Frances Peard (continued 3)

“Oh, excellent!” he muttered, with a little laugh. “She killed the count, my grandfather.”

“Killed him! oh, impossible! You don’t really mean it!”

“She bored him to death,” returned M. de Cadanet, letting his chin sink feebly on his chest.

“Poor man! Now, do you know, I am afraid you are tired. If you were to let me ring for an egg beaten up with a little sherry? No? Then shall I go on reading?”

“No. Unless—”

“What, mon oncle?”

“Is there anything about—about Poissy in the paper?”

“Oh, let me see.” She immediately busied herself. “Poissy—Poissy—”

“Do you know the name?”

“No, I think not. I cannot remember it.”

“Your husband has not mentioned it?”

“Never. Has anything happened there? Perhaps you would like us to make inquiries?”

“No. Be quiet. Nothing has happened since—since—a child was born.”

“Ah, there is a child.” Her voice had changed; she looked down, and a sigh escaped her.

“Certainly. And a boy.”

Silence followed. She said presently, wistfully, “I suppose, then, they are very happy?”

“Perhaps. I do not know, and I do not care, but—in old days I knew Poissy.”

He spoke slowly and with difficulty, his voice dropping until it was scarcely audible, and after these last words he relapsed into silence. Amélie again laid down the paper, and took up her work—a little blouse for an orphan in whom she was interested; she was extremely charitable, and as Charles did not give her much money, and always talked of his poverty, she consoled herself by working for her poor. Her nature was singularly placid, and she was fairly happy; indeed, she would have declared she wanted nothing, except perhaps a little more money for her orphans. A really kind heart gave her an interest in the sick man, and she did not suffer from his sharp speeches because she did not discover their edge. Now she sat and thought tranquilly of fat little Marie, how fast she outgrew her frocks, and what was to be done for another when this was worn out. A thin white streak of sunshine, penetrating through the outer blinds, just struck her pale brown hair, wreathed in a large coil at the back of her head, and stole across the table to M. de Cadanet’s hand, which lay upon a book. The hand was very thin and parchment-like; every now and then it twitched slightly, and his head sank lower. Amélie, who had more than once glanced in his direction, became at last uneasy at the profound stillness; she laid down her work, and half rose, resting her fingers on the table. It was possible that he might be asleep, but sleep was unusual with him, and the least movement generally enough to disturb him. As he did not stir she moved towards him noiselessly, until she was close, but his face was so sunk that she was obliged to drop on her knees to gain a sight of it. Then she uttered a cry, for it was drawn and distorted.

It did not require the verdict of the doctor, hurriedly sent for, to tell them that M. de Cadanet had had a stroke. He was carried to the adjoining bedroom, helpless and speechless. Mme. Lemaire despatched a messenger to her husband, and made her own arrangements to remain in the house and to obtain a nurse. Charles did not arrive until late, and fully approved her purpose. He had no affection for his wife, but was never wanting in civility.

“Certainly, my dear Amélie; and permit me to say you have shown your usual excellent sense. It would never do to leave the poor old man alone. What does the doctor say?”

“He says that it is impossible as yet to form an opinion, but he hopes that he will recover in a measure. Oh, I do trust so! It was so startlingly sudden.”

“He does not suffer,” said her husband, carelessly, “and if he revives, what sort of a life will it be? I am sure that if I were he I should prefer to die.”

“I am not so sure,” Amélie said, walking about the room and placing the chairs in order. “But certainly he is terribly lonely with no one but us. Is there really no one?”

“No one.”

“Who lives at Poissy?”

Charles turned quickly upon her.

“Poissy! What do you know of Poissy?”

“Oh, nothing. Only, our uncle spoke of it just before his attack. I really think it was the last thing he said.”

“Now, remember, Amélie, this may be of great importance, and I should be glad to know exactly what were his words.” It enraged him that she still went on with her arranging, but he was afraid of displaying the anxiety he felt.

“Let me see. I think he began with asking whether there was anything about Poissy in the paper.”

“In the paper!” The young man caught up Le Temps and devoured the columns. “But there is not, of course. Go on, Amélie. What next?”

“I believe he wanted to know if I knew the name—if you had ever mentioned it to me. You never have, my friend, and so I told him.”

“Yes?”

“Then he remarked—I don’t know why—that a boy had been born there. And that must have been all he said, except that he had known Poissy in old days.”

“Confound it! what did he mean?” muttered her husband, standing chin in hand.

“Oh, I suppose it is some place where he was when he was young, and that it just came across his mind at that moment. Unless you think there is some one there whom he wishes to see? What a pity he did not say more!”

“If he does come to his senses, let me advise you not to make any suggestions of that sort,” said Charles, controlling himself with difficulty. “The owner of Poissy is an extravagant good-for-nothing, who has mortally offended your uncle, and the probable result of mentioning his name would be to bring on a most dangerous excitement.”

“Then I will not, of course, because nothing could be so bad for him. But I am very sorry. It would be so much happier for him, poor dear! if there were some one besides ourselves in whom he could take an interest, especially if there was a child.”

To this her husband made no answer. His wife’s personal opinions were profoundly indifferent to him, and so long as she was impressed with the danger of exciting M. de Cadanet, she might utter as many futile aspirations as she pleased. But what she had told him gave him uneasiness—more from a vague dread of Léon de Beaudrillart than from a well-grounded fear. He had a fancy that M. de Cadanet’s thoughts turned sometimes with yearning in that direction, and he had with great care avoided ever mentioning the birth of a son at Poissy. How the old man had discovered this event he could not conceive. Most alarming of all was the fact that he had not only known but had kept silence, since it pointed to possible other reticences; and Charles had all the schemer’s distrust for the unknown. He believed, however, that if M. de Cadanet died in his present condition, he was certain to come into so much of his property as he could will away; if he recovered, and his brain still worked with painful ideas of this child at Poissy—grandson of the man who had befriended him—it was impossible to be sure that some foolish sentiment, some insane impulse of gratitude, might not prove strong enough to upset his former dispositions. The lust of gambling had increased upon the young man, debts had swollen, creditors pressed. Between him and things he loved best in the world a brazen gate was slowly shutting, and he knew that it wanted but the clink of M. de Cadanet’s money for the barrier to roll swiftly back, and fling open a garden of delight. Now, that, added to his other anxieties, there came this new doubt as to the disposition of the wealth which he had been, counting on as his own, he cursed fate freely, and went about the house with an injured air.

To watch life and death fighting is not a pretty sight. With M. de Cadanet, life slowly got the better; but its wounds and its weaknesses were many, and the old count, rent with the strife, and agonised with the pricks of returning circulation, was a sorry spectacle. He was well nursed, for Amélie was in her element, and gave him her whole attention, always more delightful to a patient than the intelligence which he may wish for in health. She made no demands upon his brain, and his medicine and food were ready at exactly the right hour. Moreover, she was really quick in understanding his imperfect speech. Every day she brought her husband a pleased report that there was a growing improvement. Charles had not the face to frown except behind her back. He said once, sharply:

“All this is very fine; say what you like, but he will never be himself again.”

“Oh, why not?” exclaimed his wife, appealingly. He controlled himself to answer.

“They never are after such an attack, which, of course, weakens the brain.”

“Well, he knows everything, I am sure,” she persisted. Charles was going out of the room, and returned, anxiety in his face.

“What does he talk about?”

“He likes to hear what the doctor has said.”

“He has never alluded to—to Poissy?”

She exclaimed at the idea.

“Oh, he has not come to thinking about things of that sort.”

“All the better,” said her husband, drawing a long breath. “Mind you turn him off from it if he begins; but let me hear what he says. You’re the only person that can understand the gibberish.”

(“That is one bit of luck,” he added, under his breath.)

“Oh, he is getting on,” she called after him, consolingly. Charles inquired daily, but M. de Cadanet never made allusion to Poissy. To lie and watch the flies on the ceiling, the sunshine travelling round from shadow to shadow; to frown with pain or impatience; to listen to the ticking of the gilt clock on the mantel-piece, or the muffled rattle of a carriage; stung by these new prickings to try to move the leg and arm to which force was slowly, slowly creeping back—this was M. de Cadanet’s daily life. No one could understand him except Mme. Lemaire; they pretended to sometimes, in order not to annoy him; but the pretence only irritated him the more. By little and little, however, words shaped themselves more rightly.

