THE COUNTERFEITERS
*
_Other books
by_
ANDRÉ GIDE
*
STRAIT IS THE GATE
LAFCADIO’S ADVENTURES
DOSTOEVSKY
*
THE COUNTERFEITERS
(_Les Faux-Monnayeurs_)
_Translated from the French of_
ANDRÉ GIDE
_by Dorothy Bussy_
_New York_ ALFRED · A · KNOPF _Mcmxxvii_
COPYRIGHT 1927 BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1927
SECOND PRINTING OCTOBER, 1927
THIRD PRINTING OCTOBER, 1927
FOURTH PRINTING NOVEMBER, 1927
FIFTH PRINTING NOVEMBER, 1927
SIXTH PRINTING DECEMBER, 1927
SEVENTH PRINTING DECEMBER, 1927
ORIGINAL TITLE
LES FAUX-MONNAYEURS
COPYRIGHT 1925 BY LIBRAIRIE GALLIMARD
PARIS
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
*
I DEDICATE
THIS, MY FIRST NOVEL,
TO
ROGER MARTIN DU GARD
IN TOKEN OF PROFOUND
FRIENDSHIP
A. G.
*
CONTENTS
*
FIRST PART: PARIS
I. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 3
II. THE PROFITENDIEUS 9
III. BERNARD AND OLIVIER 23
IV. VINCENT AND THE COMTE DE
PASSAVANT 32
V. VINCENT MEETS PASSAVANT AT LADY
GRIFFITH’S 41
VI. BERNARD AWAKENS 50
VII. LILIAN AND VINCENT 54
VIII. EDOUARD AND LAURA 60
IX. EDOUARD AND OLIVIER 69
X. THE CLOAK-ROOM TICKET 73
XI. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: GEORGE
MOLINIER 77
XII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LAURA’S
WEDDING 86
XIII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: FIRST VISIT TO
LA PÉROUSE 106
XIV. BERNARD AND LAURA 115
XV. OLIVIER VISITS THE COMTE DE
PASSAVANT 124
XVI. VINCENT AND LILIAN 130
XVII. THE EVENING AT RAMBOUILLET 136
XVIII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: SECOND VISIT
TO LA PÉROUSE 144
SECOND PART: SAAS-FÉE
I. FROM BERNARD TO OLIVIER 155
II. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LITTLE BORIS 160
III. EDOUARD EXPLAINS HIS THEORY
TO LA PÉROUSE 167
IV. BERNARD AND LAURA 180
V. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: CONVERSATION
WITH SOPHRONISKA 189
VI. FROM OLIVIER TO BERNARD 195
VII. THE AUTHOR REVIEWS HIS CHARACTERS 202
THIRD PART: PARIS
I. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: OSCAR
MOLINIER 209
II. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: AT THE
VEDELS’ 218
III. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: THIRD VISIT
TO LA PÉROUSE 228
IV. THE FIRST DAY OF THE TERM 235
V. OLIVIER MEETS BERNARD 242
VI. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: MADAME
MOLINIER 256
VII. OLIVIER AND ARMAND 262
VIII. THE ARGONAUTS’ DINNER 269
IX. OLIVIER AND EDOUARD 283
X. OLIVIER’S CONVALESCENCE 289
XI. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: PAULINE 294
XII. EDOUARD AND THEN STROUVILHOU
VISIT PASSAVANT 299
XIII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: DOUVIERS
PROFITENDIEU 310
XIV. BERNARD AND THE ANGEL 319
XV. BERNARD VISITS EDOUARD 325
XVI. EDOUARD WARNS GEORGE 329
XVII. ARMAND AND OLIVIER 340
XVIII. THE STRONG MEN 350
XIX. BORIS 359
XX. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL 363
FIRST PART
PARIS
I
THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS
“THE time has now come for me to hear a step in the passage,” said
Bernard to himself. He raised his head and listened. Nothing! His
father and elder brother were away at the law-courts; his mother
paying visits; his sister at a concert; as for his small brother
Caloub--the youngest--he was safely shut up for the whole afternoon in
his day-school. Bernard Profitendieu had stayed at home to cram for his
“_bachot_”;[1] he had only three more weeks before him. His family
respected his solitude--not so the demon! Although Bernard had stripped
off his coat, he was stifling. The window that looked on to the street
stood open, but it let in nothing but heat. His forehead was streaming.
A drop of perspiration came dripping from his nose and fell on to the
letter he was holding in his hand.
“Pretending to be a tear!” thought he. “But it’s better to sweat than
to weep.”
Yes; the date was conclusive. No one could be in question but him,
Bernard himself. Impossible to doubt it. The letter was addressed to
his mother--a love-letter--seventeen years old, unsigned.
“What can this initial stand for? A ‘V’? It might just as well be an
‘N.’... Would it be becoming to question my mother?... We must give her
credit for good taste. I’m free to imagine he’s a prince. It wouldn’t
advance matters much to know that I was the son of a rapscallion.
There’s no better cure for the fear of taking after one’s father, than
not to know who he is. The mere fact of enquiry binds one. The only
thing to do is to welcome deliverance and not attempt to go any deeper.
Besides which, I’ve had sufficient for the day.”
Bernard folded the letter up again. It was on paper of the same size
and shape as the other twelve in the packet. They were tied up with
pink ribbon which there had been no need for him to untie, and which he
was easily able to slip round the bundle again to keep it tight. He put
the bundle back into the casket and the casket back into the drawer of
the console-table. The drawer was not open. It had yielded its secret
from above. Bernard fitted together the pieces of wood which formed its
top, and which were made to support a heavy slab of onyx, re-adjusted
the slab carefully and gently, and put back in their places on the top,
a pair of glass candelabra and a cumbersome clock, which he had been
amusing himself by repairing.
