The lawyer shook hands with all of us and followed Gaston from the room.
The comtesse turned to me. 'You look tired, Jean,' she said. 'You've had a long, emotional day. Why not have a rest? You have just an hour before we go to church for the special Mass for Francoise which Monsieur le cure has arranged. After that we shall all drive into Villars to the hospital chapel.'
She fumbled for the spectacles hanging beside the crucifix on her bosom, and began to scribble names and addresses on sheets of paper.
I went outside and stood in the grounds beyond the moat. The cattle had come to pasture, and the sun had dipped behind the trees. Beside the dovecot were the ashes of the bonfire, smoky-white. Soon the mist would rise, encompassing the chateau, and already, with shutters drawn and windows closed, it stood remote from the evening world, from the jackdaws massing in the woods and the black and white cattle cropping the grass.
Paul came and joined me on the terrace under the windows. For a moment or two he smoked a cigarette in silence, then nervously he threw it away, saying abruptly, 'I meant what I said just now.'
'What did you say?' I asked.
'That it was impossible to run the verrerie for you any more.'
'You said that? I'm sorry. I'd forgotten.'
I turned and looked at him, and his face, perplexed, weary, seemed to merge into that of his sister Blanche, when, tense and watchful, she had stared at me only a little while before as we waited in the hospital. I knew that his sudden doubt of me, and his aversion, too, sprang not merely from feelings going back to boyhood days, to childish slights and jealousies and quarrels, turning later to suspicion and envy; they were due also to my own blunders in his brother's name, my own failings and weaknesses that could not be explained. I might, if I had tried, have drawn him to me as a comrade and a friend; instead I had antagonized him, sown still more discord and dislike, and his present mood was part of the damage I had done, like the still face of Francoise in the hospital bed.
'What's your reason?' I asked.
'My reason?' He stared down into the moat. 'We've never got on, you know that. You had all the favours and I the kicks. I've been used to that my whole life. You asked me to run the verrerie for you because nobody else would take it on after Maurice was shot, and you were too idle yourself. I did it for the sake of the family, not for you. At least, up to date, I've respected your business judgement, if nothing else. Now I can't even do that.'
His voice, resentful, bitter, sounded as though he had lost all faith not only in his work but in himself; as if what he had striven to do, through the years, had come to no account, the purpose gone. The foolish contract he had read, which had been set in motion by a stranger during five minutes over the telephone, might have been drawn up deliberately to mock him, tearing asunder everything he had with patience helped to build.
'Supposing,' I said slowly, 'that in future I rely upon your business judgement, not you on mine?'
'What do you mean?' His eyes, wretched, doubting, reminded me of those snapshots in the album, where he stood always on the fringe of a group, because the central figure claimed attention, and he, uncertain, somehow did not fit into the picture but was out of place.
'You said in the salon that you had no brains,' I said, 'but that nevertheless, if you had gone to Paris, you could have done better than I did. You're right; you could have done. Suppose, in the future, you take on that part of the business - travel, get the orders, go to Paris, London, any city you please, get fresh contacts, meet people, go all over the world if you like - while I stay here?'
He straightened himself and looked at me, puzzled, unbelieving.
'Are you serious?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered. Then, because he looked doubtful still, 'Don't you want to travel? Don't you want to get away?'
'Not want to get away?' His laugh was short, mirthless. 'Naturally I want to get away. I always have done. But there was never the money, nor the opportunity. Nor did you ever make it possible for me.'
'I can make it possible for you now,' I said.
Constraint, that had for the moment vanished, came near to us again. He looked away from me. 'Because you've come into a fortune you're going to play benefactor, is that it?' he asked.
'I hadn't thought of it that way,' I said. 'It just struck me suddenly, that your life hasn't been an easy one. I'm sorry.'
'It's rather late for regrets after all these years.'
'Perhaps. I don't know. You still haven't answered my question.'
