CHAPTER IV
PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE
Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference in their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas Suzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm.
When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all the little things with which one tries, when away, to give one's room a look of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favourite books....
"You'll be very snug here, Marthe," she said. "It's a nice, light room ... and there's only a dressing-room between you and Philippe.... But how did you come to want two bedrooms?"
"It was Philippe. He was afraid of disturbing me in the mornings...."
"Oh," repeated the girl. "It was Philippe's suggestion...."
Then she took up one of the photographs and examined it:
"How like his father your son Jacques is! ... Much more so than Paul ... don't you think?"
Marthe came to the table and, bending over her friend, looked at the picture with those mother's eyes which seem to see in the inanimate image the life, the smile and the beauty of the absent one.
"Which do you like best, Jacques or Paul?" asked Suzanne.
"What a question! If you were a mother...."
"If I were a mother, I should like that one best who reminded me most of my husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceased to love me...."
"You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine that there is nothing in the world but love?"
"There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn't you like love to fill a greater place in your life?"
This was said with a certain sarcasm, of which Marthe felt the sting. But, before she had time to retort, Philippe appeared in the doorway.
Suzanne at once cried:
"We were talking about you, Philippe."
He made no reply. He went to the window, closed it and then came back to the two young women. Suzanne pointed to a chair beside her, but he sat down by Marthe; and Marthe saw by his look that something had happened:
"Have you spoken to him?"
"No."
"Still ..."
He told her, in a few sentences, of the conversation, with the incident of the pamphlet and the words which his father had spoken against the author of that work. He repeated the words, a second time, with increasing bitterness. Then he stopped, reflected and, pressing his clenched fists to his temples, said, slowly, as though he were explaining matters to himself:
"It's three years now that this has lasted ... ever since his letter on my appointment, in which he wrote about my second book on the idea of country. Perhaps I ought to have written to him then and there and told him of the evolution of my mind and the tremendous change which the study of history and of vanished civilizations had wrought in me."
"Perhaps it would have been better," said Marthe.
"I was afraid to. I was afraid of hurting him.... It would have hurt him so terribly! ... And my love for him is so great!... And then, Marthe, you see, the ideas which he defends and of which, in my eyes, he is the living and splendid incarnation are so beautiful in themselves that, after one has ceased to share them, one continues, for a long time, for always, to retain a sort of involuntary affection for them, deep down in one's inner self. They constituted the greatness of our country for centuries. They are vigorous, like everything that is religious and pure. One feels a renegade at losing them; and any word spoken against them sounds like blasphemy. How could I say to my father, 'Those ideas, which you gave me and which were the life of my youth, I have ceased to hold. Yes, I have ceased to think as you do. My love of humanity does not stop at the boundaries of the country in which I was born; and I do not hate those who are on the other side of the frontier. I am one of those men who will not have war, who will not have it at any price and who would give their life-blood to save the world the horror of that scourge.' How could I say such things as that to my father?"
He rose and, pacing the room, continued:
"I did not say them. I concealed the true state of my mind, as though I were hiding a shameful sore. At the meetings, in the newspapers to which I contribute by stealth, to my adversaries and to the majority of the men on my own side I was M. Philippe, denying my name and my personality, setting a bad example to those who are silent for prudence' sake and for fear of compromising themselves. I do not sign the pamphlets which I write; and the book in which I give the conclusion of my work has been ready for more than a year, without my daring to publish it. Well, that's over now. I can't go on as I have been doing. Silence is choking me. By humbling myself, I lower my ideals. I must speak aloud, in the hearing of all men. I will speak."
He had gradually become animated, excited by his own words. His voice had increased in volume. His face expressed the glowing, irresistible, often blind enthusiasm of those who devote themselves to generous causes. And, yielding to a need to speak out which was anything but frequent with him, he went on:
"You don't know, you don't know what it means to a man to be fired with a great idea ... whether it be love of humanity, hatred of war or any other beautiful illusion. It lights us and leads us. It is our pride and our faith. We seem to have a second life, the real life, that belongs to it, and an unknown heart that beats for it alone. And we are prepared to suffer any sacrifice, any pain, any wretchedness, any insult ... provided that it gain the day."
Suzanne listened to him with obvious admiration. Marthe appeared uneasy. Knowing Philippe's nature thoroughly, she was well aware that, in thus letting himself go, he was not only being carried away by a flood of eloquent words.
He opened the window and drew a deep breath of the pure air which he loved. Then he returned and added:
"We are even prepared to sacrifice those around us."
Marthe felt all the importance which he attached to this little sentence; and, after a moment, she said:
"Are you referring to me?"
"Yes," said Philippe.
"But you know, Philippe, that, when I agreed to marry you, I agreed to share your life, whatever it might be."
"My life as it looked like being, but not as I shall be compelled to make it."
She looked at him with a glimmer of apprehension. For some time now, she had noticed that he was even less communicative than usual, that he hardly ever spoke of his plans and that he no longer told her what he was working at.
"How do you mean, Philippe?" she asked.
He took a sealed letter from his pocket and showed her the address:
"To the Minister of Public Instruction."
"What is in that letter?" asked Marthe.
"My resignation."
