"What else can he have had to say? He asked me whether it was not a
great pleasure to have my sister-in-law with us, and I said I was afraid
she held very strange opinions, so of course he spoke."
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't talk!" cried Claire, irritably. "Have they
gone?"
"They would not go so unceremoniously,"--Felicie was strong in
etiquette. "Besides,"--she broke again into sobs--"dear, dear Leon
could not leave us without a single word!"
It was a strange farewell when the carriage drove round: Leon kissing
his sisters; Felicie clinging to him; Claire white, cold, and impassive
as she presented her cheek. At the gates stood Jacques, hat off,
sadness on his face. When they had gone a short distance, Leon turned
impulsively and looked back. The gardener was in the road, gazing after
them; behind him rose a frowning Poissy, for the day was sunless, the
stone had lost its mellow tint, and the roof was dark and unbeautiful.
Leon shivered.
"Are you cold?" asked Nathalie, anxiously. She was afraid that the
night might have left a chill, and wrapped the rug round him.
"I do not think that will warm me," he said, with a smile which she felt
to be piteous.
They had driven a mile before he asked whether she would like to leave
word at her father's. "We have time."
But Nathalie refused. She did not tell him that she did not dare face
the possibility of an outburst from M. Bourget, but she owned that she
knew he would disapprove of the course they had taken.
"It seems to me that every one disapproves," he muttered, restlessly.
Then Nathalie took a resolution.
"I am afraid you will be angry with me," she said, timidly, "but when
the bishop was at Poissy he saw that something was wrong, and spoke to
me. I was sure he was to be trusted, and I told him."
"Ah, you are a woman," said Leon, who told everything. But he said it
with a smile.
"He was very kind, and helped me," she went on, more freely. "And he--
he did not disapprove. I believe he thought it was the most noble act
that you could do."
Leon turned his face to her, pleased as a child at praise, though he
only said, "Ah?"
His spirits rose almost to their old level when they were in the train.
He had a power which she envied, of letting himself be distracted by the
events of the moment; and while, as the train neared Paris, a painful
tension held her limbs in a vice, he might have been on an errand
differing in no degree from one of every-day importance.
The train ran smoothly into the station as he laid down a newspaper with
a remark on a scene in the Chambers. Standing on the platform, Nathalie
recognised M. Rodoin. He came hastily towards them, and at the same
moment she saw two men approach. M. Rodoin said, in a low tone: "There
will be no open scandal. They know that you have come voluntarily, and
we can all go together as far as the carriage. You have acted
courageously, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, and I honour you. Trust to me
to see to madame."
Nathalie's throat was parched, her head swam; but now, more than ever,
she must call her fortitude to her aid. At the door of the carriage she
kissed her husband, even smiled at him, though with quivering lips.
"God bless you, Leon; I shall be near."
White, mute, confused, he stepped into the carriage; one man followed
him, the other clambered to the box, and they rolled away.