'You mean,' he said, 'that you'd give me a free hand to travel in Europe, or even America, visiting other factories, other small plants like ours, seeing how it is possible to keep going under similar conditions by using more up-to-date methods, so that at the end of six months or so, when I got back, we might incorporate them here at St Gilles?'
The voice, which had been bitter and resentful, was suddenly interested, alert; and I, who had thought out none of the things he suggested, but was only profoundly sorry for having interfered in his life, realized that unwittingly I had stumbled upon an idea that would give his life new meaning. Instead of seeing himself as the younger brother, put upon, overburdened, never thanked, he would be transformed into the one who made decisions, bringing fresh blood to what had been decayed and dying, thereby saving both tradition and himself.
'I believe you could do all that and more,' I said. 'Talk to Renee, see what she says. I don't want to force you to it.'
'Renee ...' For a moment he frowned, thinking hard, then awkwardly, a little diffident, he said, 'It might be the answer for us both. We haven't been very happy - you've known that. If I once got her away from here, everything might be different. She's felt herself wasted at St Gilles, whereas if we were travelling, meeting people, and she had something to think about, she'd stop being bored and dissatisfied, and I'd be a better companion. I wouldn't seem the country boor that I do to her now.'
He stood staring in front of him, the new image of himself taking shape and substance, and oddly, with a sort of poignancy, I saw the image too - the Paul he wanted to become, wearing flashier clothes, a gaudier tie, playing deck quoits on a transatlantic liner, drinking martinis with Renee in a bar. And through his eyes I saw Renee smiling upon him, elegant and sleek, the pair of them enveloped in a little cloud of their own success which would make them kinder to one another.
'Can I discuss this with Renee, now, tonight?' he asked abruptly. 'Before there's any chance of you changing your mind?'
'I shan't change my mind,' I said. 'Good luck to you, Paul.' And foolishly, like an old-fashioned figure in a drawing-room comedy, I put out my hand to him, and he shook it, stiffly, as though sealing a pact. I wondered if this was forgiveness of my own immediate blunders or whether it also included the past that was not mine.
He turned and disappeared into the chateau, and I went on standing there, watching the black and white cattle outlined against the dark trees, feeling the first chill of evening touch me from the long grass. Because no one came to join me, and I was undisturbed, I tried to make my own prayer for Francoise, who was dead through folly and neglect, a prayer which I should not be able to offer later at her special Mass or in the hospital chapel, where acting her husband's part would make me a deceiver.
When the church bell tolled solemnly, breaking the stillness, and I went and joined the others in the hall, I saw that we were not to walk across to the village as we had done on Sunday, but were to go formally in the cars. Both were drawn up below the terrace, with Gaston in uniform at the wheel of the first and Paul at the second; and the three women, already in deep black, followed by Marie-Noel in a dark winter coat, entered the cars in some order of precedence, which had already been decided upon - the comtesse, myself, and the child in the Renault, and Paul driving his sister and his wife.
Slowly we proceeded through the gateway and over the bridge, foreshadowing the cortege of the Friday to come, and slowly, at the same sober pace, descended from the cars after two m
inutes' drive, entered the church, and took our places at the front as we had done on Sunday.
I wondered, kneeling there, listening to the Mass, what petitions went up in fervour or humility from those beside me, whether they asked for the repose of the absent Francoise or pardon for themselves; and it seemed to me that both requests must by their very likeness fuse, the ultimate purpose of all such prayers being surely the abolition of anxiety and pain. The veils in which the mother and daughter and daughter-in-law were hidden lent similarity to their figures, so that the three of them together might have been the facets of one personality, the triptych of a single countenance. Whether they were sorrowful or secretive I could not tell; only the child, her close-cropped hair unveiled, was a symbol of what had been, the lost innocence, lost youth, for which the shrouded figures mourned.
