"I LOVE YOU!"
Leon's mood changed like a weathercock on a gusty English day. Extreme
wrath with Charles Lemaire alternated with the fancy that it was a
foolish charge which no one in their senses would believe. Nathalie, by
her sturdy faith, helped to keep him in this fools' paradise; and in his
indignation at the accusation that the money had not been repaid, he
quite lost sight of what he had really done. He groaned with disgust at
Lemaire's falsity, and feeling himself a martyr to a false charge,
looked at the matter from heights of virtuous probity.
His mother's fears were in a measure quieted by the laughing explanation
he gave of the envelope incident. There was no temptation to say
anything but the truth, so that its probability impressed her, and only
a latent uneasiness remained. M. de Cadanet had given no
acknowledgment, and he was not the sort of man to worry on the subject.
He did not want to press for it or to offend the old man. Mme. de
Beaudrillart shook her head; but it was at the rashness, not its
impossibility. Besides--and that there was a change in her was proved
by this besides--if he had not felt secure he could not possibly have
ventured himself on this action; nor would M. Rodoin have permitted it.
She had a woman's confidence in a lawyer's far-sightedness.
M. Bourget remained sternly apart, making no sign. His daughter
thought of him with trouble, but could not bring herself to face him
again. His attitude cut her to the heart, for she felt as if, through
her father's distrust, she herself had done her husband wrong. As for
changing his opinion, once it had gripped him, she knew she was
powerless, and she remained undutifully pitiless, even when reflecting
upon that changed desolate figure by the window, thinking only of him as
one who had failed Leon at a time when he wanted support.
No one else had a thought to spare for anything except the vintage.
There had been a threat of the fine weather breaking up, but the fear
had passed, and the vines with their gnarled and twisted stems and
transparent leaves, through which the sun struck golden, were gradually
stripped, and the grapes carried off to the presses. There was a great
deal of jollity and some drunkenness. All the talk was of the yield and
condition of the vines. Bacchus reigned supreme.
Felicie, meanwhile, was in a bubble of small excitement, preparing for
the bishop's visit. Bushels of pink roses were stored in one of the
deep cupboards in the old walls; ribbons were knotted, banners arranged
for the procession, little framed coloured prints prepared; the cottas
of the boys trimmed with fresh lace, the vestments all carefully shaken
out and looked over for moth, the bishop's room provided with a
prie-dieu and crucifix. Nothing was wanting except the last stitches to
the abbe's new cope, at which Felicie was toiling from morning till
night. Claire mocked at the abundance of detail, but was half envious
of her preoccupation. Mme. de Beaudrillart encouraged it, perhaps with
a feverish hope that so much piety might avert threatened disaster, and
Nathalie was impatient that Felicie had no thought for any other
subject. She was growing uneasy because no letter came from M. Rodoin.
The tone of his last communication had not seemed to her satisfactory.
He had said that, so far, the other side had made no sign, and he was
evidently uneasy that their confidence appeared unshaken. If it was an
attempt to extort money, a bold front and a threat set in action would
have probably been enough to make them retreat. The lawyer begged M. de
Beaudrillart to search his papers yet more carefully, on the chance of
finding some mention of the loan in a letter from M. de Cadanet.
"But I have no letters from Monsieur de Cadanet!" cried Leon, pettishly
tossing the letter to his wife.
He had got into the habit now of turning to her in perplexity, and more
than once it had even crossed his mind whether it would not be the
better plan to tell her exactly what had happened, and let her clear
wits help him if difficulties thickened. But, as yet, the satisfaction
of her entire belief in him being greater than his need, he clung to it
and to silence.
She suggested that he should go to Paris, and see M. Rodoin.
"There is nothing more to say, and it is delightful here just now. No.
Let them arrange it among themselves."
Her strong convictions in the matter acquiesced in this, and then one
morning he came to her, ghastly, an open letter in his hand, despair in
his face.
"Rodoin throws it up!" he cried, flinging the letter on the table, and
dropping into a chair.
"Leon!"
"Read for yourself. Don't ask me to explain. Read, read!" He thrust
his hands through his hair, and stared haggardly at the floor.
She took the letter. M. Rodoin wrote that he and Maitre Barraud had
been in daily consultation over M. de Beaudrillart's case. He regretted
exceedingly to inform him that they had arrived at the conclusion that
it would be dishonest on their part to attempt to carry it on without
more materials for the prosecution than were at their disposal. They
had no evidence of any sort beyond the word of monsieur le baron, and
satisfying as that would be to those who knew him, the courts would
require further confirmation. The other side would plead that the libel
was justified, and deeply as he lamented being obliged to point it out,
if their plea could not be disproved the dismissal of the case would be
followed by the immediate arrest of monsieur le baron, who would be
placed in a worse position by the failure of his own case. M. Rodoin
ventured to suggest that it might, under these circumstances, be
advisable to attempt an amicable settlement with M. Lemaire, who
undoubtedly had contrived to secure a strong position.
