M. Bourget would have been indignant at hearing that he might not
accompany his daughter if the mandate had come from a less person than
Maitre Barraud. But he had a profound respect for any advocate with
whose name he was acquainted, as well as for all the machinery of a
great trial, and M. Rodoin took him in hand, and carried him off for
the interval, as soon as Nathalie had been placed in M. Rodoin's
carriage and despatched to Passy. She had intended to employ her time
during the drive in arranging how best to open the subject with Mme.
Lemaire, but, to her dismay, found it impossible to concentrate her
thoughts. Whatever effort she made to fasten them upon the coming
interview, they flitted back to the crowded court. She saw always her
husband's pale face, the look towards her in which she read so piteous
an appeal; she heard the jesting remarks whispered around, the questions
and answers to which she listened breathlessly, feeling that they held
Leon's doom; she saw the president, who was slightly deaf, hold his hand
to his ear, the clerks taking down the evidence, Charles Lemaire's broad
figure, and the white flower in his button-hole; she heard Maitre
Barraud's voice, now listless, then suddenly rising to the tone of a
trumpet, a voice of which she was beginning to understand the power.
One after another figures surged before her eyes, sounds rang in her
ears, and before she had collected her thoughts for her errand she found
herself driving to the door of a substantially built house, which stood
a little back from the road.
Madame was at home, but did not receive. Nathalie had got hastily out
of the carriage, and, afraid to send in her name lest it might bring a
refusal, she merely desired the man to say that her business was of the
greatest consequence, and was almost immediately admitted to an ugly
room, all gilt and brocade, where stood Amelie ready to go out.
At sight of this tall and beautiful woman advancing hastily towards her,
Mme. Lemaire showed a little astonishment. She thought it was some one
interested in an orphan, for whom she had come to plead the cause; but
the visitors who had this end in view generally belonged to a different
class. She moved awkwardly forward.
"You desire, madame, to speak to me!"
"To appeal to your goodness," faltered Nathalie.
"Ah, madame," said Amelie, with a smile which made her plain face at
once attractive, "I am so grieved! It is for some poor little one, is
it not, whom you wish to place in our Home! And, alas, we are more than
full!"
"No, no!" cried Mme. Leon, "it is much more serious. It is on account
of this trial that I come. I am the unhappy wife of Monsieur de
Beaudrillart."
The other stared at her without comprehending. "A trial?" she repeated,
pushing forward a chair. Nathalie sank into it, and leaned forward
earnestly:
"Your husband--you know that your husband has made a terrible charge
against my husband!"
"No. I do not know--I do not understand--" returned Mme. Lemaire,
speaking with difficulty. "Stop, madame, let me explain. My husband
and I do not interest ourselves in the same pursuits. We each follow
that which we prefer, leaving the other free. My interest is my
Orphanage, and consequently I do not hear much of what goes on in the
outside world."
"And you do not know that all Paris rings with this trial?"
"No," returned Amelie, flushing. "I do not read the newspapers, and--
and I presume the servants have not liked to speak of it."
Nathalie buried her face in her hands. How could this woman, in
everything but name cut off from the world, help her! But the sight of
suffering touched Amelie at once.
"I am so sorry for your grief!" she said, simply; "pray tell me if there
is anything in which I can assist you."
Hard task! But Nathalie began: "It has to do with Monsieur de Cadanet,"
she faltered. "Some money which he designed for your husband, my
husband took--stay, do not judge him too harshly. He was in great
straits at the time; he took it, but he told Monsieur de Cadanet at
once--the letter exists--and he only took it as a loan. Every penny was
repaid, and Monsieur de Cadanet made no sign; but now, now that he is
dead, your husband says that the money was never returned, and that your
uncle left it to him to prosecute. He is being tried now--my Leon!"
Amelie had turned very white, and drawn involuntarily back. She said,
in a suffocated voice:
"Why do you come to me?"
Nathalie lifted her heavy eyes.
"People say you are a good woman," she said. "If you know anything, you
cannot let an innocent man suffer."
"And your name is De Beaudrillart, and you live at--"
"At Poissy."
"Ah!" The exclamation ended sharply, like a cry of anguish. In a
moment all came back to her--M. de Cadanet's veiled interest in Poissy;
the evident relenting of his heart; most of all those dying words,
accidentally heard, but never really forgotten: "You will remember that
Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing
against him." And now--She rose up with a shudder. "Madame, you are
mistaken. I am incapable of helping you."