The Mass over, we drove to Villars to stand for a few moments in the chapel. Strangely, it was not, as I had expected, distressing and macabre. The now waxen and infinitely remote figure of Francoise was not the person we had all betrayed but something mummified and distant, discovered after centuries in an Egyptian tomb. I watched the child, fearing perhaps tears or apprehension, but she gave no sign of either. She looked with interest at the two nuns, at the candles, at the flowers, and I realized that to her, as perhaps to the rest of us, sorrow and regret had no place here, but only curiosity and a vague surprise. Outside, Renee was the only one who wept. I saw her fumble for her handkerchief, and Marie-Noel, reddening, turned away her head, embarrassed to see an adult cry.
It was nearly half past eight by the time we returned to the chateau, the cure joining us for dinner. The comtesse, whom I had never before seen in the dining-room, took her place opposite me at the end of the table, and her presence there, despite the solemnity of the occasion, gave sudden warmth and distinction to the room. Instead of being a mourning party, we might have been sitting down to a New Year dinner. Grotesquely, I expected to see Gaston bear in a turkey or a goose. There should have been chocolates in coloured paper, and a bunch of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. The voices, which had started by being low, subdued, rose as the meal progressed, and after the dessert had been served and the tray of coffee cups taken to the salon, the comtesse leading the procession, it was almost as if, once the servants had departed, we were going to put on paper caps, play forfeits or roast chestnuts in the fire. Only when the cure had taken his departure did the comtesse, for the first time, flag; and glancing at her I saw that she had turned suddenly grey. The beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran down her cheeks, and her eyes, flickering restlessly about the room, lost instantly all life and concentration. Paul had left the salon with the cure, and Blanche, Renee and the child, turning the pages of some book, had noticed nothing.
Quietly I said, 'I'm going to take you upstairs.'
She stared at me as if she did not understand, and then, when I put out my arm to her, she leant upon it, trembling. I said, loudly, so that the others heard, 'I think it would be much better if we went over the lists together in your room.'
She straightened herself, gripping my arm more firmly, and as we moved towards the door she said clearly, without difficulty, 'Good night, good night, everybody. Don't disturb yourselves. Jean and I have matters we prefer to discuss upstairs.'
They all rose instantly, and Blanche, coming forward, said, 'You should never have come down, Maman. It has been too much for you.'
Her words had just the necessary sting to waken response, and in a second her mother turned, loosening her hold upon my arm, retorting, 'When I want advice from you I'll ask for it. There are four hundred envelopes to address before tomorrow evening. I suggest you make a start tonight, and the child can help.'
We went out of the room and climbed the stairs together to the first corridor. As she paused there for a moment to regain breath she said, 'Why did I say that? What are the invitations for?'
'The funeral,' I said, 'the funeral on Friday.'
'Whose funeral?'
'Francoise's,' I replied. 'Francoise died today.'
'Of course,' she said. 'For a moment I had forgotten. I was thinking of that time when we made lists for Blanche's wedding. We had the invitations printed, and then none of them were used.'
She took my arm again and we mounted the second flight, and as we turned along the corridor to her room in the tower the shadows seemed to close in upon us, the silence deepen, and it was as though we were retreating to a past that was always there.
Charlotte opened the door for us, and I could see at once from her face that she was frightened. She darted a look at me, suspicious, anxious, and when the comtesse had passed through into the room she whispered to me, 'The boxes have gone from the dressing-room.'
'I know,' I said. 'I took them away.'
'What for?' she said. 'I shall need them tonight.'
'No,' I said.
I pushed by her, following the comtesse, and I said, 'Undress and get into bed, Maman. You may sleep, you may not. Either way, it doesn't matter. I shall stay here in the room with you tonight.'
Her shadow, reflected on the ceiling, monstrous and overpowering like a witch, seemed part of the heavy curtains and the hangings to the bed; but when she turned and looked at me the movement dwarfed the shadow, the shadow shrank to the ground, and the smile belonged to the woman who downstairs in the dining-room had held court and made a fiesta out of mourning, opposing tragedy with her own wit and pride.
'The tables are turned,' she said. 'It's a long time since one of us lay in bed and the other watched. You had a high temperature once when you were twelve years old. I sat in your room beside you and bathed your face. Is that what you're prepared to do for me tonight?'
