"Why, what else is he? Didn't he take the money?"
"Yes, he took it. There he sinned. But he wrote to Monsieur de Cadanet
by that day's post, and told him what he had done, and promised to repay
it--as he did."
M. Bourget groaned. "And you believe this story! I've been thinking,
Nathalie, as I came along, and there's nothing for it but money, money.
The amount must be raised, the saints know how! but somehow, and the
black business hushed up. It's the only thing to be done for the boy--
for all of us; and the quicker the better. Look here, I must see your
husband. I'll keep my hands off him, if I can, but that letter will
have to be written to-day." He groaned again. "It will leave me a
beggar. Oh, the villain, to have brought his good name to this!"
Nathalie's face was white; but her eyes shone, and she confronted her
father bravely.
"And you would drag it in the dust! You would make him own to what he
never did! Raoul's father! Oh, shame, father, shame! I sent for you
because I knew you were an honest man, and I believed you would counsel
my poor Leon honestly. This is not honesty, and you shall not see him--
you shall not disgrace yourself and me."
He flung angry glances at her.
"Mighty fine!" he said, ironically. "Pray, what better plan have you
for keeping him out of prison?"
The light faded from her eyes, she locked her hands tightly one in the
other, and was silent. He repeated, tauntingly,--
"Come, now, what?"
Thus cruelly pressed, her lips parted, she gasped rather than spoke the
one word: "None."
M. Bourget was too angry for pity. "Perhaps you would like to put him
there?"
Silence.
"Don't deceive yourself, my girl. If you don't pay, that is where he
goes."
Her voice had come back to her.
"I cannot help it. He must tell the truth."
He started to his feet with a violent exclamation of rage.
"So you have no consideration for me? How can I ever show my face again
in Tours? And Raoul! You mean him to grow up to be pointed at as the
son of a man who has been in prison, all for the sake of a story which
is only another lie! Yes, a lie! Do you tell me you believe it?"
"I know it."
"Then you are a fool!" he cried, fiercely. "You will be telling me next
that you still care for him."
"Ah, do I not!" she cried, her steadfast eyes shining.
"Will you let me see him?" he exclaimed, imperiously.
"No; I will not. He wants help, and you will not help him."
He marched to the door in a rage, but came back again, and stood with
his great hands resting on the table, palms downward.
"You are a woman, a foolish woman, and talk of things you don't
understand. You suppose that no one will have the heart to hurt your
dear Leon; and that when they hear that fine story of his, judge and
jury will be so much impressed that it will require no more to make them
acquit him. A baron, the Baron de Beaudrillart, the master of Poissy,
one of the oldest names in the country--you flatter yourself, no doubt,
that all this will prepossess them in his favour, to say nothing of a
weeping wife, clasping her hands and crying, `Gentlemen, gentlemen, for
the love of Heaven!' You know nothing at all, my girl. Baron, and
Beaudrillart, and Poissy, and descent--all this grandeur--is exactly
what will tell against him. In these days it is a fine thing for a
miserable little tallow-chandler, or a creature like Leroux, to sit in
the jury-box, and feel, `Now it is my turn. Down with these seigneurs
and their accursed pride!' If he were an upstart of a washer-woman's
son, picked out of the gutter, he would have a chance, but as it is,"--
he stopped and blew out a whiff of air--"there! That is what his is
worth! And as for the love of Heaven--peste! few of them will think
twice of that."
Till these last words, Nathalie had bent her head before the pitiless
storm. Now she raised it confidently.
"Yet it will not fail us," she said. "If Leon does what is right, I do
not fear."
His anger was on the point of overpowering him, but he mastered it by a
great effort so far as to mutter:
"Perhaps it is as well I should not see your husband, lest I should lose
patience. But you had better let him hear my opinion. He can send in
and let me know, if it isn't too late."
"Will you not have the carriage?"
He refused curtly, and, without listening to the words with which she
tried to thank him, took himself out of the room, down the stairs, and
out into the broad sweep. Poissy had never looked more beautiful. It
was one of those grey, languorous days in which thunder threatens, and
the dark, rich tones of a cloudy sky threw the mellow stone-work and its
delicate ornamentation into high relief. The court side was the more
picturesque and broken, but the noble simplicity of the lines of the
front had always powerfully affected M. Bourget, and he was ready to
vow that nothing could exceed the grace of the chimneys or the fine
proportion of the windows. And now, as he looked, the pride with which
he had dwelt upon it broke forth in an angry snort, which was really a
groan. Unfortunately for himself, Jean Charpentier was on his way round
the house. It was very well known in the household how the father of
Mme. Leon was regarded by Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters, and
Jean held, if possible, yet stouter aristocratic opinions. The sight,
therefore, of M. Bourget's square and sturdy figure, planted on the
drive, and tragically gesticulating, stretched his face into a broad
grin, which he took no pains to hide. In a moment he found himself in
the clutch of the avenger. M. Bourget, gripping his collar, rained
down blows upon him with his cane until he roared for mercy, and the
ex-builder, wrathfully sending him staggering, expressed a hope that the
castigation would have a good and much-needed effect upon his manners.
At any rate, this little incident had a soothing influence upon M.
Bourget. It made him hot, but it restored his sense of power, and he
went on his way home with a feeling that his visit had not been all in
vain. Jean ran into the house, smarting for revenge, but it was an
unlucky day for him, as the first person he fell upon was his father.
Jacques listened to the tale, spluttered out between threats of
vengeance, and when it was ended took his son by the ear.
"I'll wager you've had no more than you earned; and see here, if you
talk about it, you'll come in for another dose. Ay, you'd best look
out. Let me catch you venturing to be insolent to Madame Leon or her
father!" And as Jean went off in wholesome dread of threats which he
knew his father too well to doubt would be carried out, Jacques remained
looking doubtfully at the ground and scratching his head. "There's
trouble in the air, and I'm fearful it has to do with Monsieur Leon," he
reflected. "Madame has eaten next to nothing these two days, and as for
Madame Leon, she is a ghost. It must be serious, for I've seen nothing
like it since Monsieur Leon married; and if it's an old story wakening
up, why, all the worse! Monsieur Bourget, too; he will have been put
out about something to give Jean a thrashing, and to go without so much
as seeing Monsieur Raoul. A bad sign--a very bad sign."
And Jacques went off mournfully to the gardens.