Nathalie rose, too, and stood looking at her. Then she clasped her
hands, feeling her last chance slipping.
"Ah, madame, think!" she cried, impulsively. "You nursed Monsieur de
Cadanet, you were with him continually--think, I implore you, whether
you never heard him speak of my husband, and if you did, whether he did
not speak of him indulgently? So much might depend on that! If you do
not pity me, pity our little child, our little Raoul!"
"Is that his name?" Mme. Lemaire asked quickly, a sudden yearning in
her face.
"Yes. Imagine what it will be for him to grow up under a cloud of
disgrace! You have no children madame; you do not know what that seems
to a mother."
Nathalie was wrong. This woman, no mother, but to whom God had given a
mother's heart, could realise it, and much more, with an aching
strength, which some mothers cannot feel. She had thought so often and
strangely of the little boy at Poissy, of whose existence she was barely
aware, that now she could hardly prevent herself from crying out that
she would save him. But--there was her husband. In spite of his
neglect, his unkindness, his scarcely-veiled contempt, she still loved
him. Ignorance of his movements, shutting of eyes and ears to what went
on in the world, was her defensive armour. She did not wish to hear or
see. She had at one time lived in terror lest something might come to
her knowledge which would thrust him out of her heart, and it was dread
of this which had turned her virtually into a recluse. And here it was
at her doors! She beat against it with all her force. Her look
hardened, her voice chilled. She said, coldly:
"I am sorry for you, madame, but I cannot help you. Monsieur de Cadanet
gave my husband his last directions." Nathalie stood mute, then turned
from her with a look of reproach.
"They were not these, and you know it. A dying man does not wreak such
a terrible revenge. You are thrusting a sin upon him which he never
committed. I dare not stay longer, but ah, madame, take care, for some
day it will come back again, more terrible for you than my poor Leon's
has been for him!"
Mme. Lemaire stood long where she was left, staring at the empty
doorway. Once she made a few staggering steps, as if she would follow
her visitor, but caught herself back, and again remained motionless.
Her conscience was tender, and Nathalie's words fell on it like the
sting of a lash. It had been the scarcely acknowledged effort of her
life to prevent it and her love from meeting in opposition, but the day
had come, and she could no longer remain blind and deaf. Still, she
resisted. This man had sinned--by his own wife's confession had sinned.
Probably he deserved what had come to him. And she had not absolutely
understood all that was happening. She resolved to go to the Orphanage,
and think no more about Mme. de Beaudrillart. There she had hitherto
found peace, and there she might now find forgetfulness.
She was always warmly greeted, this childless woman with the mother's
heart, the children running to her with cries of delight which were the
music of her life, one showing a doll, another a cut finger; the sisters
came smiling, kind souls with homely faces, who looked on her as their
chief benefactress, and poured out their daily chat of all the events
which touched their peaceful lives and the lives of these little ones,
snatched, some of them, from terrible experiences. One sister walked up
and down the babies' nursery, hushing a wan little fellow to unwilling
sleep.
"He has been so fretful all night!" she said, smiling.
"You look quite worn out, sister," said Mme. Lemaire.
"Ah, madame, but when one remembers that his father died in prison,
one's heart bleeds for the poor little mite," said the kind nurse,
recommencing her hushing. Amelie turned abruptly away.
But in every child that day the little boy at Poissy seemed to appeal to
her. Far from forgetting, she found him looking at her, clinging,
kissing her. A new orphan had been admitted that morning. She dared
not ask his name, so convinced was she that the answer would be Raoul.
He haunted her; do what she would, she could not shake him off. She
left the Orphanage at last, flying, as she had never flown before, from
the innocent children. On her way home she bought a newspaper, and
there read a fuller account of the trial than she had gathered from
Nathalie.
She had not seen her husband for several days, but this was not unusual,
for he had his rooms in Paris, and only came out to Passy at intervals.
She accepted her loveless lot, clinging to the Orphanage, and finding in
that consolation for almost all trials. Happily for her her nature was
the reverse of sensitive, so that she was able to love him without
fretting hopelessly over the poor returns her affection brought back.
She felt at this moment a turmoil such as she had never yet experienced,
a conflict between conscience and love. Could it be her terrible duty
to say the words which must denounce her husband? Impossible. She
thrust the thought from her.