"Your resignation! The resignation of your professorship?"
"Yes. I shall send this letter the moment I have confessed everything to my father. I did not like to tell you before, for fear of your objections.... But I was wrong.... It is necessary that you should know...."
"I don't understand," she stammered. "I don't understand...."
"Yes, you do, Marthe: you understand. The ideas which have taken possession of me little by little and to which I want to devote myself without reserve are dangerous for young brains to listen to. They form the belief of an age for which I call with might and main, but it is not the belief of to-day; and I have no right to teach it to the children entrusted to my care."
She was on the verge—thinking of her own children, whose well-being and whose future were about to suffer through this decision—she was on the verge of exclaiming:
"Why need you shout it from the house-tops? Stifle your vain scruples and go on teaching what you find in the manuals and school-books."
But she knew that he was like those priests who prefer to incur poverty and opprobrium rather than preach a religion which they no longer believe.
And she simply said:
"I do not share all your opinions, Philippe. There are even some that terrify me ... especially those which I do not know, but which I half suspect. But, whatever the goal to which you are leading us, I will walk to it with my eyes closed."
"And ... so far ... you approve?"
"Entirely. You must act according to your conscience, send that letter and, first of all, tell your father everything. Who knows? Perhaps he will admit ..."
"Never!" exclaimed Philippe. "Men who look into the future can still understand the beliefs of former days, because those were their own beliefs when they were young. But men who cling to the past cannot accept ideas which they do not understand and which clash with their feelings and with their instincts."
"So ...?"
"So we shall quarrel and cause each other pain; and the thought of it distresses me infinitely."
He sat down, with a movement of weariness. She leant over him:
"Do not lose courage. I am sure that things will turn out better than you think. Wait a few days.... There is no hurry; and you will have time to see ... to prepare...."
"Everything turns out well when you speak," he said, smiling and allowing himself to be caressed.
"Unfortunately ..."
He did not finish his sentence. He saw Suzanne opposite him, glaring at the pair of them. She was ghastly pale; and her mouth was wrung with a terrible expression of pain and hatred. He felt that she was ready to fling herself upon them and proclaim her rage aloud.
He released himself quickly and, making an effort to jest:
"Tush!" he said. "Time will show.... Enough of these jeremiads: what say you, Suzanne? ... Suppose you saw to putting away my things? ... Is everything done?"
Marthe was surprised at the abrupt change in his manner. However, she replied:
"There are only your papers; and I always prefer you to arrange them yourself."
"Come on, then," he said, gaily.
Marthe walked through the dressing-room to her husband's bedroom. Philippe was about to follow her and his foot touched the door-sill when Suzanne darted in front of him and barred the way with her outstretched arms.
It happened so suddenly that he uttered a slight exclamation. Marthe asked, from the further room:
"What is it?"
"Nothing," said Suzanne. "We're coming."
Philippe tried to pass. She pushed him back violently and with such a look of her eyes that he yielded at once.
They watched each other for a few seconds, like two enemies. Philippe fumed:
"Well? What does all this mean? Do you propose to keep me here indefinitely? ..."
She came nearer to him and, in a voice that shook with restraint and implacable energy:
"I shall expect you this evening.... It's quite easy.... You can get out.... I shall be outside my door at eleven."
He was petrified:
"You are mad! ..."
"No.... But I want to see you ... to speak to you ... I must ... I am suffering more than I can bear.... It's enough to kill me."
Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, her lips trembled.
Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he felt the need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:
"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which he often used to her.
"You will come ... you must come ... that is why I stayed.... One hour, one hour of your presence! ... If you don't, I shall come here, I shall indeed.... I don't care what happens!"
He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if it was possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have been absurd.
But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean out and catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation; and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which a child's whims were compelling him to play.
"You're quite pale," said Marthe.
"Do you think so? I'm a little tired, I suppose. You too, you are looking ..."
She broke in:
"I thought I saw your father."
"Is he back?"
"Yes, there he is, at the end of the garden, with M. Jorancé. They are making signs to you."
Morestal and his friend were climbing up beside the waterfall and waving their hands to attract Philippe's attention. When he came under the windows, Morestal cried:
"This is what we have arranged, Philippe. You and I are dining at Jorancé's."
"But ..."
"There's no but about it; we'll explain why. I'll have the carriage got ready and Jorancé will go ahead with Suzanne."
"What about Marthe?" asked Philippe.
"Marthe can come if she likes. Come down here. We'll fix it all up."
When Philippe turned round, Suzanne was standing close against him:
"You'll come, won't you?" she said, eagerly.
"Yes, if Marthe does."
"Even if Marthe doesn't ... I insist ... I insist.... Oh, Philippe, I implore you, don't drive me to extremities!"
He was afraid of an outburst:
"As a matter of fact," he said, "why shouldn't I come? It's quite natural that I should dine at your house with my father."
"Do you mean it?" she murmured. "Will you really come?"
She seemed suddenly calmed; and her face assumed a look of childish delight:
"Oh, how happy I am!... How happy I am! My beautiful dream will be fulfilled.... We shall walk together in the dark, without speaking a word.... And I shall never forget that hour.... Nor you either, Philippe ... nor you either...."