The Counterfeiters - Gide E-Book

André Gide

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: Andre Gide Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 612

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

André Paul Guillaume Gide (1869-1951), known as André Gide, was a renowned French writer. Nobel Prize winner in Literature in 1947 and founder of the prestigious Gallimard Publishing House, André Gide is one of the most prominent figures in French cultural life of this century. His works present many autobiographical aspects and expose moral and religious conflicts that do not disregard his homosexual tendencies. With the experimental novel "The Counterfeiters," written in 1925, André Gide reached the peak of his writing career. It is a novel with a complex and multiple plot, continuously interrupted by reflections from the novelist Edouard. "The Counterfeiters" is currently considered a masterpiece of French literature.

Leseprobe

André Gide

THE COUNTERFEITERS

Original Title:

“Les Faux-monnayeurs”

First Edition

Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE COUNTERFEITERS

FIRST PART - PARIS

SECOND PART - SAAS-FÉE

THIRD PART - PARIS

INTRODUCTION

André Gide

1869-1951

André Gide's life was characterized by a continual quest for self-discovery and intellectual exploration. Beyond his literary achievements, Gide was known for his unconventional lifestyle and personal philosophies.

Throughout his life, Gide grappled with questions of identity and sexuality. His early experiences with same-sex attraction conflicted with societal norms and religious teachings of his time. This internal struggle often found its way into his writing, where themes of desire, passion, and forbidden love were recurrent.

Gide's travels also played a significant role in shaping his worldview. His journeys to North Africa, the Mediterranean, and beyond exposed him to diverse cultures and perspectives, enriching his understanding of humanity and influencing his literary works.

Additionally, Gide was actively involved in political and social issues of his time. He was a vocal critic of colonialism and authoritarian regimes, advocating for human rights and social justice.

Despite facing criticism and controversy throughout his career, Gide remained unapologetically true to himself and his beliefs. His willingness to challenge conventional thinking and embrace the complexities of human experience cemented his legacy as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century.

About the work

To make a presentation of "The Counterfeiters," one of the greatest classics of French and universal literature, is a daunting task. There are so many events that Gide presents to us, from so many points of view and, initially, so disjointed, that the reader will find themselves blindly guided by a writer who knows very well which sensations - and undoubtedly confusion is one of them - he wants to evoke in the reader and when to evoke them, with the perception of the interlocutor regarding the work as one of the crucial characteristics for the main theme within the vast array of topics addressed: the distinction between reality and what we understand to be reality.

"The Counterfeiters" presents three main characters (the young Bernard and Olivier and the uncle writer of the latter, Édouard) and the ramifications into an countless array of personalities and situations; often, these are so absurd and unusual that we do not initially see the connection that will adorn the rest of the plot, but André Gide leaves no loose end, which makes it an inexhaustible work and, according to the author himself regarding his career as a whole, made for readers who do not tire, because surely second and subsequent readings and rereadings will further enrich the perception of the layers of "The Counterfeiters."

Just as in Machado's "Dom Casmurro," Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby," and many other works, Gide deals with the reader's trust in the words spoken by the characters, with the addition of elevating this characteristic to the theme of the plot. The counterfeiters of the plot are a backdrop for us to visualize whether what we see is reality or a spotlight on it. Each plot, very skillfully, is gradually told by each character presented to us, with them having dissonant views about the world and about their peers, leaving it to us and the other pieces of this chessboard constructed by André Gide to believe in that or not.

Gide's narrative broth is thickened by his passion and knowledge of literature and its tools. In the work, in a perfect example of metalinguistics - I believe that, along with "Don Quixote," it is the best use of this function - we follow Édouard, uncle of the young Olivier, writing a book called "The Counterfeiters," just like what we have in hand and which was written by André Gide.

Through Édouard, a writer of little renown - unlike Count Passavant, a sort of antagonist to Édouard who, in the latter's view, panders to popular opinion for easy success - we follow the construction of a novel (even though, from the book within the book, we only have direct access to a few lines) and the reflective process to find the messages he wants to convey to future readers, while reality - Édouard's and not ours (perhaps) - becomes entangled with the work itself, interfering both with Gide's characters and with the tone of the work, which increasingly, intentionally, takes on a melodramatic and dynamic air, never forgetting its central topic of the distinction between reality and the perception we have of it.

So vast in its themes and so well developed in each of its characteristics, there are many levels of understanding that we can have of the work "The Counterfeiters," an inexhaustible work and essential to understand how to build a good novel, both for its theme and for the simplest reading we make of the work, a perfect example of brilliance in literature. Not for nothing, Gide was awarded a Nobel Prize in Literature, because his work, like every universal classic should be, is rich in passion and technique.

THE COUNTERFEITERS

FIRST PART - PARIS

Chapter 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 carne 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, un-signed.

“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. Be-sides 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 Honor the judge and his learned son the barrister will not be back before six. I shall have time. When His Honor 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 favor 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 appall 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, be-tween four and six. The talk was of art, philosophy, sport, polities 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 ad-dressing 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 color 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 colors, 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 tum 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: “Un-less 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 goodnight 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 work girls; 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.

Chapter 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 civilization. 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 honorable 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 re-peat, 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 carne 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 for-bidden, 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: “Pm 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 was 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 in-deed 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.

"l have already said and repeated that I don’t want to be disturbed when Pm 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 l 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 behavior 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 honor — 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 al-most 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 at-tempt 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, there-fore, 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 dishonor.