The clock struck four. He had set it to the right time.
“His Honour the judge and his learned son the barrister will not
be back before six. I shall have time. When His Honour comes in he
must find a letter from me on his writing table, informing him in
eloquent terms of my departure. But before I write it, I feel that
it’s absolutely essential to air my mind a little. I must talk to my
dear Olivier, and make certain of a perch--at any rate a temporary
one. Olivier, my friend, the time has come for _me_ to put your
good-fellowship to the test, and for _you_ to show your mettle.
The fine thing about our friendship so far has been that we have never
made any use of one another. Pooh! it can’t be unpleasant to ask a
favour that’s amusing to grant. The tiresome thing is that Olivier
won’t be alone. Never mind! I shall have to take him aside. I want to
appal him by my calm. It’s when things are most extraordinary that I
feel most at home.”
The street where Bernard Profitendieu had lived until then was quite
close to the Luxembourg Gardens. There, in the path that overlooks
the Medici fountains, some of his schoolfellows were in the habit of
meeting every Wednesday afternoon, between four and six. The talk was
of art, philosophy, sport, politics and literature. Bernard walked to
the gardens quickly, but as soon as he caught sight of Olivier Molinier
through the railings, he slackened his pace. The gathering that day was
more numerous than usual--because of the fine weather, no doubt. Some
of the boys who were there were new-comers, whom Bernard had never
seen before. Every one of them, as soon as he was in company with the
others, lost his naturalness and began to act a part.
Olivier blushed when he saw Bernard coming up. He left the side of
a young woman to whom he had been talking and walked away a little
abruptly. Bernard was his most intimate friend, so that he took great
pains not to show that he liked being with him; sometimes he would even
pretend not to see him.
Before joining him, Bernard had to run the gauntlet of several groups
and, as he himself affected not to be looking for Olivier, he lingered
among the others.
Four of his schoolfellows were surrounding a little fellow with a beard
and a pince-nez, who was perceptibly older than the rest. This was
Dhurmer. He was holding a book and addressing one boy in particular,
though at the same time he was obviously delighted that the others were
listening.
“I can’t help it,” he was saying, “I’ve got as far as page thirty
without coming across a single colour or a single word that makes a
picture. He speaks of a woman and I don’t know whether her dress was
red or blue. As far as I’m concerned, if there are no colours, it’s
useless, I can see nothing.” And feeling that the less he was taken
in earnest, the more he must exaggerate, he repeated: “--absolutely
nothing!”
Bernard stopped attending; he thought it would be ill-mannered to
walk away too quickly, but he began to listen to some others who were
quarrelling behind him and who had been joined by Olivier after he
had left the young woman; one of them was sitting on a bench, reading
_L’Action Française_.
Amongst all these youths how grave Olivier Molinier looks! And yet he
was one of the youngest. His face, his expression, which are still
almost a child’s, reveal a mind older than his years. He blushes
easily. There is something tender about him. But however gracious his
manners, some kind of secret reserve, some kind of sensitive delicacy,
keeps his schoolfellows at a distance. This is a grief to him. But for
Bernard, it would be a greater grief still.
Molinier, like Bernard, had stayed a minute or two with each of the
groups--out of a wish to be agreeable, not that anything he heard
interested him. He leant over the reader’s shoulder, and Bernard,
without turning round, heard him say:
“You shouldn’t read the papers--they’ll give you apoplexy.”
The other replied tartly: “As for you, the very name of Maurras makes
you turn green.”
A third boy asked, deridingly: “Do Maurras’s articles amuse you?”
And the first answered: “They bore me bloody well stiff, but I think
he’s right.”
Then a fourth, whose voice Bernard didn’t recognize: “Unless a thing
bores you, you think there’s no depth in it.”
“_You_ seem to think that one’s only got to be stupid to be funny.”
“Come along,” whispered Bernard, suddenly seizing Olivier by the arm
and drawing him aside. “Answer quickly. I’m in a hurry. You told me you
didn’t sleep on the same floor as your parents?”
“I’ve shown you the door of my room. It opens straight on to the
staircase, half a floor below our flat.”
“Didn’t you say your brother slept with you?”
“George. Yes.”
“Are you two alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can the youngster hold his tongue?”
“If necessary.”
“Listen. I’ve left home--or at any rate I’m going to this evening. I
don’t know where to go yet. Can you take me in for one night?”
Olivier turned very pale. His emotion was so great that he was hardly
able to look at Bernard.
“Yes,” said he, “but don’t come before eleven. Mamma comes down to say
good-night to us and lock the door every evening.”
“But then...?”
Olivier smiled. “I’ve got another key. You must knock softly, so as not
to wake George if he’s asleep.”
“Will the concierge let me in?”
“I’ll warn him. Oh, I’m on very good terms with him. It’s he who gives
me the key. Good-bye! Till to-night!”
They parted without shaking hands. While Bernard was walking away,
reflecting on the letter he meant to write for the magistrate to find
when he came in, Olivier, not wishing it to be thought that Bernard
was the only person he liked talking to in private, went up to Lucien
Bercail, who was sitting by himself as usual, for he was generally left
a little out of it by the others. Olivier would be very fond of him, if
he didn’t prefer Bernard. Lucien is as timid as Bernard is spirited. He
cannot hide his weakness; he seems to live only with his head and his
heart. He hardly ever dares to make advances, but when he sees Olivier
coming towards him, he is beside himself with joy; Lucien writes
poetry--everyone suspects as much; but I am pretty sure that Olivier is
the only person to whom Lucien talks of his ideas. They walked together
to the edge of the terrace.
