Saint Clair, at last. No one recognised Thérèse as she got out of the
carriage. While Balion was giving up her tickets she went round outside
the station through some stacks of timber and got on to the road where
the carriage was waiting.
This carriage had become her refuge; along that jolting road she was
no longer afraid of meeting any one. Her whole story, so carefully
constructed, collapsed: nothing remained of the confession she had
prepared. No; she had nothing to say in her defence, not even a reason
to give: the simplest thing would be to say nothing, or merely answer
questions. What had she to fear? That night would pass like all the
rest: the sun would rise to-morrow: she was sure all would be well
whatever happened. And nothing could be worse than that indifference,
that utter apathy that cut her off from the world and from her very
existence. It was truly death in life: she had tasted death as far as a
living woman may.
Her eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, recognised at a turn of the
road the farm where certain low buildings looked like animals crouching
and asleep. It was here that Anne used to be frightened of a dog that
would always run under the wheels of her bicycle. Further on, a clump
of elders revealed a glimpse of water; and on the days of fiercest heat
a breath of coolness fanned the girl’s cheeks at this point. A child
on a bicycle, whose teeth gleamed under her sunbonnet, the sound of a
bell, and a voice crying: “Look, I’m letting both my hands go!” And
this blurred image, from those days now past for ever, was all that
Thérèse could find to comfort her fainting heart.
She repeated mechanically, in time with the rhythm of the horse’s
hooves: “useless ... endless ... hopeless.” Ah! the only possible
gesture,--Bernard would never make it. Supposing he did open his arms
without asking her any questions! If only she could lay her head on a
human breast, if only she could weep against a living body!
She noticed the embankment on which Jean Azévédo had sat, one hot day.
To think she had believed that some place existed in the world in
which she could have fulfilled her destiny among beings who would have
understood her, perhaps admired and loved her! But loneliness had eaten
into her like a leper’s sores: “No one can help me. No one can hurt me.”
* * * * *
“Here is Monsieur, and Mademoiselle Clara.”
Balion drew in the reins. Two shadows came forward. So Bernard, though
still very weak, had come to meet her--impatient to know that all was
well. She half-rose from her seat, and cried out before they met: “Case
dismissed.”
Merely replying, “Of course!” Bernard helped the aunt to climb into the
carriage and took the reins. Balion was to go back on foot. Aunt Clara
sat between husband and wife. They had to shout to her that it was all
settled (she had, in fact, only the vaguest knowledge of the tragedy).
The deaf woman began one of her usual interminable discourses; she
said _They_ had always played the same game and that it was the Dreyfus
affair all over again. “If you keep on throwing mud, some of it will
always stick. _They_ were terribly powerful and the Republicans were
very wrong not to keep their eyes open. As soon as these poisonous
brutes are given the least chance, they’re on you at once....”
These fatuities relieved the pair from the necessity of exchanging a
single word.
Aunt Clara, breathing heavily, went upstairs carrying a candle in her
hand:
“Aren’t you going to bed? Thérèse must be worn out. You will find a cup
of bouillon and some cold chicken in your room.”
But husband and wife remained standing in the entrance-hall. The old
lady saw Bernard open the door of the drawing-room, stand aside for
Thérèse, and disappear after her. If she had not been deaf, she would
have done a little eavesdropping ... but there was nothing to fear from
her, buried, as she was, alive. She put out her candle, however, went
downstairs again, and looked through the keyhole. Bernard was moving a
lamp: his face was fully in the light, and he looked both nervous and
solemn. The aunt saw the back of Thérèse seated; she had thrown her
toque and mantle on to an arm-chair: her wet shoes were steaming in
front of the fire. For one instant she turned her head to her husband
and the old lady was glad to see she was smiling.
* * * * *
Thérèse was smiling. In the brief interval of space and time between
the stable and the house, walking at Bernard’s side, she suddenly saw,
or thought she saw, what she ought to do. The mere proximity of the
man had destroyed her hope of explaining herself, or of giving him
her confidence. How we distort the creatures we know best as soon as
they are no longer there! During the whole of this journey, she had
unconsciously been trying to create an image of a Bernard capable of
understanding her;--but at the first glance he appeared to her just
as he really was, one who had never once in his life put himself in
another’s place; one who had never made the effort to get outside
himself to see what his opponent was seeing. Indeed, would Bernard even
listen to her? He paced the long, low, damp room, and the flooring,
which was rotting here and there, creaked beneath his steps. He did
not look at his wife,--he was bursting with a speech he had long
since prepared. And Thérèse, too, knew what she was going to say. The
simplest solution is always the one we never think of. She would say,
‘I am going to disappear, Bernard. Don’t worry about me. I will go out
into the night at once, if you like. I am not afraid of the forest or
the darkness. They know me: we know each other. I was created in the
image of this arid land in which nothing lives except the birds that
pass over it and stray wild boars. I consent to my expulsion; burn all
my photographs; let even my daughter no longer know my name, let me be
in the eyes of the family as if I had never been.’
