Frances Peard (continued 2)

She said this to her son, and he smiled.

“With all my heart, though you may find it difficult to efface my future father-in-law.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart shuddered.

“I imagine that he can be made to understand the situation.”

“He would tell you that he understood it perfectly. If you could look into his ledger, I am convinced that you would find on one page an entry of value received, title, position, what you like, and on the opposite the purchase-money, so many hundred thousand francs. But he will see that he gets what he pays for.”

“You mean he will expect to come here!”

“Is that unreasonable?”

Mme. de Beaudrillart flung back her head.

“I think so. If he regards the matter in the light of a bargain, I do not see where he comes in.”

“I imagine his daughter will think otherwise,” said Léon, caressing a kitten which had sprung on his knee.

Mme. de Beaudrillart replied, with perhaps unintentional bitterness:

“She, at any rate, may be satisfied with what she has got.”

“As to that,” returned her son, a little less lazily than he had hitherto spoken, “she has not yet consented.”

His mother folded her hands on the table before her, and looked steadily at him.

“Do me the favour, Léon, to explain.”

“It is perfectly simple. I do not think that I am repugnant to her; but she says that she must know me better, and judge for herself before deciding.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart shut her thin lips and remained silent. When she spoke at last, it was to say, in a hushed voice:

“Do not repeat this to your sisters, Léon, unless you wish to degrade your future wife in their eyes. It is all unspeakably bourgeoise.”

“It is charming, whatever it is,” he replied, good-humouredly. “The world goes on, mother, even at Poissy. My great-great-grandfather stormed a castle and killed half a dozen gentlemen to gain a bride; I, his descendant, am—”

“Bidden to a builder’s back parlour to see whether you are approved of! The first was infinitely the more respectable. The world goes fast, as you say, because it is easy enough to go downhill. Even the crimes of the present day are petty and sordid. In old times men smote and slew; now they cheat and steal.”

With a sudden movement Léon turned on his chair and dislodged the kitten, which sprang to the ground and mewed protestingly. The change which every now and then altered his face, and robbed it of its youth, was there now, and it startled his mother.

“My Léon, what is it? You are ill!” she exclaimed, anxiously.

“It is past,” he said, with an effort.

“But what was it!”

“A spasm.”

“My poor boy! I know how it is. You work too hard, and fret yourself over that debt. As if Monsieur de Cadanet would not be happy enough to wait your convenience! Well, there is this to be said for Mademoiselle Bourget: although I know you are indifferent to her dowry, it will free you from worry on that score.” While she spoke she went to a small cupboard, unlocked it, took out a glass and bottle, each of rare design and workmanship, and came back. “There,” she said, pouring a few drops into a glass, and putting it to his lips, “drink. It is an old cordial, which agrees with the Beaudrillart blood. You are better!”

“Well,” said Léon, smiling again. “I know that stuff of old. It is magical.”

“For your family, yes.”

“You think it would not cure Monsieur Bourget!”

“It will not have the chance,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, quietly. She was replacing the glass and bottle in the cupboard when a thought struck her. “By-the-way, Léon—”

“Yes.”

“You have never given me Monsieur de Cadanet’s acknowledgment of the five hundred francs you forwarded; and as I keep all the receipts together, I should be glad to have it.” There was a short silence. Then Léon stretched himself, got up, and went to the window, the kitten in his arms.

“Ah,” he said, “he has not sent any.”

“Not sent any! But why?”

“Who can tell? Monsieur de Cadanet appeared to me to be an eccentric. Perhaps he thinks the sum too trifling. Perhaps he is conveniently forgetful—perhaps—oh, we need not worry. He has received it, without doubt.”

“I do not like it,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, frowning.

“No, it is unbusinesslike, is it not? Console yourself, mother. When you pay anything to Monsieur Bourget, you will have your acknowledgment executed with every formality and the most scrupulous exactitude.”

If he hoped by this counter-irritation to turn her thoughts, he apparently succeeded. The idea of M. Bourget’s tradesmanlike qualities produced its desired effect as a foil to M. de Cadanet’s carelessness. But that she was not absolutely satisfied was evident from her calling after Léon, as he left the room:

“All the same, would it not be well for me to write and ascertain whether the money has reached him safely? The post is not absolutely safe, and it would be extremely annoying to find there had been any failure in delivery.”

Léon came back hurriedly.

“Mother, I must entreat you, leave the matter with me. Do not on any account, now or at a future time, interfere between me and Monsieur de Cadanet. You might do me incalculable harm.”

He spoke with sharp excitement, altogether unlike himself, and Mme. de Beaudrillart stared amazedly. If either of her other children had addressed her in such a tone, the offence would have been grievous; as it was, it was Léon, and Léon, as she immediately reflected, not quite himself, so that she contented herself with saying, stiffly:

“Calm yourself, Léon; you should be well aware that I am not likely to act in a manner to endanger either your interests or your honour with Monsieur de Cadanet or any other person.”

He turned from her, came back, and kissed her impulsively. But what he said had apparently nothing to do with what had passed.

“Poor mother! You are glad that we kept Poissy?”

“If we had lost it, I think it would have killed me.”

She had never admitted so much.

“Come, courage, then!” he exclaimed; “it appears now as if it would be tolerably safe; and with you and Nathalie—if I can win her—by my side, one may defy even—”

“Who!” demanded his mother, anxiously.

“Oh, Monsieur Bourget, to be sure!” he cried, with a laugh, as he shut the door.

It was true, although Mme. de Beaudrillart would not believe it, and although M. de Bourget growled at the girl’s whims, that Nathalie hesitated whether or not she should accept M. de Beaudrillart. For her neither Poissy nor alliance with an ancient family offered attractions; on the contrary, she thought of both with dread and shrinking, foreseeing trials which might prove almost unendurable. If the course of wooing had been such as Mme. de Beaudrillart’s etiquette exacted, and all the advances had been made by deputy, it is very certain that Nathalie would have rejected her honours, in spite of her terrible father’s displeasure. But a nameless something had attracted her to Léon on the day when they first met before the cathedral, and each of the two interviews which followed deepened the attraction. There was an open, easy charm about the young man difficult to resist. She knew that he had been extravagant, and the knowledge caused her some disquiet, but would not have shaken her determination; indeed, disgraceful as it would have seemed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, when they had seen each other but three times, she was hopelessly and irretrievably in love.

Then, one day, in an old carriage, as old as the hills, drawn by two borrowed horses, and driven by Jean Charpentier’s brother, Mme. de Beaudrillart rolled into Tours, and solemnly demanded the hand of Mlle. Nathalie Bourget for her son, M. Léon de Beaudrillart.

To her son, even, his mother never related the details of that interview. M. Bourget, not so reticent, repeated over and over again with glee the speeches he had made, the answers he had received. While he took care to preserve to himself the honours of the encounter, he delighted in accentuating Mme. de Beaudrillart’s pride, that those who listened to him might not fail to understand what sort of family this was into which Nathalie was about to marry. It was true that some of her fine sarcasms, her scarcely-veiled contempt, were as little felt by him as the sting of a gnat upon the hide of a rhinoceros; but he was acute enough to understand that she wished to humiliate him as a revenge for the humiliation she was enduring herself, and appreciated the desire as fitting on the part of the owners of Poissy. She had said to him:

“I cannot attempt to conceal from you, Monsieur Bourget, that my son’s choice has caused me profound astonishment. With his person and his position, he might have married into any of the great families of France, and I am certain you are too sensible a man to take offence when I say that such a marriage would have appeared to me far more appropriate.”

“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaudrillart reflects that when one marries one must live,” remarked M. Bourget, dryly.

But so far was he from taking offence that he repeated the speech with real enjoyment to a small lawyer of his acquaintance, a red republican like himself.

“And you endured such insolence!” cried M. Leroux, bounding on his chair.

“Endured? I can tell you that I admired it. I did not let her see it, it is true, for one must keep such people in their places; but, after all, she is right, for a De Beaudrillart may marry where he pleases.” And M. Bourget, radiant with delight, brought his hand heavily down on the table, and leaned forward to give his words more effect: “He marries my daughter.”

It was the crowning point of his life. No other moment in his career—and he had had his triumphs—had caused him such unmitigated satisfaction. Tours rang with the news, the very walls seemed to whisper it in his ears as he walked along the narrow streets, and he never failed to pass by the photographer’s, and to fling a glance of recognition at Poissy—Poissy, with its delicate grace, its exquisite lines—as who should say, “Tiens, ma belle, thou and I are no longer strangers; we belong to each other.”

With M. Bourget in this amiable mood, all went smoothly.

Léon, who was well aware of the accepted opinion of his father-in-law and his rigid economies, was amazed by the liberality of his proposals. He had expected carpings, opposition, cutting down, and he found, to his astonishment, that M. Bourget’s principal care was that the estate should pass unencumbered to Nathalie’s children. One day he said, frankly:

“See here, Monsieur de Beaudrillart,”—he never called his future son-in-law by any other name—“I am perfectly aware that you have committed innumerable follies, and that it has even been touch and go whether you could keep Poissy. At one time, unless rumour lies even more than is usual with her, I might have got possession of it myself. But that, I at once admit, would not have suited me. Poissy without the De Beaudrillarts would be like a body without a soul; you two have to keep together, if you are to hold your position in the world; and now that Nathalie is to become one of you, it is my business to see that you do keep together. You comprehend! For what is past I care nothing; I put no inquiries, it is over. It is what is to come which is my affair. There must be no more follies, no more extravagances. My part of the bargain is to see that when you start you stand on your legs. Well and good. I accept it. I will give my daughter a sum which should be sufficient to set you free from every entanglement—for hampered you must be, and heavily—and enable you with care to regain your proper position; and I tell you, without hesitation, that I do this because I have always resolved that Nathalie should marry above her station. What will you? It is perhaps a folly, a weakness, but—it pleases me. I wish to see her where I have no inclination to be myself, and, like other things in this world, what we want we must pay for. There, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, you have the situation, and my motive.”

