The Thibaults (99 page)

“Is he in Paris?” Jacques cut in rudely. “Does he know that …?”

Antoine had some difficulty in keeping his temper.

“Why, no; he’s doing his military service, as a sergeant, at Lunéville. He’s there for another ten months or so, till October ‘14. I’ve hardly come across him at all for a whole year.”

He stopped speaking, chilled by the gloomy, faraway look in his brother’s eyes.

Once Jacques felt sure that his voice would no longer betray his agitation, he said:

“Don’t let the fire go out in the stove, Antoine.” And with these words he was gone.

LEFT to his own devices, Antoine went over to the table and untied the files lying there. His interest was aroused.

All sorts of documents were contained in them. First, a selection of articles on topical events, cut out from newspapers and signed “Jacques the Fatalist.” Then a number of poems, rhapsodies on mountain scenery, which had appeared in a Belgian magazine over the pseudonym “J. Mühlenberg.” Lastly a series of short stories with a general title,
Leaves from the Black Book
; they were in the nature of sketches more than stories, by-products, it seemed, of Jacques’s experiences as a reporter, and signed “Jack Baulthy.” Antoine read some of these: “The Octogenarians,” “The Child Who Killed Himself,” “A Blind Man’s Jealousy,” “A Fit of Rage.” The characters were drawn from everyday life and, though etched only in outline, all seemed to stand out in bold relief. Jacques used the graphic, choppy style of “
La Sorellina
,” but divested these sketches of all poetic verbiage— which imparted to them a faithfulness to life that gripped the reader’s interest.

Yet, despite the interest of these literary efforts, Antoine’s attention wandered. There had been too many unexpected happenings that morning. And, above all, now that he was left to himself, his thoughts kept drifting back to the sick-bed he had left the day before; what terrible events might be in progress there at this very moment! Had he done wrong to leave? No, certainly not, since he was bringing Jacques home.

A gentle, though determined, tap at the door roused him from his musings.

“Come in,” he said.

He was surprised to see a woman’s form outlined against the dark background of the staircase. He seemed to recognize the girl he had caught sight of at breakfast-time, that morning. She was carrying some logs of firewood in a basket, of which he hastened to relieve her.

“My brother’s just gone out,” he said.

She nodded, as though to say: “I know that”; perhaps indeed: “That’s why I’ve come upstairs.” She was taking stock of Antoine with undisguised curiosity, but there was nothing in the least pert in her attitude; on the contrary, it seemed that she had carefully thought out the bold step she was taking now, and had compelling reasons for it. Antoine gathered the impression that she had been crying a very short time before. Presently her eyelashes began to quiver; then brusquely, in a bitterly reproachful voice, she asked him:

“Are you going to take him away?”

“Yes. My father is very ill.”

She seemed not to have heard.

“Why?” She stamped her foot angrily. “I don’t want you to!”

“I tell you, my father is on the verge of death,” Antoine replied.

But explanations were obviously lost on her. Slowly her eyes filled with tears. She swung round towards the window, folded her hands and wrung them. Then she let her arms fall limply.

“He’ll never come back!” she murmured in a broken voice.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, and rather plump; febrile in her movements, and listless when in repose. Two sleek, heavy braids of flaxen hair encircled her low brow, and were twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Under this diadem, her regular, if somewhat coarse, features had an almost queenly air, which was enhanced by the classical mould of her full, sinuous, yet determined lips, that ended unexpectedly on either side in two attractive dimples.

She turned round to face Antoine.

“Promise me,” she said, “swear to me by Jesus Christ that you will not prevent him from coming back.”

“Of course I won’t! Why should I?” he said, with a conciliatory smile.

She did not smile in return, but stared fixedly at the young man across a mist of shining tears. Under the close-fitting fabric, her bosom heaved convulsively. She gave herself quite shamelessly to Antoine’s interested scrutiny. From between her breasts she took out a tiny handkerchief, screwed up into a ball, and applied it to her eyes and then, with a sniff, to her nostrils. The slumberous pupils, slotted between the half-closed lids, had a velvety, voluptuous appeal. They brought to mind deep, stagnant pools; now and again there would well up in them an eddy of inscrutable thoughts. At such moments, she would bend down or turn away her head.