“What I should like,” said Lucien, “would be to tell the story--no,
not of a person, but of a place--well, for instance, of a garden path,
like this--just tell what happens in it from morning to evening. First
of all, come the children’s nurses and the children, and the babies’
nurses with ribbons in their caps.... No, no ... first of all, people
who are grey all over and ageless and sexless and who come to sweep
the path, and water the grass, and change the flowers--in fact, to set
the stage and get ready the scenery before the opening of the gates.
D’you see? _Then_ the nurses come in ... the kids make mud-pies
and squabble; the nurses smack them. Then the little boys come out of
school; then there are the workgirls; then the poor people who eat
their scrap upon a bench, and later people come to meet each other, and
others avoid each other, and others go by themselves--dreamers. And
then when the band plays and the shops close, there’s the crowd....
Students, like us; in the evening, lovers who embrace--others who
cry at parting. And at the end, when the day is over, there’s an old
couple.... And suddenly the drum beats. Closing time! Everyone goes
off. The play is ended. Do you understand? Something which gives
the impression of the end of everything--of death ... but without
mentioning death, of course.”
“Yes, I see it all perfectly,” said Olivier, who was thinking of
Bernard and had not listened to a word.
“And that’s not all,” went on Lucien, enthusiastically; “I should like
to have a kind of epilogue and show the same garden path at night,
after everyone has gone, deserted and much more beautiful than in the
daytime. In the deep silence; all the natural sounds intensified--the
sound of the fountain, and the wind in the trees, and the song of a
night-bird. First of all, I thought that I’d bring in some ghosts to
wander about--or perhaps some statues--but I think that would be more
common place. What do you say?”
“No, no! No statues, no statues!” said Olivier absent-mindedly; and
then, seeing the other’s disappointed face: “Well, old fellow, if you
bring it off, it’ll be splendid!” he exclaimed warmly.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Schoolboy’s slang for the _baccalauréat_ examination.]
II
THE PROFITENDIEUS
_There is no trace in Poussin’s letters of any feeling of obligation
towards his parents._
_He never in later days showed any regret at having left them;
transplanted to Rome of his own free will, he lost all desire to
return to his home--and even, it would seem, all recollection of
it_.
PAUL DESJARDINS (_Poussin_).
MONSIEUR PROFITENDIEU was in a hurry to get home and wished that his
colleague Molinier, who was keeping him company up the Boulevard St.
Germain, would walk a little faster. Albéric Profitendieu had just had
an unusually heavy day at the law-courts; an uncomfortable sensation
in his right side was causing him some uneasiness; fatigue in his case
usually went to his liver, which was his weak point. He was thinking
of his bath; nothing rested him better after the cares of the day than
a good bath--with an eye to which he had taken no tea that afternoon,
esteeming it imprudent to get into any sort of water--even warm--with
a loaded stomach. Merely a prejudice, perhaps; but prejudices are the
props of civilisation. Oscar Molinier walked as quickly as he could
and made every effort to keep up with his companion; but he was much
shorter than Profitendieu and his crural development was slighter;
besides which there was a little fatty accumulation round his heart and
he easily became short-winded. Profitendieu, who was still sound at
the age of fifty-five, with a well-developed chest and a brisk gait,
would have gladly given him the slip; but he was very particular as
to the proprieties; his colleague was older than he and higher up in
the career; respect was due to him. And besides, since the death of
his wife’s parents, Profitendieu had a very considerable fortune to
be forgiven him, whereas Monsieur Molinier, who was _Président de
chambre_, had nothing but his salary--a derisory salary, utterly
disproportionate to the high situation he filled with dignity, which
was all the more imposing because of the mediocrity it cloaked.
Profitendieu concealed his impatience; he turned to Molinier and looked
at him mopping himself; for that matter, he was exceedingly interested
by what Molinier was saying; but their point of view was not the same
and the discussion was beginning to get warm.
“Have the house watched, by all means,” said Molinier. “Get the reports
of the concierge and the sham maid-servant--very good! But mind, if
you push the enquiry too far, the affair will be taken out of your
hands.... I mean there’s a risk of your being led on much further than
you bargained for.”
“Justice should have no such considerations.”
“Tut, tut, my dear sir; you and I know very well what justice ought
to be and what it is. We’re all agreed that we act for the best, but,
however we act, we never get nearer than an approximation. The case
before us now is a particularly delicate one. Out of the fifteen
accused persons--or persons who at a word from you will be accused
to-morrow--nine are minors. And some of these boys, as you know,
come of very honourable families. In such circumstances, I consider
that to issue a warrant at all would be the greatest mistake. The
newspapers will get hold of the affair and you open the door to every
sort of blackmail and calumny. In spite of all your efforts you’ll
not prevent names from coming out.... It’s no business of mine to
give you advice--on the contrary--it’s much more my place to receive
it. You’re well aware how highly I’ve always rated your lucidity and
your fair-mindedness.... But if I were you, this is what I should do:
I should try to put an end to this abominable scandal by laying hold
of the four or five instigators.... Yes! I know they’re difficult to
catch; but what the deuce, that’s part of our trade. I should have the
flat--the scene of the orgies--closed, and I should take steps for the
brazen young rascals’ parents to be informed of the affair--quietly
and secretly; and merely in order to avoid any repetition of the
scandal. Oh! as to the women, collar _them_ by all means. I’m
entirely with you there. We seem to be up against a set of creatures
of unspeakable perversity, and society should be cleansed of them at
all costs. But, let me repeat, leave the boys alone; content yourself
with giving them a fright, and then hush the matter up with some vague
term like “youthful indiscretion.” Their astonishment at having got
off so cheaply will last them for a long time to come. Remember that
three of them are not fourteen years old and that their parents no
doubt consider them angels of purity and innocence. But really, my dear
fellow, between ourselves, come now, did _we_ think of women when
we were that age?”
