One evening when Audibert was dining with Hildebrant, he spoke to him about Eudolfe—without naming him and altering the circumstances so that Hildebrant should not recognize him.
“Have you ever observed,” said Hildebrant, “that the most decisive actions of our life—I mean those that are most likely to decide the whole course of our future—are, more often than not, unconsidered?”
“I easily believe it,” replied Audibert. “Like a train into which one jumps without thinking, and without asking oneself where it is going. And more often than not, one does not even realize that the train is carrying one off, till it is too late to get down.”
“But perhaps the boy you are talking of has no wish to get down?”
“Not so far, doubtless. For the moment he is being carried along unresisting. The scenery amuses him, and he cares very little where he is going.”
“Do you mean to talk morals to him?”
“No indeed! It would be useless. He has been overdosed with morals till he is sick.”
“Why did he steal?”
“I don’t exactly know. Certainly not from real need. But to get certain advantages—not to be outdone by his wealthier companions—Heaven knows what all! Innate propensity—sheer pleasure of stealing.”
“That’s the worst.”
“Of course! Because he’ll begin again.”
“Is he intelligent?”
“I thought for a long time that he was less so than his brothers. But I wonder now whether I wasn’t mistaken, and whether my unfavourable impression was not caused by the fact that he does not as yet understand what his capabilities are. His curiosity has gone off the tracks—or rather, it is still in the embryonic state—still at the stage of indiscretion.”
“Will you speak to him?”
“I propose making him put in the scales, on the one hand the little profit his thefts bring him, and on the other what his dishonesty loses him: the confidence of his friends and relations, their esteem, mine amongst others … things which can’t be measured and the value of which can be calculated only by the enormousness of the effort needed later to regain them. There are men who have spent their whole lives over it. I shall tell him, what he is still too young to realize—that henceforth if anything doubtful or unpleasant happens in his neighbourhood, it will always be laid to his door. He may find himself accused wrongfully of serious misdeeds and be unable to defend himself. His past actions point to him. He is marked. And lastly what I should like to say. … But I am afraid of his protestations.”
“You would like to say? …”
“That what he has done has created a precedent, and that if some resolution is required for a first theft, for the ensuing ones nothing is needed but to drift with the current. All that follows is mere laisser aller. … What I should like to say is, that a first movement, which one makes almost without thinking, often begins to trace a line which irrevocably draws our figure, and which our after effort will never be able to efface. I should like … but no, I shan’t know how to speak to him.”
“Why don’t you write down our conversation of this evening? You could give it him to read.”
“That’s an idea,” said Audibert. “Why not?”
I did not take my eyes off George while he was reading; but his face showed no signs of what he was thinking.
“Am I to go on?” he asked, preparing to turn the page.
“There’s no need. The conversation ends there.”
“A great pity.”
He gave me back the notebook, and in a tone of voice that was almost playful:
“I should have liked to know what Eudolfe says when he has read the notebook.”
“Exactly. I want to know myself.”
“Eudolfe is a ridiculous name. Couldn’t you have christened him something else?”
“It’s of no importance.”
“Nor what he answers either. And what becomes of him afterwards?”
“I don’t know yet. It depends upon you. We shall see.”
“Then if I understand right, I am to help you go on with your book. No, really, you must admit that. …”
He stopped as if he had some difficulty in expressing his ideas.
“That what?” I said to encourage him.
“You must admit that you’d be pretty well sold,” he went on, “if Eudolfe. …”
He stopped again. I thought I understood what he meant and finished his sentence for him:
“If he became an honest boy? … No, my dear.” And suddenly the tears rose to my eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder. But he shook it off:
“For after all, if he hadn’t been a thief, you wouldn’t have written all that.”
It was only then that I understood my mistake. In reality, George was flattered at having occupied my thoughts for so long. He felt interesting. I had forgotten Profitendieu; it was George who reminded me of him.
“And what did your juge d’instruction say to you?”
“He commissioned me to warn you that he knew you were circulating false coins. …”
George changed colour again. He understood denials would be useless, but he muttered indistinctly:
“I’m not the only one.”
“… and that if you and your pals don’t stop your traffickings at once, he’ll be obliged to arrest you.”
George had begun by turning very pale. Now his cheeks were burning. He stared fixedly in front of him and his knitted brows drew two deep wrinkles on his forehead.
“Goodbye,” I said, holding out my hand. “I advise you to warn your companions as well. As for you, you won’t be offered a second chance.”
He shook my hand silently and left the room without looking round.
On rereading the pages of The Counterfeiters which I showed George, I thought them on the whole rather bad. I transcribe them as George read them, but all this chapter must be rewritten. It would be better decidedly
