“I had rather Olivier saw as little as possible of that young fellow. I have heard the most deplorable things about him—not that I’m much astonished at that. We must admit that there’s no grounds for expecting any good from a boy who has been born in such unfortunate conditions. I don’t mean to say that a natural child mayn’t have great qualities—and even virtues; but the fruit of lawlessness and insubordination must necessarily be tainted with the germs of anarchy. Yes, my dear friend, what was bound to happen has happened. Young Bernard has suddenly left the shelter of the family which he ought never to have entered. He has gone ‘to live his life,’ as Emile Augier says; live Heaven knows how or where. Poor Profitendieu, when he told me about this extravagant behaviour, seemed exceedingly upset about it. I made him understand that he ought not to take it so much to heart. In reality the boy’s departure puts everything to rights again.”
I protested that I knew Bernard well enough to vouch for his being a charming, well-behaved boy. (Needless to say I took good care not to mention the affair of the suitcase.) But Molinier only went on all the more vigorously.
“So! So! I see I must tell you more.”
Then, leaning forward and speaking in a whisper:
“My colleague Profitendieu has recently had to investigate an exceedingly shady and disagreeable affair, both on its own account and because of the scandalous consequences it may entail. It’s a preposterous story and one would be only too glad if one could disbelieve it. … Imagine, my dear fellow, a regular concern of organized prostitution, in fact of a … no, I don’t want to use bad words; let’s say a teashop, with this particularly scandalous feature, that its habitués are mostly, almost exclusively, very young schoolboys. I tell you it’s incredible. The children certainly don’t realize the gravity of their acts, for they hardly attempt to conceal themselves. It takes place when they come out of school. They take tea, they talk, they amuse themselves with the ladies; and the play is carried further in the rooms which adjoin the tea rooms. Of course not everyone is allowed in. One has to be introduced, initiated. Who stands the expense of these orgies? Who pays the rent? It wouldn’t have been very difficult to find out; but the investigations had to be conducted with extreme prudence, for fear of learning too much, of being carried further than one meant, of being forced to prosecute and compromise the respectable families whose children are suspected of being the principal clients of the affair. I did what I could therefore to moderate Profitendieu’s zeal. He charged into the business like a bull, without suspecting that with the first stroke of his horns … (oh! I’m sorry; I didn’t say it on purpose; ha! ha! ha! how funny! It came out quite unintentionally) … he ran the risk of sticking his own son. Fortunately the holidays broke everything up. The schoolboys were scattered and I hope the whole business will peter out, be hushed up after a warning or so and a few discreet penalties.”
“Are you quite sure Bernard Profitendieu was mixed up in it?”
“Not absolutely, but. …”
“What makes you think so?”
“First, the fact that he is a natural child. You don’t suppose that a boy of his age runs away from home without having touched the lowest depths? … And then I have an idea that Profitendieu was seized with some suspicions, for his zeal suddenly cooled down; more than that, he seemed to be backing out, and the last time I asked him how the affair was going on he seemed embarrassed: ‘I think, after all that nothing will come of it,’ he said and hastily changed the subject. Poor Profitendieu! I must say he doesn’t deserve it. He’s an honest man, and what’s rarer perhaps, a good fellow. By the way, his daughter has just married exceedingly well. I wasn’t able to go to the wedding because I was in Holland, but Pauline and George came back on purpose. Did I tell you that before? It’s time I went and had my nap. … What! really? You want to pay it all? No, no! You mustn’t. Bachelors—old friends—go shares. … No use? Well! well! Goodbye! Don’t forget that Pauline is coming back in two days. Come and see us. And don’t call me Molinier. Won’t you say Oscar? … I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time.”
This evening a note from Rachel, Laura’s sister:
“I have something very serious to say to you. Could you, without inconvenience, look in at the school tomorrow afternoon? It would be doing me a great service.”
If she had wanted to speak about Laura, she wouldn’t have waited so long. This is the first time she has written to me.
II
Edouard’s Journal: At the Vedels’
Sept. 28th.—I found Rachel standing at the door of the big classroom on the ground floor. Two servants were washing the boards. She herself had a servant’s apron on and was holding a duster in her hand.
“I knew I could count on you,” she said, holding out her hand with a look on her face of tender, resigned sadness, and yet a look that was smiling too, and more touching than beauty itself. “If you aren’t in too great a hurry, the best thing would be for you first to go up and pay grandfather a little visit, and then Mamma. If they heard you had been here without seeing them, they would be hurt. But keep a little time for me; I simply must speak to you. You will find me here; you see, I am superintending the maids’ work.”
Out of a kind of modesty, she never says “my work.” Rachel has effaced herself all her life and nothing could be more discreet, more retiring than her virtue. Abnegation is so natural to her, that