“Did he speak to you of me? Of Sophia?”

“No.”

A steely-blue flash shot from between her eyelids.

“You won’t let him know I told you all this, will you?”

Antoine smiled again. “But you haven’t told me anything!”

“Oh, yes, I have,” she retorted, throwing back her head and half closing her lids again.

She looked round for a chair, then drew it up near Antoine’s and sat down in feverish haste, as though she had not a minute to lose.

“Listen,” she remarked, “you’ve something to do with the stage, haven’t you?” He shook his head. “Yes, you have. I’ve a picture postcard of someone just like you. He’s a stage-star in Paris.” She was smiling now. A sentimental, almost sensual smile.

“So you’re very keen on the theatre?” he asked; it was too much bother trying to undeceive her.

“On the movies—yes! And real dramas. I adore them!”

Now and then a brief, unlooked-for change came over the girl’s features, ruffling their composure. At such moments her mouth, which she opened wide for the least remark, opened still wider, disclosing her broad white teeth and coral-pink gums.

He maintained a reserved attitude.

“I suppose you have quite good companies here, haven’t you?”

She drew closer still. “Have you ever been at Lausanne before?” Her whole attitude, as she bent towards him, even her way of speaking in low, fluttering undertones, seemed to suggest that she was expecting and prepared to reciprocate advances.

“Never,” he replied.

“Do you think you’ll come back?”

“Quite likely.”

Her eyes hardened for a second, as her gaze sank into his. Then, shaking her head emphatically, “No, you won’t,” she said.

She opened the door of the stove to put fresh fuel in.

“Oh, come now!” Antoine protested. “It’s too hot in here already.”

“That’s so.” She put the back of her hand to her cheek. None the less she picked up a log and dropped it onto the glowing embers, then a second one and a third. “Jack likes it better that way,” she said defiantly.

She remained on her knees, her back towards him, her eyes bent upon the blazing fire, which was toasting her cheeks. Night was falling. Antoine’s gaze wandered over the rippling curve of her shoulders, the nape of her neck, her thick, plaited hair haloed by the glow. What was she waiting for? Obviously she was conscious that his eyes were fixed on her. He seemed to glimpse a smile hovering on what little he could see of her averted features. But then, with a supple twist of her body, she rose to her feet. After shutting the stove-door with her foot, she took a few steps across the room, caught sight of a sugar-bowl on a side-table, dipped her fingers greedily into it, and began crunching a lump of sugar. Fishing out another, she held it towards him, from a distance.

“No, thanks,” he laughed.

“Bad luck if you don’t!” she exclaimed, tossing the lump of sugar towards him; he deftly caught it.

They observed each other shrewdly. Sophia’s eyes seemed to be asking: “Who are you?” even: “What’s it to be, between you and me?” Her indolent, insatiate eyes, flecked with motes of gold by the long translucent lashes, had the pale lustre of a sandy beach just before a summer storm breaks. Yet they were heavy with listlessness rather than with desire. “One of those minxes,” Antoine was thinking, “who yield at the first touch. And bite you as they kiss you! And hate you’ ever after. And give you no peace till they’ve played some dirty trick on you—by way of vengeance.”

As if she had guessed his thoughts, she moved away and began staring out of the window at the grey downpour that was hastening the close of day.

The silence was so prolonged that Antoine began to feel uncomfortable.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Oh! I don’t often think,” she confessed, without moving from the window.

“But when you do think, what is it about?”

“Nothing!”

Hearing him laugh, she left the window and gave him an engaging smile. Her movements now did not seem in the least hurried. She walked vaguely towards the door, her arms dangling. When she came beside it, her hand happened to brush against the key.

Antoine had an impression that she was turning it in the lock; the blood rose to his cheeks.

“Goodbye,” she whispered without looking up.

She had opened the door.

Surprised and obscurely disappointed, Antoine leaned forward, hoping to catch her eye. Like an echo, half playfully, in a soft, almost appealing tone, he murmured:

“Goodbye.”

But the door closed. She had vanished, without turning back.

He heard the rustle of her skirt against the banisters, and the song she was forcing herself to sing as she went downstairs.