He came to a stop, breathless rather with talking than with walking,
and forced Profitendieu, whose sleeve he was holding, to stop too.
“Or if we thought of them,” he went on, “it was
ideally--mystically--religiously, if I may say so. The boys of to-day,
don’t you think, have no ideals--no! no ideals.... A propos, how are
yours? Of course, I’m not alluding to them when I speak so. I know that
with your careful bringing-up--with the education you’ve given them,
there’s no fear of any such reprehensible follies.”
And indeed, up to that time, Profitendieu had had every reason to
be satisfied with his sons. But he was without illusions--the best
education in the world was of no avail against bad instincts. God be
praised, _his_ children had no bad instincts--nor Molinier’s
either, no doubt; they were their own protectors against bad companions
and bad books. For of what use is it to forbid what we can’t prevent?
If books are forbidden, children read them on the sly. His own plan was
perfectly simple--he didn’t forbid bad books, but he so managed that
his children had no desire to read them. As for the matter in question,
he would think it over again, and in any case, he promised Molinier to
do nothing without consulting him. He would simply give orders for a
discreet watch to be kept, and as the thing had been going on for three
months, it might just as well go on for another few days or weeks.
Besides, the summer holidays were upon them and would necessarily
disperse the delinquents. _Au revoir!_
At last Profitendieu was able to quicken his pace.
As soon as he got in, he hurried to his dressing-room and turned on
the water for his bath. Antoine had been looking out for his master’s
return and managed to come across him in the passage.
This faithful man-servant had been in the family for the last fifteen
years; he had seen the children grow up. He had seen a great many
things--and suspected a great many more; but he pretended not to notice
anything his masters wished to keep hidden.
Bernard was not without affection for Antoine; he had not wanted to
leave the house without saying good-bye to him. Perhaps it was out of
irritation against his family that he made a point of confiding to a
servant that he was going away, when none of his own people knew it;
but, in excuse for Bernard, it must be pointed out that none of his own
people were at that time in the house. And besides, Bernard could not
have said good-bye to them without the risk of being detained. Whereas
to Antoine, he could simply say: “I’m going away.” But as he said it,
he put out his hand with such a solemn air that the old servant was
astonished.
“Not coming back to dinner, Master Bernard?”
“Nor to sleep, Antoine.” And as Antoine hesitated, not knowing what he
was expected to understand, nor whether he ought to ask any further
questions, Bernard repeated still more meaningly: “I’m going away”;
then he added: “I’ve left a letter for....” He couldn’t bring himself
to say “Papa,” so he corrected his sentence to “on the study writing
table. Good-bye.”
As he squeezed Antoine’s hand, he felt as moved as if he were then and
there saying good-bye to all his past life. He repeated “good-bye” very
quickly and then hurried off before the sob that was rising in his
throat burst from him.
Antoine wondered whether it were not a heavy responsibility to let him
go in this way--but how could he have prevented him?
That this departure of Bernard’s would be a blow to the whole
family--an unexpected--a monstrous blow--Antoine indeed was well
aware; but his business as a perfect servant was to pretend to take
it as a matter of course. It was not for him to know what Monsieur
Profitendieu was ignorant of. No doubt, he might simply have said to
him: “Do you know, sir, that Master Bernard has gone away?” But by so
saying, he would lose his advantage, and that was highly undesirable.
If he awaited his master so impatiently, it was to drop out in a
non-committal, deferential voice, and as if it were a simple message
left by Bernard, this sentence, which he had elaborately prepared
beforehand:
“Before going away, sir, Master Bernard left a letter for you in the
study”--a sentence so simple that there was a risk of its passing
unperceived; he had racked his brains in vain for something which would
be more striking, and had found nothing which would be at the same time
natural. But as Bernard never left home, Profitendieu, whom Antoine was
watching out of the corner of his eye, could not repress a start.
“Before going....”
He pulled himself up at once; it was not for him to show his
astonishment before a subordinate; the consciousness of his superiority
never left him. His tone as he continued was very calm--really
magisterial.
“Thank you.” And as he went towards his study: “Where did you say the
letter was?”
“On the writing table, sir.”
And in fact, as Profitendieu entered the room, he saw an envelope
placed conspicuously opposite the chair in which he usually sat when
writing; but Antoine was not to be choked off so easily, and Monsieur
Profitendieu had not read two lines of the letter, when he heard a
knock at the door.
“I forgot to tell you, sir, that there are two persons waiting to see
you in the back drawing-room.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Are they together?”
“They don’t seem to be, sir.”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know. They want to see you, sir.”
Profitendieu felt his patience giving way.
“I have already said and repeated that I don’t want to be disturbed
when I’m at home--especially at this time of day; I have my consulting
room at the law-courts. Why did you let them in?”
“They both said they had something very urgent to say to you, sir.”
“Have they been here long?”
“Nearly an hour.”
