The Thibaults Read Online Free PDF

sour smile on his thin lips.
    “Have it your own way,” he said at last, with a derisive intonation. He placed the book on the desk, picked up his hat, and sat down again. Antoine felt a great desire to grasp him by the shoulders and put him out. His disgust was visible in his eyes, which, meeting the Abbé Vécard’s eyes, found them in accord.
    Meanwhile Mme. de Fontanin’s attitude had changed; she raised her head defiantly and walked up to M. Thibault, who had not risen from his chair.
    “All this is beside the point, M. Thibault. I came here only to inquire what you propose to do. My husband is away from Paris at the moment and I have to act alone. What I really came for was to tell you that in my opinion it would be a great pity to call in the police.”
    “The police!” M. Thibault shouted, so exasperated that he rose from his chair. “But, my good woman, don’t you realize that the police in every department of France are after them already? I telephoned myself this morning to the private secretary of the Chief of Police, asking that every possible step be taken, with the utmost discretion, of course. I have also had a telegram sent to the Town Council at Maisons-Laffitte, in case the truants have had the idea of hiding in a neighbourhood they both know well. All the railway companies, frontier posts, and ports of embarkation have been advised. And, Madame, if it weren’t for the scandal, which I want to avoid at all costs, I’d say it would be a very good thing to give those two young ragamuffins the lesson they need, and have them brought home in handcuffs, escorted by the police—if only to remind them that even in these degenerate days there’s still a semblance of justice in France, some deference to parental rights.”
    Without replying, Mme. de Fontanin bowed and moved towards the door. M. Thibault regained his self-control.
    “Anyhow, Madame, you may rest assured that, if we get any news, my son will communicate with you at once.”
    She acknowledged the remark with an almost imperceptible nod. Antoine and, after him, M. Thibault escorted her to the door.
    “The Huguenot!” Abbé Binot jeered, as soon as she was out of sight. The Abbé Vécard could not repress a gesture of reproach.
    “What? A Huguenot?” M. Chasle stammered, and recoiled as if he had just trodden in some revolting offal from Saint Bartholomew’s shambles.

IV

    ON HER return Mme. de Fontanin found Jenny lying half asleep in bed. Her fever showed no signs of going down. She lifted her head, gave her mother a questioning look, then shut her eyes again.
    “Please take Puce away, Mother. The noise hurts me.”
    As soon as Mme. de Fontanin was back in her room a fit of dizziness came over her; she sank into a chair, without even taking off her gloves. “Am I, too, in for a spell of fever?” she wondered. “Just when I most need to keep my head, to be strong and confident.” She bowed her head in prayer. When she raised it, she had settled on her line of action; the principal thing was to find her husband, bring him back.
    Crossing the hall, she paused in front of a closed door, then opened it. The room was cool and had evidently not been used for some time; a faint, bitter-sweet tang of verbena and lavender hovered in the air —a scent of perfumed soaps and hair-oils. She drew aside the curtains. A desk occupied the centre of the room; a layer of fine dust covered the blotter. There were no papers lying about, no addresses, no clues. All the keys were in the locks. The man who used the room was certainly of a trusting nature. She pulled out a drawer in the desk and saw a number of letters, a few photographs, a fan, and, in a corner, screwed up in a ball, a shabby black silk glove. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. A memory floated up into her mind and, in her daydream, she seemed to be gazing at a half-forgotten scene.
    One summer evening two years before, as she had been going in a tram along the bank of