By—and—by he was lifted into a great chair, and wheeled from one part of the room to the other; and this move accomplished, Mme. Lemaire thought that she might return home. Charles had agreed to her remaining in the Rue du Bac with an amiability which she considered remarkable. He did not care for her enough to miss her, and preferred having some one on the spot to report upon anything out of the usual course. He would therefore willingly have consented to her absence, but the Orphanage had an outbreak of measles, and her placid good sense told her that she was no longer absolutely necessary to M. de Cadanet. The nurse, therefore, had full charge by night, and Mme. Lemaire and the concierge André, a quiet man, whom the count said he preferred to women about him, shared the day between them.

Unperceptive as she was, Amélie could not but allow that her husband was in a very bad temper. He showed it chiefly by silence, which she had the discretion not to break, and by absence from the house, which, he said, was owing to business. He had not the audacity to tell her, and she was the last woman to whom it would have occurred—simply, perhaps, because ideas did not seem ever to spring spontaneously in her unimaginative mind, but required to be planted there—that it was M. de Cadanet’s recovery, to which undoubtedly her excellent nursing had contributed, which had brought about the gloom. He took care to inform the world that the recovery was very partial, and that the seizure had seriously affected the old count’s mind; but, in point of fact, M. de Cadanet’s intellect was as keen as ever—painfully so, indeed, because it kept him perfectly conscious of his sad condition, and caused miserable fits of depression.

These fits of depression were treated indifferently by the nurse, but they always distressed Mme. Lemaire, who would not have realised a silent trouble, but felt great compassion for one of which she saw the outward signs. She did her best to produce a cheerful atmosphere, and when he complained of the desolation of old age, cast about for something comforting.

“Is there not any one, now, dear uncle, that you would like to come and see you?”

“My friends are where I ought to be—in the grave.”

“Oh, don’t say that. Your time isn’t come. Why, you’re getting better every day. Next week we shall move into the other room—think of that for an event!”

The old man groaned, and Amélie, at her wits’ end, ventured on the subject against which her husband had warned her.

“You want some one young and lively to cheer you up, that is what I think. The Poissy you were talking about—is there no one there?”

M. de Cadanet uttered a short “No!” but she persisted.

“If they were to bring the child? A little boy, is it not? A house always seems to grow happier when there is a child in it. You have never seen him!”

“Never. And never shall.”

“What a pity!”

“His father,” said M. de Cadanet, presently, “behaved abominably.”

“Dear, dear, what a pity!” repeated Amélie, holding up her work that she might judge of the effect. “Perhaps he has grown better now that there is a child.”

“One must see to believe that.”

“That is what I thought.”

“Monsieur de Beaudrillart will never come here!” exclaimed the old count, with all his usual sharpness. Something called her out of the room, and when she came back he had evidently been pondering on the subject, for he said, “You are right as to one thing; for the child is Baron Bernard’s grandson.”

“Oh!” said Amélie, opening her eyes. “And who is the Baron Bernard?”

M. de Cadanet uttered an impatient exclamation.

“Oh, you—you know nothing! Can you give your husband a message?”

“To be sure I can.”

“Then tell him that next week—when I shall be stronger—I wish to speak to him about Léon de Beaudrillart. Do not forget.”

Chapter Nine.

A Burned Paper.

Mme. Lemaire stood in the window of M. de Cadanet’s sitting-room, looking out. The day before he had been wheeled into it, and with the fretfulness of an invalid had declared it was very strange that those who could walk about and see so much had nothing entertaining to tell him. Amélie had accepted the reproach cheerfully, and betaken herself to one of the long windows, with its lace and ugly red moreen curtains, hoping to find materials for his distraction.

But the materials were few, or she did not know how to make the best of them. He did not in the least care to hear of a grey sister, with snowy collar and flapping cap, walking with her school; nor, though it made a pretty picture, of the balcony opposite, on which a girl in a black dress stood with her arm on a railing looking down at the busy street below. At last he desired her, irritably, to say no more, and was silent.

The room in which they were was not M. de Cadanet’s study, for that looked into the court-yard, and this into the street. It had been chosen because it was sunnier and more cheerful. But the cheerfulness being a failure, he presently insisted upon being wheeled into the study. There, with the stove lit, though it was very warm, he seemed to revive, and Mme. Lemaire left him in charge of André, with many instructions as to food and rest. Charles was burning with impatience as to the conversation which lay before him, and of which the subject was to be Léon de Beaudrillart, but the doctor had forbidden any talk that threatened excitement, until a few more days had passed, and the count was stronger.

When Amélie arrived at the house the next morning, she found her uncle in bed and very much weaker. It seemed that he had insisted upon André fetching a tin box from the library, which, when it was unlocked, turned out to contain a bundle of papers. These M. de Cadanet had studied for a long time, afterwards replacing them with marked agitation. He had evidently felt extreme fatigue in consequence, and the doctor spoke with gravity to Mme. Lemaire, declaring that the access of weakness was a very discouraging sign. The old count himself said very little, but towards evening remarked:

“Tell your husband I wish to speak to him to-morrow afternoon.” And when Amélie attempted a remonstrance, he added, peremptorily: “I wish it;” and the doctor, to whom she appealed the next morning, only replied:

“It may, of course, be injurious—all emotion is likely to be injurious—but I cannot take it upon me to prevent Monsieur de Cadanet from giving what are, possibly, important directions. His condition is too critical.”

Charles himself, who had been on thorns, disliked the prospect. If M. de Cadanet was at last dying, he was of opinion that matters had better remain as they were, without further allusions to Léon. André, closely cross-questioned, revealed nothing. His master had read the papers and replaced them, that was all. Certainly no notary had been sent for, and he himself had never once left the room. Charles, always suspicious, had an idea that the man was keeping back something, but as his questions could not find ground for the opinion, there was nothing to say or do. Nor, however much he might have preferred to avoid the coming interview, could he venture to do so, for, weak as he was, M. de Cadanet might no more be safely contradicted now than at any former time. He came accordingly at the hour appointed, and Amélie was waiting in the anteroom.

“He is terribly changed,” she whispered. “The doctor thinks there must be another attack shortly.”

“Does he know what he is about?” her husband asked, eagerly.

“Oh, perfectly. He is asking for you; and you can go in at once, only do be careful.”

He went, though unwillingly. Sickness and death were repulsive to him, and he had a dread of some inconvenient request being made, with which he would rather not comply. Still, as he reflected, better he should be sent for than any other man, and he put on a cheerful air as he advanced to the bed in the alcove.

“Sorry to find you here again, dear uncle. I’m afraid you have been attempting a little too much. However, in a day or two—”

M. de Cadanet interrupted him.

“I have something for you to do, Charles.”

“With all my heart.”

“You know the low book-shelf in my study?”

“Perfectly.”

“There is a small tin box by its side. Fetch it.”

His voice was feeble and broken as well as indistinct. It took him some time to utter a sentence. Charles left the room with a feeling of congratulation that whatever had to be done, he would not have the inconvenience of another witness. If Amélie had been still in the anteroom he would have sent even her, on some excuse, out of the house. But she had vanished, and after all, as he reflected, the precaution would have been absurd. The tin box was where M. de Cadanet had said, where Charles himself had seen it a hundred times. He looked at it now curiously. Something of importance must be in it to cause it to lie so heavy on the mind of the dying man, and he would have given a good deal to have had a peep into its contents before he carried it back. All that he could judge was that it was light, and not closely filled, for he could feel papers slipping loosely inside. Perhaps, after all, the great affair meant no more than that there were letters to be destroyed, perhaps old love-letters—he laughed. If Mme. de Cadanet, Amélie’s aunt, had resembled Amélie, it was not impossible. Another thought made him reflect that the joke might turn out to be awkward, and instead of laughing, he looked angrily at the box which might contain dangerous witnesses. M. de Cadanet received it without a sign, except one which notified that it should be placed on a chair by his bedside. Then he said to Charles:

“Sit down.”

