He darted towards the Bohemian, and I thought for a moment he was going to hit him. But at Armand’s approach, the man made a theatrical and ironical flourish with his hat and disappeared under the archway. At that moment the door into the street opened to let in the pastor. He was dressed in a frock coat, chimney-pot hat and black gloves, like a person on his way back from a christening or a wedding. The ex-tutor and he exchanged a ceremonious bow.
Rachel and Armand came towards me; when Vedel joined them:
“It’s all arranged,” said Rachel to her father.
He kissed her on the forehead.
“Didn’t I tell you so, my child? God never abandons those who put their trust in Him.”
Then, holding out his hand to me:
“Going already? … Well, we shall see you again one of these days, shan’t we?”
III
Edouard’s Journal: Third Visit to La Pérouse
Sept. 29th.—Visit to La Pérouse. The maid hesitated before letting me in. “Monsieur won’t see anyone.” I insisted so much that at last she showed me into the drawing-room. The shutters were shut; in the semi-obscurity I could hardly make out my old master, as he sat huddled up in a straight-backed armchair. He did not rise. He held out a limp hand, without looking at me, and let it fall again as soon as I had pressed it. I sat down beside him, so that I could see him only in profile. His features were hard and unbending. By moments his lips moved, but he said nothing. I actually doubted whether he recognized me. The clock struck four; then, as though he too were moved by clockwork, he slowly turned his head.
“Why,” he asked, and his voice was solemn and loud, but as toneless as though it came from beyond the grave, “why did they let you in? I told the maid to say if anyone came, that Monsieur de La Pérouse was dead.”
I was greatly distressed, not so much by these absurd words, as by their tone—a declamatory tone, unspeakably affected, to which I was unaccustomed in my old master—so natural with me, as a rule—so confiding.
“The girl didn’t want to tell a falsehood,” I said at last. “Don’t scold her for having let me in. I am happy to see you.”
He repeated stolidly: “Monsieur de La Pérouse is dead,” and then plunged back into silence. I had a moment’s ill temper and got up, meaning to leave, and put off till another day the task of finding a clue to this melancholy piece of acting. But at that moment the maid came back; she was carrying a cup of smoking chocolate:
“Make a little effort, sir; you haven’t tasted anything all day.”
La Pérouse made an impatient gesture, like an actor whose effect has been spoilt by a clumsy super.
“Later. When the gentleman has gone.”
But the maid had no sooner shut the door, when:
“Be kind, my dear friend. Get me a glass of water—plain water. I’m dying of thirst.”
I found a water bottle and a glass in the dining-room. He filled the glass, emptied it at a draught and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his old alpaca coat.
“Are you feverish?” I asked.
The words brought him back to the remembrance of the part he was playing.
“Monsieur de La Pérouse is not feverish. He is not anything. On Wednesday evening Monsieur de La Pérouse ceased to live.” I wondered whether it would not be best to humour him.
“Wasn’t Wednesday the very day little Boris came to see you?”
He turned his head towards me; a smile, the ghost of the one he used to have at Boris’s name, lighted up his features, and at last consenting to abandon his role:
“My friend,” he said, “I can at any rate talk to you about it. That Wednesday was the last day I had left.” Then he went on in a lower voice: “The very last day, in fact, which I had allowed myself before … putting an end to everything.”
It was with extreme pain that I heard La Pérouse revert to this sinister topic. I realized that I had never taken seriously what he had said about it before, for I had allowed it to slip from my memory; and now I reproached myself. Now I remembered everything clearly, but I was astonished, for he had at first mentioned a more distant date, and as I reminded him of this, he confessed, in a voice that had become natural again, and even a little ironical, that he had deceived me as to the date, in the fear that I should try and prevent him, or hasten my return from abroad; but that he had gone on his knees several nights running to pray God to allow him to see Boris before dying.
“And I had even agreed with Him,” added he, “that if needs were, I should delay my departure for a few days … because of the assurance you had given me that you would bring him back with you, do you remember?”
I had taken his hand; it was icy and I chafed it between mine. He continued in a monotonous voice:
“Then when I saw that you weren’t going to wait till the end of the holidays before coming back, and that I should be able to see the boy without putting off my departure, I thought … it seemed to me that God had heard my prayer. I thought that He approved me. Yes, I thought that. I didn’t understand at first that He was laughing at me, as usual.”
He took his hand from between mine and went on in a more animated voice:
“So it was on
