IX
The priest often came in while Noémi was reading aloud to her father-in-law. He called her “my child,” and she offered him a glass of sloe gin, but for some reason he and M. Jêrome no longer indulged in their customary theological discussions, nor did the priest produce his usual diverting series of clerical anecdotes. The Péloueyres wore masks against his scrutiny, and three pairs of expressionless eyes met and baffled his prying gaze. He no longer felt at ease with these people who rarely spoke; everything he said seemed to lead up to a door mysteriously closed, and, stretching his short fat legs towards the fire, he shot rapid searching glances at the silent couple. He spoke with less than his habitual positiveness, seemed much less sure of himself, and it had been a long time since he had told the story, as he loved to do, of his latest argument with a certain Rationalist of his acquaintance in which this phrase was often to be heard: “And I replied crushingly....” M. Jêrome declared that he had never known the priest in such despair since the time when the former Mayor had proposed to have the bells rung for civil burials, and to use the hearse that belonged to the church. The priest wanted Jean to continue his research work in local history; it had been undertaken with avidity, but neglected during the past year. The young man made out that some important documents were inaccessible, but the truth was that he could never carry any work through to a finish. The early pages of his books were crowded with notes, but the rest were not even cut. The perpetual need to walk and think things out at his leisure took him away from his work. One evening after M. Jêrome had retired, the priest brought the subject up again and insisted upon a hearing. Jean declared himself incapable of proceeding without access to some special notes in the National Library; but how was he to go to Paris? “And why couldn’t you go, my dear child?” The priest put this question in a low voice; his fingers played with the fringe of his belt, and his eyes never left the fire. A weak voice murmured: “I don’t want Jean to leave me.” But the priest was firm; it would be a sin not to develop Jean’s talents. He was incapable of holding a class for study, or of organizing any charitable work, and it would not do for him to be idle any longer. The holy man went on developing his argument, and the low sad voice at his elbow murmured again with apparent effort: “If Jean goes to Paris, I will go with him.” But the priest shook his head: Noémi was indispensable to the dear invalid, and in any case the separation need only be a short one: a few weeks, at most a month or two. Noémi was powerless to protest. No further word was spoken, and the priest put on his padded overcoat and his sabots. Jean threw his cloak about his shoulders and preceded his guest with a lantern.
The short days of a rainy December prevented the young people from escaping one another except when Jean went out after woodcock, and on these occasions he had no excuse to remain out after four. Indoors, their two bodies were drawn together in the sitting-room by the lamp and the fire. A gentle rain whispered about the house, and the acuteness of the pain in M. Jêrome’s left shoulder was obvious from the continued complaints it occasioned. Noémi seemed in better spirits; she made daily efforts to dissuade Jean from his idea of a journey to Paris. She had vowed to heaven to do everything in her power to keep him with her. Her pleadings prevented the unfortunate Jean from falling into a permanent state of indecision and, by giving him the idea that she did not want him to go, forced him to make up his mind. He looked up at her with the eyes of a punished dog: “But I must go, Noémi.” And she protected, but if he showed signs of giving in, she never pressed the point, and soon changed the subject. M. Jêrome, though the line from The Two Pigeons, “Absence causes the worst suffering of all,” was seldom out of his mind, experienced a secret joy when he imagined himself living alone with his daughter-in-law. And at every meeting with Jean the priest continued to plague him. What chance had the poor boy against such a conspiracy? He was really pleased with the verdict of banishment; except for a pilgrimage to Lourdes and the honeymoon at Arcachon, he had never left his niche, and to submerge himself in the tumult of Paris would be like foundering in a human ocean more terrifying than the Atlantic. But there were too many minds set upon his plunging into the abyss, and his departure was fixed for the second week in February.
Long before that date Noémi began to occupy herself with his trunk and the clothes that were to be packed in it, and she had partially recovered her appetite before the day arrived. Her cheeks recaptured their colour, and one afternoon from the first floor window Jean watched her making snowballs to throw at Cadette’s grandson. He completely understood this resurrection. The earth was freeing itself from the clutches of winter, and Noémi was freeing herself of him. He was leaving her to blossom again in the spring.
Jean lowered the dirty window of the railway carriage so that he might see the last wave of Noémi’s handkerchief. How gaily it fluttered, this signal of farewell and joy! During the last week she so overwhelmed him with feigned affection that one night, when he thought she responded faintly to his touch, he murmured: “Noémi, suppose I don’t go after all!” Though the room was dark, and though she almost stifled her answering exclamation, he knew that he had terrified her and could not help adding: “Don’t worry. I’ll go.” This was all he said, Noémi knew that she had not deceived him. She turned her face to the wall, and he heard her crying.
Jean watched the familiar pines passing the window, and he recognized a thicket where he had once missed a woodcock. The railway followed the road over which he had so often driven in his cart, and a farm that he knew by name—the tenant was a friend of his—glided past in mist and smoke. It was at the edge of an empty field, and he caught a glimpse of the bread-oven, the stable and the well. Then he changed to another train which carried him across a barren stretch of land unknown to him, and at Langon he saw the last pines; they were like friends who had come with him as far as they could, and were finally obliged to stop and bellow a last blessing with their outspread arms.