“Now for the confession,” reflected the young man, drawing a chair near the dying man.

“I have a story to tell, and little breath with which to speak,” said M. de Cadanet. “In that bottle is brandy; give me a spoonful.”

Charles obeyed. He was silent, because he did not know what to say.

“And here are my keys. Unlock the box.”

His hand trembling with anxiety, the young man did as he was told. A small packet of letters lay at the bottom, confirming his suspicions. But when he would have lifted it out, M. de Cadanet stopped him.

“Not yet. First hear my story. These letters relate to Monsieur Léon de Beaudrillart.”

“I was a fool. I might have seen that they were not so old,” thought the other.

Relief and curiosity began to struggle with him.

“You have not met him for some years.”

“No. It has surprised me. Is it six years?”

“Between six and seven. He has been afraid to come.”

“Yes?” Charles leaned eagerly forward.

“The day he was here he committed a crime, and I could have had him arrested.”

“Ah!”

M. de Cadanet’s voice had grown yet feebler, and Charles, on fire with mad desire to hear, was in terror lest it should fail altogether. He poured out more brandy, but the other pushed it away with an impatient gesture.

“When I ask. Not before. And don’t interrupt me. Where was I?”

“You said you could have had him arrested.”

“So I could. It was this way. You know what straits he was in; you had been clever enough to find out. Well, he had the effrontery to come to me—me, whom he had laughed at—and to invite me to pay his debts; I should say, rather, to lend him money enough to pay them himself.”

“The same thing.”

“Precisely. Then I had my opportunity. I told my gentleman that I had made inquiries and knew all about his affairs. That if he had come well out of them, I would, for his father’s sake, have made over to him two hundred thousand francs; I even showed him the cheque.”

M. Charles whistled.

“You think it was imprudent?” said M. de Cadanet, turning his dark eyes towards him.

“I think he was a desperate man.”

“Well, I still looked upon him as his father’s son. However, in his presence, I directed it to you—” His voice died away, and the next words were undistinguishable. Charles jumped up and poured out brandy.

“Drink this, sir, I implore you!”

“I must rest. Perhaps in ten minutes a little strength will have come back, but I am very ill—very, very ill.”

He was; but his hearer was so burningly anxious to hear more that he almost forgot the sympathy it was incumbent upon him to show. He commanded himself, however, in time, and begged M. de Cadanet for their sakes not to over-excite himself. There was a long, almost interminable, silence. The room was hot, flies buzzed on the window-panes, and the clock ticked loudly, even triumphantly, as if it knew it were measuring out M. de Cadanet’s moments, and that its work was nearly over. When the old man spoke again, Charles clinched his hands with disappointment.

“Your wife is a good woman.”

“Oh, she is!” He added, “Apparently she takes after her aunt.”

M. de Cadanet’s answer was rather a grunt than an assent, but after another pause he remarked:

“Nevertheless, neither she nor any one must ever hear what I am telling you.”

“Rest assured they will not. You know me, I think, my dear uncle, and that I am not a tattler. But I am deeply interested. You had, if I understood rightly, enclosed that sum of money most generously intended for me, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart was aware of it? What followed?”

“A quarrel.”

“Did he attempt to wrest it from you?”

“I believe he thought of it, but gave up his idea for another.”

“Ah, now I have it!” cried Lemaire, triumphantly. “He forged your name.”

M. de Cadanet flung him a glance of contempt. “Apparently, monsieur, you are very little acquainted with the De Beaudrillarts.”

The young man saw his mistake, and caught it back.

“Of course not, of course not! I spoke without thought, and forgetting the family. Pray excuse me, and tell me what really happened.”

“We quarrelled, as I said, and I told him never to return. He never has come back. But on his way along the street he was overtaken by André, who, as you know, is an honest dolt, and who was taking my letters to the post Baron Léon, it appears, asked to look at them, and in that moment contrived to substitute a letter of his own for the one which contained the money. You follow me?”

“Perfectly, perfectly.” Charles was leaning forward, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground to conceal their exultation. “It is terribly sad.”

“He must indeed have been desperate,” said the old count, sadly.

“Quite desperate. You know I told you I was afraid that he had got his affairs into a hopeless mess. But how did you discover what had happened? Through André, I imagine?” There was another silence of exhaustion, and this lasted so long that, however unwillingly, Charles felt he must call in one of the women. For some reason or other he distrusted the nurse, and was not sure that his wife was still in the house. He found her, however, in the anteroom, and hurried her back, whispering that she must give a strong restorative, as it was of the greatest consequence that M. de Cadanet should finish what they were about. Her slow methodical movements enraged him, and as quickly as possible he got her out of the room, though she went reluctantly.

“Is it quite necessary, my friend?”

“Quite. He will never rest until it is told.”

“If there is something on his mind, I would gladly fetch a priest.”

“No, no, my dear Amélie; it is business—business, I assure you, which only I can arrange. Now, go.” He went back to the bedside, and sat there impatiently before he ventured to remark: “André, of course, told you?”

“No,” returned the old count, feebly. “You are quite wrong. It was Léon himself who told me.”

“Ah! Repented,” said Lemaire, with a sneer.

“Not at all.” A weak smile flitted across the sick man’s face. “If you will be good enough to extract the top letter from that bundle, you may read it. Read it. Read it aloud.” Charles had it in his hand. He glanced at the bed. “Aloud?”

“Aloud. Though I know every word.”

“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity.”

M. Charles silently refolded the letter, and the count lay watching him. “Well?” he asked, at last.

“The money has, of course, never been repaid?”

“Every penny.”

This answer came upon the hearer as an extraordinary surprise. He stared amazedly at the old man.

“I received, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, afterwards all that remained of the debt. You are astonished!”

“I should not have expected it of—of the Baron Léon.”

“Ah, I told you you did not understand the De Beaudrillarts. But now listen. I have never forgiven him. I have never sent him a line of acknowledgment. I have kept his confession and André’s statement—”

“Oh,” said Charles, pricking his ears.

”—Because I chose to feel that at any time I might crush him. Since then he has married, and has a boy. It seems to me that makes a difference. A boy—innocent, and the old baron’s grandchild. Besides, I am dying. Anger becomes as useless as one’s clothes. What do you feel, Charles?”

If at that moment M. de Cadanet had known what the younger man was really feeling, it might have startled him. But Lemaire’s mind sprang quickly from point to point—weighing that, considering this. He saw that the old man was relenting, but that he had done nothing as yet. If he said what was in his heart, it might irritate him—would certainly raise his suspicions; it would be far wiser to appear to go with him, and, if possible, get matters—and proofs—into his own hands.

“I feel that you are generous, sir, and your generosity has converted me. Trust to me to help you in anything you wish done.”

“Good.” The word was rather sighed than spoken, but, by the relaxation of tense fingers, it was evident that Lemaire’s speech had come as a relief. The young man spoke again:

“Do you wish me, perhaps, to write!”

“Write! No. Why should I write? I’ve nothing to say, and he would not thank me for saying it. No. The best thing I can do for him is to burn this letter.”

Lemaire’s fingers closed round it, and he asked, with an affectation of not understanding: “Burn it? But why!”

“Because, when I am gone, that letter will prove the very devil of a witness against him.”

“Surely you don’t suppose that any one would wish to rake up such a story?”

“I suspect he would give a good deal to sees it destroyed. No receipts for the money paid, and this letting out everything, besides André’s testimony, which I took down myself. The next paper. Yes. That. Give it me. Give them both to me.”

Charles looked and decided.

“You are quite right, sir; it should be done at once. Will you trust them to me?”

“No,” said M. de Cadanet, sharply, “to no one. Do it here by my bed. I would burn them myself, but that I am too— O God, this weakness!”

“You shall see your wishes carried out close to you,” Charles promised, consolingly. “I am only going into the next room to get a candle, because those silver ones are so heavy.” He dashed through the anteroom where his wife sat working, and into the study. When he came back he carried a short candle, and up his sleeve, which Amélie did not see, a couple of folded letters. He was pale, for he was not a brave man, and he was playing a dangerous game.