LITTLE by little darkness was filling the room, but Antoine, lost in a maze of thoughts, could not find the energy to get up and turn on the lamps. More than an hour and a half had passed since Jacques had gone out. And, try as he might to repress it, a reluctant suspicion kept hovering at the back of Antoine’s mind. As the minutes passed he felt his anxiety steadily increasing; then all at once it vanished— he had recognized his brother’s footstep outside the door.

Jacques entered without a word, and did not even seem to notice that the room was in darkness. He sank wearily into a chair beside the door, his face just visible in the faint glow from the stove. His hat was down over his eyes, his overcoat still across his arm.

He gave a sudden little sigh.

“Oh, Antoine, don’t take me away. Go to Paris by yourself and leave me here. You know, I very nearly didn’t come back just now!” Then, before Antoine had time to put in a word, he cried out: “No, don’t speak, don’t say anything! I
know.
 I’ll come with you.”

Rising, he turned on the light.

Antoine carefully refrained from looking in his direction; to tide over the awkward moment he pretended to go on reading the clippings on the table.

Jacques began moving lethargically about the room. After tossing various articles onto the bed, he opened a suitcase and began packing his clothes and other personal effects in it. Now and then he whistled under his breath—always the same tune. Looking up, Antoine saw him drop a bundle of letters into the stove, and stow away in a closet all the loose papers lying about the room. Then he locked the closet, putting the key in his pocket. Presently he sat down in a corner, his head sunk between his shoulders, his back bent, and began scribbling postcards on his knee, nervously pushing back his long hair from his forehead as he wrote.

Antoine’s heart softened. Had Jacques said to him just then: “Please go away without me,” he would have embraced his brother and gone back alone, without another word.

It was Jacques who broke the silence. After changing his shoes and closing the suitcase, he went up to his brother.

“It’s seven o’clock, you know. We’d better be off.”

Without replying, Antoine stood up at once. After putting on his overcoat, he turned to Jacques.

“Can I give you a hand?”

“Thanks. Don’t bother.”

They spoke in lower tones than they had used during the day.

“Let me take your suitcase.”

“It’s not heavy; thanks. You go in front!”

They crossed the room almost without a sound. Antoine went out first. He heard Jacques switching off the light behind him and closing the door gently.

They snatched a hasty meal at the station restaurant. Jacques did not speak a word, and ate hardly anything. Antoine, whose mind was as heavy as his brother’s, respected his desire for silence and made no pretence of cheerfulness.

The train was in; they walked up and down the platform till it was time to start. From the underground passage a never-ending stream of passengers came pouring up.

“Looks as if the train will be crowded,” Antoine remarked.

Jacques made no reply. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he volunteered a confidence.

“You know, I’ve been here for two and a half years.”

“At Lausanne?”

“Not only at Lausanne. In Switzerland, I meant.” After a few steps along the platform he murmured: “Ah, what a wonderful time that was for me, the spring of 1911!”

Once more they walked the full length of the train without speaking. Jacques’s thoughts were evidently following the same trend as before, for suddenly he launched into an explanation.

“I’d been having such dreadful headaches in Germany that I put by every penny I could so as to be able to escape, to go to Switzerland and live an open-air life. I got here at the end of May, when the spring was at its height. I lived in the mountains, at Mühlenberg in the Canton of Lucerne.”

“Ah, Mühlenberg—that explains.”

“Yes. That’s where I wrote nearly all the poems which I signed ‘Mühlenberg.’ I was working very hard at that period.”

“Did you stay there long?”

“Six months. In a farmhouse. Only the two old people, the farmer and his wife; no children. I’ll never forget that spring, or that summer. The day I arrived, and for the first time looked out of my window—the beauty of it all! A spacious, rolling countryside, all in simple outlines—nature at her noblest! I was out of doors from dawn to dusk. The meadows were full of flowers and wild bees, and the huge pastures billowed up to the skyline, with cows grazing every-, where, and little wooden bridges over the mountain streams. I’d walk for miles and miles, working as I walked. I’d tramp all day, and sometimes I went out at night as well. Ah, those nights at Mühlenberg!” His arm rose slowly, described a wide circle, slowly sank again.