Read, Nathalie's strong fingers closed vice-like round the letter, a
slow fire mounting to her eyes threatened scorching. She raised her
look with difficulty, letting it rest upon the crouching figure of her
husband, and made an impatient step towards him.
"If one man has failed, we must find another. Let us go to Paris at
once."
He murmured an inarticulate sound.
"Do you hear, Leon? There is no time to lose. That Monsieur Rodoin has
been half-hearted throughout; I saw it from the first. There are plenty
of others--come."
His murmur resolved itself into muttered despair. They would all be the
same; he should give it up. She did not understand.
Curbing her impatience, she knelt down by his side, and brought her head
on a level with his own.
"Dear, you are doing just what this Lemaire wishes you to do, when the
only fatal thing would be to yield to him. Do not be disheartened. I
am quite certain that we can easily find a more able lawyer. Look at
me; I am smiling, I am not in the least alarmed, for I am quite certain
that truth must be stronger than slander, and that we shall come out all
right."
He lifted a miserable face.
"How dare he say that it was not repaid?"
"Does he? I did not know that he said anything about the loan."
"Oh, it is all mixed up," said Leon, impatiently; "only there is no use
in telling you, because you do not understand."
"But, dear Leon, do you not think I could understand?" asked his wife,
gently. "If I really do not, I think you would make me more useful by
explaining it to me, and I would try very hard. Is there any point
which might be more fully explained!"
He writhed uneasily in the chair, but the impulse to tell her was strong
upon him, now that the lawyer's letter had reduced him to helpless pulp.
She waited, expectant of some detail, perhaps legal, which had been
withheld from her.
"Well, you see," he explained, running his hands again and again through
his hair, "what was I to have done? Monsieur de Cadanet showed me the
cheque done up, and then before my eyes directed it to that confounded
villain. It was enough to make a man desperate--"
He stopped. Nathalie, all the blood out of her face, but fire in her
eyes, had risen, and was staring down upon him.
"How can I explain to you if you look at me like that?" he said,
pettishly. "You might guess what happened, and what ninety-nine men out
of a hundred would have done, if they had had the chance. I had no
thought of it till the thing was over, and I did not make any mystery
about it, for I wrote and told the old count that I had taken the money
as a loan. He had it all back again, with interest, and as for telling
me that this scoundrel lost a penny by it--"
If she could have taken in these last words, the awful numbness in her
heart might have yielded, but the first blow had stunned her, and she
stood like a dead woman--blind, dumb, deaf. Once having broken the
barrier, Leon found relief in rambling on, accusing Lemaire, excusing
himself. A sigh broke from her at last, the sigh of returning
consciousness, her heart sending it forth as a cry. Then she shivered
violently, and became aware that her husband was speaking.
"Don't, don't!" she cried, thrusting out her hands.
"Don't what?" he said, irritably. "Do you think it is agreeable for me
to talk about it? I haven't even told my mother, but you spoke as if
you could help one out of the scrape, and now can only stand and stare."
The blood surged violently into her face; she tottered, and mechanically
caught at the table for support.
"Good heavens, say something or other! Where am I to turn? What am I
to do? Why, if nothing is done, I may be arrested as a thief!" he
cried, with gathering excitement, springing up and pacing the room.
"Nathalie, do you hear! Speak! I--Leon de Beaudrillart--arrested! Do
you hear!" And with a sudden change he flung himself into a seat, arms
and head on the table, and wept like a child.
Nathalie shuddered. Then he began to moan:
"Why did I tell her! She cares nothing for me; just because I am in
trouble she has not a word to fling. And this is my wife, who talks of
loving me--"
"Oh, Leon, Leon, I love you!"
It came like a cry from a distance, from death itself. She knelt down
and flung her arm around him, and strained him passionately to her--"I
love you, I love you, do you hear!" He clung to her as if he had been a
child.
"Help me, then, cherie, help me!"
"Yes, yes," she murmured, "courage. We will bear it together."
He went on, recovering himself as he spoke, and as buoyant as a bubble.
"You are so clever, my Nathalie, your wits will certainly be able to
think of some way out of it, and you cannot tell what a comfort it is to
me that you should know all at last. A hundred times I have been on the
very point of telling you, but there is something so disagreeable in
explanations that my heart failed. Now you see the difficulty of the
position, do you not! What do you think! Is there any use in applying
to another lawyer!"
She shook her head.
"Still, one must do something. It is impossible to sit still and let
that rascal come down on one. Something must be done. What, what?"
