On the morning of the fourth day, he said to the monk as he accompanied him back from mass:
‘Do you know whether my father has arrived yet?’
‘Do you really expect me to know, Monsieur Sébastien Roch?’
He was quite right. Sébastien should have foreseen that reply. However, he was beginning to feel angry. He had had enough of this uncertainty, this loneliness, this terror of hearing the door open at any moment and seeing his father suddenly appear, angry and threatening. He wanted to have someone near him, to speak to someone. He thought of Father de Marel, the least severe, most amiable of all the priests and he said abruptly:
‘I wish to speak to Father de Marel. Go and inform Father de Marel that I wish to speak to him, immediately!’
‘But that is not the way it’s done, Monsieur Sébastien Roch. Speak to him! Immediately! Oh, great St Ignatius! First, you must submit a request with reasons, using me as intermediary, to the Very Reverend Father Rector. The Very Reverend Father Rector, in his wisdom, will give a ruling on your request, and …’
Sébastien interrupted him, furious, stamping his foot.
‘I insist!’
The monk did not allow himself to become flustered and slowly prepared a sheet of paper; then very humbly, very formally, he dictated to the child a request which he took immediately to the Rector. One hour later, Father de Marel came into Sébastien’s quarters.
‘Oh, unhappy child,’ he sighed. ‘Unhappy child.’
His face was sad but not severe. Beneath the mask of sorrow, there was still extreme benevolence. He said again:
‘Unhappy child.’
Then he fell silent and sat down, uttering a groan.
Sébastien did not know what to say any more. He had wanted to see the priest and unload onto him everything in his heart that was too heavy for him to bear alone, but he could not find the words. His mouth frozen and foolish, he bowed his head. The priest groaned again, brushing a few grains of dust from the table:
‘Can it be possible?’ and then was quiet again.
After an embarrassing silence, he asked:
‘It was Bolorec, wasn’t it?’
As Sébastien said nothing:
‘It was Bolorec,’ he reiterated. ‘Bolorec led you on and corrupted you. It was so obvious.’
The child started to deny it, and Father de Marel immediately burst out:
‘Don’t defend him! Bolorec is a monster.’
Then, the idea of defending Bolorec gave Sébastien back something of his courage. He stammered:
‘I swear to you, Father, I swear before God, that it was not Bolorec. Bolorec was kind to me. We never did anything, never. I swear to you.’
‘Why tell lies?’ said the priest sadly and reproachfully.
‘I am not lying, I swear to you! I am telling the truth.’
‘Now, now You cannot deny that you were seen, that you were caught together. Come along now, child, you were caught!’
All of a sudden, light dawned in Sébastien’s mind. In the blazing clarity of that light he understood everything. He realised that Father de Kern had invented a horrible story, that he had denounced both Bolorec and him, a cowardly act, because he feared Sébastien, dreaded that one day he might speak out about his sin. It was not enough to have dishonoured Sébastien; he wanted to implicate Bolorec too. It was not enough to have defiled Sébastien in the darkness; now he wanted to defile him in broad daylight! At first, he could not utter a word. His throat felt so tight that he could only make hoarse gasps, then, little by little, by dint of forcing the muscles of his face, by sheer willpower, his eyes wide with horror, almost mad with fury, he shouted:
‘It was Father de Kern who … Yes, it was him, in the night, in his room! It was him! He forced me, he took me by force!’
‘Be quiet now, you little wretch!’ ordered Father de Marel, suddenly very pale. He leaped up from his chair and shook Sébastien roughly by the shoulders. ‘Be quiet now!’
‘It was him, it was him! And I will tell! I will tell everyone!’
In short, jerky, staccato phrases, with a sincerity that no longer minced its words, needing to free himself once and for all of this heavy, suffocating secret, he described the seduction, the conversations in the dormitory, the incidents at night, the room … He recounted his fear, his remorse, his torments, his visions; he recounted the Sainte-Anne pilgrimage, the discussion with Bolorec, his lonely relapses, the music room. Father de Marel was appalled. Faced with this confession he could harbour no doubts; now he strode up and down the room, making incoherent gestures, uttering incoherent exclamations.
