The Counterfeiters

is in a confused whirl. Moreover he feels a little stabbing pain in his right side, just below his ribs. There can be no question about it. It is a liver attack. Would there be any Vichy water in the house? If only his wife had not gone out! How is he to break the news of Bernard’s flight to her? Ought he to show her the letter? It is an unjust letter⁠—abominably unjust. He ought to be angry. But it is not anger he feels⁠—he wishes it were⁠—it is sorrow. He breathes deeply and at each breath exhales an “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” as swift and low as a sigh. The pain in his side becomes one with his other pain⁠—proves it⁠—localizes it. He feels as if his grief were in his liver. He drops into an armchair and rereads Bernard’s letter. He shrugs his shoulders sadly. Yes, it is a cruel letter⁠—but there is wounded vanity, defiance⁠—bravado in it, too. Not one of his other children⁠—his real children⁠—would have been capable⁠—any more than he would have been capable himself⁠—of writing it. He knows this, for there is nothing in them which he does not recognize only too well in himself. It is true that he has always thought it his duty to blame Bernard for his rawness, his roughness, his unbroken temper, but he realizes that it is for those very things that he loved him as he had never loved any of the others.

In the next room, Cécile, who had come in from her concert, had begun to practise the piano and was obstinately going over and over again the same phrase in a barcarole. At last Albéric Profitendieu could bear it no longer. He opened the drawing-room door a little way and in a plaintive, half supplicating voice, for his liver was beginning to hurt him cruelly (and besides he had always been a little frightened of her):

“Cécile, my dear,” he asked, “would you mind seeing whether there’s any Vichy water in the house and if there isn’t, sending out to get some? and it would be very nice of you to stop playing for a little.”

“Are you ill?”

“No, no, not at all. I’ve just got something that needs thinking over a little before dinner, and your music disturbs me.”

And then a kindly feeling⁠—for he was softened by suffering⁠—made him add:

“That’s a very pretty thing you’re playing. What is it?”

But he went away without waiting for the answer. For that matter, his daughter, who was aware that he knew nothing whatever about music and could not distinguish between “Viens Poupoule” and the “March” in Tannhäuser (at least, so she used to say), had no intention of answering.

But there he was at the door again!

“Has your mother come in?”

“No, not yet.”

Absurd! she would be coming in so late that he would have no time to speak to her before dinner. What could he invent to explain Bernard’s absence? He really couldn’t tell the truth⁠—let the children into the secret of their mother’s temporary lapse. Ah! all had been forgotten, forgiven, made up. The birth of their last son had cemented their reconciliation. And now, suddenly this avenging spectre had re-risen from the past⁠—this corpse had been washed up again by the tide.

Good! Another interruption! As the study door noiselessly opens, he slips the letter into the inside pocket of his coat; the portière is gently raised⁠—Caloub!

“Oh, Papa, please tell me what this Latin sentence means. I can’t make head or tail of it.⁠ ⁠…”

“I’ve already told you not to come in here without knocking. You mustn’t disturb me like this for anything and everything. You are getting too much into the habit of relying on other people instead of making an effort yourself. Yesterday it was your geometry problem, and now today it’s⁠ ⁠… by whom is your sentence?”

Caloub holds out his copybook.

“He didn’t tell us; but just look at it; you’ll know all right. He dictated it to us. But perhaps I took it down wrong. You might at any rate tell me if it’s correct?”

Monsieur Profitendieu took the copybook, but he was in too much pain. He gently pushed the child away.

“Later on. It’s just dinner time. Has Charles come in?”

“He went down to his consulting room.” (The barrister receives his clients in a room on the ground floor.)

“Go and tell him I want to speak to him. Quick!”

A ring at the door bell! Madame Profitendieu at last! She apologizes for being late. She had a great many visits to pay. She is sorry to see her husband so poorly. What can be done for him? He certainly looks very unwell. He won’t be able to eat anything. They must sit down without him, but after dinner, will she come to his study with the children?⁠—Bernard?⁠—Oh, yes; his friend⁠ ⁠… you know⁠—the one he is reading mathematics with⁠—came and took him out to dinner.

---

Profitendieu felt better. He had at first been afraid he would be too ill to speak. And yet it was necessary to give an explanation of Bernard’s disappearance. He knew now what he must say⁠—however painful it might be. He felt firm and determined. His only fear was that his wife might interrupt him by crying⁠—that she might exclaim⁠—that she might faint.⁠ ⁠…

An hour later she comes into the room with the three children. He makes her sit down beside him, close against his armchair.

“Try to control yourself,” he whispers, but in a tone of command; “and don’t speak a word. We will talk together afterwards.”

And all the time he is speaking, he holds one of her hands in both his.

“Come, my children, sit down. I don’t like to see you standing there as if you were in front of an examiner. I have something very sad to say to you. Bernard has left us and we shall not see him again⁠ ⁠… for some time to come. I must now tell you what I at first concealed from you, because I wanted