She laughed and waved me from the room, calling to Charlotte. I went out into the corridor and down to the salon, and found the others turning out the lights, preparing to go to their rooms. Marie-Noel went towards the stairs hand-in-hand with Blanche, her small face white with fatigue now that the day had ended.
'You'll come and say good night, Papa?' she asked.
'Yes,' I promised, and went back into the dining-room for a cigarette. When I returned again into the hall I found that Renee had not followed the others, but was waiting for me on the stairs. Seeing her thus reminded me of that first evening, when, with my hand on the door leading to the terrace, I had suddenly heard her footsteps behind me, and she had stood there in her wrapper with her hair falling to her shoulders. Now she was no longer passionate or angry or disconsolate, but somehow wiser and a little shamed, as though recognizing that the tragedy of the day was now a final barrier between us.
'So you want to get rid of us, Paul and me?' she said. 'Have you been planning this ever since you returned from Paris?'
I shook my head. 'There's no question of it being planned,' I told her. 'This evening out on the terrace the idea came to me, that's all. If you dislike the thought, put it out of your head.'
She did not say anything for a moment. She seemed to be considering something, and then she said slowly, 'You've altered, Jean. I don't mean because of today and the terrible shock to all of us; I mean for some little while. You're not the same.'
'In what way have I changed?' I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. 'I don't just mean you've changed to me. I realize now that you were amusing yourself these past months. You were bored, there was nothing else for you to do, and I happened to be here. You've changed somehow in yourself, become harder, more withdrawn.'
'Harder?' I said. 'I should have thought the reverse. Softer, weaker in every way.'
'Oh, no.' She considered me thoughtfully. 'I'm not the only one to notice it. Paul said the same thing only a day or two ago, when you burnt your hand. You've been more detached, not only to me but to everyone. That's why it surprised us both that you made this suggestion that we should travel, and not you. From your behaviour the past week, you gave the impression that the one thing in the world you wanted was to get away.'
I stared at her, disconcerted. 'I gave that impression?' I said.
'Frankly, yes.'
'It isn't true,' I said. 'I've never stopped thinking about all of you, day and night. The chateau, the foundry, Maman, the child, the whole family - you've been continually in my mind. The last thing I want to do is to go away.'
She looked incredulous. 'I don't understand you,' she said. 'I suppose the truth is that I never have. I was a fool to imagine I once did. You were never in love with me for one minute, were you?'
'I'm not in love with you now, Renee,' I said. 'I don't know about the past, but I rather doubt it.'
'You see?' she said. 'You are harder. You have changed. You can't even be bothered to pretend any more.' She paused, and then slowly, reluctantly, she added, 'Paul hasn't said so, but I'm sure he believes it, and I'm beginning to believe it too. Did you make that contract cold-bloodedly, deliberately, on the chance that ... that what happened today might happen anyway?'
Her voice was low, yet I sensed a kind of urgency behind it, a mixture of wonder and horror that the man with whom she had been infatuated might have acted thus, and in doing so have somehow implicated her in his plans.
'If you think I made that contract believing Francoise would die, no, Renee,' I said to her.
She drew in her breath. 'I'm glad,' she said. 'In the chapel this evening I was suddenly ... overwhelmed by everything that had happened. A week ago I couldn't have left St Gilles, but now ...' she turned and began to climb the stairs, 'now I know I can't go on living here. I must get away - it's the only hope we have for the future, Paul and I.'
I watched her disappear along the corridor, and I wondered whether it was in truth Francoise's death that had caused her shame, or whether it was my reserve, my indifference to her as a woman, that had killed her own desire.
As I switched off the light and climbed the stairs in darkness, it seemed to me that what I had done to these two, Paul and Renee, was not my own doing, the action of the solitary self of my former life, nor yet that of Jean de Gue, whose shadow I had become, but the work of a third - someone who was neither he nor I but a fusion of the two of us, who had no corporeal existence, who was born not of thought but of intuition, and brought release to us both.
The Scapegoat Page 32
