Only Leon's power of letting trouble slip from him as readily as water
trickles from a duck's back enabled him to go about the estate as if
to-day were the same as yesterday. He had, however, bad moments when he
was alone, or when the thought which dogged his footsteps caught him by
the throat.
The letter, it need scarcely be said, had come from Charles Lemaire. It
was not long, but every word fell like the lash of an avenging fate.
During the last illness of M. de Cadanet, he said, it had come to his
knowledge that a letter directed to and designed for him had been
stopped on its way by M. Leon de Beaudrillart, and the contents--a
large sum--abstracted. Reluctance to bring disgrace upon a family with
whom he was connected had no doubt caused M. de Cadanet to abstain from
taking proceedings; but the writer, not being bound by such
considerations, did not consider himself at liberty to condone a felony,
added to which he was the person who had been the direct loser. M. de
Cadanet was aware of his intentions to commence proceedings. He had,
however, implored him to give the Baron Leon one chance of restitution
of the two hundred thousand francs, hence this letter. He awaited an
answer before taking further steps, and had the honour to remain, etc,
etc.
When it reached him, Leon was sitting smoking in a room leading out of
the hall, where he was in the habit of transacting business with his
tenants, for he had never either reinstated M. Georges or engaged
another intendant. He had good business capabilities, and it rather
pleased him to exercise them, to M. Bourget's great satisfaction. He
was in particularly good spirits, for with the death of M. de Cadanet
the uneasiness which every now and then haunted him had passed away. He
had not feared legal proceedings, he had never feared them after the
first two or three days, and, if he had, his repayment would have
relieved him of all dread. But he had had a fear lest some imprudent
word of the old count might have betrayed him, and it was a great relief
to him to be no more haunted with this anxiety. He opened his letters
with a laughing remark to Jacques Charpentier, who brought them.
The man had put them down, and gone to the window to draw back the
muslin curtains. When he returned he started at the grey pallor of his
young master's face. The baron was sitting where he had left him, his
elbows on the table, and his eyes fixed with a look which could be only
described as that of horror on the letter which he held with shaking
hands. Jacques was an old servant, devoted to the Beaudrillarts, and
absolutely trustworthy. He said at once:
"Monsieur has had bad news? Shall I call Madame Leon?"
He made a shuddering sign of refusal.
"Can I do anything? Monsieur knows he may depend on me."
Leon stretched out his hand--even at this moment the little action was
full of kindly grace.
"You are a good fellow, Jacques. Say nothing. I have had a blow."
He sent him away, and sat thinking, trying to collect his senses, and to
decide how to meet the attack, so unexpectedly terrible and beyond
everything that he could have feared. It had never entered his head
that his payment could be disputed; what did it mean? Even if the
stroke had come from the old count it would not have been so menacing;
but that Charles Lemaire, always, he was certain, his enemy, should be
on the track, and should, apparently, be wielding such a terrible
weapon, was at first sight overwhelming. Then he had to reflect how
much he should tell his mother. The letter itself was too precise, too
exact in its revelations for him to venture to show it, he must destroy
it; and let it be supposed that in his first indignant rage he had torn
it up. He suited the action to the thought, and as he raged at the
morsels, wondered he had kept his fingers off them so long. It was
almost as if by such action he had succeeded in strangling the monstrous
accusation; he flung the last atoms from him with a groan of relief.
Here the buoyancy of his nature came to his aid. Such a stroke could
not fall; it would not be permitted, it would be a crime against the
eternal justice. Its impossibility pacified him, its sinfulness made
his own deed look innocent; he stood, the mark, the victim, of calumny,
and the dignity of martyrdom soothed him into assurance.
In this more endurable mood he flung away his cigar and went to find his
mother. She kept the reins of the house firmly in her own grasp, and
had just been looking into the great presses with old Nanon to make sure
that no moth was fretting the linen.
"Ah, Leon," she said, "I wanted to see you. The wood is getting low.
And Nanon thinks it would not be a bad plan to get a few Cochins for the
poultry-yard. What do you say?"
Her son stood reflecting.
"I don't believe that you much like Cochins? Still, they are useful,
and we need not have too many."
"Clumsy creatures. But if Nanon has set her old heart on them--Just as
you think best, mother; I can't give my mind to it to-day; other things
are too worrying."
"Has Pichot been making difficulties about his rent! Sometimes I think
that if you could get a good intendant, and not an incapable like
Monsieur Georges, you might be spared many annoyances."
Leon flung himself into a chair with a groan, and stretched his legs.
"I can do with them, but this--this is shameful! What do you say to a
rascally relation of Monsieur de Cadanet writing to blackmail me about a
letter of his which he avows I took?"
He spoke chokingly. It was difficult to put it into words. Mme. de
Beaudrillart smiled.
"A little startling, certainly! But in these days it appears one must
be prepared for anything. Does he pretend that the letter was worth
anything to you?"
"Oh yes, money; a big sum, which he suggests I should hand over."
"Of course there would be that demand--there always is. I should like
to see how he puts it."
"Ah," Leon exclaimed, hurriedly, "I tore the letter up. Its insolence
enraged me so much!"
"Naturally. Well, I imagine you will not give him the satisfaction of
taking any notice of his attempt. It is always better to say nothing
about such a matter and simply to ignore it. I believe there are
wretches who make a profession of trying to extort money by getting hold
of some forgotten trifle, and magnifying it until they manage to
frighten weak-spirited persons. Probably your correspondent is one of
the tribe."
Mme. de Beaudrillart had a heap of linen before her; she lifted one
piece after another, and laid it on one side, mechanically counting.
