The Thibaults Read Online Free PDF Page A

feeling the utmost distress. And yet I would venture to put you a question: would it be wise for us to ‘join forces’ as you propose? Certainly something must be done, they have got to be found; but would it not be better for us to keep our inquiries separate? What I mean is, we must beware of possible indiscretions on the part of journalists. Don’t be surprised if I speak to you as one whose position obliges him to act with a certain caution as regards the press and public opinion. Not for my own sake. Anything but that! I am, thank God, above the calumnies of my adversaries. But might they not try to strike at the activities I stand for, by attacking me personally? And then I have to think of my son. Should I not make sure, at all costs, that another name is not linked with ours in connexion with this unsavoury adventure? Yes, I see it as my duty so to act that no one may be able in the future to throw in his face certain associations—quite casual, I grant you—but of a character that is, if I may say so, eminently … prejudicial.” He seemed to be addressing the Abbé Vécard especially as, lifting his eyelids for once, he added: “I take it, gentlemen, that you share my opinion?”
    During the harangue Mme. de Fontanin had turned pale. Now she looked at each priest in turn; then at Mademoiselle, then at Antoine. Their faces were blank and they said nothing.
    “Ah, yes, I understand!” she cried. The words stuck in her throat, and she had difficulty in continuing. “I can see that M. Quillard’s suspicions …” She paused, then added: “What a wretched creature that man is, a miserable, miserable creature!” A wry smile twisted her lips as she spoke. M. Thibault’s face remained inscrutable. Only his flabby hand rose towards the Abbé Binot, as if calling him to witness, inviting him to speak. With the zest of a mongrel joining in a dog-fight, the Abbé flung himself into the fray.
    “We would venture to point out to you, Mme. de Fontanin, that you seem to be dismissing the lamentable conclusions come to by M. Quillard, without even having heard the charges brought against your son.”
    Mme. de Fontanin cast a quick glance at the priest; then, relying as usual on her intuitions as regards the characters of others, she turned towards the Abbé Vécard, whose eyes met hers with an expression of unruffled suavity. His lethargic face, elongated by the fringe of scanty hair brushed up round his bald patch, gave her the impression of a man in the fifties. Conscious of the heretic’s appealing gaze, he hastened to put in an amiable word.
    “None of us here, Madame, but realizes how painful this conversation is for you. The trust you have in your son is infinitely touching … and laudable,” he added as an afterthought. With a gesture that was familiar with him, he raised a finger and held it to his lips while he went on speaking. “But unfortunately, Madame, the facts, ah, yes, the facts …”
    As if his colleague had given him the cue, the other priest took him up, and went on with greater unction. “Yes, the facts, there’s no denying it, are … crushing!”
    “I beg you,” Mme. de Fontanin began, looking away.
    But now there was no holding the priest.
    “In any case, if you want proof of our assertions, here it is!” Dropping his hat onto the floor, he drew from his girdle a grey, red-edged exercise-book. “Please cast a glance over this, Madame. However cruel it may seem to kill your illusions, we feel it our bounden duty, and we are convinced that you will yield to the evidence.”
    He moved towards Mme. de Fontanin as if he were going to force the book on her. She got up from her chair.
    “I refuse to read a line of it. The idea of prying into the secrets of this child behind his back, in public, without giving him a chance to explain—it’s revolting! I have never treated him in such a manner, and I never will.”
    The Abbé Binot gazed at her, his arm still holding out the book, a