It was two days after this that Mme. Leon came in from the garden by
the outer stone staircase which led to her own room. Although it was
only autumn, a chilly wind was blowing, and there was a threat of rain
in the air. At the foot of the staircase she met Felicie, coming so
much more quickly than usual round a corner that she was breathless.
"Ah, Nathalie," she cried, with a sudden access of cordiality, "at last!
I have been searching everywhere for you."
"They sent up in a hurry because old Antoine has cut his hand. You
wanted me?"
"Yes, indeed. I want you to talk to Leon, and to make him hear reason.
Such an opportunity has not offered itself for years, and I am terribly
anxious lest--unless we can persuade him that it is not only right and
proper, but of the very greatest importance--he should suffer it to
slip. If Madame Lemballe steps in before us--and I know she talks of
it--it will be disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful! I hope that you
will go to him at once, and, above all, impress upon him that it is not
a matter to laugh about, and that he must take the precaution of acting
without hesitation. Claire has said something to him, but not enough."
Such an appeal did not altogether surprise Nathalie, for when Felicie
could not reach her brother by means of her mother or sister, she turned
to his wife. And she guessed that the excitement in her manner was
connected with some project for the parish, or perhaps a new biretta for
the cure. She asked, smiling:
"What is it?"
"Why, of course, that he should come here; it is quite astonishing that
Leon should not see the necessity of it for himself!" continued Felicie,
too eager to offer explanation. "Every one in the neighbourhood knows
that Poissy is the proper place, and if an invitation is not sent, no
one will believe it possible that we can have shown such neglect; they
will only suppose that for some reason or other we were not thought
worthy of the honour. Figure to yourself whether such an idea will be
agreeable for us! And with the boy and all, and the importance to him,
I should certainly have expected you to be the first to urge Leon to
take a serious view of the matter."
"But you have not told me what the matter is!"
Felicie stared.
"Do you mean to say you don't know!"
"I have not even an idea."
"Astonishing! Why didn't you ask! I should have told you the first
thing, if I had not gathered from your manner that you knew all about it
already. I thought, of course, that every one had heard; only
sometimes--excuse me, Nathalie--you do not seem to take in what we all
talk about. Exactly what I want you to do is to see that Leon sends an
invitation, and it would be better for me to write it, because then I
should take care that it was worded properly. You understand!"
"I understand that you wish to write an invitation in Leon's name; but
to whom, to whom! Is it, for example, to the President of the
republic?"
Felicie exclaimed, indignantly:
"The President! As if I should ever consent to Leon's inviting him! We
have had a queen at Poissy--"
"Not a very respectable one, was she!" inquired Nathalie, wickedly.
"Nathalie! I believe in your heart you are a radical. It all comes
from your reading those dreadful books. And I am sure you will just
speak to Leon as if it were a matter of no consequence, instead of
pointing out to him seriously how much depends on it."
She was almost crying, and Mme. Leon hastened to reassure her.
"Well, then," she said, only half mollified, "there is to be a Home
opened in about six weeks' time at Douay, and our bishop has promised to
attend. They will gather from all parts. It will be a magnificent
function, and beyond a doubt his Grandeur should be invited to come here
for it."
"Ah," said Nathalie, thoughtfully, "he is a good man, is he not?"
"A good man!" Felicie repeated, in amazement; "what extraordinary
questions you ask! The very fact that he is monseigneur might tell you
so much, I should think!"
"But it does not," said Mme. Leon, in a quiet voice.
"My father did not like the Bishop of N, or the Bishop of X. But this
one, our bishop, he said, had always tried to do his duty. I hope Leon
may invite him. I should think he ought. Shall I go now and ask him?"
Dearly would Felicie have loved to have expatiated upon the sin of
venturing to criticise a bishop, even perhaps of praising him in such
measured terms, but her burning desire at the present moment was to
insure an invitation being sent in time, and to obtain this she choked
down her resentment.
"If you will be so good," she said, stiffly, and Nathalie, glad of an
opportunity of pleasing her sister-in-law, ran lightly up the stone
staircase to the balcony which clung to an angle of the house. She
pushed open the window, meaning to go in search of her husband, but to
her surprise saw him standing in the room with his back towards her, his
head bent, and his hand on the table. He did not even turn round as she
came in, and she rallied him upon his preoccupation.
"Come back from your thoughts, for I am the bearer of a very important
request from Felicie."
He turned, with an attempt at a laugh, but the laugh was so forced that
it frightened her.
"Leon! What is it? Has anything happened Raoul?"
"Happened! Foolish child, what should happen? Raoul is with his
grandmother. I came here because--because it was the shortest way to
the terrace, and then--well, then, I imagine I fell into a dream."
She was standing in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, her
steadfast eyes fastened upon his face. She was no longer frightened,
but she was uneasy, though she smiled.