When Sébastien had got as far as the violin episode:
‘So it’s that devilish music!’ he exclaimed. ‘That devilish music. Without the violin nothing would have happened, nothing!’
Sébastien had finished his story and kept repeating:
‘I’ll tell. I’ll tell. I’ll tell my friends and I’ll tell the Rector.’
Grasping the gravity of this unexpected and irrefutable revelation and having recovered from the first shock, the priest did not take long to recover his wits. He let Sébastien give full vent to his tumultuous emotions in shouts and threats, knowing that exhaustion would quickly follow this crisis, which was too violent to last, and that he would then be able to influence him in his own way and get all he wanted from him by making a specious appeal to the boy’s finer feelings. Although, in normal circumstances, he was a good man, he had only one thought at that moment: to prevent this terrible secret from getting out, even if that meant a flagrant injustice or the sacrifice of an innocent, unhappy boy. However unimportant the child, however unimportant the accusations of an expelled pupil in the eyes of the world, even if they managed to rewrite the story in their own favour, there would always be a lingering doubt, damaging the proud reputation of the Order. It was vital to avoid that, particularly now, since public spite had recently been aroused by a scandalous episode in which one of their number had been caught in flagrante in a train carriage with the mother of a pupil. This compelling need, this force majeur stifled all feeling in him, all compassion and made him virtually the accomplice of Father de Kern. He realised this but did not reproach himself. He consciously assumed the role of cunning Jesuit, implacable priest, sacrificing his natural generosity to the greater interests of the Order, sacrificing to shadowy politics a poor child, the victim of an odious assault which he, chaste as he was, hated and condemned. At that moment, he even felt for this child, the possessor of such a secret, the hatred that he should have felt for Father de Kern alone, and which instead he did not feel at all.
Soon Sébastien’s fury abated and he calmed down, tears came and with tears the nervous release which, little by little, left him slumped like an inert object on his chair, without strength, without resistance, his brain bruised, his limbs heavy. Father de Marel sat down next to him, drew him gently towards him, almost onto his lap, and lavished on him loving, soothing, childish words. After a few moments, seeing that Sébastien was quiet again, dazed, he said:
‘Now then, my child, are you calmer now? Can I talk sense to you? Listen. I am your friend, you know that. I have proved it to you. Remember how you ran away the day you arrived here. Remember our music lessons, our walks. Well now …’
In fatherly fashion, he wiped away the tears filling the boy’s eyes and dabbed his face with his own handkerchief.
‘Well now, assuming that this crime really did take place …’
When he felt Sébastien flinch, he hastened to add, as a kind of parenthesis:
‘Which, of course, it did, it did …’
Then he continued:
‘Assuming that it did happen, which, of course, it did, were you not in some way an accomplice? I mean, could you not have prevented it? In any case, my poor child, you will have to be punished. Believe me, Father de Kern will be punished too, oh yes, severely punished. I will take it upon myself to inform the Rector, who is justice itself. He will be driven away
from this house and sent to a distant mission. But what about you? Think. Do you really believe that you can stay here? For your own sake and for us who love you so dearly, no, you cannot. It would be like deliberately irritating a wound which needs to heal and to heal fast. You say you are going to reveal this crime to everyone, to shout it from the rooftops. What would you gain by that base action, except even more shame? To this crime, which should remain secret though not unpunished, you will have added a scandal without any benefit to yourself. You will have given solace to the enemies of religion, made pious souls despair, compromised a holy cause and dishonoured yourself completely. No, no, I know your character and you will not do this. Of course, I feel very sorry for you. Oh, I pity you with all my heart. But I also say to you this: “Accept with courage the trial which God has sent you …” ’
Sébastien tried to disengage himself and said in a voice still trembling with tears:
‘God! You still talk to me about God! What has he done for me?’