Léon had listened to this harangue with an inscrutable face. When M. Bourget paused—rather scant of breath—he looked up and said, pleasantly:

“Mine is simpler. I love Nathalie.”

Chapter Five.

A Whim.

Romance, which gives itself the airs of unfettered liberty, has nevertheless its laws, and it was contrary to these laws that Léon should have been in love with the girl who brought him such a fortune as put him at once beyond the reach of embarrassment. No one, not even his mother, believed it; if she had, it is doubtful whether she could have put up with Nathalie at all. She assured herself that the marriage belonged to the new developments of prudence in Léon, a praiseworthy continuation of his efforts to redeem the estate; and while she appreciated the sacrifice he had made, she never ceased to pity him for having been obliged to make it. Nothing which he could say or do succeeded in convincing her or his sisters as to what had been his real motive—perhaps no one in the world credited it except Nathalie herself.

It was true, however, that he really loved her, and with the easy carelessness of his nature managed to turn his back upon the past, to stop his ears when he heard it calling after him, and to forget that it has hands as well as voices. He had acknowledged to his father-in-law that there was a debt on the estate of two hundred thousand francs. M. Bourget closed his eyes and pursed his mouth.

“And this you propose to pay—how?”

“By instalments. My creditor does not press me.”

“He must be a fool or a relation, then,” announced the ex-builder, with a loud laugh. “Perhaps both. Well, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, pressed or not, we must get that stone off your neck, I suppose you have not sent much by way of repayment.”

“Five hundred francs.” Léon spoke in a low voice.

“Ta ta! It will take a good many five hundred francs to repay two hundred thousand,” mocked M. Bourget.

The young man was silent.

“Well, I have said that it should be done, and I will be as good as my word. No one has ever been able to say that I was worse. This sum absolutely clears Poissy!”

“Absolutely.”

“And there is but one debtor?”

“But one.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, but I am a man of business. Some sort of bond, I imagine, exists? I should be glad to have a sight of it.”

To M. Bourget’s stupefaction, Léon sprang to his feet in a rage.

“Monsieur, you doubt my word! You insult me! Do you suppose that I will submit to dictation from any man, least of all from you! I have told you the position of affairs, and if you do not choose to believe me, let there be an end of everything.”

“Softly, softly,” said M. Bourget—to tell the truth, as much alarmed as amazed—“it appears to me that if I am going to pay, the suggestion was not unreasonable. Since, however, it offends you so mortally, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, we will say no more about it.” He added, with a great sigh, “I suppose you fine gentlemen do not carry out your affairs so methodically as we. The wonder to me is not that you so often come to grief as that you ever escape shipwreck. To object to the existence of a bond! However, as you will, as you will!”

Léon did not at once recover his usual good temper. He looked pale and sat staring moodily at the ground. But, strange to say, what in one of his own class would have excited M. Bourget’s anger and suspicion, here rather afforded him satisfaction than otherwise. The De Beaudrillarts were of another race, these outbursts of pride belonged to their history, their traditions, and, though he would have died sooner than betray it, M. Bourget’s feeling towards them comprised something of the abject loyalty with which the working bee regards his queen. He promised himself that Nathalie’s money should be as safely secured as the law permitted, but he, to whom the outgoing of a piece of ten sous was a matter of consideration, by some curious contradiction gloried in the carelessness which would disperse a fortune with as little heed as if money were to be had for the picking up. Glancing at Léon he said, tentatively:

“One may not even ask the name of the creditor?”

“I cannot give it,” Léon answered, shortly.

“At any rate, when the money is paid you will show me the receipt?”

“Impossible.”

M. Bourget judged it necessary to make a show of displeasure. He frowned heavily.

“Allow me to say, Monsieur le baron, that you demand more confidence than you display.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Léon, lightly, once more. “But if I give you my word of honour that the money will be sent to the creditor, you will be satisfied, will you not?”

M. Bourget was satisfied, whether he suffered himself to appear so or not. The word of a De Beaudrillart had gained an enormous value in his eyes. Yet Léon’s next remark was sufficiently startling.

“If you are so good as to clear Poissy of debt when Nathalie enters it as my wife, may I ask you to pay the sum into my banker’s, so that I may take it out in the form most convenient.”

“A cheque would tell tales,” muttered M. Bourget to himself. “Decidedly, there is a mystery somewhere. However, when one is drawn into an old family such as the De Beaudrillarts, one must accept mysteries. The money will be paid. He gave me his word. For the rest, I shall see that Nathalie is safe.”

It will be perceived that anxiety for the marriage had brought M. Bourget to the point of swallowing a great deal, but as regarded the payment of the debt, Mme. de Beaudrillart also had her anxieties. As soon as Léon and his wife were settled at Poissy, she sounded her son on the subject, one day, immediately after the late breakfast, when Nathalie had left the room to fetch her hat, and Félicie and Claire obeyed a hint from their mother and followed.

“Until now,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, “I have not spoken of the necessary business, but there is one point which should be settled at once.”

He laughed, and kissed her on each cheek.

“Only one! What luck!”

“Well, only one that presses: your debt to Monsieur de Cadanet.”

“Ah!” He made a step towards the window, but came back. “That is paid.”

“Already!”

“The day after our wedding.”

She looked at him admiringly. “Ah, you are a man of honour! Monsieur de Cadanet cannot say that you have lost so much as a day. He must have congratulated you?”

“He is not a man of words.”

“Perhaps not; but a few on such an occasion would have done him no harm. Do you mean to say that no felicitations came with his acknowledgment?”

“Not one.”

“The bear! I really think from what you have told me he must have changed very much—”

“Don’t blame him, mother. His money saved Poissy,” said Léon, quickly.

“Certainly. You need not tell me that. But what harm has it done him! Principal and interest have both been repaid in full, and I do not forget his indebtedness to your father. Say what you will, he has been very boorish. And, Léon, though you did not give me his former acknowledgment, it is quite necessary that this last should be placed in safe keeping.”

He was silent, and she looked at him uneasily. His short, abrupt sentences, so different from his usual gay chatter, some change in his face, disturbed her. She felt it her duty to press the point.

“It should be put into the iron safe with the other deeds. Come, Léon, do not delay; let us see to it at once.”

“I am going out with Nathalie.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart frowned. “Nathalie! Surely Nathalie can wait! You jest.”

“No, mother, but you don’t understand that I am indisposed for business.”

“If you have no better excuse, I must ask you to fetch the paper at once.” His allusion to his wife had angered her.

“I have my own boxes.”

“They are not sufficiently secure for the acknowledgment of such a sum. Consider. One day you may have to reckon with Monsieur de Cadanet’s heirs, who may not be so obliging as Monsieur de Cadanet.”

Consider! As if this knowledge had not weighed upon him ever since that autumn day. Not once had he ventured to Paris. Now at last he was safe, and why not satisfy his mother? He turned to her gaily.

“Study a woman if you want to learn persistence. Well, mother, wait for me, and if Nathalie comes, ask her to stroll towards the river, while you and I make a pilgrimage to the strong-box.”

If Mme. de Beaudrillart hoped to have feasted her eyes upon the paper, she was mistaken. What her son brought and deposited in the safe was a long blank envelope, securely scaled. She suggested in vain that something on the cover should mark its contents.

“Unnecessary. You and I are both likely to remember.”

“As to remembering, yes. But it seems foolish. What possible objection can you have?”

“A whim.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart remarked that a whim was unmethodical.

“Oh, I admit it. But as Monsieur Bourget is not likely ever to rummage among these papers—”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Let us be unmethodical in peace. Besides, I have my reasons, and—Nathalie is waiting. Don’t you find her enchanting?”

“I think she has good sense.”

“And Claire and Félicie? She is so anxious, poor child, to love you all.”

“In good time,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, coldly. “She has a great deal to learn, and we must expect some mistakes, but perhaps by-and-by she may take her position, and forget her little bourgeoise ways and small economics.”

He flushed. “We have had to adopt small economies ourselves, for that matter, mother.”

“Yes. Because they were necessary. With her it is because they are natural. Still, as I said, she has good sense, and I do not despair.”

“She is charming,” murmured the young man, under his breath. He was fully aware that prejudices against his wife existed in the house, but troubled himself very little about them. In time, no doubt, they would all shake in together. Meanwhile, he was quite able to shut his eyes to disagreeables which did not actually affect him. Winter was over, and heaven and earth had leaped into the radiance of spring. Poissy, with its delicate colours, its fretted carvings, smiled at its owners through a veil of fairy-like green. The debt was paid, husband and wife wandered together by the river which ran full after heavy rains, care had vanished, and the sun shone out again.

Nathalie, too, was happy, in spite of having many things to endure for Léon’s sake. It cannot be said that they came upon her unexpectedly, for she had always dreaded Poissy, and all the De Beaudrillarts, except Léon, as deeply as her father desired them. Weighed against Léon, she decided that they were as nothing, but this was before she had tried them, and with Love sitting heavily in one balance, it is next to impossible fairly to adjust the opposite weights.