"I know the man," muttered Leon, his eyes on the heap.
"Yes?"
"And I shall answer him."
"Unwise."
"I must. The fellow passes for a gentleman. Why, he has inherited a
great part of old De Cadanet's money."
His mother paused in her task.
"Then he must be under some strange delusion," she said, gravely, "and I
begin to wish you had not destroyed the letter."
He assured her that he remembered what was in it, and repeated
particulars, avoiding mention of the sum.
"It is scarcely credible that any one should have brought such a mad
accusation," she remarked.
Leon allowed the strangeness of the fact.
"But I must answer the scoundrel, and what shall I say?"
"Refer him to your lawyer if he means to go further. There is nothing
else to be done. Make him understand that, by persisting, he lays
himself open to an action for libel."
Leon looked at her reflectively. Then he sprang to his feet.
"I believe you are right. It is best to advance a bold front with such
fellows, and show them you don't mean to knock under."
"Knock under? But that would be impossible!" exclaimed Mme. de.
Beaudrillart, astonished.
"Oh, well, I can quite conceive a man so much worried and bothered by
the mere threat that he would pay just for peace and quietness."
Mme. de Beaudrillart flung up her head.
"I cannot," she said, proudly.
"You are going to have your way, at all events," said Leon. He had
rapidly reviewed the possibilities of choking off Charles with something
approaching the price he demanded, and, if he could not have found
security thus, would have done it. But he read the man's malice, and
was sure that he would not be satisfied without accomplishing his social
ruin as well as obtaining a large sum. His mother's suggestion was the
best. Even though the fact had reached Charles Lemaire's ears, the
burden of proof was quite another matter, and left him many loop-holes.
"Yes," he declared, "I will write."
"Write here," advised his mother. She preferred her room to be used,
since by that means his wife was effectually excluded. She pushed the
materials towards him, and he sat down and wrote hurriedly, she leaning
over his shoulder. "Good. But you have scarcely expressed your
amazement at his insolence sufficiently."
"Oh, I'll put anything you like," cried Leon, recklessly. He added a
few strong words of her dictating: "There! Will that do?"
"It is better." She waited while he folded and addressed his letter.
"Monsieur Charles Lemaire. So that is his name! Now, my son, not a
word of this to any one. The smallest hint, creeping out, might do
incalculable harm, in spite of its folly."
He listened in silence; there was no need for her to utter warnings as
to the seriousness of the affair. Going back to his own room, he walked
furiously up and down, anathematising Lemaire with all the abuse he
could think of. Then, as he was one of those who imperatively require
sympathy, he betook himself to his wife, meaning to do no more than let
her know he was in trouble. What happened there in spite of Mme. de
Beaudrillart's warnings gave him very considerable comfort. Nathalie
displayed the absolute disbelief which he hoped would be the effect upon
the world should this story ever be suffered to ooze out. More than
that, he felt that he had made her happy, and he liked other people to
be happy, although he might not be disposed to put himself out in order
to attain that result. When the next morning came his spirits rose, by
fits and starts, however, and depending upon nothing more tangible than
the distraction of the moment. Nathalie wondered that such an absurd
attack as he had confided to her should have power seriously to vex him,
and, happy herself, tried her best to turn his thoughts. Mme. de
Beaudrillart thought she showed unfeeling want of comprehension by her
unusual gaiety; Claire saw that something was wrong, and snubbed
Nathalie; and Felicie was too much taken up with delight at the prospect
of the bishop's visit, and with satisfaction at having certainly stepped
in before Mme. Lemballe, to have thought for anything else. Already
she had begun to plan extensive decoration by means of paper flowers for
the church, and was bent upon driving to Tours to seek materials; in her
small set voice one idea pattered after the other, the last being so
much like what had gone before as to be scarcely distinguishable.
"I am sure that the nicest effect would be to have real bushes in pots
covered with tinsel, and pink roses tied thickly on the twigs, unless--
yes, certainly one might have pink for the pots, and tinsel flowers
interspersed with streamers; perhaps that would be the best, after all.
Nathalie, you never suggest anything; do tell me what you think. At any
rate, garlands will be charming. I must begin upon them to-day. And
then there are all the banners to be looked over, and the new cope to be
finished. I really think that Raoul is big enough to walk in the
procession, don't you, mamma? and that would make it perfectly
charming!"
The day, outwardly the same as hundreds which had gone before, had, to
Nathalie's mind, a curious restlessness running through its hours, Leon
dreading his own society so much that he would scarcely suffer her to
leave his side. She was obliged to commit Raoul altogether to the care
of his grandmother, with the result that by the evening he was wildly
unmanageable. Once or twice miserable depression seized Leon, which his
wife could not understand; for to her it appeared absolutely
unreasonable, even while she exerted all her powers to cheer him. Over
and over again she repeated the same consolation: who would treat such a
letter seriously? But the gladness in her heart that he should seek his
consolation from her was so great that she felt no impatience. He said
at last:
"After all, I have a great mind to go to Paris myself."
"Why not?" she returned, cheerfully. "Then you could put an end at once
to this absurd folly. A few words would certainly bring him to reason,
and you cannot say all you want in a letter."
"I believe I will!" Leon ejaculated. "But I can't be left alone. You
must come."
Her heart leaped. To have him to herself!
"Only ask me!" she exclaimed, joyously.
"It mayn't be so pleasant!"
"The more reason that I should be with you."
He looked at her irresolutely. Should he tell her? Let free the horrid
fear which gripped his heart? No, he could not. To have her think of
him as he really was required too great a sacrifice.
"Well, then, you and I will go together."