And Poissy?
After the child's birth the years slipped swiftly, though not always
smoothly, by. Leon, who easily forgot, had very nearly succeeded in
forgetting that desperate act of his, and the old count's threat of the
future. There were still, however, moments when it flashed upon him,
and brought with it a sudden cloud of depression which he attributed to
physical ailments. His wife, sure he was not ill, laughed at these
fancies, but his mother, perhaps out of opposition, treated them
seriously until they generally ended in his laughing at himself. He
spent a great deal of time out of doors, rising early, and going all
over the estate, which, bit by bit, was being brought together again;
coming in to the eleven o'clock breakfast, and then out again, shooting
or fishing or loitering about with Nathalie. If a new idea, a new
invention, a new arrangement, attracted him, he was possessed by it, and
could think and speak of nothing else. His neighbours smiled at his
enthusiasms, but liked and excused him; those who had blamed him in old
days were vanquished by the sweetness of temper with which he had
accepted his new life, and by the unsuspected strength he had shown in
renouncing the extravagances of Paris.
His mother was almost content Leon was all she had believed him, Poissy
stood in its old position in the neighbourhood, and there was little
Raoul, as dear, or dearer, than his father. As for Nathalie, as much as
possible she contrived to ignore her, and though M. Bourget was a
terrible man, he had the grace seldom to inflict himself upon them.
It was Nathalie herself who was the most changed by the years of her
married life, or who gave that impression, for her character had not
really changed, although it had developed. She had lost, early, a
certain frank open-heartedness; she was reserved--with her mother and
sisters in law extremely reserved. She never battled for her rights,
and the household had almost ceased to remember that she possessed any.
But, in avoiding retorts, she had fallen into a habit of grave silence
which did not belong to her years, and of which Leon sometimes
laughingly complained.
"It doesn't matter when we are alone," he would say, "but with others--I
saw Madame de la Ferraye looking at you this afternoon and expecting you
to take your part in the discussion."
She made a laughing excuse.
"Dear, how should I? It was better not to expose my ignorance."
"You cram that little head of yours with all kinds of learned stuff, and
then talk of ignorance? What makes you read so much?"
"Because I will not have Raoul ashamed of me."
Every now and then--not often, and always suddenly--a gust of passion
seemed to sweep through the mask under which she relentlessly hid her
more spontaneous self. Such a gust had come now. Leon looked at her,
amazed at the tone in which the words were spoken, concentrated will
passionately pushing them forward, as if they carried a standard of
rebellion. She never now complained to him, never invited a suggestion
which should shape her conduct towards his mother and sisters, and
though he was quite shrewd enough, if he had chosen, to perceive the
slights which she had daily to endure, he preferred to shut his eyes,
and tell himself that with him and the child she was so happy as to be
indifferent. Such a passionate outcry as this shook his easy-going
reflections, and annoyed him. But he marched on silently, aware that
she would soon curb her rebel tongue with shame at its weakness.
They were walking towards Poissy; a fine rain had browned the road, and,
falling on a sun-baked soil, sent up a pleasant smell of growing things.
The sky was stormy, a sweet insistence of blue above changing in the
west to pale, mysterious green. Low down lay a horizontal
flame-coloured line of clouds, broken by nearer drifts of dark grey,
tattered and vaporish at the edges and flecked with red. One small
portion, rent from the rest, had drifted lightly across the blue above.
Nathalie, fronting the sunset, with its level light on her face, looked
a very noble woman. The lines had grown a little harder, but not one
was mean or weak. It was a face to which poor sinners would look for
help, and never look in vain. Leon, glancing at it, felt its force and
began to speak, although he had resolved on silence.
"You can't say, I'm sure, that I've ever been ashamed of you."
She turned, and her gravity melted into a lovely smile.
"Ah, but Raoul is going to be much cleverer than you. If you doubt it,
listen to my father. Besides, my friend, I spoke hastily; I did not
really mean that he would ever be ashamed of his mother, but that it
would be useful for him if I could help him in his work. For, wonderful
as it seems, the monkey will have to work one day."
He had quickly forgotten the reproach he had made against her silence,
for he was always more taken up with his own thoughts or actions than
with those of others, and went on:
"They want me to go over to dine with them to-morrow. And sleep."
"The La Ferrayes?"
"Yes; the prefet is due there, and two or three others. Madame de la
Ferraye made a hundred apologies for not asking you. I forget why it
was--no room, I think."
"I hope you accepted, Leon. It is my turn now to scold you, for I don't
think you are so sociable with your neighbours as you might be. Here
you have nothing but women, women! It will do you good to be away from
us for a little; indeed, I often wish you would run up to Paris for a
few days. You must have many friends there."
"None, now. And I hate Paris," said Leon, sharply.