And Thérèse opened her mouth, and said, “Let me disappear, Bernard.”
At the sound of her voice Bernard turned. He hurried back from the far
end of the room, the veins of his face swollen:
“What,” he stuttered, “do you dare to express an opinion? Not another
word! Your business is to listen, to receive my orders and obey what I
shall decide once and for all.”
He stammered no more, having now got into touch with his carefully
prepared phrases. Leaning against the mantelpiece, he spoke in measured
tones, taking a piece of paper from his pocket and referring to it now
and then. Thérèse was no longer frightened; she wanted to laugh: he
was ridiculous,--a purely comic figure. She cared little for what he
was saying in that disgusting accent of his that made every one laugh
except at Saint Clair. She would go. Why all this melodrama? It would
not have mattered in the least if this fool had disappeared from the
ranks of living men. She noticed his ill-kept nails against the paper
that shook in his hands: he had no cuffs on his shirt, he was one of
those absurd oafs who are out of their proper station, and whose lives
are of no value to anything or anybody. It is only from habit that one
attaches infinite importance to a man’s existence. Robespierre was
right: and Napoleon, and Lenin.... He saw her smile: lost his temper,
raised his voice, and she was obliged to listen:
“I’ve got you; do you understand? You will have to obey what the Family
has decided, or else....”
“Or else ... what?”
She no longer troubled to feign indifference: she assumed a tone of
bravado and mockery: “Too late!” she cried. “You have given evidence
in my favour: you can’t go back on it. You will be convicted of
perjury....”
“Another piece of evidence can always be discovered. I have such a
further proof in my desk. There is no statute of limitations for
evidence, thank God!”
She shuddered:
“What do you want of me?” she asked.
He consulted his notes, and for a few seconds Thérèse sat listening to
the stupendous silence of Argelouse. The hour of cock-crow was yet far
off: no living water flowed in that desert, not a breath of wind moved
the countless tree-tops.
“I am not giving way to any personal considerations. I am disregarding
myself: the Family alone counts. The interests of the Family have
always dictated all my decisions. I have consented for the honour of
the Family, to cheat the justice of my country. God will be my judge.”
* * * * *
This pompous tone made Thérèse feel ill. She felt like asking him to
express himself more simply.
“It is of importance, for the sake of the Family, that the world should
think our relations all they should be, and that I should not seem
to throw any doubt upon your innocence. On the other hand, I want to
protect myself as far as possible....”
“Are you afraid of me, Bernard?”
“Afraid? No: I merely regard you with horror. But,” he went on: “I
shall waste no time; what I am saying, I say once and for all: we shall
leave this place to-morrow and go and live near by in the Desqueyroux
house: I will not have your aunt living with us. Your meals will be
brought to your room by Balionte. You are forbidden to enter any other
room: but I shall not prevent you going for walks in the woods. On
Sunday we shall be present together at High Mass in the Church of Saint
Clair. You must be seen walking with me: and on the first Thursday of
the month we shall go in an open carriage to the fair at B----, and to
visit your father, as we have always done.”
“And Marie?”
“Marie leaves to-morrow with her nurse for Saint Clair, and after that
my mother will take her to the South. We will invent some reason of
health. You can hardly have supposed she would be left with you? We
must put her in safety, too! If I had gone, she would have had the
property when she was twenty-one. After the husband, the child ...
naturally!”
Thérèse had got up: she stifled a cry:
“So you think it was for the pines that I....” So among the many secret
springs of her action, this imbecile had not been able to discover one;
and he invented the lowest....
“Why, of course: for the pines ... what else? I defy you to produce
another motive.... However, it is of no importance and no longer
interests me; I ask myself no more questions. You are nothing: all that
exists is the name you bear, alas! In a few months, when every one is
convinced of our good relations, and Anne has married young Deguilhem,
... you may be aware that the Deguilhems are insisting on some little
delay and asking for time to think matters over ... then I shall at
last be able to go and live at Saint Clair: you will stay here. You
will be neurasthenic, or something....”
“Mad, perhaps?”
“No, that would injure Marie. But we shall find plenty of plausible
reasons.... And that is all.”
Thérèse murmured: “At Argelouse ... until I die....”
She went to the window and opened it. At that moment Bernard was
really happy; this woman who had always intimidated and humiliated
him, this evening he had her at his feet. How abject she must feel!
His moderation made him feel quite pleased with himself. Madame de la
Trave constantly told him he was a saint: the whole Family praised his
noble character: and indeed he began for the first time to realise
his own nobility of mind. When, with many precautions, Thérèse’s
attempt on his life had been disclosed to him in the nursing-home, his
self-possession, which had been so highly commended, had cost him but
little effort. Nothing seems really serious to those who are incapable
of love; because he was without love, Bernard had only felt the sort
of tremulous joy that follows an escape from great danger: the sort
of sensation a man might have who had been told that he has lived for
years, without knowing it, in the company of a homicidal maniac. But
that evening Bernard was conscious of his strength: he dominated life.