"No, my friend. You came here because it was the shortest way to your
wife, and because you have something on your mind which you desire to
share with her."
A change swept over his face, and for an instant, written there, she saw
misery, longing, and hunted fear. The next moment they had vanished,
and he answered, with his usual lightness:
"Now it is you who dream. Do you not know that I avoid bringing worries
to you, who represent my sunshine?"
"If there is any use in sunshine it is to disperse clouds," she
answered, gravely. He looked down, and said, impatiently:
"It is nothing. Merely an impertinent letter which arrived this
morning, and annoyed me a good deal; but I have talked it over with my
mother, and have written the necessary answer. So now, little fidget,
you know everything."
She hesitated before she answered.
"Do you mean that the annoyance is at an end?"
"How can I tell? I hope so--certainly I hope so," he said, still
hurriedly.
She dropped her hands and turned away, then came back with a heightened
colour in her cheeks.
"Leon, I do not think I can bear it any longer."
"Bear it? Bear what?" There was genuine amazement in his tone.
"Being shut out of so much of your life. Oh, you are good to me, I am
not denying that; there is nothing I asked for which I believe you would
not try to give me, except this--the one thing for which I hunger. Do
you not understand that I am not a child? I am your wife, the mother of
your son. You tell me that you love me, yet only treat me as a
plaything; when sorrow or anxiety comes you turn to your mother, and I--
I, who should be the nearest and the dearest, am not so much as allowed
to know what is troubling you. Dear, this should not be. Do you know
that when you do this, out of your love--oh yes, out of your love, and
wish to spare me--you are putting me to cruel dishonour? Are we not man
and wife--one? Your sorrow is my sorrow, your lot is my lot; if there
is anything you must suffer, I have the right to claim to suffer with
you. Leon, up to this time I have been but half your wife, and what I
say is true. I cannot bear it any longer. I claim my right."
She stood before him, her earnest eyes fixed upon his face, and her
voice trembling a little as she spoke. He tried to look at her, but his
eyes fell before the frank honesty which he found in hers, and he turned
pale. When he spoke, his voice even sounded slightly sullen.
"Nathalie--I give you my word--you don't know what you are talking
about."
"I know what I am asking for. Let me see the letter which has vexed
you."
"Oh, woman, woman! And after having always assured my mother that you
were free from the vice of curiosity!" he said, trying to recover his
lightness.
"This is not curiosity," she replied, quietly.
He broke away, and came back.
"See, here, Nathalie, be reasonable! Remember that all these years we
have been very happy--"
And then she interrupted him with her hand raised, with a strange,
almost fierce, ring in her voice which he had never heard before.
"I have not."
He stared at her blankly.
"You have not! Great heavens, what are you saying?"
"I am saying the truth at last--the truth which you have never consented
to hear!" she cried, passionately. "Has it been happiness to live here,
do you suppose, looked down upon and scorned by your mother and sisters?
Because I have held my tongue that you might not have your life marred,
too, because I have gone my way silently, do you believe, do you know me
so little as to believe, that I have not felt! What sort of position do
I hold in this house, this great chateau of Poissy, of which my father
thinks so much! They treat me as an inferior, you as if I were a
child." Her voice changed, trembled again. "I could have borne it
all--yes, all, if it had not been for _that_; but that--that has been
almost insupportable. To have no part in your graver life; to be left,
when anything fretting came to you, for your mother! I have tried to be
just, I have indeed! I think of myself and Raoul. I do not begrudge
her her rights, nor wish to shut her out from sharing whatever comes to
you; but I--I, too, ought to be admitted, and until you take me as God
meant you to take me, your wife for sorrow as well as for joy, your
wife, and not only your playfellow, do not talk of me as happy, nor
imagine that you can make me so."
Poor Nathalie! It was the outpouring of her heart. The words rushed
swiftly with a force which told how long they had been held back, yet
were quite free from any sting of bitterness. There lay, indeed, in the
appeal a depth of sad tenderness, to which Leon's affectionate temper
could not be insensible. His easy, shallow nature was as much moved as
was possible, and he felt remorse, although he shrank from frank
explanation of the reasons which had stood in the way of admitting her
to his confidence, for they did not belong to a wish to spare his wife,
but to a desire to remain in the position where she had placed him. He
had no inclination to step down from his throne. He kissed her, and
said, uneasily:
"I believe you are right. Well, where shall I begin! How far am I to
go back!"
She made a sweeping movement with her hands. "The past is past. Begin
to-day. The letter. I can see that you are really troubled about it,
though you only called it impertinent."
"Well, it is true that it is more--it is threatening."
"Threatening!" slipping her hand into his arm.
"There is a certain Charles Lemaire, a very disagreeable fellow, whom I
detest. Have I ever spoken of him!"
