Leon's vanity felt a momentary mortification. Then he laughed.
"Forgive him," he said. "The situation was not so novel to him as to
us."
They were sitting together by this time, within easy reach of Raoul, on
a small, thick bough of a tree which jutted out from the bank. The
river ran by, swift and silvery, though Nathalie kept her eyes
persistently turned from it; the poplars rustled, above them were
fathomless depths of white and blue. The chateau itself lay behind and
out of sight, yet at this moment both were thinking of it; of its grey
stones, which somehow seemed to be built into the very lives of the De
Beaudrillarts; of those who had fought for it, sinned for it. Not one
of them had shielded it to more purpose from dishonour than the young
wife who had met so much contempt within its walls, whose picture had
been refused a place among the old ancestors.
Nathalie broke the silence.
"Have you read the bishop's letter!"
"To you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, poor Felicie!" Nathalie laughed.
"She does not care. All the vestments are going off to Madame Lemballe
to-morrow morning, and she intends to embroider herself an evening
dress. But the letter is delightful. So hearty! And he means to come
again."
"He will be more welcome than he was before. Nathalie, dearest," his
voice sank, "Monsieur Georges wants us to have rejoicings--something to
mark my home-coming. How can one have a merrymaking over what grew out
of misery and weakness? If it had not been for you the weakness would
have cost me my life; and as it is, my poor mother is left a wreck.
There is nothing to be proud of, though I hope I am thankful. What do
you say?"
She clung to him. "Dear love, no! Not merrymaking. One can show one's
thankfulness in some other way."
"Raoul will be a better man than I have been."
"Never dearer to those who love him."
"Even after all you heard in Paris?"
"Always, and forever." There was not a shadow of hesitation in her
voice, and when he put her from him and looked into her eyes, they met
his without shrinking. She repeated the word "Always."
"I believe you," he said, letting his head fall; "but you are different
from most women--and most men. I could not have done for you all that
you have done for me, or half of it."
She was looking at him with an infinite love, though she knew the truth
of what he said. The roots of love did not run deep enough with him; he
could not have done it--perhaps never would have force enough to do it.
What of that? It is better to give than to receive. When life has gone
so far, characters do not change suddenly, even when an earthquake has
shaken them. They grow a little stronger, a little weaker; they fall
and rise, or, alas, sometimes slip farther down the hill. We see the
slips and hear the clatter of falling stones more quickly than we notice
the gradual gain, inch by inch, which to clearer eyes than ours means
all the difference.
And so, though some of her dreams had flown forever, and there were
lines written on her face which no coming springs or summers could
efface, Nathalie was happy. When Claire had talked of Leon having no
soul, she was not far out, for something which he had not shown before
had been born in him by the strength of his wife's love. Life looked
different to him; the rose-leaves with which he tried to cover it up had
been swept away by the storm, scars were left, ugly chasms, rough
stones. But, side by side, hand in hand, walked his wife.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.