The famous trial was at an end, and talk rapidly subsiding. After Mme.
Lemaire's evidence it was felt that the prosecution fell to the ground,
and the jury brought in an acquittal at once. When Leon and Nathalie
met they could not speak. The woman in both was uppermost but voiceless
until they found themselves alone. He was aged, and there were lines in
his face which would never leave it, for although his nature was not
deep enough to suffer deeply, its easy lightness had offered no sort of
resistance when shaken by despair. Yet it seemed as if something had
come to him--perhaps the soul, which was wanting before, or lay
undeveloped, waiting for the touch of a great love. Love and suffering.
Their union is divine, and divine their mission and their strength.
A warrant was issued for the arrest of Charles Lemaire on the charge of
perjury, but he had taken advantage of the warning which at last reached
him from his wife to escape--it is believed--to America. For a long
time after that testimony to which her conscience forced her she was
very ill. She recovered at last, and found consolation in her
Orphanage. She would never see Nathalie again, but once Raoul was taken
to the Home, and stared amazedly at rows of little white beds, and at a
lady in black who looked at him and cried.
Perhaps of the actors in the little drama, M. Bourget, who seemed the
most square and solid figure of all, showed the roost change, or shared
that feature beyond the others with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He had gone
through a collapse. Hopes, opinions, ambitions, affections had tumbled
down together in one vast ruin, and although he managed to build some of
them up again, the feeling of insecurity which follows an earthquake
could not be easily got rid of. Until then he had scarcely believed
that there was any possible contingency in which money would not carry
the day. Certain it is that he bullies less, and on more than one
occasion has been known to abstain from laying down the law. Leroux has
never been forgiven, but the person for whom he displays the most
sincere respect, and to whose opinions he attaches a quite
disproportionate value is M. Georges. Meanwhile, although he has once
declined the honour, it is pretty certain that he will be chosen for the
next mayor.
As for M. Georges himself, it is the incredible which comes to pass,
and his wife--to his own utter amazement--is no other than a Demoiselle
De Beaudrillart. Had Mme. de Beaudrillart been herself, it could never
have happened, but the poor woman was struck down and shattered by the
storm which had shaken the very foundations of Poissy, and all her old
landmarks were swept away. And M. Georges had been such a stay, such a
support in the hour of trouble! Everybody turned to him. His unfailing
helpfulness, his good sense, his courageous loyalty attracted them to
the little man. Poor Claire! She had been attracted first of all, and
it was hard that having stood up for him when others blamed, she should
be obliged to look on and see Felicie chosen. As for Leon, what could
he say? It shocked him; but had he not been the cause of what might
have proved a really overwhelming disgrace? After all was said and
done, the fact remained that he had taken the notes, and there were
people who would throw it up at him when they heard his name all his
life long. And Nathalie was on M. Georges's side.
"Dear, if you married me, why should not Felicie marry Monsieur
Georges?"
It was one of those differences which seem infinite to the person who
has to decide, but which cannot be explained to the world. As for
Felicie herself, bliss smiled in her face. M. Georges had behaved
admirably. After welcoming M. and Mme. Leon, he had sought an
interview with Leon, laid himself and his small prospects most humbly at
Mlle. Felicie's feet, and taken himself off at once to Tours. Leon had
gone so far as to argue with his sister, and to ask her whether she had
fully considered what the change in position meant.
"Oh, it will be delightful!" exclaimed Felicie. "We shall be within
reach of Nantes, and every summer we shall take sea-baths, and see
something of the world."
"Of the world!" repeated Leon, petrified. "I thought you dreaded it!"
"As a girl, yes; but with my husband what should I dread?" said Felicie,
calmly. "Here it is certainly not gay, and lately, I can assure you,
Leon, with poor mamma so crushed, and Claire walking about with a face
of stone, and you in prison, if it had not been for Michel I don't know
what one would have done! Is it not delightful that he should have such
a beautiful name? Saint Michel's has always been a special day for me,
and I had all the new embroideries ready for it."