The priest grew solemn, almost prophetic:
‘God has sent you this suffering, my child,’ he pronounced in a grave, deep voice. ‘It means he has plans for you which we cannot understand; it means perhaps that you have been chosen for some great task. Oh, never doubt, not even in the midst of the most atrocious suffering, never doubt the infinite and mysterious goodness of God. Do not question it; submit. Whatever tears you shed, whatever bitter chalice you accept, raise your soul to God and say …’
He pointed to the heavens, his finger raised, and recited in the tones of religious inspiration:
‘ln te, Domine, speravi, non confundar in aeternum.’
The priest stood like that for a few seconds, finger pointing heavenwards, eyes fixed on Sébastien’s eyes; then, all of a sudden, he grasped the boy’s hands and, moved, sincere, almost tearful, he begged:
‘Promise me you will leave this house with no hatred in your heart. Promise me you will make this sacrifice with nobility. Promise me to keep this terrible thing a secret for ever.’
Sébastien had never felt deceit weigh so heavily on him. But he was too broken by the moral upheaval, too annihilated by a succession of violent emotions to feel indignation. He felt nothing but disgust for this priest now, even though he was the only one in whom, before, he thought he might find a little goodness; he was sickened by these grave words which accorded so ill with that plump face where, despite everything, beneath the changing mask of sadness, emotion and enthusiasm, there lingered a trace of easy good humour and comic joviality which, ultimately, was prepared to connive at infamy. He replied:
‘I promise.’
‘Swear, my child, my dear child.’
Sébastien’s lips were twisted in a bitter expression. However, he spoke again, resigned:
‘I swear.’
The priest was delighted.
‘That is excellent, excellent. There now, I knew you were a good boy.’
His face beaming again, he asked:
‘Now then, have you anything to ask me?’
‘No, Father, nothing.’
‘Let me at least kiss you, my child.’
‘If you wish.’
Sébastien felt on his forehead the slimy touch of those lips still smeared with deceit. Disgusted, he tore himself away from that embrace, which was as hateful to him as that of Father de Kern, and he said:
‘Now leave me, Father, I beg you. I wish to be left alone.’
When the door had closed behind the priest, Sébastien breathed more freely and he exclaimed out loud, outraged and disgusted:
‘Oh yes, I’m leaving! Let me leave now!’
In the evening, he was taken to see the Rector again. As he entered his study, he saw his father standing there, a pale, gesticulating figure. He was wearing his dress coat, holding in his hands his familiar, ancient hat. Sébastien noticed that his black trousers were dusty at the knee: he must have been grovelling at the feet of the impassive Rector, begging him, imploring. The sight of him neither surprised nor moved him. For four days he had been preparing himself for this meeting with his father and was ready to endure his reproaches. Calmly he stepped towards him to kiss him, but Monsieur Roch pushed him roughly away.
‘Wretch!’ he cried. ‘How dare you, you miserable wretch? Do not come near me. You are not my son any more.’
His fury was boundless: his grey hair and beard bristled with anger. He stammered. Then Sébastien looked at the Rector, who remained calm and dignified, his handsome face just barely shadowed with the emotion of the moment. ‘Did he know?’ the boy wondered. He tried to read his pale eyes, where no reflection of his thoughts seemed to show. Monsieur Roch had started to speak again, his jaw jutting and heavy. He was stammering:
‘One last time, Reverend Father, one last time, I dare to implore you … not on behalf of this wretch, he is not worthy of any pity, no … but for me! I am the only person this affects! And I am innocent! I have a position! I enjoy the respect of everyone! I am the mayor, for heaven’s sake! What do you think will happen to me? So near to the holidays, what am I to say?’
‘I beg of you, Monsieur,’ replied the Rector. ‘Do not insist. It gives me great pain to refuse you …’
‘In the name of Jean Roch, my illustrious ancestor!’ begged the former ironmonger. ‘In the name of that martyr who died for the holy cause.’
‘You are breaking my heart, Monsieur. I beg you, do not insist.’