He waited, wanting the suggestion to come from her. As she was silent,
knowing that what she had to say would wound him to the quick, he rushed
his words.
"Money is all he is after, and I suppose we had better pay!"
She repressed her inclination to cry out, and said, softly: "But it is a
fact, is it not, that you repaid the sum!"
"Every penny."
"To pay would be to acknowledge that you had not done so."
"That is true," he said, gloomily.
"A bribe would tell fearfully against you, you may be sure, for even if
it stopped him from taking proceedings, he would contrive that it should
all leak out."
He gazed at her bewilderingly. "But what else!--what remains? You are
a poor comforter, Nathalie!"
"If only I could bear it for you!" she cried, passionately, her hands
closing on his with strong support.
"Bear what? Bear what? What do you want me to do!"
"To tell them the truth." She flung her head back and fastened
imploring eyes on his. "Let them know that you took it. Oh, Leon, it
is true."
"Tell them!" He started back as if he had touched hot iron. Then he
laughed. "Certainly this affair has turned your head."
She pressed her words.
"It is the only noble, straightforward way, and all that you can do to
atone. Shelter yourself behind the truth; it will not fail you. Then
you can face the worst."
Muttering, "She is mad!" Leon pushed her from him. "Do you in the
least understand what you are suggesting? It means that I should have
to plead guilty. How could I ever prove that the money was repaid? You
want to ruin me."
"You will be clear to your own soul, dearest--to your own soul, and to
God."
"What, you mean it? You see where it leads, and yet mean it! You must
suppose you are talking to some little bourgeois instead of to a De
Beaudrillart!" he cried, scornfully. "We are not used to bear disgrace
tamely. There are other ways of avoiding it."
She clasped him in her arms, terror clutching her heart. "Leon, Leon,
not that! Promise me!"
His moods, always variable, now ran up and down the scale of emotion.
"Poor child," he said, touching her cheek softly, "you mean well; but
you don't know the world. Perhaps my mother will be able to suggest
something."
"Yes, go," she said, releasing him, and letting her arms drop by her
side.
There was a clatter of small steps outside, an impatient rattle of the
handle, and Raoul rushed in.
"Father, there's a monkey--a real monkey--in the court! I've given him
a piece of melon, and he's eaten that, and a bunch of nuts, and he's
cracked them; and now I want a sou, and his master says he'll make a bow
for it. Oh, I do wish I might have a monkey!"
Leon, on his way to the door, pointed to the boy. "You propose that I
should ruin him," he said, and was gone.
Poor mother! She caught her child in her arms, while he struggled
impatiently.
"Two sous, two sous, please, quick! Oh, it is the dearest little
monkey! Don't you think we _could_ buy it? Jean could take care of it,
and it could sleep in my bed."
He went off with his two sous, and Nathalie dropped into a chair, the
anguish of the moment in her eyes. What future lay before the boy? A
tarnished name, a dishonoured father? Her thoughts travelled wildly
round; she was like a wounded creature, seeking escape from the hunters.
How confident she had been, how blind! Now the flitting distrust she
had refused to see in the lawyer's eyes stood before her alive and
menacing. Was there any other way but that terrible one to which she
had been forced to point? Could Leon ever endure it? What was it?
What was it? She pressed her fingers on her quivering eyelids; trial,
confession, perhaps a prison--the words printed themselves on her brain,
and hung there like leaden weights. And she--oh, cruel, cruel!--she was
the one to urge them upon him. God, must it be so? She slipped off the
chair on her knees, her lips forming no petitions, because her whole
being became a living prayer.
How long she lay she never knew, but there Claire found her at last.
Claire was white, rigid, fiercely wroth. She had been with her mother
when Leon rushed in, so taken up with the burden of his misery that he
poured it all out without hesitation. His first cry had been: "I am
lost! Rodoin says he can do nothing, and that villain Lemaire is
determined to ruin me. I ask you whether, after all my father did for
Monsieur de Cadanet, I had not a right to the loan? He flourished it in
my face. I believe he meant me to take it. And if I had not repaid it,
then they might have the right to say something; but every farthing went
back. What am I to do? Mother, unless you can suggest something, I
shall go mad!"
He might have rambled on, striking out blindly, if Claire had not
angrily stopped him.
"Do you wish to kill your mother?" For Mme. de Beaudrillart's usual
pallor had changed to a dull grey, and her eyes were vacant. The sight
instantly recalled him; he put his arm round her neck and kissed her.
"Don't, mother! Don't look like that!"
She did not utter one word of disbelief, conviction had battered at her
heart from the moment when she saw it written in M. Bourget's eyes, and
she did not reproach him; only sobs of helpless misery broke from her as
she clung. Claire was different. Her eyes were dry and fierce, her
voice bitter.