Profitendieu took a few steps up and down the room, and passed one hand
over his forehead; with the other he held Bernard’s letter. Antoine
stood at the door, dignified and impassive. At last, he had the joy of
seeing the judge lose his temper and of hearing him for the first time
in his life stamp his foot and scold angrily.
“Deuce take it all! Can’t you leave me alone? Can’t you leave me alone?
Tell them I’m busy. Tell them to come another day.”
Antoine had no sooner left the room than Profitendieu ran to the door.
“Antoine! Antoine! And then go and turn off my bath.”
Much inclined for a bath, truly! He went up to the window and read:
SIR,
Owing to an accidental discovery I happened to make this afternoon, I
have become aware that I must cease to regard you as my father. This
is an immense relief to me. Realizing as I do how little affection
I feel for you, I have for a long time past been thinking myself
an unnatural son; I prefer knowing I am not your son at all. You
will perhaps consider that I ought to be grateful to you for having
treated me as if I were one of your own children; but, in the first
place, I have always felt the difference between your behaviour to
them and to me, and, secondly, I know you well enough to feel certain
that you acted as you did because you were afraid of the scandal and
because you wished to conceal a situation which did you no great
honour--and, finally, because you could not have acted otherwise. I
prefer to leave without seeing my mother again, because I am afraid
that the emotion of bidding her a final good-bye might affect me too
much and also because she might feel herself in a false position in
my presence--which I should dislike. I doubt whether she has any very
lively affection for me; as I was almost always away at school, she
never had time to know much of me, and as the sight of me must have
continually reminded her of an episode in her life which she would
have liked to efface, I think my departure will be a relief and a
pleasure to her. Tell her, if you have the courage to, that I bear her
no grudge for having made a bastard of me; on the contrary, I prefer
that to knowing I am your son. (Pray excuse me for writing in this
way; it is not my object to insult you; but my words will give you an
excuse for despising me and that will be a relief to you.)
If you wish me to keep silent as to the secret reasons which have
induced me to leave your roof, I must beg you not to attempt to make
me return to it. The decision I have taken is irrevocable. I do not
know how much you may have spent on supporting me up till now; as long
as I was ignorant of the truth I could accept living at your expense,
but it is needless to say that I prefer to receive nothing from you
for the future. The idea of owing you anything is intolerable to me
and I think I had rather die of hunger than sit at your table again.
Fortunately I seem to remember having heard that my mother was richer
than you when she married you. I am free to think, therefore, that the
burden of supporting me fell only on her. I thank her--consider her
quit of anything else she may owe me--and beg her to forget me. You
will have no difficulty in explaining my departure to those it may
surprise. I give you free leave to put what blame you choose on me
(though I know well enough that you will not wait for my leave to do
this).
I sign this letter with that ridiculous name of yours, which I should
like to fling back in your face, and which I am longing and hoping
soon to dishonour.
BERNARD PROFITENDIEU.
P.S. I am leaving all my things behind me. They belong more
legitimately to Caloub--at any rate I hope so, for your sake.
Monsieur Profitendieu totters to an arm-chair. He wants to reflect, but
his mind is in a confused whirl. Moreover he feels a little stabbing
pain in his right side, just below his ribs. There can be no question
about it. It is a liver attack. Would there be any Vichy water in
the house? If only his wife had not gone out! How is he to break the
news of Bernard’s flight to her? Ought he to show her the letter? It
is an unjust letter--abominably unjust. He ought to be angry. But it
is not anger he feels--he wishes it were--it is sorrow. He breathes
deeply and at each breath exhales an “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” as swift
and low as a sigh. The pain in his side becomes one with his other
pain--proves it--localizes it. He feels as if his grief were in his
liver. He drops into an arm-chair and re-reads Bernard’s letter. He
shrugs his shoulders sadly. Yes, it is a cruel letter--but there is
wounded vanity, defiance--bravado in it, too. Not one of his other
children--his real children--would have been capable--any more than
he would have been capable himself--of writing it. He knows this, for
there is nothing in them which he does not recognize only too well in
himself. It is true that he has always thought it his duty to blame
Bernard for his rawness, his roughness, his unbroken temper, but he
realizes that it is for those very things that he loved him as he had
never loved any of the others.
In the next room, Cécile, who had come in from her concert, had begun
to practise the piano and was obstinately going over and over again the
same phrase in a barcarole. At last Albéric Profitendieu could bear
it no longer. He opened the drawing-room door a little way and in a
plaintive, half supplicating voice, for his liver was beginning to hurt
him cruelly (and besides he had always been a little frightened of her):
“Cécile, my dear,” he asked, “would you mind seeing whether there’s any
Vichy water in the house and if there isn’t, sending out to get some?
and it would be very nice of you to stop playing for a little.”
“Are you ill?”
“No, no, not at all. I’ve just got something that needs thinking over a
little before dinner, and your music disturbs me.”
And then a kindly feeling--for he was softened by suffering--made him
add:
“That’s a very pretty thing you’re playing. What is it?”
But he went away without waiting for the answer. For that matter, his
daughter, who was aware that he knew nothing whatever about music
and could not distinguish between “_Viens Poupoule_” and the
_March_ in _Tannhäuser_ (at least, so she used to say), had
no intention of answering.
But there he was at the door again!
“Has your mother come in?”
“No, not yet.”