‘Well, I will make you a proposition. I do not ask you to keep Sébastien for good. Who would want such a miserable wretch? But keep him just until the holidays. Keep him in a cell, on bread and water if you want, I don’t care. At least like that, in our village, it won’t look so … you understand? My situation won’t suffer by it. I will not be obliged to blush in front of everyone! You see, Reverend Father, I am prepared to make the greatest sacrifices, even though this wretch has already cost me thousands and thousands of sacrifices. Listen, I’ll pay double the fees.’
As the Jesuit made a gesture of protest, he added swiftly:
‘I will pay whatever you ask, here!’
He was already pulling his leather purse out of his pocket and, kneeling, he offered it to the Jesuit in a frenetic gesture of supplication.
‘Whatever you ask, eh? Whatever you ask!’
The priest drew Monsieur Roch to his feet, and, visibly shocked by this scene, said curtly:
‘Some restraint, Monsieur, I beg you. Let us cut short this interview which is causing pain to all three of us.’
Then Monsieur Roch turned the full force of his anger on his son. He threatened him with a clenched fist:
‘Wretch! Rogue!’ he yelled. ‘What am I to do with you? Bled dry and this is my reward. You miserable wretch!’
He slammed his fist down on the desk. A few sheets of paper floated to the floor.
‘Anyway, who taught you this filth? Who? Tell me, who? Even animals don’t do that! A dog wouldn’t do what you did! You’re worse than a dog!’
The Rector had trouble calming him down.
His father’s attitude pained Sébastien deeply. That vulgar selfishness, crudeness of feeling, that baring of a soul stripped of its façade of majestic, comic eloquence, caused him invincible disgust. What remained of any respect, what survived of filial affection, disappeared at that very moment, engulfed in shame. He realised that he would never be able to love him and that he was all alone in life.
‘Your pain is understandable, Monsieur,’ the Rector said to Monsieur Roch, leading him to the door, ‘and I also understand your anger. But, believe me, this child should be treated with care. A moment’s thoughtlessness need not compromise a whole life. He repents.’
‘About time too,’ sighed Monsieur Roch. ‘And do you think his repentance will sort out my affairs and that, after a scandal like this, I will be able to stand for election for the local council? Oh, never mind.’
His tone became bitter, he pulled himself up.
‘Never mind. I would have thou
ght that people on the same side … that honest folk … A would have thought they would rally round.’
They left Vannes the following day, early in the morning. During the journey, Monsieur Roch remained silent, angry, his head full of terrible plans for exemplary punishments. Sébastien looked at the fields, the woods, the sky. One thought preoccupied him:
Did the Rector know? What had happened to Father de Kern? Then he thought of Bolorec too. Where was he? What was he doing at that moment? He would have liked to have got to know his region, Ploërmel, so as to picture his friend properly and relive the time with the only friend of his days of sorrow, the only person he missed. He imagined the moorlands, the moors like those at Sainte-Anne, moors where the girls danced and sang:
‘When I’m fourteen …’
They arrived in Pervenchères at night, which was some consolation to Monsieur Roch. ‘I just hope there’s no one else at the station. What will people think of me?’ he kept saying on the journey. There was no one. The streets were deserted. They were able to get home without being seen.
At first, confined to his room and only coming out at meal times, Sébastien could not get used to not being at school any more. He thought he heard the buzzing of the yard, the whispering, the rustling along walls. When Madame Cébron came in, he jumped. However, the horizon was no longer bounded by walls, roofs and chimneys; he really could see before him his beloved landscape, the slopes of Saint-Jacques, distant and powdered with ash-blue, the river, invisible in the greenery of the meadow, but whose pretty meanderings could be glimpsed through the undulating line of poplars and alders; the road along which people he recognised walked, the carts and animals of his home town. But all his senses were still stunned by his experiences at school, just as after a journey at sea, one still hears the sound of the wind and feels the rolling motion of the boat. Thus for three days, three numb days, he lived without pain, joy or thoughts of any kind.
Sebastien Roch (Dedalus European Classics) Page 20