She had a noble character, and this meant a strong will, but Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters—Claire, at any rate—had wills of iron. How much and how little to yield became a perpetually fretting problem. At first she carried her doubts to her husband, until she found that he could give her nothing more satisfying than a laugh and a shrug.

“Dear, I know it, I know it, but what will you! My mother has always been accustomed to rule. I often tell her she should have lived a century or two earlier than these degenerate days; and as for Claire and Félicie, they are exactly the same, only she has never allowed them the opportunity to develop, so they are obliged to try their hands on other people. Take my advice, and let them have their way. It will not hurt us, and it will teach you to bless Heaven for having bestowed upon you a husband whom you can twist round your little finger.”

She shook her head.

“You know I don’t want to twist you round my finger.”

“But I am quite willing. Why not spend your energies that way, if my mother will not consent to leave you any other department in which to exercise them.”

They were standing together in one of the deep windows of the château, looking out upon a stately terrace, and a garden brilliant, as the Poissy garden had not been for many years, with the rich colouring of summer flowers. Her hand was in his, and she was silent while he talked. But presently she gave a deep sigh, of which he demanded an explanation. She smiled, and said:

“It is only wonder.”

“Wonder at what!”

“At myself, at you, that we should be here together, and that I should be your wife. I did not think so much about it at the time, but now it seems as if I should never understand how either your mother or my father consented. She has a horror of parvenues, and he—he—”

“Of the idle rich. But you are not so cruel as to call me idle!”

“No.” She looked at him reflectively. “He said that once you were, but that you had changed. What changed you, Léon?”

“Years and necessity,” he replied, after a momentary pause. “So my father told me. And I am sure that was what made him approve, for he thought it showed great strength of character. He did indeed, and it made me so proud.” Léon winced. Naturally it was galling to M. de Beaudrillart to hear of the approval of M. Bourget. She went on, her head with its wealth of red-brown hair resting against his shoulder, her eyes fixed on the big scarlet pomegranate which flamed on the terrace.

“But—there is one thing I want to say.”

“And while you stay like this I am perfectly content to listen all day long.”

“Ah, but you must be serious.”

“I am. Look at me.”

She looked, and he kissed her. “Now, go on. That is only the preamble.”

“It is rather distracting when one wants to collect one’s ideas,” said Nathalie, smiling, but shaking her head. “However, what I want to say is that I hope you will let me help you in what you have to do.”

“You are helping me now—to perfection.”

“You know that is not what I mean. For one thing, I am really an excellent house-keeper, for my father was very strict in his accounts, and never permitted waste.”

“Poor little economist!” said the young man, lightly smoothing her head. “My Nathalie, are you aware that the colour of your hair is simply adorable?”

“Now you are not attending.”

“I am, indeed I am. Let me see; where were wet. Your father never permitted waste. No. I can imagine Monsieur Bourget rather a severe taskmaster.”

“But it was exceedingly useful, and I was glad of it when I knew we were to marry, for I said to myself that if I were not a grand lady, at least I should know how to help you. No, no, Léon, listen! I can keep accounts—only try me, you will not find me ten sous out by the end of the month. And,”—she hesitated slightly—“if she would allow it, I am certain I could spare Madame de Beaudrillart a great deal of trouble. May I ask her?”

“Ask what you like and who you like, so long as you remember that you belong first of all to me,” he said, gaily.

“I hope that they will grow to endure me in time,” she went on. “Of course, I mustn’t be unreasonable and expect everything to come all at once, but—by-and-by. Do you know that it is your sister, Mademoiselle Félicie—”

“Good heavens, Nathalie, don’t call her mademoiselle, as if you were her maid!”

She corrected herself shyly. “Félicie, then. It is Félicie whom I dread the most.”

“I should have fancied that Claire might have been especially alarming.”

“Yes, only I understand her. It is what I expected. But Mad—Félicie is so good and so devout, no nun could be more so, always working for the Church, and she seemed so shocked when I said my father thought ladies—religious ladies, you know—often made the poor pay towards things which they did not understand.”

“Did you actually tell Félicie that!”

“Yes, I did. Was I wrong?” she asked, anxiously. “But, Léon, it is true, it is indeed! I can recollect a number of cases in which the poor peasants fancied the most terrible things would happen unless they paid money to avert them. You see, they are so ignorant, there is nothing they will not believe if only you can frighten them. Of course, Félicie does not know this, and perhaps I should not have told her!”

“Oh, as to that, it doesn’t matter; it may do her good,” he said, amused. “Only of all things to say to Félicie! Did you also inform her you thought they should be educated! She will put you down as a heretic. I must tell Claire.” Nathalie looked distressed.

“If you say that in such a tone, I am afraid that it was an impertinence. Léon, indeed I did not dream of such a thing, only when she asked me whether I had ever collected money for banners, and whether I did not think it a great privilege to help the Church, I could not answer in any other way, and yet tell the truth. Could I? No, don’t smile, because it is serious, and there is no one here of whom I can venture to ask anything but you.”

“Ah, don’t make me your conscience, chérie! Or only do so when you think your own means to be hard upon you. Why trouble your pretty head in the matter! But if you must, I will let you into a very important secret: simply that if you fret yourself whenever you say something to displease my mother or my two sisters, you may just say good-bye at once to your peace of mind forever. It is impossible to avoid it, even for you, angel as you are! They and you will always regard things from a totally different point of view.”

Her eyes turned gravely on his.

“For a time—don’t say always, Léon. I am prepared for that at first, but certainly I can learn what they like if—”

“If?”

“If you will help me.”

“Then you will be different, and I don’t want you to be different. Let them go their way; you and I can be all in all to each other, if you remain your own dear self—the Nathalie I adore. I wish for nothing more.”

How could she resist the sweet charm of such words! While he spoke life seemed easy, and happiness eternal. Full of good-will to all men, she never doubted that time would win her the hearts of the women who loved Léon. She had a strong and noble quality of justice in her character, which gave her the power of judging calmly, and even enabled her to look at herself from the unsympathetic point of view of another person. With a fine intellect and a courageous nature, she did not fear difficulties although she realised them. Before she had been a week at Poissy she had gathered enough to know that a hard task lay before her, and as time went on acknowledged that she must face them alone, except for the almost passionate prayers she sent up. She did not lose heart. But she was impulsive, and, worse, impatient of all that seemed to her small and petty. Bourgeoise though she might be, her education had been excellent, and had given her a far broader outlook than was possessed by either the Poissy demoiselles or their mother. She read English and German books, sometimes even thought she might find in them a safe subject for discussion. In spite of herself, Claire was not unwilling to listen, but Félicie was shocked out of measure.

“Why do you wish to read those unsafe writings?” she would ask. “Do you know, Nathalie, that if people hear of it they will imagine you to be a Protestant or an unbeliever.”

“But I am neither. I read because it interests one to know what is thought in other countries.”

“That cannot be right,” said Félicie, decidedly. “It is flinging away safeguards.”

“How?”

“Because here you can ask your priest whether a book is allowable.”

Nathalie looked at her bending short-sightedly over her frame, wistful wonder in her own eyes.

“Do you mean that you always ask the priest before you read!”

“Always, always!” exclaimed Félicie. “If not, it is very certain that one might be led into a sin. Do not you?”

“I have never been accustomed to such restrictions,” said Mme. Léon in a low voice. “Perhaps your priest is a great reader?”

“He reads his breviary,” her sister-in-law answered, reproachfully.

Claire, who felt with anger that Félicie was making herself ridiculous, struck in sharply:

“I do not agree with Félicie, but I think there should be limits, and I cannot say I see the use of staffing your head with all that foreign literature. It has never been our custom.”

“But do you not like to know what others think?”

“That is of small consequence,” said Claire, superbly.

“It is far better to do something useful,” announced her sister, threading her needle.

“One may do more useful work than embroider vestments, however,” Claire returned. She despised Félicie’s narrow interests, and if Nathalie had been one of her own rank, Claire would have warmly taken her side in the matter of books. As it was, Nathalie was too shy to fight the battle of the uses of self-improvement, but a life without new books or newspapers, which appeared to rest under the same ban, looked so empty to her that she consulted her husband.

His advice, as usual, was to please herself. “Order what you want, and ask no one.”

“But if it displeases your mother!” said Nathalie, timidly. “Then keep them in your own room. There they cannot be suspected of imperilling Félicie’s soul.”

She followed this counsel, though to her frank disposition even an appearance of concealment was hateful. And as it was known that newspapers and periodicals came to the house, she was constantly subject to remarks showing the disapproval in which such reading was held. Claire, it is true, looked at the parcels with envy, and would have given much to borrow them. It was not horror of them which withheld her, but dislike to be indebted even for so much to her sister-in-law, and invincible distrust of any one connected with M. Bourget of Tours.

Chapter Six.

The Bliss of Monsieur Bourget.