"You puzzle me when you say that," she returned, looking at him with a
smile. "And as for friends, at any rate there must be that old Monsieur
de Cadanet, whose name your mother suggested as Raoul's second. Would
it not please him if you were to pay him a visit!"
"Hardly."
"Well, go to the La Ferrayes, then, and Raoul and I, we will do
something to amuse ourselves, perhaps drive to Tours and see my father.
Happily, those two love each other."
To say that M. Bourget loved his grandson was not enough--he adored
him. From the first moment when he had gazed, awe-struck, at a small
red contorted face, lying in the capacious arms of the nurse, his joy,
his pride, his self-satisfaction had been almost beyond control. If his
acquaintances had avoided him before, they fled from him now. To know
that this true, actual Beaudrillart--not Beaudrillart by grace of
marriage, but by birth and actual right, was also his--Bourget's--
grandson, proved sufficient to turn his head, and lead him into
extravagant follies. He looked at his daughter with reverence; was she
not the mother of this phoenix, this wonder? She was obliged to
interfere to prevent him--he, M. Bourget, who called himself to account
for every penny he spent--from making perpetual gifts to the nurse, and
since she objected to the practice, he indulged himself by presenting
his gifts by stealth, so delightful was it to him to sit down before his
ledger and make an entry of moneys expended "on behalf of my grandson,
the Baron Raoul de Beaudrillart." As for the photograph of Poissy,
words cannot describe the look with which he regarded it. Planted
squarely on the pavement, his coarse broad hands clasped behind him, his
legs a little apart, his solid head advanced as far as a short neck
would allow, he would stand in rapt contemplation, knowing already every
line of the windows, every fret of the tracery, but devouring them with
his eyes, and utterly indifferent to the smiles and nudges of the
passers-by. This worship satisfied him as well as a visit to the actual
Poissy. Nathalie, in spite of objections raised at the chateau against
the baby being so constantly taken to the town, was absolutely firm in
driving him at least once a week to see his grandfather. Once persuaded
of the right of an action, she was tenacious of purpose, and weekly the
grey ponies rattled merrily along the narrow street to M. Bourget's
door. This quite contented him, and though, by Leon's desire, she now
and then asked her father whether he would not drive back with her, she
was always relieved when he declined. The little slights or sharp
speeches to which he was subject there stung her almost beyond
endurance, even when he appeared absolutely impervious. Nothing that
could be said to herself hurt like these vicarious stings.
Oddly enough, he had grown either more indifferent or less suspicious of
neglect on her behalf since the birth of the boy. Before this he had
evidently resented the attitude of Mme. de Beaudrillart and her
daughters, and at intervals shot out a question at Nathalie which she
found it difficult to parry. But now, either he believed her position
to be assured, or had concentrated his thoughts upon his grandson, for
he asked nothing awkward, and seemed profoundly careless of what was
done at Poissy by its older inhabitants. They were, after all, only
women, and of little importance compared to Nathalie's child. It would
have surprised them amazingly if they had realised the small account in
which their bete noir held them.
The pitched battle of the portrait had, through Leon's skilful
management, ended in a compromise. He became extremely full of the
idea, and did not rest until the painter on whom he had fixed his mind
came down to Poissy. M. Bourget had his way so far, though it
displeased him that his daughter absolutely refused to be painted as he
would have had her, resplendent in white satin. She insisted upon an
every-day dress, the dress in which she generally walked with Leon, and
she had her way, with the result that nothing could have been more
charming. Compromise also effected her entrance into the gallery, for,
although Mme. de Beaudrillart was as stubborn as M. Bourget, Leon
suggested that, in place of hanging, the portrait might lean against the
wall, a position less assured, and--his mother satisfied herself--more
humble.
But, strangely enough, the boy's birth, which had reconciled his
grandfather to anything anomalous in his daughter's position, produced a
contrary effect upon Nathalie. Before the child arrived she had
accepted the contemptuous treatment she received with philosophy, almost
with indifference; Leon's love appeared sufficient to satisfy her, and
she treated disagreeables lightly, as something of which she had already
counted the cost. Now there was a change. The trivial galled. Mme. de
Beaudrillart was jealous of any influence which the young wife might
have upon her son, and hitherto she had drawn aside with a smile, and
been content to efface herself; but she no longer did this with ease.
She resented the necessity. It seemed that she had fallen into the
position of a mere plaything; that her husband liked her to walk with
him, to laugh with him; that he found her pleasant to look at; but that
when a cloud came between him and the sun--such a cloud as flung a
shadow on his face now and then without visible reason--it was to his
mother that he turned. His wife was strong enough to face facts and to
meet them without repining or fretfulness. She never complained to her
husband or her father. But she suffered.