M. de Cadanet lay, a shrunk and ghastly figure, with all about him, except his will, exhausted. That still looked out of his eyes, and clutched the papers.

“Here it is,” Charles said, cheerfully; “and now you shall see your letters burn. It is a pity the Baron Léon is not here to assist. May I have them?”

To his dismay, the old count made a sign of refusal, at the same time that he beckoned to him to bring the light close; and the feeble hand, by an almost superhuman effort, held a corner of the letter to the candle. But the strength was insufficient; and hardly had the flame caught the paper than it wavered and dropped. Charles hurriedly snatched it up, and cried out:

“Good Heaven, my dear uncle, what risks you run! Suppose the bed had been set on fire!”

“Is anything wrong?” asked Amélie’s voice, anxiously, at the door.

Her husband turned round with scarcely subdued wrath. “No, no, nothing! Leave us for another five minutes. Now, sir, you shall see it burn, without danger to yourself.”

And standing with light in one hand, and letters in the other, he allowed M. de Cadanet to watch them slowly consume. As the last scrap vanished, the old man uttered a low “Ah!”

“There!” said Lemaire. “This has been a good day’s work for Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”

“You will remember,”—M. de Cadanet’s voice sounded strangely strong—“that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.”

“Hush, hush!” cried the other, glancing round uneasily; “you will fatigue yourself too much. You may be sure I shall always remember.”

“And if ever you meet him, you may say it was for the sake of the child—the boy—Now, go, and send your wife.”

Amélie, who was again at her post in the anteroom, hurried in, and called the nurse. The two women did what they could to restore the fast-ebbing strength, murmuring reproaches at the obstinacy of man. The doctor came and said that it could not be long. Nevertheless, for some days M. de Cadanet lay, and watched the flies on the ceiling, and the sunshine creep from shadow to shadow, and gradually ceased to watch, and lost all consciousness, until, when M. Lemaire came one rooming, he heard that he was gone.

It must be owned that his only feeling was one of relief. The necessary visits to the old man had become a wearisome burden, endured for the sake of gifts, which were generous, and for the prospect of a substantial legacy. A certain part of the property would go to cousins of the count’s, but the sum left to himself was too large to be trifled with; he was in considerable difficulties, and here lay the only road out of it. At the same time, the part of hypocrite, though he could play it with success, was irksome to him, and he raged at the fetters it imposed. He had a capacity for open rebellion, or thought he had, and believed that he would have enjoyed flinging his glove in the face of the world, and defying opinion. Hinderance lay in the fact that the moment never arrived for this more daring attitude, self-interest always clinging to his arm just when he might have hurled the challenge.

But with M. de Cadanet out of the way, he was free from his chief difficulty, and in the first frenzy of his dreams he felt himself sailing on a sea of liberty, restraining cords loosened, golden castles on the horizon before him. He thought of his wife as a humdrum nonentity, easy to shake off. He would give up his house, place her in lodgings, and spend his time as he chose. In the midst of these delightful imaginings he remembered Léon de Beaudrillart.

Those who talk most of liberty are generally the first to find themselves in bonds of their own making; and it did not take long to oblige Lemaire to own, with an oath, that if he affronted respectability, he would be placed at an immediate disadvantage with regard to what he had in his mind. It might have been supposed that as there was now no fear of M. de Cadanet’s money finding its way to Poissy, his rancour would have taken flight—evil does not so readily spread its wings, and he felt that before he could unrestrainedly take his pleasure, he must ruin the man he hated. To do this he must bring into court a specious semblance: remain outwardly respectable, point to an excellent wife, and the trust proved by M. de Cadanet’s legacy—in fact, impress the world with all the solid weight of character added to substantial proof.

He often read the letters, and always with increased assurance. The one point which gave him uneasiness was the absence of the mention of any particular sum. Suppose that Léon chose to say that it was a matter only of some four or five thousand francs, how could the contrary be proved! Here lay the fret; here was the point for a clever counsel to extract an admission; here, unfortunately for Charles, who felt himself injured in consequence, was the necessity to have a very clever counsel, who would be proportionately more expensive, but might be trusted to make his points.

He questioned André, the concierge, without arriving at fresh discoveries. The man only repeated what we already know; he might not even have remembered that, if it had not been taken down by a notary in the presence of M. de Cadanet, and therefore indelibly fixed on his memory. He remarked that he had never seen M. de Beaudrillart since, and was sorry for it.

“Ah, you got a good pourboire with no more trouble than letting him look at your master’s letters, eh?” said Charles, spitefully.

“As to that, the young baron often gave me a piece of twenty sous, when he could not afford it so well as other people,” returned the concierge, imperturbably.

“Twenty sous? No more! If you had been sharp, that look should have been worth more than twenty sous.”

“Ah, well, monsieur knows better than I. And as I asked for nothing, he might have given me nothing, and that’s all about it,” said André, retreating.

The cousins who hurried to the Rue du Bac knew nothing of the old count’s acquaintances, or to whom should be sent notice of his death. They were very glad of Amélie’s assistance, and the arrangement suited her methodical habits. She spent an afternoon with them, suggesting names, and directing envelopes. Charles hated anything which had to do with death, and pleaded the acuteness of his feelings to excuse his absence. When his wife came back he asked if it was finished.

“Yes, quite. The poor man, alas, had not many to mourn for him.”

“Who has?” asked Charles, cynically. “People please their friends better by dying than by living.”

“Oh, Charles!”

“Well, we need not discuss it. I, for one, should find it very inconvenient if Monsieur de Cadanet were to come to life again.”

“I miss him dreadfully,” said Amélie, simply. “And Charles—”

“Well?”

“I sent a notice of his death to Poissy.”

“To Poissy! What the—” he checked himself. “What possessed you?”

“I think he would have liked it, for I am sure he thought of that child.”

“What folly!”

“It can do no harm,” said his wife, calmly.

On reflection, M. Lemaire thought the same—was even glad that she had suggested it. His great desire was to act suddenly, to give no hint to M. de Beaudrillart of the shock that was in store for him until with the thunder came the bolt. This letter would disarm suspicion, and probably relieve Léon’s mind of a great fear. Charles desired, above all, to act prudently. He was racked by doubts of whether in spite of no acknowledgment having been sent, the young baron might not have provided himself with proof of its repayment. If he had grown really careful, he would have done so, and then, although it might be easy to deny that M. de Cadanet had received it, the case would bear, criminally, a very different complexion, and have a very different issue. As it was, all going well, if he could manage to prove that M. de Beaudrillart had stolen money which had been sent to him, he might extract compensation, if by no other way, as hush-money. He sometimes thought it would be the safest plan to work on the young baron’s fears, and after having reduced him to abject misery, sell the compromising papers for something larger than the original sum. By such means his pocket would be very much the better, although his revenge would not have the joy of publicity. A degree of this, even, might be gained, for it is never difficult to let a little evil rumour sift out: a word here, and a word there, and M. de Beaudrillart would be a marked man.

Finally, he resolved to move quickly but cautiously at first. If he were imprudent he might find matters taken out of his keeping, and his hand forced. Léon should feel the net closing round him before he was prepared, but the net should be held by Charles Lemaire, and Charles Lemaire only, and the next step would depend upon what that gentleman judged to be of the most advantage to himself. That, and that only, should guide the course of events.

Chapter Ten.

Restraint.

And Poissy?

After the child’s birth the years slipped swiftly, though not always smoothly, by. Léon, who easily forgot, had very nearly succeeded in forgetting that desperate act of his, and the old count’s threat of the future. There were still, however, moments when it flashed upon him, and brought with it a sudden cloud of depression which he attributed to physical ailments. His wife, sure he was not ill, laughed at these fancies, but his mother, perhaps out of opposition, treated them seriously until they generally ended in his laughing at himself. He spent a great deal of time out of doors, rising early, and going all over the estate, which, bit by bit, was being brought together again; coming in to the eleven o’clock breakfast, and then out again, shooting or fishing or loitering about with Nathalie. If a new idea, a new invention, a new arrangement, attracted him, he was possessed by it, and could think and speak of nothing else. His neighbours smiled at his enthusiasms, but liked and excused him; those who had blamed him in old days were vanquished by the sweetness of temper with which he had accepted his new life, and by the unsuspected strength he had shown in renouncing the extravagances of Paris.

