The Rake by William F. Buckley Read Free Book Online

betrayal. Or about any politics at all. His interest was in philology. He was engaged, regularly, in spirited academic exercises having to do with the historical development of the French language. He smiled with satisfaction, recalling the paper in which he had taken on the work of Emile Abélard. He remembered with mortification that he had gone so far as to accuse Professor Berthier of being disloyal to the school of Jean Larousse—a silly point in a learned dispute having to do with pronunciation. On the other hand, “I won that one,” he mused, looking up at the shelf where the record of the twenty-year exchange was kept. But then he put his own academic concerns to one side. There were things to do before Henrietta arrived. Not least was integrating her into theuniversity in work that would advance her in the field of library science.
    Henrietta was her sparkling self, lively, amiable, undemanding. She told her father—aware that Nadine, in the kitchen, could hear everything she said—that she was deeply in love with her husband, “Stephen,” but that she was reconciled to the exclusive demands the United States Army would put on him for some time into the future. They had agreed that they would not attempt to communicate by telephone. They would simply write.
    The letters from the United States came in regularly, postmarked from Grand Forks, near which, Henrietta told her father, Private Stephen Durban was stationed pending his transfer to Hawaii. Reuben and Henri had agreed that it would be safer to proceed using an alias, guarding against stray references to Reuben Castle, a name prominent in the Grand Forks area. “Stephen Durban, à ton service,” Reuben had said to her at the airport, with a courtly bow in continental fashion, the name pronounced “Duhrbahn” in high French accent.
    There was nothing remotely like suspicion or incredulity in the Leborcier household. Raymond’s attention, once he had seen to it that his daughter was well cared for and was doing satisfactory work at the university, returned to philology.
    Henri thought in an early letter to suggest to Reuben on a diplomatic initiative. “Reuben, why don’t you make it a point in one letter, in a few weeks, to say something I can read out at the dinner table, as though written during training for combat duty in Saigon? You might say something like this: ‘You’ve told methat Nadine’s husband perished in that terrible part of the world trying to defend the honor of France. Well, I honor him for his effort.’ Something like that. And listen, darling, if you want to write that passage in French , it will mean all the more to her. And to me. You were making such fine progress. Speaking of which, is Rico now satisfied with your work for the Student ? If he is making trouble, tell me and I will have him drafted immediately. Did you know that Calvin Stokes is not only head librarian at UND, but also chairman of the draft board ? So if anybody is mean to you, I’ll have him sent to Vietnam.”
    By April the intervals between Reuben’s letters had increased. His habit had been to write on Mondays and Thursdays—“I do that right after the editorial meeting. I assign myself a letter to you as first priority. Maybe I should publish these letters! Written in—Savez-vous planter les choux?”
    She had no letter from him the first week in April, and his letter the second week was oddly strained, the news perfunctory. She heard nothing the third week. She thought to put in a phone call to the Dakota Student office—there was no phone in Reuben’s dormitory room—but decided against it. She shook her head, wondering what he might be up to. Might he have returned to Zap to welcome the spring? She did not phone, instead concentrating her thoughts on her work at the university.
    She took special pleasure first in reading, and finally in fathoming, the