Absurd! she would be coming in so late that he would have no time to
speak to her before dinner. What could he invent to explain Bernard’s
absence? He really couldn’t tell the truth--let the children into the
secret of their mother’s temporary lapse. Ah! all had been forgotten,
forgiven, made up. The birth of their last son had cemented their
reconciliation. And now, suddenly this avenging spectre had re-risen
from the past--this corpse had been washed up again by the tide.
Good! Another interruption! As the study door noiselessly opens, he
slips the letter into the inside pocket of his coat; the portière is
gently raised--Caloub!
“Oh, Papa, please tell me what this Latin sentence means. I can’t make
head or tail of it....”
“I’ve already told you not to come in here without knocking. You
mustn’t disturb me like this for anything and everything. You are
getting too much into the habit of relying on other people instead of
making an effort yourself. Yesterday it was your geometry problem, and
now to-day it’s ... by whom is your sentence?”
Caloub holds out his copy-book.
“He didn’t tell us; but just look at it; _you’ll_ know all right.
He dictated it to us. But perhaps I took it down wrong. You might at
any rate tell me if it’s correct?”
Monsieur Profitendieu took the copy-book, but he was in too much pain.
He gently pushed the child away.
“Later on. It’s just dinner time. Has Charles come in?”
“He went down to his consulting room.” (The barrister receives his
clients in a room on the ground floor.)
“Go and tell him I want to speak to him. Quick!”
A ring at the door bell! Madame Profitendieu at last! She apologizes
for being late. She had a great many visits to pay. She is sorry to see
her husband so poorly. What can be done for him? He certainly looks
very unwell. He won’t be able to eat anything. They must sit down
without him, but after dinner, will she come to his study with the
children?--Bernard?--Oh, yes; his friend ... you know--the one he is
reading mathematics with--came and took him out to dinner.
Profitendieu felt better. He had at first been afraid he would be
too ill to speak. And yet it was necessary to give an explanation of
Bernard’s disappearance. He knew now what he must say--however painful
it might be. He felt firm and determined. His only fear was that his
wife might interrupt him by crying--that she might exclaim--that she
might faint....
An hour later she comes into the room with the three children. He makes
her sit down beside him, close against his arm-chair.
“Try to control yourself,” he whispers, but in a tone of command; “and
don’t speak a word. We will talk together afterwards.”
And all the time he is speaking, he holds one of her hands in both his.
“Come, my children, sit down. I don’t like to see you standing there as
if you were in front of an examiner. I have something very sad to say
to you. Bernard has left us and we shall not see him again ... for some
time to come. I must now tell you what I at first concealed from you,
because I wanted you to love Bernard like a brother; your mother and I
loved him like our own child. But he was not our child ... and one of
his uncles--a brother of his real mother, who confided him to us on her
death bed--came and fetched him away this evening.”
A painful silence follows these words and Caloub sniffles. They all
wait, expecting him to go on. But he dismisses them with a wave of his
hand.
“You can go now, my dears. I must speak to your mother.”
After they have left the room, Monsieur Profitendieu remains silent
for a long time. The hand which Madame Profitendieu had left in his
seems like a dead thing; with the other she presses a handkerchief to
her eyes. Leaning on the writing table, she turns her head away to
cry. Through the sobs which shake her, Monsieur Profitendieu hears her
murmur:
“Oh, how cruel of you!... Oh! You have turned him out....”
A moment ago, he had resolved to speak to her without showing her
Bernard’s letter; but at this unjust accusation, he holds it out:
“Here! Read this.”
“I can’t.”
“You _must_ read it.”
He has forgotten his pain. He follows her with his eyes all through the
letter, line by line. Just now when he was speaking, he could hardly
keep back his tears; but now all emotion has left him; he watches his
wife. What is she thinking? In the same plaintive voice, broken by the
same sobs, she murmurs again:
“Oh! why did you tell him?... You shouldn’t have told him.”
“But you can see for yourself that I never told him anything. Read his
letter more carefully.”
“I did read it.... But how did he find out? Who told him then?”
So _that_ is what she is thinking! _Those_ are the accents of
her grief!
This sorrow should bring them together, but, alas! Profitendieu feels
obscurely that their thoughts are travelling by divergent ways. And
while she laments and accuses and recriminates, he endeavours to bend
her unruly spirit and to bring her to a more pious frame of mind.
“This is the expiation,” he says.
He has risen, from an instinctive desire to dominate; he stands there
before her upright--forgetful or regardless of his physical pain--and
lays his hand gravely, tenderly, authoritatively on Marguerite’s
shoulder. He is well aware that her repentance for what he chooses to
consider a passing weakness, has never been more than half-hearted;
he would like to tell her now that this sorrow, this trial may serve
to redeem her; but he can find no formula to satisfy him--none that
he can hope she will listen to. Marguerite’s shoulder resists the
gentle pressure of his hand. She knows so well that from every event of
life--even the smallest--he invariably, intolerably, extracts, as with
a forceps, some moral teaching--he interprets and twists everything to
suit his own dogmas. He bends over her. This is what he would like to
say:
“You see, my dear, no good thing can be born of sin. It was no use
covering up your fault. Alas! I did what I could for the child. I
treated him as my own. God shows us to-day that it was an error to
try....”
But at the first sentence he stops.
No doubt she understands these words, heavy with meaning as they are;
they have struck home to her heart, for though she had stopped crying
some moments before, her sobs break out afresh, more violently than
ever: then she bows herself, as though she were going to kneel before
him, but he stoops over her and holds her up. What is it she is saying
through her tears? He stoops his ear almost to her lips and hears:
“You see.... You see.... Oh! why did you forgive me? Oh! I shouldn’t
have come back.”