His mother was almost content Léon was all she had believed him, Poissy stood in its old position in the neighbourhood, and there was little Raoul, as dear, or dearer, than his father. As for Nathalie, as much as possible she contrived to ignore her, and though M. Bourget was a terrible man, he had the grace seldom to inflict himself upon them.

It was Nathalie herself who was the most changed by the years of her married life, or who gave that impression, for her character had not really changed, although it had developed. She had lost, early, a certain frank open-heartedness; she was reserved—with her mother and sisters in law extremely reserved. She never battled for her rights, and the household had almost ceased to remember that she possessed any. But, in avoiding retorts, she had fallen into a habit of grave silence which did not belong to her years, and of which Léon sometimes laughingly complained.

“It doesn’t matter when we are alone,” he would say, “but with others—I saw Madame de la Ferraye looking at you this afternoon and expecting you to take your part in the discussion.”

She made a laughing excuse.

“Dear, how should I? It was better not to expose my ignorance.”

“You cram that little head of yours with all kinds of learned stuff, and then talk of ignorance? What makes you read so much?”

“Because I will not have Raoul ashamed of me.”

Every now and then—not often, and always suddenly—a gust of passion seemed to sweep through the mask under which she relentlessly hid her more spontaneous self. Such a gust had come now. Léon looked at her, amazed at the tone in which the words were spoken, concentrated will passionately pushing them forward, as if they carried a standard of rebellion. She never now complained to him, never invited a suggestion which should shape her conduct towards his mother and sisters, and though he was quite shrewd enough, if he had chosen, to perceive the slights which she had daily to endure, he preferred to shut his eyes, and tell himself that with him and the child she was so happy as to be indifferent. Such a passionate outcry as this shook his easy-going reflections, and annoyed him. But he marched on silently, aware that she would soon curb her rebel tongue with shame at its weakness.

They were walking towards Poissy; a fine rain had browned the road, and, falling on a sun-baked soil, sent up a pleasant smell of growing things. The sky was stormy, a sweet insistence of blue above changing in the west to pale, mysterious green. Low down lay a horizontal flame-coloured line of clouds, broken by nearer drifts of dark grey, tattered and vaporish at the edges and flecked with red. One small portion, rent from the rest, had drifted lightly across the blue above. Nathalie, fronting the sunset, with its level light on her face, looked a very noble woman. The lines had grown a little harder, but not one was mean or weak. It was a face to which poor sinners would look for help, and never look in vain. Léon, glancing at it, felt its force and began to speak, although he had resolved on silence.

“You can’t say, I’m sure, that I’ve ever been ashamed of you.”

She turned, and her gravity melted into a lovely smile.

“Ah, but Raoul is going to be much cleverer than you. If you doubt it, listen to my father. Besides, my friend, I spoke hastily; I did not really mean that he would ever be ashamed of his mother, but that it would be useful for him if I could help him in his work. For, wonderful as it seems, the monkey will have to work one day.”

He had quickly forgotten the reproach he had made against her silence, for he was always more taken up with his own thoughts or actions than with those of others, and went on:

“They want me to go over to dine with them to-morrow. And sleep.”

“The La Ferrayes?”

“Yes; the prefet is due there, and two or three others. Madame de la Ferraye made a hundred apologies for not asking you. I forget why it was—no room, I think.”

“I hope you accepted, Léon. It is my turn now to scold you, for I don’t think you are so sociable with your neighbours as you might be. Here you have nothing but women, women! It will do you good to be away from us for a little; indeed, I often wish you would run up to Paris for a few days. You must have many friends there.”

“None, now. And I hate Paris,” said Léon, sharply.

“You puzzle me when you say that,” she returned, looking at him with a smile. “And as for friends, at any rate there must be that old Monsieur de Cadanet, whose name your mother suggested as Raoul’s second. Would it not please him if you were to pay him a visit!”

“Hardly.”

“Well, go to the La Ferrayes, then, and Raoul and I, we will do something to amuse ourselves, perhaps drive to Tours and see my father. Happily, those two love each other.”

To say that M. Bourget loved his grandson was not enough—he adored him. From the first moment when he had gazed, awe-struck, at a small red contorted face, lying in the capacious arms of the nurse, his joy, his pride, his self-satisfaction had been almost beyond control. If his acquaintances had avoided him before, they fled from him now. To know that this true, actual Beaudrillart—not Beaudrillart by grace of marriage, but by birth and actual right, was also his—Bourget’s—grandson, proved sufficient to turn his head, and lead him into extravagant follies. He looked at his daughter with reverence; was she not the mother of this phoenix, this wonder? She was obliged to interfere to prevent him—he, M. Bourget, who called himself to account for every penny he spent—from making perpetual gifts to the nurse, and since she objected to the practice, he indulged himself by presenting his gifts by stealth, so delightful was it to him to sit down before his ledger and make an entry of moneys expended “on behalf of my grandson, the Baron Raoul de Beaudrillart.” As for the photograph of Poissy, words cannot describe the look with which he regarded it. Planted squarely on the pavement, his coarse broad hands clasped behind him, his legs a little apart, his solid head advanced as far as a short neck would allow, he would stand in rapt contemplation, knowing already every line of the windows, every fret of the tracery, but devouring them with his eyes, and utterly indifferent to the smiles and nudges of the passers-by. This worship satisfied him as well as a visit to the actual Poissy. Nathalie, in spite of objections raised at the château against the baby being so constantly taken to the town, was absolutely firm in driving him at least once a week to see his grandfather. Once persuaded of the right of an action, she was tenacious of purpose, and weekly the grey ponies rattled merrily along the narrow street to M. Bourget’s door. This quite contented him, and though, by Léon’s desire, she now and then asked her father whether he would not drive back with her, she was always relieved when he declined. The little slights or sharp speeches to which he was subject there stung her almost beyond endurance, even when he appeared absolutely impervious. Nothing that could be said to herself hurt like these vicarious stings.

Oddly enough, he had grown either more indifferent or less suspicious of neglect on her behalf since the birth of the boy. Before this he had evidently resented the attitude of Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters, and at intervals shot out a question at Nathalie which she found it difficult to parry. But now, either he believed her position to be assured, or had concentrated his thoughts upon his grandson, for he asked nothing awkward, and seemed profoundly careless of what was done at Poissy by its older inhabitants. They were, after all, only women, and of little importance compared to Nathalie’s child. It would have surprised them amazingly if they had realised the small account in which their bête noir held them.

The pitched battle of the portrait had, through Léon’s skilful management, ended in a compromise. He became extremely full of the idea, and did not rest until the painter on whom he had fixed his mind came down to Poissy. M. Bourget had his way so far, though it displeased him that his daughter absolutely refused to be painted as he would have had her, resplendent in white satin. She insisted upon an every-day dress, the dress in which she generally walked with Léon, and she had her way, with the result that nothing could have been more charming. Compromise also effected her entrance into the gallery, for, although Mme. de Beaudrillart was as stubborn as M. Bourget, Léon suggested that, in place of hanging, the portrait might lean against the wall, a position less assured, and—his mother satisfied herself—more humble.

But, strangely enough, the boy’s birth, which had reconciled his grandfather to anything anomalous in his daughter’s position, produced a contrary effect upon Nathalie. Before the child arrived she had accepted the contemptuous treatment she received with philosophy, almost with indifference; Léon’s love appeared sufficient to satisfy her, and she treated disagreeables lightly, as something of which she had already counted the cost. Now there was a change. The trivial galled. Mme. de Beaudrillart was jealous of any influence which the young wife might have upon her son, and hitherto she had drawn aside with a smile, and been content to efface herself; but she no longer did this with ease. She resented the necessity. It seemed that she had fallen into the position of a mere plaything; that her husband liked her to walk with him, to laugh with him; that he found her pleasant to look at; but that when a cloud came between him and the sun—such a cloud as flung a shadow on his face now and then without visible reason—it was to his mother that he turned. His wife was strong enough to face facts and to meet them without repining or fretfulness. She never complained to her husband or her father. But she suffered.