M. Bourget of Tours, meanwhile, should have been a happy man, for he had all but reached the very summit of his desires. His daughter was installed at Poissy, and twenty times a day he turned in the direction of the château, as a fire-worshipper turns towards the sun, to offer a silent and rapturous homage, partly to past generations of Beaudrillarts, and partly to his own sagacious industry which had achieved this triumph. To his acquaintances he made no effort to conceal his elation. Conversation could not be carried on for five minutes without a dexterous twist bringing it round to Poissy. The very name in his mouth became larger and more substantial. To his cronies, those especially who had daughters, he grew insupportable, or only to be endured from fear of offending a man who was a powerful enemy, and had obtained great influence in town matters. His short, square, vigorous figure, attired in a light-coloured alpaca coat, and surmounted by a round grizzled head, red-faced and bull-necked, might be seen advancing towards the café where he daily took his coffee—just flavoured with absinthe—with an indescribable air of majesty, which excited the mockery of those who dared to laugh, but was not without its awe-inspiring influence upon others. Always his walk led him in the direction of the photographer’s, and always he stood for a few moments to gaze upon Poissy, but by some singular hesitation, out of keeping, as it seemed, with the pride which he made no attempt to conceal, he had never allowed himself to buy a copy of the object of his worship.

Outside the café, woe betide the acquaintance whom M. Bourget signalled to sit with him at one of the small tables where he took his usual refreshment! It was necessary that he should hear everything connected with the past, present, or future history of Poissy; its rooms had to be described in detail, the great question of who was to be trusted with the necessary repairs must be discussed, and the point whether they should begin with the hall or the chapel. He invited opinions, but if the opinions differed from his own he grew heated, brought down his fist upon the little table, and declared that only a fool could hold such ridiculous theories. One of his first victims was the little lawyer, M. Leroux, who, being miserably poor, endured like a peppery martyr, with the hope that for the sake of a good listener M. Bourget would be moved to the unusual generosity of paying for both portions of coffee. For this end he promised himself that, let his temper incite him as it might, nothing should induce him to contradict the formidable new aristocrat. He manfully endured a double-dose of Poissy, and choked down certain strong expressions which rose to the tip of his tongue when he heard M. Bourget excusing his son-in-law’s political opinions.

“After all, it is natural that if a man is born to such ideas, they should stick to him,” he said, paternally. “You and I, Leroux, are shot into the world, and left to pick up what we can; we have no traditions to offend, and no rights to relinquish. With my son-in-law it is different. He arrives. Behind him stretch a long line of Beaudrillarts, crying out, ‘Thou art of the race, thou; and the race must continue. We give thee Poissy for thy life; guard it, and pass it on.’ That puts him in another position from us, hein?”

“Altogether,” agreed the lawyer, sourly. He would have liked to have darted Léon’s extravagances at M. Bourget, and inquired where then had been his duty to his ancestors; but he feared.

“Besides, one must remember,” said the ex-builder, pouring an exactly measured spoonful of absinthe into his cup, and replacing the bottle before him, without apparently noticing M. Leroux’s clink of his own spoon, “one must remember that the De Beaudrillarts have earned their repose. In their day, and when you and I did not exist, they gave and received a pretty number of hard knocks.”

“Pray, did Monsieur de Beaudrillart then exist!” demanded the lawyer, with an irrepressible sneer; for he was stung by the distance of the absinthe bottle, and objected to such distinctions.

“His representatives. His former representatives,” repeated M. Bourget, imperturbably, with a grand air which embraced the ancient family. “No, I do not blame the young man for thinking differently from you and me. If he had an inclination to stand for the Chamber, I should even give him my vote.”

“Yes,” said Leroux, eyeing his cup, and reflecting whether he could venture on a second with the hope that M. Bourget would pay. As the waiter passed at this moment he decided to risk the outlay, and to humour his neighbour. “Well, and I have no doubt you would be right.”

“If I did it, certainly it would be right,” M. Bourget returned, superbly; “for you know very well that I do not act without reason.”

“No, no. Never to change one’s opinions would be to pass through life like a machine.”

“What!” cried M. Bourget, with a snort resembling that of an angry bull.

“I remarked merely that, from time to time, one must accommodate one’s ideas,” the lawyer hastened to explain. “I should do so myself.”

“Accommodate one’s ideas! Pray, monsieur, to what do you allude!”

“Peste!” cried M. Leroux, losing patience, “have you not just remarked that were Monsieur de Beaudrillart to stand for the Chamber you would vote for him! I presume that means a change of opinion.”

“Then you are an imbecile!” thundered M. Bourget. “I have never changed my opinions by a jot, and I should despise myself if I did so. Because I consider that Monsieur de Beaudrillart, the owner of Poissy, and the descendant of a long line of ancestors, has a right to be heard in the councils of his country, no one who had not the most mediocre intelligence would conclude that I had embraced his politics. Go, monsieur,” he continued, standing up, and leaning on the table with the points of his fingers. “You are ridiculous!”

If M. Leroux had dared, it would have given him extreme pleasure to have committed M. Bourget, his son-in-law, and Poissy, which by this time he detested, to the hottest place that could have been provided for them. But, although the coffee represented only a lost hope, M. Bourget was now and then able to throw him a few minor law cases which he could not afford to imperil, and he hastened to attempt to pacify his irritated sensibilities.

“Pardon, monsieur; certainly I should have understood you better. Now that you have explained, I see exactly what you meant to express, and what I might have known. Certainly that is a very different thing from changing your opinions.”

(“Devil take me if it is!” he muttered, under his breath.)

M. Bourget still glared at him.

“I am glad you have come to your senses,” he said, surlily.

“Poissy is, of coarse, an ornament of our neighbourhood.” The lawyer managed to get out the words without grimacing.

“The ornament, the ornament, monsieur.”

“The ornament, I should say.”

“And the De Beaudrillarts among our most ancient families.”

“Oh, con—Certainly, Monsieur Bourget, certainly. The most ancient.”

“Precisely. Are you aware that you have not paid for your coffee?”

The lawyer rummaged his pockets. “I am not certain that I have enough change with me.”

“Ah, that is inconvenient,” remarked M. Bourget, carelessly. “Never mind. Antoine will trust you. And I will give you a word of advice. Always take a little, a very little, absinthe with your coffee. It is more wholesome. What were we talking about? Oh, it was Poissy, was it not?”

But M. Leroux could endure no more.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Bourget, I am already late for an appointment. I must not lose time any longer, even over such an interesting subject.”

“Well, look in, and I will show you my suggestions for the north wing,” the ex-builder called after him. “Ah, ha, there is Fléchier; he might have an idea. Fléchier!”

The individual addressed, on the other side of the street, only quickened his steps, with a wave of his hand.

“Ah, my friend, it is you! Grieved that I can’t stop. Business. Another day. Au revoir.”

“What has come to the world, then, that every one is so confoundedly busy to-day?” grumbled M. Bourget. “I should have said I knew most of the affairs that are going on in Tours. I must go and inquire. The house is not so agreeable, now there is no one but old Fanchon to give one a word of welcome. However, Nathalie is a good girl, and deserves the good-fortune I have found for her. Madame Léon de Beaudrillart—or should it be Madame la baronne? No, certainly. There are baronesses in plenty, but not so many Beaudrillarts. Madame Léon de Beaudrillart, née Bourget. Ah, it is magnificent!”

So far—it was a month after the marriage—M. Bourget had abstained from going to Poissy. What withheld him is difficult to conjecture. Was it a certain shyness, strangely at variance with his brusque, sometimes brutal, bearing? This man, who had fought down opposition, and made himself terrible to his foes—this man, who cared little what he said himself, and laughed his great laugh when he heard what was said of him—was it possible that the bare idea of finding himself received on an equality at Poissy, which after all he had so largely benefited, made him tremble like any young girl presented to royalty? Whatever it was, and he gave no hint of his sensations to a living soul, the fact remained that while Mme. de Beaudrillart shivered at the idea of an invasion in which he would march round Poissy as if he were its purchaser, he had not yet so much as set foot within its walls. His daughter and Léon had come in two or three times to see him, and it had given him exquisite pleasure to perceive them driving along the street in the charming carriage which had been his wedding present to Nathalie. The first time that he saw them he happened to be standing at his own door, and the blood rushed to his face so violently that, all unused to the sensation, he imagined himself ill, and put his hand out to support himself. His greeting, however, was as brusque as ever, and neither Nathalie nor Léon had the smallest suspicion of his emotion. The second time he found fault with Léon for putting up the ponies at a small inn instead of at the principal hotel.

“Not suitable,” he grumbled.

“Decidedly, Nathalie, your father means you to spend your money,” said her husband, laughingly, as they drove home again, “yet he does not afford himself too much luxury.”

“He has never begrudged me anything,” she said, with compunction, “and it made me feel more than ever ashamed to-day to see him in his bare, uncomfortable room, lonely and cold-looking, and to feel that I—I—”

She did not finish, for Léon put his head near hers and whispered:

“He should be satisfied to be your father.”

She smiled, and let him murmur caressing nothings, but said, presently:

“Léon, I think my father would like to come to Poissy.”

“Well, why not? Of course. Why didn’t you ask him? Now that I think of it, I believe he has never been there since our engagement. Why, it is disgraceful! Certainly he must come. You should have fixed a day.”

She laughed a little shyly. “Perhaps I should, but, to tell you the truth, I was afraid, until you had spoken to Madame de Beaudrillart and your sisters. Are you sure they would not object?”

He turned away his head with a momentary hesitation. Then, “My sisters have nothing to say to it,” he said, impatiently. “As for my mother, certainly she will not object.”

“But will she make it pleasant for him? You understand, Léon, that she thinks we—my father and I—are different—not of her class. With you near, it matters very little to me, but for my father I should feel it another matter, and I could not endure slights for him. That was why I said nothing to-day, though I am sure he expected it.”