"Never."
"It appears that he has inherited a good deal of Monsieur de Cadanet's
wealth, to which, as far as I am concerned, he is very welcome, if
only--However, the letter is from him."
She was so anxious to understand, to avoid annoying him by questions,
and, as it were, to take advantage of the confidence for which she had
pleaded, that, breathing quickly, she only nodded in answer. But she
kept her eyes fixed on his face, and he looked away.
"I suppose his head is turned by his good-fortune, or he has got bold of
some mare's-nest or other, for he declares that a letter which was going
to him from the old count--years ago--somehow miscarried, and--and he
does me the honour to accuse me of having made away with it. Pleasant,
isn't it!"
Her face changed. Its lines unstiffened, and she laughed gayly.
"And this has been troubling you? Oh, Leon!" Something in her absolute
faith affected M. de Beaudrillart strangely. His voice shook as he
answered:
"In spite of the hard things you have been saying, you would not then
credit it of your poor Leon?"
"Take care, monsieur! It shows me that my hard things are well
justified, for if you had told me at once, I should have made you see
the absurdity of suffering yourself to be annoyed by such an
insignificant matter. This Monsieur Charles Lemaire--has he, then,
taken leave of his senses?"
"He hates me."
"Well, he must be at his wits' end for a way of venting his spite. My
friend, you are not seriously vexed? I can only laugh. Pray, does he
inform you what was in this fabulous letter?"
Leon hesitated.
"A large cheque."
"Better and better!" she cried, still laughing. "Robber! Ought I not
to be terribly alarmed? How little I have known of your true character!
Seriously, Leon, how have you answered this impertinent? Now that you
have made me happy by admitting me to your confidence, I am never going
to be shut out again. You will find that I must know all."
His fingers drummed on the table with an uneasiness which in her new
contentment she did not realise.
"You don't show much sympathy with my annoyance."
"Oh!" she cried, suddenly grave. "But, dear Leon, no one who knew you
could treat it as anything but a silly joke. You don't really expect us
to take it seriously!"
Silent at first, he said at last:
"It was not intended for a joke, and I think any man who had such an
accusation sprung upon him would naturally be a good deal disgusted."
"Oh yes," she said, readily, "disgusted at the folly. I can quite
understand your anger at its insolence, but you can't really fret
yourself over what is so obviously absurd."
He looked at her, and his face lightened. "You are right, you are
right, cherie. I need not worry myself over a foolish piece of spite
which no one in their senses would believe."
"Now you are reasonable," cried his wife, gayly.
"And you," he retorted, putting his arm round her, and drawing her to
the window--"you are yourself again? What did all that talk mean about
your not being happy? I assure you I did not know you, you looked so
fierce!"
"It meant the truth," she acknowledged, in a low voice, "but it is going
to be different, for from this day I am to share your troubles, and that
is all I want I bore it at first, because--well, because I felt you did
not know me very well; you might have loved me, yet thought I was
foolish and untrustworthy. But, by-and-by, as years rolled on, and you
treated me in the same manner, I became miserable, for I thought, `If he
does not know now, perhaps he will never know,' and it was a dreadful
thing for me to reflect that you did not trust me. I felt it was very
hard, and more so because it was so different with me. I trusted you
entirely--" He made a sudden start from her side. "Oh, my God!" he
exclaimed, sharply.
"What is it?" she said, distressed. "Do you dislike my telling you all
this? But I want you to understand what made me so unhappy, and I
assure you it was only the absence of confidence. Now all is going to
be so different that I feel as if I should never be unhappy again. As
for your sisters--oh, and that reminds me that I came the bearer of a
very important message from Felicie." She made a solemn face.
"Does she want money? Let her have it," said Leon, very quickly. "I
have never begrudged money for the Church or the poor, have I?"
"Never," returned his wife with surprise. "But this is an invitation to
be given. The bishop is coming to open the new Home at Douay, and
Felicie longs that you should ask him here. I think she is right, don't
you?"
"Yes, yes, certainly ask him." He spoke with the same almost feverish
haste. "When is it? I will write."
"Make Felicie happy by letting her write in your name. She is
dreadfully afraid that you may omit some formality." She had expected
more difficulty, for the young baron was averse to giving ceremonious
invitations. The presence of strangers bored him, and he had sometimes
almost vexed his mother by his dislike to exercising the hospitality
which she considered due to his position. But it was quite true that he
never refused and seldom laughed at Felicie's appeals for money,
although Nathalie fancied they must often have seemed to him, as to her,
to be rather fanciful than necessary. Now he was so desirous to carry
out his sister's wishes that he begged her to go at once to set her mind
at rest.
Felicie was sitting on a projecting step watching a lizard; she jumped
up and came towards Nathalie, all her little features astir with
anxiety.
"Well?" she called out.