And she had lost illusions about Léon. She saw that he was weak, that his very sweetness of temper was often mere selfishness, and clinging to what was pleasant. She loved him as passionately as ever, but she wanted to keep her boy from the same faults, and it did not seem as if she would succeed. For she was sure that if ever man had been injured by his bringing up, Léon was that man, and here were all the same influences, and more, at work. Mme. de Beaudrillart spoiled her grandchild outrageously. His father laughed at his naughtiness, and even M. Bourget could see in them nothing but an added charm. All the thwarting, all the reasoning, was left to the mother, forced often into strictness by the indulgence of others. The boy had a fine nature, brave and true; but in him, too, the Beaudrillart will was already asserting itself, and Nathalie, looking at him, trembled and prayed.

On the morning after the young baron’s departure for the La Ferrayes, there was a not infrequent scene in the breakfast-room. Raoul had been rude to his aunt Félicie, and his mother required him to say he was sorry. Mme. de Beaudrillart at once remonstrated.

“It is absurd to expect repentance from a baby. You weaken your authority by making sins out of such trifling matters. Come here, Raoul, and I will give you some melon.”

“No,” said Nathalie, with a firm grasp of the delinquent, “you must pardon me, madame, but Raoul knows that he must do what I have told him.”

“Ne veux pas,” said the small rebel, standing stiff and resolute.

“Pray don’t let us have a scene,” said Félicie, nervously. “I assure you, Nathalie, that I am not in the least vexed with him.”

“But I am,” said her sister-in-law, trying to smile. “Raoul, your aunt Félicie is very kind; will you go and kiss her, and say you are sorry!”

He hesitated, made a step towards her, and caught sight of his grandmother, smiling and signing to him with her head to come for the melon. With a laugh of gleeful mischief he broke from his mother, rushed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, cried out again, “Ne veux pas,” and buried his round black head in her lap.

“Let him alone, Nathalie,” said his grandmother, delightedly. “He has found sanctuary.”

From her! With a pang at her heart, Mme. Léon showed no trace of ill-temper. She followed, however, and lifted him, now kicking and crimson, in her strong young arms. Mme. de Beaudrillart looked much displeased.

“A storm about absolutely nothing!” she exclaimed. “The child would have been perfectly good if he had been let alone.”

“When he is good, he shall come back,” said his mother, calmly, carrying him out of the room.

“Ridiculous!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, as they vanished.

“It is just the way to spoil his temper,” Claire remarked, adding seltzer-water to her white wine. “But Nathalie delights in a scene, and in insisting upon her own authority.”

“Poor darling! And he will think I was the cause of it all,” cried Félicie. “I must find something for him, to make up.”

“A medal,” suggested Claire. “I am sure you have a drawer full.”

“Not for playthings,” Félicie said, reproachfully. “If he might wear one always, now, it would make me really happy; but Nathalie is so unsympathetic in those matters that I could not trust to her seeing that it was firmly secured. And as likely as not that dreadful Monsieur Bourget might say something irreverent if he discovered that it hung round the dear child’s neck.”

“He will never believe that you are not deaf,” her sister remarked, with a laugh.

“Thank Heaven, he does not come here often,” acknowledged Mme. de Beaudrillart. “I must say, I feel grateful to him for his forbearance. By-the-way, I have received a letter this morning, and I see there is another for Léon, announcing the death of old Monsieur de Cadanet.”

“Really? A cousin, is he not?”

“A distant cousin, and Léon once was under a certain obligation to him.”

“Ah,” said Claire, “at that time when there was such a panic as to Léon’s affairs? I begin to understand. So it was Monsieur de Cadanet who came to the rescue? Félicie, will you kindly pass the fruit?”

“He had good reason for doing so,” returned her mother. “You know, or perhaps you don’t know, that he was under great obligations to your father, so that he could not very well have refused. And I do not fancy that he behaved very graciously, for Léon does not speak of him with warmth. However—he did his duty, and he is dead.”

Félicie bent her head, and murmured a little prayer for the repose of the soul of M. de Cadanet. When she had finished, Claire said, as she peeled a pear:

“His death is not likely to make much difference to us—ah, here is Raoul! Come to me, treasure!”

“One moment,” interposed Nathalie, firmly. She led the little boy to Félicie. “Now, dear Raoul.”

“Ne veux pas,” whispered Claire in his ear, with a laugh. He looked at her, and glanced at his mother.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not very sorry, Aunt Félie.” Then he threw his arms round Nathalie’s neck. “Will that do? Shall we go to Tours, and may I have the reins?”

Mme. de Beaudrillart said, hastily:

“Not Tours again, I hope. It really is not at all good for the child to pass so much of his time in the close streets of a town. Pray, for once leave him with us. I know, too, that they have fever there.”

“His grandfather expects to see him every week,” replied Nathalie, in a quiet tone.

Mme. de Beaudrillart hated to hear M. Bourget called “his grandfather.”

“That may be,” she said, “but I think my wishes might also be respected. Raoul, would you not rather remain here and let Jean drive you?”

“No,” said Raoul, sturdily. “And I shall go to Tours, because mother promised.”

“Ah, it is a pity your mother spoils you,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, rising, and looking displeased. “May I ask when you start!”

“At once,” Nathalie answered, “so as to be at home when Léon arrives.”

“I shall want him to walk with me.”

“Certainly, madame.” As her mother-in-law left the room, Mme. Léon took up her husband’s letters, which lay on the table. “Such a black border!” she remarked, looking at one of them. “These letters of announcement always give one a shiver.”

“That need not, at any rate, for it does not concern you,” said Claire, carelessly. “I suppose you have scarcely heard of old Monsieur de Cadanet, in Paris?”

“Léon and I were speaking of him only yesterday. Is he dead?”

“So it seems. By-the-way, if Léon had been at home, perhaps he would have run up for the funeral.”

“It appears as if it would require a great deal to drag Léon to Paris,” Nathalie remarked, smiling.

“Perhaps, my dear, he has never informed you of the reasons he has to avoid it.”

Her sister-in-law coloured.

“No,” she said, “he never speaks of his life there.”

“And such a good wife asks no questions! Well, I have often wished to go there myself.”

“Oh, you are quite extraordinary, Claire,” said Félicie, shuddering. “When Paris is such a wicked place!”

“I believe I should like to see a little of the wickedness and judge for myself,” Claire announced, as she followed her mother out of the room.

When Nathalie and her boy reached M. Bourget’s house, he had already been more than once to the door to see if they were coming, although he would not have acknowledged it for worlds. He professed great surprise at their appearing, for, by an established fiction, they were never expected on the days when they arrived, and by another fiction it was supposed to be an extraordinary fact that Raoul should have been allowed to drive in with his mother.

M. Bourget would stand, thumbs in button-holes, and look him up and down with a pride which cannot be described.

“Ta, ta, ta, and this is our baby?” he would say, pursing his lips. “Only the other day he was tied into his chair, and here, if you please, he is driving with his mamma like a gentleman! The times march, upon my word!”

By this time Raoul would have plunged his hands into his grandfather’s pocket.

“Softly, softly, what now!” And, aside to his daughter, “He grows more of a Beaudrillart every day. What he will have, he will, one can see it in everything. Now then, little robber, little brigand, what are you stealing from your poor grandfather!”

And with a shout of delight, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, Raoul would extract a whip, or a top, or a packet of chocolates, and run round the room chased by M. Bourget with terrific show of indignation. Later on, another ceremony was observed, which Nathalie herself always suggested, having discovered the pleasure it afforded to her father. All three would set forth for a walk through the streets of Tours, M. Bourget with his grandson by his side. The ostensible reason for the promenade was that Raoul should see the shops, and to this end they walked up and down the streets for half an hour. M. Bourget did not, at these times, stop to converse with any of his friends, but he took care that they should see him, passed and repassed the café and his other most usual haunts, and would have been greatly disappointed had he not met Leroux, Docteur Mathurin, and at least one of the principal officials. If they went into the cathedral, where Raoul liked to look at the tomb of the little boy and girl princess with their watching angels, he would even make the concession of lifting him up to dip his small fingers into the stoup for holy-water. Then, while Nathalie knelt and prayed—little knowing, poor soul, how much at that very moment her prayers were needed!—the two would wander off into quiet corners, Raoul putting questions which his grandfather treasured jealously, to be repeated with shaking shoulders to the impatient Leroux.