“We will drive in to-morrow, and carry him off.”

To this she did not answer, perhaps aware that her husband had said a little more than he meant. She only remarked:

“Will you ask your mother?”

“Certainly, or—why not you?”

“I think you might explain rather more fully—what I have just said,” she added, with difficulty. “Unless it is to be what he would like, I would rather he did not come—rather, even, that he thought me ungrateful.”

“Oh, you will see! My mother has a good heart; all will go well,” said Léon, confidently. He took an opportunity of saying to Mme. de Beaudrillart, “Mother, don’t you think that Monsieur Bourget should be asked here one day?”

“Certainly, Léon, if you desire it. It is what I expected.”

“Nathalie had a sort of notion that you might not like it, and that it would not be very agreeable for him?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“The reverse, I imagine! But what would you have me do? I cannot transform Poissy into Monsieur Bourget’s back parlour, or provide him with the sort of companions with whom he would feel at ease.”

“All that I ask,” said Léon, a little hotly, “is that he should be treated here as my wife’s father.”

“My dear Léon, you need not insist on the relationship. We are all aware of it, and, indeed, I think myself that it is only proper he should come.”

“My sisters can show him the place. He is immensely proud of Poissy, and anxious that anything in the way of repair should be done at once.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart bit her lip.

“I hope you do not attend to his suggestions.”

“Oh, indeed I do,” said Léon, with a laugh. “I think them extremely valuable.”

“Ah, he was a builder, was he not?”

“Certainly,” her son said, imperturbably, “and, luckily for us, a most successful builder. Why, mother, you must be aware of the name he has in Tours for shrewdness and good sense?”

“Yes, I know too well,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, impatiently, “and I am sorry to displease you, Léon, for I am certain you acted for the best; but I would rather, far rather, you had Monsieur de Cadanet for your creditor than this Monsieur Bourget for your father-in-law.”

“Ah, mother, but I could not part with my Nathalie. However, it is settled, is it not? Monsieur Bourget will come, and you will be charming to him for my sake?”

And he departed, whistling, to assure his wife that everything was satisfactorily arranged, and that she might take the first opportunity of inviting her father.

Nathalie drove in for him one morning, in order to bring him out for the second breakfast, and though she was glad, it must be owned she rather dreaded the time they would spend together, lest he should ask questions which she might have difficulty in parrying. She need not have feared. M. Bourget rode on the crest of exultation. He sat upright in the carriage, looking round him, at Nathalie, at the pretty pair of grey ponies, at the rug laid across his knees, with pride like that of a child’s. Every now and then he broke off what he was saying to remark in a tone of profound satisfaction, “Ah, ha, this goes well! This is something like!” To please him she called at one or two of the principal shops, and, drawn up there, when his acquaintances passed, he saluted them with the air of an emperor. All the way out to the château he plied her with questions about Poissy, more than once mentioning facts in its history which it displeased him to find she did not know.

“I thought you had had a proper education—certainly it cost me enough,” he grumbled; “and here you don’t even know what has happened in your own family.”

“No, it is disgraceful!” she agreed, laughing. “I must set to work at once. There are sure to be books about it in the library. But, I assure you, father, I try to keep up a habit of reading.”

“Ah, well, that’s all very well, that’s as your husband pleases; but certainly you’re no business to be ignorant about what so nearly concerns you. I tell you what, Nathalie, it’s the way of all others to vex madame. A fine woman, that! She looks a De Beaudrillart to her fingers’ ends.”

The meeting and the breakfast passed off fairly. Léon was there, and his good-humoured charm of manner succeeded in warding off one or two dangerous subjects. Claire studied M. Bourget as if he were a specimen of some strange species, with scarcely-veiled impertinences, which set his daughter’s cheeks burning. Félicie, on the other hand, sat mute, her eyes on her plate. M. Bourget, who had for some time regarded her in silence, at last touched Mme. de Beaudrillart’s arm.

“The poor young lady!” he said, sympathetically. “How long has it been so with her?”

“How?” demanded Mme. de Beaudrillart, amazed.

“That she has lost her hearing? I see she has cotton-wool in her ears. I once tried it myself, but I don’t like it; it heats the ear. Can she talk on her fingers?”

“Félicie!” cried her mother, sharply. Claire interposed.

“It’s a curious kind of intermittent deafness, monsieur, which only seizes her at times. By-and-by, probably, it will have departed as quickly as it came, but I am afraid you must resign yourself to her being stone-deaf while you are here.”

“When you know us better, Monsieur Bourget, you will find that we have many peculiarities,” said Léon, pleasantly.

“Do you like this wine? It has been brought out especially in your honour.”

“Ah,” said his father-in-law, eagerly; “it is old?”

“Very old.”

M. Bourget looked at his glass with admiration. To tell the truth, he preferred the sourer vintage to which he was accustomed, but it gave him deep delight to be drinking ancient wine from the cellars of Poissy.

“Nathalie,” said Léon again, “we must show your father your room—”

“And the north wing. That should be the first to be repaired,” announced M. Bourget, loudly. Claire lifted her eyebrows.

“Is Poissy, then, to be taken in hand at once?”

“Certainly. I hope so,” said the ex-builder, in the same strong voice. “As it is, I am afraid there will be difficulties; but if it had been left another winter—well, certainly, it would have been very bad. And the plaster-work in this room, how it has suffered! Still, there is a man I know very clever at such jobs, and if the baron will put it into his hands I can answer that he will make a good job of it, and not be unreasonable.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart rose, abruptly.

“Monsieur Bourget will, I am sure, excuse me, if I leave him to the care of my son and Madame Léon. There will be coffee later in the drawing-room. Come, Claire!”

“No, mamma, I remain.” She added in a slightly lowered tone, “Some one must protect our poor Poissy.”

Félicie, with downcast eyes, rose to follow her mother, when a shout in her ear made her start violently.

“Try syringing, mademoiselle. That did me a great deal of good.” He added, to Nathalie, “You should look after your sister. I can see she wants rousing and fresh air, and eats no more than a fly. Now, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, I am at your service.”

He was completely in his element when going over the château, with the eye of a lynx for whatever was wanting, and an absolute horror for the tiny plants which, thrusting their rootlets between the stones, added so much grace to the walls. Where they were within reach he dragged them ruthlessly out, in spite of Claire’s remonstrances.

“Oh yes, mademoiselle, very pretty, and all the rest of it, no doubt; but do you know what they effect, these little mischief-makers? It is they that loosen the stones, and bring the walls of Poissy rattling about the ears of those that come after you. And it is those others of whom we have to think,” he announced loudly, proceeding to demolish a small tuft of harts-tongue, by prodding it with the point of his stick. “For myself, I have no doubt that the whole building should be scraped. However, at any rate, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, you will set about what is necessary at once.”

Léon, catching sight of his sister’s face, felt his own momentary irritation subside. Besides, were not Nathalie’s eyes imploring him?

“Certainly,” he said, quietly. “You have, no doubt, the right, Monsieur Bourget, to speak.”

“Ah, and I know what I am talking about, too. See here, monsieur, Poissy is as dear to me as to you.”

“Really? You do us too much honour.”

“Not at all. But I think of the future, which you young people are too apt to forget, and I want to see matters put straight. Now that you can afford it, that must be your business. Show me the land that was sold last year.”

Somewhat to his dismay, Léon found that his father-in-law was perfectly acquainted with all his enforced sales, and the value of the property parted with. His remarks were shrewd. “You had no reason to blame Monsieur Georges, who was an honest man;” and at another time, “You set store on your wine. In your place I should have preferred to keep the vineyard,” or “Ah, Paris ate up this farm. She swallows without difficulty, our fine Paris!” Léon, who was not easily abashed, felt as if there were something terrible in the square ungainly figure, marching from point to point, and seeing everything. Had Claire not been there, Nathalie would have attempted a diversion; as it was she remained silent, hoping, for her husband’s sake, that the ordeal once over would not be repeated. At last M. Bourget stood still.

“Now for the château,” he said.

Here, except where his sharp eyes espied falling plaster or a stain of wet, the awe of Poissy was upon him, and placed him at a disadvantage. It was soon evident, however, that the simplicity of the furniture shocked his sense of what was fitting, and in Nathalie’s own room he gave this feeling a voice.

“Hum, ha, oh, very nice, very nice; but couldn’t you have had a little more gold about?”

“You know I was never very fond of gold,” she said, with a smile.

“If you didn’t like it in our house, you couldn’t have any objection here. It seems to me that you want cheering up a bit. Your curtains, now. Wouldn’t tapestry be richer than chintz?”

“Oh, my curtains are charming!” she said, brightly. “Admit that nothing could be prettier than the whole effect! But you must come into the salon; that room will delight you.”

In the salon sat Mme. de Beaudrillart, very upright, and with more state than was ordinary. The coffee was brought in an antique silver service. M. Bourget looked at his cup with admiration, and choked down his desire to ask for a teaspoonful of absinthe. Léon had vanished to avoid hearing possible sharp speeches, and nothing could have been more frigid and uncomfortable than the conversation when the guest again descanted upon the work of repair which should be speedily undertaken at Poissy.

“My son must do what he thinks best, monsieur,” announced Mme. de Beaudrillart, with her grandest air; “at any rate, he is more likely to know what is needed than a stranger. For myself, I think the less done the better.”

M. Bourget stared at her, set down his cup, jumped up, and marched to the window. There he stood, the delicate lines about him contrasting strangely with the sturdy squareness of his figure.