"Leon is quite ready," said Mme. Leon, happily. "Write your letter,
and he will copy it, or do anything you like."
"Thanks!" cried Felicie, clasping her hands rapturously. "You were so
long that I trembled."
"Oh, he did not even hesitate, but there was something else which had to
be discussed first."
"Yes, mamma said he was annoyed about a letter, but I forgot to tell
you. Do you know you are a strange person? You look quite happy over
monseigneur's coming."
"I am happy, very happy," said Nathalie, smiling at her, "though it has
nothing to do with monseigneur. Felicie, I am afraid that poor Henri
Leblanc is in a bad way. He looks terribly ill."
Her sister-in-law's face stiffened.
"I have a very poor opinion of Henri. The abbe says he can make nothing
of him, and his politics are a disgrace to the village."
"But if he is ill?"
"It may bring him to a better mind."
"Whatever he is," cried Nathalie, warmly, "the poor man might certainly
have something to help him back to health. Might I not ask for some
soup?"
"It would displease my mother very much. You had better not interfere
about the people, for naturally you don't know them as we do, and it is
the most worthless who appeal to you. That old Antoine!"
Happily, Felicie's little narrownesses always ended by amusing her
sister-in-law. The idea that a man's opinions should stand in the way
of having his hurts dressed was so comical that she began to laugh; and
as for Henri, she made up her mind that her father should get him into
the hospital at Tours. She had always money enough, too, for anything
on which she had set her heart, for she never spent on herself the
allowance that was hers. It was part of the bourgeoise nature, as Mme.
de Beaudrillart often remarked, to find it almost impossible to spend
money without fear of waste, and without regarding waste as sin. Mme.
de Beaudrillart and her daughters had been economical from the good
sense which adapts itself to circumstances, never from actual
inclination. Nathalie really had the inclination, and was thrifty by
nature. Even her father, personally so as much as any Frenchman of his
class, was annoyed with her for not, as he said, adopting notions better
suited to the Beaudrillarts, and finding pleasure in spending.
Besides, she was so happy this morning that small vexations could not
touch her. There had been a sore struggle in her heart these last
years, and aching sadness at which no one had ever guessed. It looked
out of her honest eyes sometimes, but there was no one to read it, for
even the man who loved her best had not given her the love which is
unselfish enough to decipher signs, and it was the blank, hopeless wall
which her heart had found in his which had caused her trouble. Now it
was surely down. She had planted her first step on its ruins, she saw
herself safely intrenched in the citadel within, which the greatness of
her own love made her yet think of as a place infinitely more sacred and
satisfying than it was.
She went away into the garden to dream of her new bliss by herself. The
day was gloomy but quiet, and as she walked the rush of the river over
its pebbly shoals came up to her ears. Down below, in the level, the
vines hung, all but ready for the vintage, and women in great sabots and
white caps clattered across the bridge. Behind, Poissy stood, grey and
grave, in its nest of thick foliaged trees. But on Nathalie's face the
light of love was shining, the light of faithful, tender love. There
was not a hard line left round her mouth, though, before this, it had
seemed as if suffering had begun to grave them. The sweet nobility of
her eyes was undisturbed, the youth of her face had reappeared. She
cared little enough about the women at the chateau, strong-willed yet
petty, less for the slights which came from them through the household;
the kingdom she wanted was her husband's love, that divine gift which,
in spite of imperfection, in spite, alas, often, of the worthlessness of
the giver, is the crown of a woman's life.
Yet, as she walked along in her new happiness, she gauged Leon very
fairly. She did not expect him to rise to heroic heights. She knew as
well as any one that he was self-pleasing, often morally weak, shirking
what was unpleasing to the extent of often shutting his eyes and ears.
But she loved him. She had credited him at first with finer qualities;
these had dropped from his figure, but she had not loved him less for
loss of them. His carelessness had often hurt her, his reserve had
nearly broken her heart, and through all her own love had never wavered;
it held him, held him up perforce.
She said no more to him about the letter, fearful of frightening away
his new-born confidence, and Leon himself seemed to have forgotten it.
He displeased his mother by his smiles, his looks, at Nathalie. And
when night came, and restless Raoul had been disposed of, husband and
wife strolled out together. They went down to the bridge, and stood
facing the western sky. The river ran dark under their feet, overhead
spread black night, with here and there a faint gleam of stars, and the
slender crescent of a new moon. A wind rustled through the low trees, a
red light flung itself from a cottage door, and somebody stumbled out
and across the bridge.
"Old Antoine," said Leon, when he had passed.
"Impossible! He had really a bad accident to-day--lost a good deal of
blood, and was feverish."
"And now he has been drinking in honour of the occasion. He it was, I
assure you."
"Oh!" exclaimed Nathalie. She added, with a laugh, "Don't tell
Felicie!"