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 armchair. 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 un-just 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 armchair 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 — anymore than he would have been capable himself-r-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 practice 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 Tannhãuser (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 specter 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 portiere 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 every-thing. 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?5'

“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 doorbell! 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 — carne 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 ex-planation 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 armchair.

“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 — carne 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 re-mains 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! Profidendieu feels obscurely that their thoughts are travelling by divergent ways. And while she laments and accuses and re-criminates, he endeavors 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 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 him-self.

“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 armchair. 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 carne 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, un-comfortable 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 our-selves 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 ...

Chapter III - Bernard and Olivier

“Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever

Of bardiness 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 un-certain whether he would come and was afraid of doing any-thing 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 some-thing. You’ll see. I´ll let you know.”

Olivier admires his friend with immense fervor. 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!” — OIivier’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 Iain down in and which is all tumbled.

"But you? Where are you going to sleep?”

"Anywhere. On the floor. In a comer. 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! ifs disgusting ...horrible ...Afterwards I wanted to spit — to be sick — to tear my skin off — to kill myself.”

"You’re exaggerating.”

"To kill ber.”

"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, any-way?”

"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 OIivier’s body, which he feels uncomfortably warm. But Olivier, after a moments 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 thouf’?”

“Yes; isn’t it odd?”

“Tell us some more.”

“You have no right to desert me now. What is to become of me? Where am I to go? Say something to me! Oh, speak to me!’ ...And she called him again by his name and went on repeating: ‘My lover! My lover!’ And her voice became sadder and sadder and lower and lower. And then I heard a noise (they must have been standing on the stairs), a noise like something falling. I think she must have lung herself on her knees.” “And didn’t he answer anything? Nothing at all?”

“He must have gone up the last steps; I heard the door of the flat shut. And after that, she stayed a long time quite near — almost up against my door. I heard her sobbing.”

“You should have opened the door.”

“I didn’t dare. Vincent would be furious if he thought I knew anything about his affairs. And then I was afraid it might embarrass her to be found crying. I don’t know what I could have said to her.”

Bernard had turned towards Olivier:

“In your place I should have opened.”

“Oh, you! You’re never afraid of anything. You do every-thing that comes into your head.”

“Is that a reproach?”

“Oh, no. It’s envy.”

“Have you any idea who the woman is?”

“How on earth should I know? Good-night.”

“I say, are you sure George hasn’t heard us?” whispers Bernard in OIivier’s ear. They listen a moment with bated breath.

“No,” Olivier goes on in his ordinary voice. “He’s asleep. And besides, he wouldn’t understand. Do you know what he asked Papa the other day ...?”

At this, George can contain himself no longer. He sits up in his bed and breaks into his brother’s sentence.

“You ass!” he cries. “Didn’t you see I was doing it on purpose? ...Good Lord, yes! I’ve heard every word you’ve been saying. But you needn’t excite yourselves. I’ve known all about Vincent forever so long. And now, my young friends, talk a little lower please, because I’m sleepy — or else hold your tongues.”

Olivier turns toward the wall. Bernard, who cannot sleep, looks out into the room. It seems bigger in the moonlight. As a matter of fact, he hardly knows it. Olivier was never there during the daytime; the few times that Bernard had been to see him, it was in the flat upstairs. But it was after school hours, when they came out of the lycée, that the two friends usually met. The moonlight has reached the foot of the bed in which George has at last gone to sleep; he has heard almost every-thing that his brother has said. He has matter for his dreams. Above George's bed Bernard can just make out a little book-case with two shelves full of school-books. On a table near OIivier’s bed, he sees a larger sized book; he puts out his hand and takes it to look at the title — Tocqueville; but as he is putting it back on the table, he drops it and the noise wakes Olivier up.

“Are you reading Tocqueville now?”

"Dulac lent it me.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s rather boring but some of it’s very good.”

“I say, what are you doing to-morrow?”

To-morrow is Thursday and there is no school. Bernard thinks he may meet his friend somewhere. He does not mean to go back to the lycée; he thinks he can do without the last lectures and finish preparing for his examination by himself.

“To-morrow,” says Olivier, ‘Tm going to St. Lazare railway station at ll.30 to meet my Uncle Edouard, who is arriving from Le Havre, on his way from England. In the afternoon, I’m engaged to go to the Louvre with Dhurmer. The rest of the time I’ve got to work.”

“Your Uncle Edouard?"

“Yes. He’s a half-brother of Mamma’s. He’s been away for six months and I hardly know him; but I like him very much. He doesn’t know I’m going to meet him and I´m rather afraid I mayn’t recognize him. He’s not in the least like the rest of the family; he’s somebody quite out of the common.”

“What does he do?”

“He writes. I’ve read nearly all his books; but he hasn’t published anything for a long time.”

“Novels?”

“Yes; kind of novels.”

“Why have you never told me about them?”

“Because you’d have wanted to read them; and if you hadn't liked them ...”

“Well, finish your sentence.”

“Well, I should have hated it. There!”

“What makes you say that he’s out of the common?”

“I don’t exactly know. I told you I hardly know him. It’s more of a presentiment. I feel that he’s interested in all sorts of things that don’t interest my parents and that there’s nothing that one couldn’t talk to him about. One day — it was just be-fore he went away — he had been to lunch with us; all the time he was talking to Papa I felt he kept looking at me and it began to make me uncomfortable; I was going to leave the room — it was the dining-room — where we had stayed on after coffee but then he began to question Papa about me, which made me more uncomfortable than ever; and suddenly Papa got up and went to fetch some verses I had written and which I had been idiotic enough to show him.”

“Verses of yours?”