“Then, madame, permit me to say that you must be ignorant of the principles of building. You see that wall!” He waved a thick hand in its direction.

“Well, monsieur?” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart, glancing languidly.

“It already bulges, and in another twenty years it will be down, unless something is done. Perhaps you do not believe me.”

“Oh, monsieur, on the contrary,” put in Claire. “We know that you are an undisputed authority in such matters.”

If he perceived the taunt, he disregarded it. He had made his point, and it appeared to him impossible that it should be ignored. “Well, then?” he said, inquiringly.

“All this takes money.”

“True enough.” He rubbed his hands. “But now that you have money?”

There was a sort of rustle in the room; no one answered. Nathalie flushed crimson. To her relief a servant entered with a message from Léon.

“Monsieur le baron regrets exceedingly that he has been called away on business, and cannot himself have the pleasure of driving Monsieur Bourget back to Tours, but the coachman awaits orders.”

“I will drive my father myself,” said Nathalie, quickly. “Shall we start at once, father?” It was too much for her strength; but pride, different from the pride of the Beaudrillarts, though quite as intense, insisted upon clinging to him at this juncture. When they were in the carriage, he looked at his hand.

“Damme!” he said; “so that is how great folks shake hands, is it?”

“How?” asked his daughter, trying to smile.

“With two fingers, to be sure. You must learn that trick, my girl.”

Chapter Seven.

Vine-Snails.

Nathalie trusted, and her husband took for granted, that friendlier relations would spring up between her and her mother and sisters in law; but as the months rolled on, there was little apparent change. As much as possible she was ignored, at the best was treated with the ceremony due to a stranger. The hope with which she had begun her married life faded, and she gave up some illusions, but kept the sweetest of all, faith in her husband, although she had dropped the idea that he could help her in her other relationships, and perhaps at last realised this weakness in him: that he hated to face or to share disagreeables. Gradually her life took a threefold character: that with the family, that with her husband, and that in which she was alone. What she had to bear she endured grandly and silently, never complaining to Léon, or even asking his advice. She loved him passionately, and—which was stranger—he still loved her.

M. Bourget’s visit to Poissy had not been repeated. Fear lest his shrewd intelligence, once roused, should see too much, kept his daughter from suggesting his coming, although she felt with a pang that he expected an invitation. She often, however, drove to Tours, for she perceived that it gave him extreme pleasure to see the carriage appear, and sometimes to seat himself by her side while she invented errands which took them through the streets. On some pretext or another Léon always excused himself from accompanying her. If he were obliged to meet M. Bourget he showed perfect kindness and cordiality, but the common little figure and self-satisfied arrogance of the ex-builder was as distasteful to him as to the rest of his family, and he easily contented himself with the reflection that Nathalie would do all that was right and proper. M. Bourget never failed to ask for him, or to show a little disappointment that he had not accompanied his wife.

“Well, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart!” he would say.

“There were some trees which had to be marked for cutting, and he has gone off to see about it,” Nathalie answered, in a low tone. Once her father scrutinised her sharply and unexpectedly.

“He does not tire of you, this fine gentleman, eh?”

“Father!” The blood rushed into her face; she turned upon him in blank amazement, which completely reassured him.

“Ah, all goes well, I see,” he said—“with you, at any rate. And the north wing?”

“That, too,” she answered eagerly. “Léon has done exactly what you told him, and they have put props where you thought it necessary.”

“Ah, your little Monsieur de Beaudrillart, he has good sense, say what they will,” said M. Bourget, gratified. “But I should like to see Fauvel’s work. He can do well enough when he takes pains, and if he knows that I am at his heels; but you can’t trust him altogether, and it would not in the least surprise me if he tried to take in Monsieur de Beaudrillart—not in the least. I shall show him that he has me to reckon with. I tell you what, Nathalie, you’re on the upper shelf now, and I don’t wish to push myself where I’m not wanted—”

She laid her hand on his reproachfully. “Léon and I were not sure you’d like to come out, but if only you would!”

“Ah, you’ve talked about it, have you? Well, I should; because, you see, I can’t bear the notion that what is being done at Poissy shouldn’t be the best. Peste, if you only knew how I lie awake at night and think of that wall! And Fauvel is very well, but they’re all alike, for if you don’t keep both eyes open, and have a third at the back of your head, they’ll scamp their work, and that won’t do for Poissy.”

He went on, autocratically: “I’m not sure that anybody there thinks enough of the place.”

The wonder what they would have said had they heard him made Nathalie laugh and answer, gayly:

“If you lived there you would be quite sure!”

He shook his head in doubt. “Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll walk out some day just when Fauvel isn’t expecting me, and have a good look round. If he’s put any bad work in, it will have to come out, I can tell him. Then if those fat ponies of yours have nothing else to do—” He broke off and looked scrutinisingly at her again. “They take you with them when they go and pay visits or that sort of thing, don’t they!” She coloured.

“Oh, I can go wherever I like. I think most often it is Félicie who comes with me, because she so often has to arrange with other ladies or to call at farm-houses.”

“Félicie? That’s the poor deaf young lady, isn’t it?”

“She is not always deaf,” she said in a low voice, looking down.

“Well, it’s an affliction, anyway. Why, what does she do at the houses?”

“She collects.”

“Collects, eh?”

“For the Church.”

M. Bourget gave a contemptuous grunt. “Oh, that nonsense! Better stay at home and look after the maids. Well, as I was saying, I’ll walk out some day, and if they can spare you, you shall drive me back. Fauvel will learn that I am there.”

“It will be very kind of you, dear father, and most useful to Léon.”

“Useful, yes; I rather flatter myself I am useful if I ain’t ornamental,” said the ex-builder, standing up and sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat, and swelling. “Poissy without money and tumbling to pieces was a sorry sight, but Poissy with a good stock of francs at her back—ah, ha, there’s a Poissy for you! That’s hotter than the ornamental. Besides, you can do all that. And that reminds me that I’ve a little something to say to Madame de Beaudrillart about you.”

“About me?” She looked at him nervously.

“Yes, yes, never mind. I know what I’m talking of. You leave me alone, and do what you’re told. That’s all. Whatever happens, nobody now can make you anything but a De Beaudrillart. Of Poissy.” And by his action he added, unmistakably, the words, “My daughter.”

Told of M. Bourget’s intentions, Léon laughed.

“Oh, he’ll do well enough!” he exclaimed, “and you can smooth over anything that wants smoothing. I’ll tell Félicie that if she carries on that absurd farce of stuffing her ears with wool, I’ll refuse to subscribe to her next pilgrimage. That’ll frighten her. I dare say Fauvel will be the better for not having everything his own way.”

“And, Léon—”

“Well?”

“You’ll be here yourself, won’t you?”

“Oh, of course!” But though he spoke confidently, it was remarkable how frequently he was obliged during the next mornings to go off to some distant point. It was on one of these mornings that M. Bourget arrived.

The second breakfast was over, and he sturdily refused the offers of hospitality which Mme. de Beaudrillart pressed upon him with ceremonious care.

“No, no, madame,” he said. “I’m here on business, and, with your leave, I’ll go and see about it at once.”

“But, unfortunately, monsieur, my son is not here to conduct you.”

M. Bourget stared, the awe of his first visit having considerably lessened.

“Much obliged, madame, but I require no conducting. Fauvel and I have done a good deal of work together before now, and I don’t think he’ll try to palm off anything discreditable upon me. I mean to see, though, and perhaps one of the young ladies would like to come, too. Mademoiselle Félicie looks as if she wanted fresh air, poor thing! I dare say it’s a trial to her to be so hard of hearing.”

“Sometimes it’s more a trial to hear at all, Monsieur Bourget,” said Claire, gazing at the ceiling. She burst out when they were alone: “Heavens! are we to have that odious man inflicted upon us whenever he chooses to think that Poissy requires his superintendence? And Léon has no doubt gone away on purpose? If he presents us with a father-in-law in the shape of a builder—or a mason? Which was it?”—“Oh, a builder. Fauvel is the mason.”

”—He might at least share the labours of entertaining him.”

“One could endure the builder,” said Félicie, creeping with her small steps towards the window, “if he were not such a terrible freethinker. Abbé Nisard says you can never be certain what he will not say.”

“If he says anything to you it will be shouted,” laughed Claire. “To have brought that great voice on your head is serious.”

“The whole affair, the whole connection, is serious,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart gravely. “Nathalie is not without good points, but such a father! What can one expect!”

“He talks as if Poissy belonged to him. By-and-by, you will see he will suggest something preposterous.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart smiled.

“He may suggest,” she said, calmly.

And, unfortunately, one of M. Bourget’s chief objects in coming to Poissy was to make a suggestion.

His interview with Fauvel was less satisfactory than he would have desired. Both were men of vigorous ideas, and, although M. Bourget was the stronger, and usually had his way, there were times when Fauvel took refuge in argument, in which he developed an annoying aptitude. He was in favour of one way of securing the wall, and M. Bourget of another; each hammered at the other’s reasons for a good half-hour, and what chiefly irritated M. Bourget was Fauvel’s habit of referring to work which he had executed for a certain retired chemist at Tours. That any comparison should be made between this petty undertaking and that of restoring the stability of Poissy exasperated him almost beyond bounds, and would have driven him to condemn a better plan. He carried his point at last by dint of sheer browbeating; but it had heated his blood, and he marched away mopping his forehead, and inveighing against Fauvel’s pigheadedness, until Nathalie had some difficulty in soothing him.