He marvelled how every difficulty gives way before a clear and upright
mind: even so soon after all this turmoil he was ready to maintain
that “no one is ever unhappy except by his own fault.” See how he
had dealt with the most appalling tragedy as if it had been the most
ordinary matter of business. It would hardly be known: he would save
his face: no one would sympathize with him any more, and he hated
sympathy. There is nothing humiliating about having married a criminal
when one has the last word. Besides, a bachelor life is no bad thing,
and the proximity of death had marvellously increased in him his taste
for landed property, shooting, motor-cars, and things to eat and
drink;--for life, in short.
Thérèse remained standing before the window: she could catch a glimpse
of white gravel, and smell the chrysanthemums, which were protected
from the cattle by wire-netting. Beyond them a dark mass of oaks
hid the pines: but the night was full of their resinous odour: like
a hostile army, invisible but near at hand, Thérèse knew that they
surrounded the house. These warders, whose muttered lamentations she
could hear, would watch her wasting away through the winters, and
gasping through the summer heats: they would be the witnesses of her
slow strangulation. She shut the window once more and went up to
Bernard.
“Do you think you will keep me here by force?”
“As you like ... but let me tell you this: you won’t leave this house
except in handcuffs.”
“What nonsense! I know you: don’t make yourself out worse than you
are. You will not expose the Family to such shame. You need not try to
frighten me.” Whereupon, with the air of a man who has well weighed
everything, he explained to her that to leave the house was to confess
her guilt. In that case, the Family could only avert disgrace by
amputating the diseased member, rejecting and disowning it in the face
of the world.
“That was, in fact, the decision my mother wanted us to make, I may
tell you. We were on the point of letting justice take its course; and
if it had not been for Anne and Marie.... But there is still time.
Do not give your answer in a hurry: I will give you till to-morrow
morning.”
“I have my father still,” said Thérèse in a whisper.
“Your father? But we’re in entire agreement. He has his career, his
politics, the ideas he stands for: his only thought is to hush up the
scandal at whatever cost. You must realise what he has done for you:
it was entirely due to him that the enquiry came to nothing. Besides,
he must have made his express wishes known to you.... Hasn’t he?”
Bernard’s voice was no longer raised, he became almost courteous. It
was not that he felt the slightest compassion. But this woman, whom he
could not even hear breathing, was at last prostrate: she had found
her true place. All was now in order. Another man’s peace of mind
would not have survived such a blow: Bernard was proud to have made
so successful a recovery: any one may be deceived; indeed everybody,
for the matter of that, had been deceived by Thérèse, even Madame de
la Trave, who was usually such a penetrating judge of character. The
fact was that in these days people do not take sufficient account of
principles: they no longer realise the dangers of an education, such as
Thérèse had received; a perverted creature, no doubt; still, it is no
use saying,--“if she had believed in God” ... fear is the beginning of
wisdom.
Such were Bernard’s thoughts. And he reflected, too, that all the
neighbours, greedy to enjoy their shame, would be greatly disconcerted
every Sunday by the sight of so harmonious a household! He was
almost impatient for Sunday to come so that he might observe their
expressions!... Moreover, justice would still be done. He took the
lamp, and as he raised it, the light fell upon Thérèse’s averted head:
“Aren’t you going up yet?”
She did not seem to hear him: and he went out, leaving her in darkness.
At the bottom of the staircase Aunt Clara sat crouching on the lowest
step. As the old woman stared at him, he smiled with an effort, and
took her arm to raise her. But she resisted,--like an old dog against
the bed of its dying master. Bernard placed the lamp on the paved
floor, and shouted in the old woman’s ear that Thérèse was already
feeling much better, but that she wanted to be alone for a few minutes
before she went to bed.
“It is just one of her moods, you know.”
Yes, the aunt knew: it was always her ill-luck to go into Thérèse’s
room just at the moment when she wanted to be alone. Indeed, in the
past, the old lady had often felt she was not wanted immediately
she had opened the door. She got up with an effort and, leaning
on Bernard’s arm, went up to her room, which was over the large
drawing-room. Bernard went in after her, carefully lit a candle on
the table, kissed her on the forehead, and then withdrew. The aunt
never took her eyes off him. What did she read on the faces of men
whose voices she could not hear? She left Bernard the time to get to
his room, and opened her door again gently ... but he was still on
the landing, leaning against the banisters, rolling a cigarette; she
hurriedly went in again, her legs trembling and so breathless that she
had not the strength to undress. She remained lying on her bed, with
staring eyes.