He is almost obliged to divine her words. Then she stops. She too can
say no more. How can she tell him that she feels imprisoned in this
virtue which he exacts from her ... that she is stifling ... that it is
not so much her fault that she regrets now, as having repented of it?
Profitendieu raises himself.
“My poor Marguerite,” he says with dignity and severity, “I am afraid
you are a little stubborn to-night. It is late. We had better go to
bed.”
He helps her up, leads her to her room, puts his lips to her forehead,
then returns to his study and flings himself into an arm-chair. It
is a curious thing that his liver attack has subsided--but he feels
shattered. He sits with his head in his hands, too sad to cry.... He
does not hear a knock at the door, but at the noise the door makes in
opening, he raises his head--his son Charles!
“I came to say good-night to you.”
He comes up. He wants to convey to his father that he has understood
everything. He would like to manifest his pity, his tenderness,
his devotion, but--who would think it of an advocate?--he is
extraordinarily awkward at expressing himself--or perhaps he becomes
awkward precisely when his feelings are sincere. He kisses his father.
The way in which he lays his head upon his shoulder, and leans and
lingers there, convinces Profitendieu that his son has understood. He
has understood so thoroughly that, raising his head a little, he asks
in his usual clumsy fashion--but his heart is so anxious that he cannot
refrain from asking:
“And Caloub?”
The question is absurd, for Caloub’s looks are as strikingly like his
family’s as Bernard’s are different.
Profitendieu pats Charles on the shoulder:
“No, no; it’s all right. Only Bernard.”
Then Charles begins pompously:
“God has driven the intruder away....”
But Profitendieu stops him. He has no need of such words.
“Hush!”
Father and son have no more to say to each other. Let us leave them.
It is nearly eleven o’clock. Let us leave Madame Profitendieu in her
room, seated on a small, straight, uncomfortable chair. She is not
crying; she is not thinking. She too would like to run away. But she
will not. When she was with her lover--Bernard’s father (we need not
concern ourselves with him)--she said to herself: “No, no; try as I
may, I shall never be anything but an honest woman.” She was afraid
of liberty, of crime, of ease--so that after ten days, she returned
repentant to her home. Her parents were right when they said to her:
“You never know your own mind.” Let us leave her. Cécile is already
asleep. Caloub is gazing in despair at his candle; it will never
last long enough for him to finish the story-book, with which he is
distracting himself from thoughts of Bernard. I should be curious
to know what Antoine can have told his friend the cook. But it is
impossible to listen to everything. This is the hour appointed for
Bernard to go to Olivier. I am not sure where he dined that evening--or
even whether he dined at all. He has passed the porter’s room without
hindrance; he gropes his way stealthily up the stairs....
III
BERNARD AND OLIVIER
“_Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardnes_s
_ever_
_Of hardiness is mother._”
CYMBELINE, ACT III, SC. VI.
OLIVIER had got into bed to receive his mother, who was in the habit
of coming every evening to kiss her two younger sons good-night before
they went to sleep. He might have got up and dressed again to receive
Bernard, but he was still uncertain whether he would come and was
afraid of doing anything to rouse his younger brother’s suspicions.
George as a rule went to sleep early and woke up late; perhaps he
would never notice that anything unusual was going on. When he heard a
gentle scratching outside, Olivier sprang from his bed, thrust his feet
hastily into his bedroom slippers, and ran to open the door. He did not
light a candle; the moon gave light enough; there was no need for any
other. Olivier hugged Bernard in his arms:
“How I was longing for you! I couldn’t believe you would really come,”
said Olivier, and in the dimness he saw Bernard shrug his shoulders.
“Do your parents know you are not sleeping at home to-night?”
Bernard looked straight in front of him into the dark.
“You think I ought to have asked their leave, eh?”
His tone of voice was so coldly ironical that Olivier at once felt the
absurdity of his question. He had not yet grasped that Bernard had left
“for good”; he thought that he only meant to sleep out that one night
and was a little perplexed as to the reason of this escapade. He began
to question: When did Bernard think of going home?--Never!
Light began to dawn on Olivier. He was very anxious to be equal to
the occasion and not to be surprised at anything; nevertheless an
exclamation broke from him:
“What a tremendous decision!”
Bernard was by no means unwilling to astonish his friend a little;
he was particularly flattered by the admiration which these words
betrayed, but he shrugged his shoulders once more. Olivier took hold of
his hand and asked very gravely and anxiously:
“But why are you leaving?”
“That, my dear fellow, is a family matter. I can’t tell you.” And in
order not to seem too serious he amused himself by trying to jerk off
with the tip of his shoe the slipper that Olivier was swinging on his
bare toes--for they were sitting down now on the side of the bed.
There! Off it goes!
“Then where do you mean to live?”
“I don’t know.”
“And how?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Have you any money?”
“Enough for breakfast to-morrow.”
“And after that?”
“After that I shall look about me. Oh, I’m sure to find something.
You’ll see. I’ll let you know.”
Olivier admires his friend with immense fervour. He knows him to be
resolute; but he cannot help doubting; when he is at the end of his
resources, and feeling, as soon he must, the pressure of want, won’t he
be obliged to go back? Bernard reassures him--he will do anything in
the world rather than return to his people. And as he repeats several
times over more and more savagely--“anything in the world!”--Olivier’s
heart is stabbed with a pang of terror. He wants to speak but dares
not. At last with downcast head and unsteady voice, he begins:
“Bernard, all the same, you’re not thinking of ...” but he stops. His
friend raises his eyes and, though he cannot see him very distinctly,
perceives his confusion.