“I think I understand what you mean, father, and I will ask Léon to see that it is carried out.” He faced round upon her angrily.

“You will do nothing of the sort. What! Aren’t these women turning up their noses at you because you are a builder’s daughter? You will forget that, if you please, and become a fine lady as quickly as possible: Now that I have made you a De Beaudrillart, I expect you to hold up your head with the best of them.”

She was thunderstruck, the more so because she had not imagined that he had taken in her position in the house, or the petty thrusts with which Claire had attempted to wound both him and her. But she answered with spirit:

“You are mistaken. They will not respect me the more for pretending to be what I am not.”

M. Bourget did not hear her; he had caught sight of a young girl with a merry face who was crossing the court-yard, singing, a dish covered with vine-leaves in her hand. The sun struck down on her bright hair escaping under her cap; she had a pretty blue skirt and a large apron.

“What has she got?” asked the ex-builder, quickening his steps. “Here, Toinette, Jeanne, what you will, I want you!”

“Stop, Rose-Marie,” Nathalie called, wonderingly. The girl came towards them, smiling more broadly, and showing her white teeth.

“What have you got there?” demanded M. Bourget. “But I’ll wager I know.” He lifted a leaf. “Ah, ha, as I thought! Vine-snails, and fine ones, too; I never saw finer.”

“Freshly picked, monsieur.”

“Yes, yes, plain enough. Freshly picked, and beauties! There, there, that will do, my girl,” he said with a sigh and a wave of dismissal.

“Would you not like some to take back with you?” asked his daughter, innocently.

“Ah, but it wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do,” M. Bourget declared, shaking his head. “As if every soul in the château would not know that Madame Léon’s father had bought vine-snails!”

“And then!” Her voice was scornful. Her father looked at her.

“I begin to understand,” he remarked, frowning. “It appears to me that you have already forgotten what, Heaven knows, I preached enough about before your marriage: that Madame Léon de Beaudrillart is not the same person as Mademoiselle Bourget, and that to effect the necessary change you must forget a great deal. For instance, you should forget that I ever ate vine-snails.”

She sighed, and tears gathered in her eyes.

“It is unlucky, father, for I do not think I forget easily enough. And why should I? Léon is kinder than to ask it. Listen. I love him dearly, but I cannot live a life of pretence, for everything in me cries out against it, and they must take me as I am.”

“And it was not a bad bargain,” said M. Bourget, rubbing his hands with complacency. “You may be certain there was a very fair equivalent on either side. Monsieur de Beaudrillart does not complain?”

The young wife began to smile in spite of herself.

“No, no!”

“Good. But, see here, my girl, it is I you have to think of. I mean you to be a Beaudrillart, and a Beaudrillart you must become. Keep your eyes open. You are sharp enough to pick up what is what, and to take your position with the best of them. I’ve heard nonsense enough from Fauvel to-day, so don’t vex me by talking any more.”

“But—”

“No buts,” said M. Bourget, peremptorily. “The subject is finished—arranged; and I shall expect all to go as I desire. Now let me see the picture-gallery.”

The picture-gallery at Poissy is short, though beautifully proportioned to the rest of the house; it is rather a long room consecrated to the past than a gallery at all. It has an exquisite ceiling, and delightful deep windows from which you look over the trees—of no great height—to the rich and smiling country beyond. The room is by no means crowded with portraits, and, except for the interest to their descendants, the pictures are of little value. The last is dated about eighty years ago, and is chiefly noticeable as the likeness of a Baron de Beaudrillart who escaped the horrors of the revolution.

Round this room M. Bourget marched, regarding each painting as thoughtfully as if he were studying for the reputation of a critic. Nathalie did not accompany him. She threw open one of the windows, and leaned out, amusing herself with dropping little pellets of moss upon the turf beneath, where a few pigeons had collected, and were sunning themselves with an air of great enjoyment. Every now and then her father called to her with a question as to the history of one of the portraits, and it displeased him when she was not able to give a full account of the personage’s life and death. It mattered little if she assured him that no more was known in the family; he was always of opinion that such ignorance showed a blamable want of interest. He looked long at the last pictured baron. What he said was:

“If they had guillotined him, it might have been no such great matter; but imagine if those rascals had touched Poissy! Now I have finished. Are you going to drive me back to Tours?”

“At any time you like; but you will have some coffee first?”

“Yes, since one may as well save one’s pocket,” said M. Bourget with a sigh, thinking of the absinthe. “Besides, I have to see madame.”

Nathalie wondered anxiously why this was said. She had not long to wait, for when he had gulped down the portion of black coffee, served in a tiny Sèvres cup of finest quality, and set it with an unsatisfied air upon the table to his left, he opened his subject.

“You may tell Monsieur de Beaudrillart, madame, that I have put Fauvel upon the right tack at last.”

“I imagine, monsieur, that Fauvel will not venture to change any plan of which my son has already approved?”

“Ah, Monsieur de Beaudrillart knows nothing about it—how should he? I do,” added M. Bourget, simply. “As for Fauvel, he understands a few things, but not all. However, that is settled, and I shall sleep better to-night for knowing that it has been seen to. There was something else, madame, I wished to speak about. I asked my daughter to take me to the picture-gallery.”

“Are you thinking of insisting also upon the portraits being cleaned, monsieur!” asked Claire, with a laugh.

“Not my business,” said M. Bourget imperturbably. “But it’s a pity they should stop short as they do. Eighty years ago the last! One would not have it said that the De Beaudrillarts had come to an end.”

“Of late years, monsieur, their fortunes have diminished.”

“Precisely, madame, precisely. But now that matters have improved—in fact, madame, the long and short of the business is that I should wish to have Madame Léon painted, and placed in the gallery with the other De Beaudrillarts.”

There was a pause such as follows a crash, an earthquake, or any other horrible and unexpected convulsion. Nathalie cried out, “Oh no!” but her father turned his back upon her, and hands on knees gazed squarely at Mme. de Beaudrillart. She stared back at him as if she had failed to comprehend his proposal.

“Madame Léon! In the picture-gallery!”

“Precisely, madame. Painted by the best artist in France.”

“Monsieur, I do not think you understand what you suggest. Those are our ancestors, the old De Beaudrillarts.”

“Exactly why I wish to see her among them.”

He leaned back, and faced her, the image of dogged resolution.

“But—monsieur, it is impossible!”

“And why, madame!”

“Because—because it is altogether unsuitable.” She would have liked to have said “preposterous.”

M. Bourget frowned.

“Madame, when Fauvel objected to what I desired to see done, he had his reasons for objecting. They weren’t worth much, it is true, but—they existed. Perhaps you would also favour me with your reasons?”

Mme. de Beaudrillart folded her hands and looked at the floor. How was it possible to say to this man, “You yourself are the reason?” But he forestalled her.

“I understand, madame. You wish to express to me that Madame Léon cannot boast of Ancient birth, and that I made my money by trade. All that is perfectly true. At the same time, I wish to point out that, however it was made, the money has not been unacceptable. Moreover, whatever my daughter was born, she is now a Beaudrillart.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart remained absolutely silent. It was Nathalie who spoke with an attempt at gaiety.

“It appears to me that I might be allowed a word, and I don’t think anything would be so irksome to me as having my portrait painted. Besides—eighty years! The gap is too great. It is very kind of you, father, but do not think more about it.”

M. Bourget rose.

“On the contrary, it will be carried out.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart also rose.

“Not for the gallery, monsieur.”

“For the gallery, and the gallery alone, madame.”

He tried to speak quietly, but his face was very red, and he drew his breath in short gasps. His opponent, with her air of superb calm, and her dignified manner, impressed him in spite of himself. When poor Nathalie had got him away, and they were together in the carriage, he muttered:

“Was there ever such a ridiculous woman! For all that, there is what you must aim at. There’s an air for you, a presence! You don’t catch me here again in a hurry; but if I were you, my girl, I’d practise that way she has of looking as if you were the dust under her feet. It was just as much as I could do to hold my own against it, I can tell you. All looking. She hadn’t a word to say. And she’ll have to give in.”

“As a particular favour, don’t press it, dear father. You can see how disagreeable it would be for me.”

“Aha, but you must learn to look, too, now you are one of them. No. I am resolved, and I shall write to Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”

Nathalie promised herself to be first in the field with her husband, but how to keep the peace between these clashing wills? Léon only laughed when he heard of the dilemma.

“Oh, we will find a way out of it! Your father is absolutely right, my Nathalie; that face of yours is worthy of the best painter and the best place. But my mother, dear woman, has her little prejudices about the gallery.”

“And I would not be there for worlds!” she cried, shuddering. “Without you, and to be left to the mercy of those old Beaudrillarts? No, Léon, do not ask it!”

“Leave it to me. It would be so charming to have your portrait, and you would endure a little to please me, oh!”

“Ah, much!” she said, frankly, putting her hand on his. “But your mother is right, for if any one is to be there, it should be you—you who belong to them, and whom they would have nothing against.”

He caught away his hand with a sharp movement, unlike himself.

“Against! What do you mean?”

“They would scout me as an interloper; that is all that I mean,” she said, surprised. “Dear, I was not suggesting that I had committed a crime, or done anything to make them utterly ashamed of me.”

“No,” he returned, with an uneasy laugh. “And if we could know their histories, I dare say we should find that it was you who might be ashamed of their company.”