Then she determined on a medium course. She would see him, appeal to
him. Alas, what influence had she ever had that she could fall back
upon it now? Recall past years as she might, not once could she
remember anything she had said moving her husband when he had made a
resolution, or even making him swerve in a contrary direction. She
could imagine his anger becoming deadly. She did not think he would
shrink from locking her up, or from almost any violence by which he
could prevent her from speaking; but she could not imagine his yielding
to what must be his ruin. She cried out with the pain of these
gathering thoughts, which seemed to press upon her, stop her breathing,
hurt her almost to death. She reproached herself for giving them room,
but all the while knew with fear that it was her conscience which held
the open door and let them in. When she got home she stumbled up-stairs
like a fainting woman, and fell down on the floor, crying out piteously
for help for her soul, although she knew that every moment of delay was
a sin.
Nathalie drove back to the court, sick with failure. Her strength and
will upheld her when there was anything to be done; but when not even
that remained, her very limbs seemed paralysed, and she wondered to find
other senses still at her command. M. Rodoin's clerk was looking out
for her, and went hastily to fetch his master, who came into a small
room which had been set apart for them, and where she tottered towards
him with outspread hands and a haggard face.
"I could not move her."
"She refused?"
"Utterly. But she knew nothing."
"Well, well, dear madame, do not take it so much to heart. If any one
can save your husband it will be Maitre Barraud. You will go home now?"
She flung him a look of reproach.
"I am counting the moments until I can be where he will see me," she
said, resolutely.
M. Rodoin moved to the door, and she followed him, impelling herself by
sheer determination. Once he looked round and said, half to himself:
"Whatever happens, there are many who might envy Monsieur de
Beaudrillart!" but she took no notice, and did not even hear him, any
more than she saw the curious looks turned towards her as she stood at
the door of the court. Her eyes were waiting for her husband's, and the
moment that his glance fell upon her a sudden light irradiated them.
Now that she had to strengthen him, she was strong again.
The court, however, was near adjournment, and there was no doubt that M.
de Beaudrillart's prospects were bad. If his wife could only have gone
to him, it seemed to her that half the anguish would have been
lightened; but to think of him desolate and despairing was agony. Her
father's presence gave her a certain comfort, although at first she had
been seized with the dread that she might have to listen to reproaches
of her husband, which she would have found unendurable. But M. Bourget
was stolidly silent. By slow degrees he was coming round to believe in
Leon's innocence of the greater charge, and he was extraordinarily
impressed with the powers of Maitre Barraud. He was kind to Nathalie,
telling her of M. Georges's persistent confidence, and of his bringing
Raoul to Tours; and to the poor mother, parted from her child by what
seemed years, even a lifetime, it was comfort to have every word
repeated, and to know that he was well and happy. She feasted upon it,
then was smitten with remorse for letting her thoughts leave Leon, even
for a minute. Was there nothing for her to do? They said that Maitre
Barraud wished to speak to her, and she breathlessly pushed her father
out of the room, and waited, holding the door. She tried to speak, but
her voice sounded strangely far away, and her eyes dumbly questioned the
young advocate. To her surprise he looked as usual, and his voice was
as indifferent as ever.
"I need only detain you one moment, madame. You saw the wife, and she
refused to speak. Do you imagine she had anything to say!"
"Once I thought she had."
"What were you speaking of at that moment?"
"Of our child."
He nodded. "I knew she had a sentiment. Her husband neglects her, and
she spends her days at the Orphanage. I do not despair. The child and
her conscience will work upon her."
"She knew nothing of the trial."
"Good! She will think the more. A thousand thanks, madame!" He was
gone.
Unconscious tact had stifled the question of how he thought the trial
was going, and, although she did not know it, she had her reward. He
joined M. Rodoin in the court-yard of the hotel, and said:
"Crow, man of discernment! Your hazel-eyed Madame de Beaudrillart is a
phoenix. She answered my questions, and did not pester me with one of
her own. I should like to win the case, partly on that account, and
partly because Miron is so confoundedly cocksure."
"Win it, then."
"Any good in the father?"
"A typical bourgeois, accustomed to hector his neighbours, and not
altogether convinced in his own mind."
Maitre Barraud swept his hat to a charming lady who drove by in a
victoria.
"The Marquise de Pontharmin," he explained. "I dine with her to-night."
"While poor Madame de Beaudrillart imagines you preparing your defence
with a wet towel round your head?"
"The world's remarks are worth a dozen wet towels. Do you know, the
world is sometimes extraordinarily shrewd, and you can go and tell your
phoenix so. Here we part--till to-morrow!"