“Of what?” he asks. “What do you mean? Tell me. Of stealing?”
Olivier shakes his head. No, that’s not it! Suddenly he bursts into
tears and clasping Bernard convulsively in his arms:
“Promise me that you won’t....”
Bernard kisses him, then pushes him away laughing. He has understood.
“Oh! yes! I promise.... But all the same you must admit it would be the
easiest way out.” But Olivier feels reassured; he knows that these last
words are an affectation of cynicism.
“Your exam?”
“Yes; that’s rather a bore. I don’t want to be ploughed. I think I’m
ready all right. It’s more a question of feeling fit on the day. I must
manage to get something fixed up very quickly. It’s touch and go; but I
_shall_ manage. You’ll see.”
They sit for a moment in silence. The second slipper has fallen.
Then Bernard: “You’ll catch cold. Get back into bed.”
“No; _you_ must get into bed.”
“You’re joking. Come along! quick!” and he forces Olivier to get into
the bed which he has already lain down in and which is all tumbled.
“But you? Where are _you_ going to sleep?”
“Anywhere. On the floor. In a corner. I must get accustomed to roughing
it.”
“No. Look here! I want to tell you something, but I shan’t be able to
unless I feel you close to me. Get into my bed.” And when Bernard,
after undressing himself in a twinkling, has got in beside him:
“You know ... what I told you the other day ... well, it’s come off. I
went.”
There was no need to say more for Bernard to understand. He pressed up
against his friend.
“Well! it’s disgusting ... horrible.... Afterwards I wanted to spit--to
be sick--to tear my skin off--to kill myself.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“To kill _her_.”
“Who was it? You haven’t been imprudent, have you?”
“No; it’s some creature Dhurmer knows. He introduced me. It was her
talk that was the most loathsome. She never once stopped jabbering. And
oh! the deadly stupidity of it! Why can’t people hold their tongues at
such moments, I wonder? I should have liked to strangle her--to gag
her.”
“Poor old Olivier! You didn’t think that Dhurmer could get hold of
anybody but an idiot, did you? Was she pretty, anyway?”
“D’you suppose I looked at her?”
“You’re a donkey! You’re a darling!... Let’s go to sleep.... But ...
did you bring it off all right?”
“God! That’s the most disgusting thing about it. I was able to, in
spite of everything ... just as if I’d desired her.”
“Well, it’s magnificent, my dear boy.”
“Oh, shut up! If that’s what they call love--I’m fed up with it.”
“What a baby you are!”
“What would _you_ have been, pray?”
“Oh, you know, I’m not particularly keen; as I’ve told you before, I’m
biding my time. In cold blood, like that, it doesn’t appeal to me. All
the same if I----”
“If you...?”
“If she.... Nothing! Let’s go to sleep.”
And abruptly he turns his back, drawing a little away so as not to
touch Olivier’s body, which he feels uncomfortably warm. But Olivier,
after a moment’s silence, begins again:
“I say, do you think Barrès will get in?”
“Heavens! does that worry you?”
“I don’t care a damn! I say, just listen to this a minute.” He presses
on Bernard’s shoulder, so as to make him turn round--“My brother has
got a mistress.”
“George?”
The youngster, who is pretending to be asleep, but who has been
listening with all his might in the dark, holds his breath when he
hears his name.
“You’re crazy. I mean Vincent.” (Vincent is a few years older than
Olivier and has just finished his medical training.)
“Did he tell you?”
“No. I found out without his suspecting. My parents know nothing about
it.”
“What would they say if they knew?”
“I don’t know. Mamma would be in despair. Papa would say he must break
it off or else marry her.”
“Of course. A worthy bourgeois can’t understand how one can be worthy
in any other fashion than his own. How did you find out?”
“Well, for some time past Vincent has been going out at night after
my parents have gone to bed. He goes downstairs as quietly as he can,
but I recognize his step in the street. Last week--Tuesday, I think,
the night was so hot I couldn’t stop in bed. I went to the window
to get a breath of fresh air. I heard the door downstairs open and
shut, so I leant out and, as he was passing under a lamp post, I
recognized Vincent. It was past midnight. That was the first time--I
mean the first time I noticed anything. But since then, I can’t help
listening--oh! without meaning to--and nearly every night I hear him
go out. He’s got a latchkey and our parents have arranged our old
room--George’s and mine--as a consulting room for him when he has
any patients. His room is by itself on the left of the entrance; the
rest of our rooms are on the right. He can go out and come in without
anyone knowing. As a rule I don’t hear him come in, but the day before
yesterday--Monday night--I don’t know what was the matter with me--I
was thinking of Dhurmer’s scheme for a review.... I couldn’t go to
sleep. I heard voices on the stairs. I thought it was Vincent.”
“What time was it?” asks Bernard, more to show that he is taking an
interest than because he wants to know.
“Three in the morning, I think. I got up and put my ear to the door.
Vincent was talking to a woman. Or rather, it was she who was talking.”
“Then how did you know it was he? All the people who live in the flat
must pass by your door.”
“And a horrid nuisance it is, too. The later it is, the more row they
make. They care no more about the people who are asleep than.... It
was certainly he. I heard the woman calling him by his name. She kept
saying.... Oh, I can’t bear repeating it. It makes me sick....”
“Go on.”
“She kept saying: ‘Vincent, my love--my lover.... Oh, don’t leave me!’”
“Did she say _you_ to him and not _thou_?”
“Yes; isn’t it odd?”
“Tell us some more.”