"Do you mean that you have really done this shameful thing and brought
all this disgrace upon us?"
"Hush, Claire, hush!" moaned her mother.
"No, mother, I shall speak; I have a right to speak. He has ruined us
all. We can never face the world again. Oh, where can we hide
ourselves? What will come next?"
Anger, misery, choked her. She rushed from the room, and paced up and
down the picture-gallery, darting lightning reproaches at Leon, at his
wife, at herself. Her brain was in a whirl. Felicie, who was on her
way down-stairs, trailing pink wreaths behind her, stopped and peeped in
at the door, hearing sounds. She would have retired, but that Claire
seized her.
"Oh, Claire, gently, gently!" she cried, trying to shelter her precious
roses. And then, to her horror, her sister snatched the wreath, tore it
into fragments, and stamped on them.
"You will drive me mad, I believe!" she said, in a terrible voice. "Do
you care for nothing but this frippery? Will it disturb you at all to
hear that it is likely Leon will be arrested--arrested, do you hear?--
and tried for stealing two hundred thousand francs? Yes, I am not mad,
I am telling you the truth."
"Leon! But what do you mean? I do not understand," stammered poor
Felicie, pale with dismay.
"How should you? All this goes on while you make your paper wreaths,
and think of nothing else."
"Oh, Claire, how cruel you are!" sobbed her sister. "You know I care
for dear Leon as much as you--"
"Then you hate him!" interjected Claire. "I have never before heard of
a seigneur of Poissy who was a thief. Every one will point at us--at
us!"
"I do not think it can be possible," said Felicie, drying her eyes, and
mechanically trying to smooth out her damaged roses. Claire stood and
stared at her; then flung herself away, and betook herself again to her
passionate pacing. "No, I do not believe it, because you are always so
violent when anything puts you out. What does mamma say? There is sure
to be a mistake, for Leon has been so kind about the bishop that I am
certain he could not have done the dreadful things you talk about. I
dare say if he consults his Grandeur that he will give him some--"
She stopped. Claire had caught her wrists.
"If you speak about it to a soul, I shall kill you, Felicie. Do you
hear!"
"Pray, be quiet, Claire!" whimpered the other; "it is very wrong to be
so violent, and whether we tell him or not, I am sure the bishop will
bring us a blessing. You will see that things will come right."
"Oh, go away, go away!" cried her sister, pushing her. "Leave me in
peace!"
"Perhaps it will be a lesson to Nathalie. I always felt afraid that
some punishment would come to her for reading those books," said
Felicie, gathering up the last remains of her wreath and departing.
As her paroxysm of anger burned out into duller ashes of misery, Claire,
at war with her sister, turned shudderingly towards Nathalie. She found
herself wondering how the dreadful story affected her--what her
intellect counselled. Suddenly she admitted her strength, and thought
it possible that by her help means of extrication might be contrived.
It might be he had not told her, from some weak notion of sparing her;
Claire set her face like a rock against such mercy. From her she should
know everything. Like an indomitable fate she walked towards her
sister-in-law's room, and there, as has been seen, found her unconscious
on the floor. Nature forced her to go to her help, but as she knelt
down she was full of contempt; for her own constitution was iron, and
she held a collapse such as this a proof of miserable weakness. She
read in it that Nathalie would never rise to the occasion, would suffer
and make others suffer, and her own thoughts flew to plans for shielding
Leon, or, at worst, of helping him to avoid the scandal.
Meanwhile, when Nathalie opened her eyes she saw no one at first, for
Claire was kneeling behind. She had one minute of wondering reprieve
before intolerable pain, rushed into possession. Words, looks,
confronted her again; she moaned once, and then called upon her ebbing
strength to meet its foes gallantly. Raising herself on an elbow, and
pushing the hair back from her forehead with her other hand, a sound
made her glance round, and she met Claire's gaze. The two women eyed
each other silently. Claire was the first to say, briefly:
"You know?"
"Yes, I know."
They were mute again, each reflecting.
"And you fainted?" Mlle. de Beaudrillart uttered the words like a
judge. Nathalie simply answered:
"I shall not do it again."
Their words were few, like the first feints of fencers. Both rose and
stood upright, and Claire felt a momentary vexation that Nathalie was
the taller. She said, presently:
"There is no use in our talking. I shall never forgive Leon; but
perhaps something can be arranged to hush it up, and prevent the
disgrace becoming public. Whatever that costs, it must be done. I
suppose money is always a strong weapon, and I imagine, under these
circumstances, you cannot object to its being paid?"
To the tone Nathalie was indifferent to the point of unconsciousness.
But to the suggestion she replied: "I should object with all my might.
Forgive me if I oppose you."