rat.’
‘Yes,’ said André in a puzzled voice. ‘But why?’
‘What do you mean, why?’
‘As we were saying the other evening, we certainly have our share of responsibility.’ He hesitated. ‘It was you who put ambition into his mind; left to himself he was comparatively apathetic. And no doubt I built up an antagonism in him.’
‘It’s all Irène’s fault,’ I burst out. ‘If he had not married her, if he had not got into that environment he would never have ratted.’
‘But he did marry her, and he married her partly because he found people of that environment impressive. For a long time now his values have no longer been ours. I can see a great many reasons …’
‘You’re not going to stand up for him.’
‘I’m trying to find an explanation.’
‘No explanation will ever convince me. I shall never see him again. And I don’t want you to see him, either.’
‘Make no mistake about this. I disapprove of him. I disapprove very strongly. But I shall see him again. So will you.’
‘No I shan’t. And if you let me down, after what he said to me on the telephone, I’ll take it more unkindly—I’ll resent it more than I have ever resented anything you’ve done all my life. Don’t talk to me about him any more.’
But we could not talk of anything else, either. We had dinner almost in silence, very quickly, and then each of us took up a book. I felt bitter ill-will against Irene, against André, against the world in general. ‘We certainly have our share of responsibility.’ How trifling it was to look for reasons and excuses. ‘Your senile obstinacy’: he had shouted those words at me. I had been so certain of his love for us, for me: in actual fact I did not amount to anything much—I was nothing to him; just some old object to be filed away among the minor details. All I had to do was to file him away in the same fashion. The whole night through I choked with resentment. The next morning, as soon as André was gone, I went into Philippe’s room, tore up the old letters, flung out the old papers, filled one suitcase with his books, piled his pull-over, pyjamas and everything that was left in the cupboards into another. Looking at the bare shelves I felt my eyes fill with tears. So many moving, overwhelming memories rose up within me. I wrung their necks for them. He had left me, betrayed me, jeered at me, insulted me. I should never forgive him.
Two days went by without our mentioning Philippe. The third morning, as we were looking at our post, I said to André, ‘A letter from Philippe.’
‘I imagine he is saying he’s sorry.’
‘He’s wasting his time. I shan’t read it.’
‘Oh, but have a look at it, though. You know how hard he finds it to make the first step. Give him a chance.’
‘Certainly not.’ I folded the letter, put it into an envelope and wrote Philippe’s address. ‘Please post that for me.’
I had always given in too easily to his charming smiles and his pretty ways. I should not give in this time.
Two days later, early in the afternoon, Irène rang the bell. ‘I’d like to talk to you for five minutes.’
A very simple little dress, bare arms, hair down her back: she looked like a girl, very young, dewy and shy. I had never yet seen her in that particular role. I let her in. She had come to plead for Philippe, of course. The sending back of his letter had grieved him dreadfully. He was sorry for what he had said to me on the telephone; but he did not mean a word of it; but I knew his nature—he lost his temper very quickly and then he would say anything at all, but it was really only so much hot air. He absolutely had to have it out with me.
‘Why didn’t he come himself?’
‘He was afraid you would slam the door on him.’
‘And that’s just what I should have done. I don’t want to see him again. Full stop. The end.’
She persisted. He could not bear my bong cross with him: he had never imagined I should take things so much to heart.
‘In that case he must have turned into a half-wit: he can go to hell.’
‘But you don’t realize. Papa has worked a miracle for him: a post like this, at his age, is something absolutely extraordinary. You can’t ask him to sacrifice his future for you.’
‘He had a future, a dean one, true to his own ideas.’
‘I beg your pardon—true to your ideas. He has developed.’
‘He will go on developing: it’s a tune we all know. He will make his opinions chime with his interests. For the moment he is up to his middle in bad faith—his only idea is to succeed. He is betraying himself and he knows it; that is what is so tenth-rate,’ I said passionately.
Irène gave me a dirty look. ‘I imagine your own life has always been perfect, and so that allows you to judge everybody else from a great height.’
I stiffened. ‘I have always tried to be honest. I wanted Philippe to be the same. I am sorry that you should have turned him from that course.’
She burst out laughing. ‘Anyone would think he had become a burglar, or a coiner.’
‘For a man of his convictions, I do not consider his an honourable choice.’
Irène stood up. ‘But after all it is strange, this high moral stand of yours,’ she said slowly. ‘His father is more committed, politically, than you; and he has not broken with Philippe. Whereas you …’
I interrupted her. ‘He has not broken … You mean they’ve seen one another?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied quickly. ‘I know he never spoke of breaking when Philippe told him about his decision.’
‘That was before the phone call. What about since?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know who Philippe sees and who he doesn’t?’
Looking stubborn she said, ‘No.’
‘All right. It doesn’t matter,’ I said.
I saw her as far as the door. I turned our last exchanges over in my mind. Had she cut herself short on purpose—a cunning stroke—or was it a blunder? At all events my mind was made up. Almost made up. Not quite enough for it to find an outlet in rage. Just enough for me to be choked with distress and anxiety.
As soon as André came in I went for him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had seen Philippe again?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Irène. She came to ask me why I didn’t see him, since you did.’
‘I warned you I should see him again.’
‘I warned you that I should resent it most bitterly. It was you who persuaded him to write to me.’
‘No: not really.’
‘It certainly was. Oh, you had fun with me, all right: “You know how hard it is for him to make the first step.” And it was you who had made it! Secretly.’
‘With regard to you, he did make the first step.’
‘Urged on by you. You plotted together behind my back. You treated me like a child—an invalid. You had no right to do so.’
Suddenly there was red smoke in my brain, a red mist in front of my eyes, something red shouting out in my throat. I am used to my rages against Philippe; I know myself when I am in one of them. But when it happens (and it is rare, very rare) that I grow furious with André, it is a hurricane that carries me away thousands of miles from him and from myself, into a desert that is both scorching and freezing cold.
‘You have