“He must have an answer for everything,” M. Bourget would declare, and Leroux, who, as a father, suffered under the not unusual infliction himself, was expected to express amazement.

After this, it was necessary to stand in front of the cathedral, and scatter crumbs, brought for the purpose, to the pigeons; returning by way of the Rue Royale, that M. Bourget might be certain Raoul had not forgotten how Balzac was born in Number 39. Raoul knew it as well as his grandfather, by this time, but he would sometimes pretend forgetfulness in order to have his memory jogged by chocolates.

On this day the round was shorter, as Mme. Léon wished to be at home early to meet her husband.

“He will hear of the death of an old cousin,” she said, knowing her father’s interest in all Beaudrillart affairs—“Monsieur de Cadanet. I believe he was very old, but I do not think there had been any news sent of his illness, so that I do not suppose it was expected.”

“Ah,” said M. Bourget, “Cadanet. Yes. A branch. His grandmother was a Beaudrillart. Have they said much about it at Poissy?”

“Not to me,” she replied, briefly. “Léon, you know, is absent.”

“It is too far off, probably, for Raoul to benefit,” remarked his grandfather, gazing at him. “If he could have seen him now! Monsieur de Beaudrillart should have taken him there on a visit.”

“It might have been only another to spoil him,” she said, with a laugh, capturing her son as he was thumping upon the table with both lists.

“Pooh, you are a fidget! He gets no spoiling here. I dare say those women at Poissy don’t know how a boy should be treated. Let him hammer. The table is solid. You lose your authority by always scolding. Come here, Raoul, and tell me how the pony goes. And Jean? Does he do what you tell him?”

Driving back that afternoon, Nathalie reflected, as she reflected often, on the difficulties which lay about the bringing up of her little son. Indulged on all sides, with the strong family will quite ready to develop itself, it seemed as if his path was to be strewn with rose-leaves. She had absolutely no one to help her, except Jacques Charpentier, Jean’s father, an honest, sensible man, devoted to the family, and no less so to Mme. Léon. When Raoul was with him, his mother was at ease. With his grandmother and aunts, she was sure that they often indulged the boy out of opposition to her. His father hated disturbance of any sort, and found it easier to laugh than to rebuke. All the training was left to her. Her own father, usually sensible, here was weak, and, in fact, it was who should gain his love by yielding. Happily, as yet, Raoul adored his mother, and as she thought of this she blamed herself for her misgivings.

She told herself, with a sigh, that she was a very happy woman. And afterwards she stared back at that sigh with amazement at her ignorant discontent.

Léon received the news of M. de Cadanet’s death in silence, which was unusual. He answered Claire’s question whether he would have gone to the funeral briefly in the negative, and was leaving the room, when his mother detained him to say in a low voice:

“It will make no difference to you!”

“No. But it might have.”

“Who will have his money?”

“I imagine he will leave all he can to one Monsieur Charles Lemaire, his wife’s nephew.”

“Ah, well! I am glad things were settled before there could be any complications.”

Léon, who was pale, went out of the room without answering her.

Chapter Eleven.

The First Blow.

It was two days after this that Mme. Léon came in from the garden by the outer stone staircase which led to her own room. Although it was only autumn, a chilly wind was blowing, and there was a threat of rain in the air. At the foot of the staircase she met Félicie, coming so much more quickly than usual round a corner that she was breathless.

“Ah, Nathalie,” she cried, with a sudden access of cordiality, “at last! I have been searching everywhere for you.”

“They sent up in a hurry because old Antoine has cut his hand. You wanted me?”

“Yes, indeed. I want you to talk to Léon, and to make him hear reason. Such an opportunity has not offered itself for years, and I am terribly anxious lest—unless we can persuade him that it is not only right and proper, but of the very greatest importance—he should suffer it to slip. If Madame Lemballe steps in before us—and I know she talks of it—it will be disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful! I hope that you will go to him at once, and, above all, impress upon him that it is not a matter to laugh about, and that he must take the precaution of acting without hesitation. Claire has said something to him, but not enough.”

Such an appeal did not altogether surprise Nathalie, for when Félicie could not reach her brother by means of her mother or sister, she turned to his wife. And she guessed that the excitement in her manner was connected with some project for the parish, or perhaps a new biretta for the curé. She asked, smiling:

“What is it?”

“Why, of course, that he should come here; it is quite astonishing that Léon should not see the necessity of it for himself!” continued Félicie, too eager to offer explanation. “Every one in the neighbourhood knows that Poissy is the proper place, and if an invitation is not sent, no one will believe it possible that we can have shown such neglect; they will only suppose that for some reason or other we were not thought worthy of the honour. Figure to yourself whether such an idea will be agreeable for us! And with the boy and all, and the importance to him, I should certainly have expected you to be the first to urge Léon to take a serious view of the matter.”

“But you have not told me what the matter is!”

Félicie stared.

“Do you mean to say you don’t know!”

“I have not even an idea.”

“Astonishing! Why didn’t you ask! I should have told you the first thing, if I had not gathered from your manner that you knew all about it already. I thought, of course, that every one had heard; only sometimes—excuse me, Nathalie—you do not seem to take in what we all talk about. Exactly what I want you to do is to see that Léon sends an invitation, and it would be better for me to write it, because then I should take care that it was worded properly. You understand!”

“I understand that you wish to write an invitation in Léon’s name; but to whom, to whom! Is it, for example, to the President of the republic?”

Félicie exclaimed, indignantly:

“The President! As if I should ever consent to Léon’s inviting him! We have had a queen at Poissy—”

“Not a very respectable one, was she!” inquired Nathalie, wickedly.

“Nathalie! I believe in your heart you are a radical. It all comes from your reading those dreadful books. And I am sure you will just speak to Léon as if it were a matter of no consequence, instead of pointing out to him seriously how much depends on it.”

She was almost crying, and Mme. Léon hastened to reassure her.

“Well, then,” she said, only half mollified, “there is to be a Home opened in about six weeks’ time at Douay, and our bishop has promised to attend. They will gather from all parts. It will be a magnificent function, and beyond a doubt his Grandeur should be invited to come here for it.”

“Ah,” said Nathalie, thoughtfully, “he is a good man, is he not?”

“A good man!” Félicie repeated, in amazement; “what extraordinary questions you ask! The very fact that he is monseigneur might tell you so much, I should think!”

“But it does not,” said Mme. Léon, in a quiet voice.

“My father did not like the Bishop of N, or the Bishop of X. But this one, our bishop, he said, had always tried to do his duty. I hope Léon may invite him. I should think he ought. Shall I go now and ask him?”

Dearly would Félicie have loved to have expatiated upon the sin of venturing to criticise a bishop, even perhaps of praising him in such measured terms, but her burning desire at the present moment was to insure an invitation being sent in time, and to obtain this she choked down her resentment.

“If you will be so good,” she said, stiffly, and Nathalie, glad of an opportunity of pleasing her sister-in-law, ran lightly up the stone staircase to the balcony which clung to an angle of the house. She pushed open the window, meaning to go in search of her husband, but to her surprise saw him standing in the room with his back towards her, his head bent, and his hand on the table. He did not even turn round as she came in, and she rallied him upon his preoccupation.

“Come back from your thoughts, for I am the bearer of a very important request from Félicie.”

He turned, with an attempt at a laugh, but the laugh was so forced that it frightened her.

“Léon! What is it? Has anything happened Raoul?”

“Happened! Foolish child, what should happen? Raoul is with his grandmother. I came here because—because it was the shortest way to the terrace, and then—well, then, I imagine I fell into a dream.”

She was standing in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, her steadfast eyes fastened upon his face. She was no longer frightened, but she was uneasy, though she smiled.