And she had lost illusions about Leon. She saw that he was weak, that
his very sweetness of temper was often mere selfishness, and clinging to
what was pleasant. She loved him as passionately as ever, but she
wanted to keep her boy from the same faults, and it did not seem as if
she would succeed. For she was sure that if ever man had been injured
by his bringing up, Leon was that man, and here were all the same
influences, and more, at work. Mme. de Beaudrillart spoiled her
grandchild outrageously. His father laughed at his naughtiness, and
even M. Bourget could see in them nothing but an added charm. All the
thwarting, all the reasoning, was left to the mother, forced often into
strictness by the indulgence of others. The boy had a fine nature,
brave and true; but in him, too, the Beaudrillart will was already
asserting itself, and Nathalie, looking at him, trembled and prayed.
On the morning after the young baron's departure for the La Ferrayes,
there was a not infrequent scene in the breakfast-room. Raoul had been
rude to his aunt Felicie, and his mother required him to say he was
sorry. Mme. de Beaudrillart at once remonstrated.
"It is absurd to expect repentance from a baby. You weaken your
authority by making sins out of such trifling matters. Come here,
Raoul, and I will give you some melon."
"No," said Nathalie, with a firm grasp of the delinquent, "you must
pardon me, madame, but Raoul knows that he must do what I have told
him."
"Ne veux pas," said the small rebel, standing stiff and resolute.
"Pray don't let us have a scene," said Felicie, nervously. "I assure
you, Nathalie, that I am not in the least vexed with him."
"But I am," said her sister-in-law, trying to smile. "Raoul, your aunt
Felicie is very kind; will you go and kiss her, and say you are sorry!"
He hesitated, made a step towards her, and caught sight of his
grandmother, smiling and signing to him with her head to come for the
melon. With a laugh of gleeful mischief he broke from his mother,
rushed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, cried out again, "Ne veux pas," and
buried his round black head in her lap.
"Let him alone, Nathalie," said his grandmother, delightedly. "He has
found sanctuary."
From her! With a pang at her heart, Mme. Leon showed no trace of
ill-temper. She followed, however, and lifted him, now kicking and
crimson, in her strong young arms. Mme. de Beaudrillart looked much
displeased.
"A storm about absolutely nothing!" she exclaimed. "The child would
have been perfectly good if he had been let alone."
"When he is good, he shall come back," said his mother, calmly, carrying
him out of the room.
"Ridiculous!" cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, as they vanished.
"It is just the way to spoil his temper," Claire remarked, adding
seltzer-water to her white wine. "But Nathalie delights in a scene, and
in insisting upon her own authority."
"Poor darling! And he will think I was the cause of it all," cried
Felicie. "I must find something for him, to make up."
"A medal," suggested Claire. "I am sure you have a drawer full."
"Not for playthings," Felicie said, reproachfully. "If he might wear
one always, now, it would make me really happy; but Nathalie is so
unsympathetic in those matters that I could not trust to her seeing that
it was firmly secured. And as likely as not that dreadful Monsieur
Bourget might say something irreverent if he discovered that it hung
round the dear child's neck."
"He will never believe that you are not deaf," her sister remarked, with
a laugh.
"Thank Heaven, he does not come here often," acknowledged Mme. de
Beaudrillart. "I must say, I feel grateful to him for his forbearance.
By-the-way, I have received a letter this morning, and I see there is
another for Leon, announcing the death of old Monsieur de Cadanet."
"Really? A cousin, is he not?"
"A distant cousin, and Leon once was under a certain obligation to him."
"Ah," said Claire, "at that time when there was such a panic as to
Leon's affairs? I begin to understand. So it was Monsieur de Cadanet
who came to the rescue? Felicie, will you kindly pass the fruit?"
"He had good reason for doing so," returned her mother. "You know, or
perhaps you don't know, that he was under great obligations to your
father, so that he could not very well have refused. And I do not fancy
that he behaved very graciously, for Leon does not speak of him with
warmth. However--he did his duty, and he is dead."
Felicie bent her head, and murmured a little prayer for the repose of
the soul of M. de Cadanet. When she had finished, Claire said, as she
peeled a pear:
"His death is not likely to make much difference to us--ah, here is
Raoul! Come to me, treasure!"
"One moment," interposed Nathalie, firmly. She led the little boy to
Felicie. "Now, dear Raoul."
"Ne veux pas," whispered Claire in his ear, with a laugh. He looked at
her, and glanced at his mother.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not _very_ sorry, Aunt Felie." Then he threw his
arms round Nathalie's neck. "Will that do? Shall we go to Tours, and
may I have the reins?"
Mme. de Beaudrillart said, hastily:
"Not Tours again, I hope. It really is not at all good for the child to
pass so much of his time in the close streets of a town. Pray, for once
leave him with us. I know, too, that they have fever there."
"His grandfather expects to see him every week," replied Nathalie, in a
quiet tone.