconds pass, then, mustering his courage, said in clear, even tones:
“And supposing it is so, my friend. Is that a reason to be so terribly afraid?”
The old man fell back onto the pillow, as if he had been struck in the face.
“Oh, dear me!” he whimpered. “Oh, dear me!”
All was lost now; the storm had broken, sweeping him from his last foothold; there was no refuge anywhere, he was sinking, sinking …! And the last gleam of consciousness served only to reveal the black gulf of non-being. For other people death was a vague notion that did not touch them personally, one more counter in the common coin of words. For him it was the Now and Here, the one thing real— himself! Dazed and dilated, his eyes peered into the sheer abyss; then very far away, on the other side of nothingness, he saw the priest’s face, the face of a living man, denizen of another world. He was alone, cut off from the world of men. Alone with his fear, plunged in the nethermost depth of loneliness.
Through the stillness came a voice, the priest’s.
“Reflect! It was not God’s will that death should steal on you unawares, sicut latro, like a thief in the night. Surely then, you should prove yourself worthy of this grace—for a grace it is, and the greatest God can bestow on us, miserable sinners—that on the threshold of eternal life a warning should be granted.”
From an infinite distance M. Thibault listened to the words that, like weak waves fretting a rock, beat on the brain that fear had turned to stone, and for a moment, by mere force
of habit, his mind sought refuge in them, in the idea of God. But the impulse died still-born. Eternal Life, Grace, God—the words had lost all meaning, dwindled to futile sounds that had no relevance to the terrible reality.
“Let us thank God,” the Abbé continued. “Blessed are those whom He snatches from their earthbound cravings; blessed are those who die in the Lord. Let us pray, my friend. Let us pray together, with all our hearts, and God will help you in your time of trouble.”
M. Thibault swung his head round. Under his terror a vestige of rage was seething still. Had he been able, how gladly he would now have crashed his fist into the priest’s face! Blasphemies rose to his lips.
“God? What’s that? What help? It’s sheer nonsense when you come to think of it. Isn’t it He, precisely, whose will it is that I …?” The words choked in his throat. “What help can I expect of Him, tell me!” he shouted furiously.
His taste for controversy had come back to him so strongly that he forgot that his agony of mind had made him deny God just a moment before. “Ah, why should God treat me thus?” he groaned.
The Abbé shook his head. “Remember the words of the Imitation of Christ: ‘In the hour when thou deemest thyself very far from Me, then it is often I am nearest thee.’ ”
M. Thibault pondered. After some moments’ silence he turned to his confessor; and now he made a gesture of distress.
“Abbé, Abbé!” he pleaded, “Do something—pray—anything at all! Surely it can’t be possible that I …? Save me, oh, save me!”
The Abbé drew up a chair to the bed, sat down, and clasped the swollen hand, the least pressure on which left a pale imprint.
“Ah,” the old man cried, “you’ll see what it’s like, my friend, one day—when your turn comes!”
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