“And it’s well my father doesn’t hear you!” Nathalie cried, merrily. “He would not put up with a word against the Beaudrillarts.”

He did not, as usual, retort with a jest, and, indeed, for the rest of the day was silent and almost moody. His mother, always on the lookout for such signs, decided that his marriage began to bore him; and though the mood wore off, preserved the impression in her mind, and strengthened it, as soon as she could, with another of the same tendency. Nathalie, who had hoped that time would bring kinder feeling towards her, found that it only seemed to push them further apart; as much as possible her presence was ignored, the servants were tacitly shown that her wishes might be disregarded, and so far as any real authority in the house was concerned, she was a mere cipher. Yet she was not unhappy. She had come from a home where she had been thrown chiefly on her own resources, and this, if a harsh, is often a wholesome training. The hours she spent alone passed contentedly enough, sweetened, too, by those others when she and Léon were together, walking over the estate, seeing to planting, thinning, cutting down, settling which bits of the property he would buy back, watching the vintage, strolling by the side of the river. She never loved the river. An unconquerable dread had seized her ever since she heard the story of the death by drowning of Léon’s father, the Baron Bernard; but as Léon had a fancy for fishing, she kept her repugnance out of his sight. Neither Mme. de Beaudrillart nor her youngest daughter would consent to take advantage of the carriage. Félicie, however, was glad to be spared the long tramps which were formerly necessary before she could reach the outlying districts where her charitable errands carried her, and more than once had been driven in to some function in the cathedral at Tours, with the express understanding that she should not be called upon to encounter M. Bourget.

“Your father and I think so differently on all subjects!” she explained.

For the picture a compromise had been arrived at, owing to the fortunate circumstance that—to M. Bourget’s untold wrath—the painter whom Léon had chosen was too fully occupied to come to Poissy. M. Bourget, while storming at the artist’s stupidity, had suggested that her husband should take his wife to Paris, so that she might be painted there. Léon turned it off. He said he had a fancy that the picture should be done at Poissy, and the sentiment was too completely after M. Bourget’s own heart for him to resist. He only grumbled at the delay as a personal wrong done to him by the painter.

“Isn’t my money as good as another man’s, and better!” he demanded, wrathfully. “I’d like to know what the fellow means by declining to come?”

“Perhaps there are other Poissys in the world,” remarked Leroux, with malice, “and other families as important as the Beaudrillarts.”

M. Bourget stared at him.

“Now you are an ass, Leroux. Damme, if you don’t talk better sense when you have a case, it’s no wonder if you are unlucky. But you don’t understand.”

He put a bold face on it with his companions, and his nature was not sufficiently sensitive for him to suffer under slight; still, he was not pleased with Nathalie’s position. When she drove into the town, it was simply, and without a vestige of parade, when M. Bourget considered that a greater ceremony might have been observed. He would have liked rattle and cracking of whips, with every one looking round, and asking, “Who is that?” He questioned her closely, and found that she spent her time in her own room, or with her husband, and he got no hint of her sitting with her mother-in-law, or being admitted into pleasant companionship. He could not comprehend it. That the De Beaudrillarts should have no dealings with M. Bourget might be, and there was something really pathetic in the way in which he effaced himself, and kept away from Poissy when he was longing to be satisfied as to Fauvel’s work; but Nathalie was now a De Beaudrillart herself, and to humiliate her was, in his eyes, to humiliate the family. He still talked bigly, to be sure, to Leroux and his other companions, but in his heart there was a vexed dissatisfaction which poisoned his triumph until the late winter came. Then it broke out again, irrepressible and unbounded. For on a cold February day, when snow lay thick in the Place de l’Archevêché, and crumpled itself into the niches round the western porches, where no statues have replaced those broken effigies which once gazed down, M. Bourget was making his way sombrely back to his house, when he became aware of a messenger from Poissy standing at the door. The messenger brought good news—news which made M. Bourget come out again radiant, and present him with a whole piece of twenty sous.

“That,” he announced magnificently, so that the passers-by might hear—“that is for you to drink the health of the young Baron de Beaudrillart.”

Chapter Eight.

In the Rue du Bac.

The years that came and went at Poissy after the birth of this baby son were slowly drawing away the life of M. de Cadanet in that little Paris hotel, which yet to his shrunk interests seemed large and hollow. Even when Léon saw him he was small and bent, with his skin colourless; by this time he had grown absolutely dwarfish, wizened, elfish-looking, the extraordinary brightness of his eyes, shining out of their hollow caves, giving him a strange and weird appearance. His body had become extremely frail, but his will showed no symptoms of weakening, and one or two valets who had presumed on his apparent feebleness found themselves speedily undeceived and dismissed. Old friends had dropped off, smitten by death or illness; newspapers and politics absorbed his chief attention, but the absorption was gloomy, for to the old—recalling what seem better days—hope is difficult, and pessimism natural.

M. Charles had succeeded in his determination to make himself necessary to the old count, and it must be admitted that the task was difficult. It required to be carried out with the greatest care and circumspection, since M. de Cadanet was suspicious of the smallest premonitory shadow of coercion. More than once, more than half a dozen times, Charles’s fate had trembled in the balance, and given him some bad half-hours of disquiet. If he could have made a confidante of his wife, things might have been easier for him; as it was, he cursed his stars that even with her it was necessary to play a part, for she was an honest dull woman, who would have blurted out to M. de Cadanet what her husband most wished to conceal.

It has been said that the furniture and surroundings were austere. They did not become less so when their owner grew older and weaker. He had always despised luxuries rather than begrudged them; he despised them still. Had he ever derived personal pleasure from them, he might have been more merciful towards Léon, and the fabulous sums M. Charles reported him to have paid for his cigars; but such expenditure, especially personal expenditure, appeared to him a miserable weakness.

Of Léon he never spoke, though M. Charles would have given a good deal to have known what had happened. Without being aware of the exact state of affairs, he was aware of this much: The Poissy estates were—if not hopelessly—deeply embarrassed. Probably in order to make a desperate appeal to his cousin, M. de Beaudrillart had presented himself one day at the hotel, and had an interview. This much he had gathered from the servant. Since that day Léon had, to his knowledge, never reappeared in Paris; but from inquiries he had made, it seemed, was living quietly at Poissy, engaged in the ordinary life of a country gentleman. This, moreover, was five or six years ago.

There might, of course, be one simple explanation. M. de Cadanet might have relented under the pressure of a personal interview, and advanced the large necessary sum of money, extorting at the same time a promise from the young man to give up his Paris extravagances and betake himself to the provinces and economy. But Charles was tolerably certain that this had not happened. To begin with, he thought that his uncle, as he chose to call him, would have told him what he had done, for he was in the habit of speaking pretty frankly to him about Léon. And in the next place there was another point which might almost be taken as proof against the possibility of such an advance. Charles himself had received a gift of one hundred thousand francs, and some six months later another gift of the same sum, with the intimation that they represented an abandoned idea. What this idea might have been he never ventured to ask, but he made many shrewd, guesses, and the guess which seemed the most probable pointed to Léon de Beaudrillart. Why there was that space of months between the gifts he could not think; putting that aside, he felt convinced that M. de Cadanet’s generosity would not have carried him to the length of providing for two relatives in so lavish a fashion.

In spite of his conviction that he had benefited by Léon’s disgrace, Charles did not hate him the less. Possibly it was because he knew that Léon was aware of his true character; and although he had not accused him to M. de Cadanet, there was an unpleasant feeling of insecurity in the knowledge. But that was not all, because as M. de Cadanet grew weaker, and the chances of M. de Beaudrillart ever seeing him again became infinitesimal, he lost nothing of his distrust and dislike. Perhaps from something the old count had once let drop, he had not been without hope of becoming master of Poissy—a hope which had ended in disappointment. Perhaps there still lurked in his mind a fear that when the will was read, Léon might be remembered. Whatever it was, one thing was certain—that his hate had not diminished.

It need not be said that he had grown extremely tired of dancing attendance at the house in the Rue du Bac. The hours spent in the severely-furnished room, reading to or writing for M. de Cadanet, who exacted all his attention, and never fell asleep, were irksome to the last degree. He received few thanks, but often a gift accompanied by a dozen cynical words. The cynicism did not affect him, the gift it was which enabled him to endure the attendance. As often as possible he sent his wife. She was a kindly unimaginative woman; luckily for her own happiness, of very slow perception; and attaching herself readily by little surface roots to those who came in her way. She had liked her aunt and she liked M. de Cadanet, although he treated her with scant civility; as he grew weaker, she was at the house a great deal, and applied herself diligently to feeding him with beef tea, which he detested, and with such small pieces of news as she considered sufficiently unexciting.

M. de Cadanet sat in a straight-backed chair, wrapped in a wadded dressing-gown, for, although the weather was hot, he was now always cold, and young Mme. Lemaire had for the last twenty minutes been engaged in presenting him with such scraps of news from Le Temps as she thought suitable. In the midst he said, with a sudden yawn which would have disconcerted a more sensitive person:

“Amélie, is one permitted to ask how old you are!”

Mme. Lemaire laid the newspaper calmly in her lap, and considered, before answering honestly:

“I was seven-and-twenty last April.”

“Heavens! Only that I sometimes when I listen to you I think I hear my grandmother.”

“Yes? I never saw her, of course, but I dare say she was an excellent woman,” said Amélie, taking up her work, since her uncle now seemed disposed for a little conversation.