How could Leon answer this speech? Felicie's obstinacy was well known
in the family. He persisted so far as to ask whether she was prepared
to live in a very small way, and probably have no money for
pilgrimages--
"Michel has not quite made up his mind that pilgrimages do all the good
we suppose," interrupted Felicie, with the air of a discoverer.
"--And find yourself Madame Georges, instead of Mademoiselle de
Beaudrillart?"
"Claire said that no one would recognise us again," she remarked, in
answer; "and though it has all turned out so much better than we
expected, I do think that Michel was the only person who really believed
in you. Even the abbe was doubtful. I am sure you must be very
grateful to Michel always, dear Leon."
She carried the day. Claire would say nothing. Claire's misery seemed
scarcely lessened. It was as if the very possibility of such a disaster
as had threatened had turned her to marble, and that she could not come
to life again. She spent her time either with her mother, who was now
always in her own room, or wandering about the grounds by herself,
especially avoiding Felicie. All that Nathalie could do was to leave
books about in the salon, books such as she knew would interest her
sister-in-law, and to avoid comment when they disappeared. She hoped by
this means to offer a little food to her active mind without giving her
the annoyance of feeling herself under an obligation.
Two others who were perfectly happy at the chateau were Jacques
Charpentier and Raoul, and perhaps it was Raoul's talk which most
reconciled his father to Felicie's marriage. He was never tired of
vaunting M. Georges, or of bringing forward the small surprises which
had been prepared for this happy moment. Spurred by their motive, he
had submitted to learn to read, to print his own name, and to sing a
funny little song about a drummer in a shrill childish voice. He was
not content until he had dragged his father and mother down to the
river, that he might show them how he could throw his line like a
grown-up man.
It was a day in late autumn, one of those days which come laden with the
sweetness of the past. A ripe golden glow was abroad, shining on the
yellow leaves of the poplars, and reaching the hearts of husband and
wife as they stood by the river and watched it flowing by strong and
swift. There was enough wind to stir the long grasses by its side,
always moist and green; to drive a few white clouds softly across the
sky, and to give a delicious exhilaration to the light air. Gnats
danced in the sun, a distant sound of children's voices reached the ear,
and old Antoine, in his sabots, clattered across the bridge. On this
bridge there was a patch of new wood, still out of tone with the old
railing and its soft, rich grey, and a few bits of useless stuff which
the river had flung on one side on a certain wild night not so very long
ago had been turned over by the thrifty villagers, and left as of no
value. Antoine was looking forward to a good storm when he would go up
to the chateau and come back unmolested with a fine supply of fuel. He
glanced at the two figures as they stood by the water-side, and
chuckled. "It's as easy to hold one's tongue as to talk," he muttered,
"and pays better."
For a time the two were silent. Now first had they seen the river since
that terrible night, and their hearts were too full for speech.
Suddenly Nathalie was in her husband's arms, strained there
passionately. "My dear one!" he whispered, again and again; nothing
more, and perhaps it was a good sign that his old flow of words was
wanting.
She had closed her eyes in the dizziness of her bliss, and when she
opened them again he rained kisses on them, those eyes which held in the
brown clearness the fresh healthiness of a mountain stream.
After a time they could speak, both trembling.
"You saved me," he said, "three times over. Here--"
"Don't talk of that," she shuddered.
"--Then by making me tell the truth, then by going to that poor woman.
Body and soul, three times over."
He had let her go, and they walked, step by step, through the long green
grass. She sighed softly: "I am so happy that I am afraid."
She felt as if she had reached heaven, and, as she had said, it
frightened her until she had breathed a prayer. That calmed her
swelling heart, and she could bear to hear him whisper again:
"Three times over."
"Dear," she said, "what of that? When one loves--"
"They all loved me. But only your love was strong enough to stand by
me."
She gave a quick, happy laugh.
"We have gained friends," she said. "Monsieur Rodoin."
"And Maitre Barraud."
"Not he. He only thought of his case, and of triumphing over Maitre
Miron. When they were all congratulating you afterwards, do you know
what I saw?"
"What?"