“No, my friend. You came here because it was the shortest way to your wife, and because you have something on your mind which you desire to share with her.”

A change swept over his face, and for an instant, written there, she saw misery, longing, and hunted fear. The next moment they had vanished, and he answered, with his usual lightness:

“Now it is you who dream. Do you not know that I avoid bringing worries to you, who represent my sunshine?”

“If there is any use in sunshine it is to disperse clouds,” she answered, gravely. He looked down, and said, impatiently:

“It is nothing. Merely an impertinent letter which arrived this morning, and annoyed me a good deal; but I have talked it over with my mother, and have written the necessary answer. So now, little fidget, you know everything.”

She hesitated before she answered.

“Do you mean that the annoyance is at an end?”

“How can I tell? I hope so—certainly I hope so,” he said, still hurriedly.

She dropped her hands and turned away, then came back with a heightened colour in her cheeks.

“Léon, I do not think I can bear it any longer.”

“Bear it? Bear what?” There was genuine amazement in his tone.

“Being shut out of so much of your life. Oh, you are good to me, I am not denying that; there is nothing I asked for which I believe you would not try to give me, except this—the one thing for which I hunger. Do you not understand that I am not a child? I am your wife, the mother of your son. You tell me that you love me, yet only treat me as a plaything; when sorrow or anxiety comes you turn to your mother, and I—I, who should be the nearest and the dearest, am not so much as allowed to know what is troubling you. Dear, this should not be. Do you know that when you do this, out of your love—oh yes, out of your love, and wish to spare me—you are putting me to cruel dishonour? Are we not man and wife—one? Your sorrow is my sorrow, your lot is my lot; if there is anything you must suffer, I have the right to claim to suffer with you. Léon, up to this time I have been but half your wife, and what I say is true. I cannot bear it any longer. I claim my right.”

She stood before him, her earnest eyes fixed upon his face, and her voice trembling a little as she spoke. He tried to look at her, but his eyes fell before the frank honesty which he found in hers, and he turned pale. When he spoke, his voice even sounded slightly sullen.

“Nathalie—I give you my word—you don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know what I am asking for. Let me see the letter which has vexed you.”

“Oh, woman, woman! And after having always assured my mother that you were free from the vice of curiosity!” he said, trying to recover his lightness.

“This is not curiosity,” she replied, quietly.

He broke away, and came back.

“See, here, Nathalie, be reasonable! Remember that all these years we have been very happy—”

And then she interrupted him with her hand raised, with a strange, almost fierce, ring in her voice which he had never heard before.

“I have not.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You have not! Great heavens, what are you saying?”

“I am saying the truth at last—the truth which you have never consented to hear!” she cried, passionately. “Has it been happiness to live here, do you suppose, looked down upon and scorned by your mother and sisters? Because I have held my tongue that you might not have your life marred, too, because I have gone my way silently, do you believe, do you know me so little as to believe, that I have not felt! What sort of position do I hold in this house, this great château of Poissy, of which my father thinks so much! They treat me as an inferior, you as if I were a child.” Her voice changed, trembled again. “I could have borne it all—yes, all, if it had not been for that; but that—that has been almost insupportable. To have no part in your graver life; to be left, when anything fretting came to you, for your mother! I have tried to be just, I have indeed! I think of myself and Raoul. I do not begrudge her her rights, nor wish to shut her out from sharing whatever comes to you; but I—I, too, ought to be admitted, and until you take me as God meant you to take me, your wife for sorrow as well as for joy, your wife, and not only your playfellow, do not talk of me as happy, nor imagine that you can make me so.”

Poor Nathalie! It was the outpouring of her heart. The words rushed swiftly with a force which told how long they had been held back, yet were quite free from any sting of bitterness. There lay, indeed, in the appeal a depth of sad tenderness, to which Léon’s affectionate temper could not be insensible. His easy, shallow nature was as much moved as was possible, and he felt remorse, although he shrank from frank explanation of the reasons which had stood in the way of admitting her to his confidence, for they did not belong to a wish to spare his wife, but to a desire to remain in the position where she had placed him. He had no inclination to step down from his throne. He kissed her, and said, uneasily:

“I believe you are right. Well, where shall I begin! How far am I to go back!”

She made a sweeping movement with her hands. “The past is past. Begin to-day. The letter. I can see that you are really troubled about it, though you only called it impertinent.”

“Well, it is true that it is more—it is threatening.”

“Threatening!” slipping her hand into his arm.

“There is a certain Charles Lemaire, a very disagreeable fellow, whom I detest. Have I ever spoken of him!”

“Never.”

“It appears that he has inherited a good deal of Monsieur de Cadanet’s wealth, to which, as far as I am concerned, he is very welcome, if only—However, the letter is from him.”

She was so anxious to understand, to avoid annoying him by questions, and, as it were, to take advantage of the confidence for which she had pleaded, that, breathing quickly, she only nodded in answer. But she kept her eyes fixed on his face, and he looked away.

“I suppose his head is turned by his good-fortune, or he has got bold of some mare’s-nest or other, for he declares that a letter which was going to him from the old count—years ago—somehow miscarried, and—and he does me the honour to accuse me of having made away with it. Pleasant, isn’t it!”

Her face changed. Its lines unstiffened, and she laughed gayly.

“And this has been troubling you? Oh, Léon!” Something in her absolute faith affected M. de Beaudrillart strangely. His voice shook as he answered:

“In spite of the hard things you have been saying, you would not then credit it of your poor Léon?”

“Take care, monsieur! It shows me that my hard things are well justified, for if you had told me at once, I should have made you see the absurdity of suffering yourself to be annoyed by such an insignificant matter. This Monsieur Charles Lemaire—has he, then, taken leave of his senses?”

“He hates me.”

“Well, he must be at his wits’ end for a way of venting his spite. My friend, you are not seriously vexed? I can only laugh. Pray, does he inform you what was in this fabulous letter?”

Léon hesitated.

“A large cheque.”

“Better and better!” she cried, still laughing. “Robber! Ought I not to be terribly alarmed? How little I have known of your true character! Seriously, Léon, how have you answered this impertinent? Now that you have made me happy by admitting me to your confidence, I am never going to be shut out again. You will find that I must know all.”

His fingers drummed on the table with an uneasiness which in her new contentment she did not realise.

“You don’t show much sympathy with my annoyance.”

“Oh!” she cried, suddenly grave. “But, dear Léon, no one who knew you could treat it as anything but a silly joke. You don’t really expect us to take it seriously!”

Silent at first, he said at last:

“It was not intended for a joke, and I think any man who had such an accusation sprung upon him would naturally be a good deal disgusted.”

“Oh yes,” she said, readily, “disgusted at the folly. I can quite understand your anger at its insolence, but you can’t really fret yourself over what is so obviously absurd.”

He looked at her, and his face lightened. “You are right, you are right, chérie. I need not worry myself over a foolish piece of spite which no one in their senses would believe.”

“Now you are reasonable,” cried his wife, gayly.

“And you,” he retorted, putting his arm round her, and drawing her to the window—“you are yourself again? What did all that talk mean about your not being happy? I assure you I did not know you, you looked so fierce!”

“It meant the truth,” she acknowledged, in a low voice, “but it is going to be different, for from this day I am to share your troubles, and that is all I want I bore it at first, because—well, because I felt you did not know me very well; you might have loved me, yet thought I was foolish and untrustworthy. But, by-and-by, as years rolled on, and you treated me in the same manner, I became miserable, for I thought, ‘If he does not know now, perhaps he will never know,’ and it was a dreadful thing for me to reflect that you did not trust me. I felt it was very hard, and more so because it was so different with me. I trusted you entirely—” He made a sudden start from her side. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, sharply.

“What is it?” she said, distressed. “Do you dislike my telling you all this? But I want you to understand what made me so unhappy, and I assure you it was only the absence of confidence. Now all is going to be so different that I feel as if I should never be unhappy again. As for your sisters—oh, and that reminds me that I came the bearer of a very important message from Félicie.” She made a solemn face.

“Does she want money? Let her have it,” said Léon, very quickly. “I have never begrudged money for the Church or the poor, have I?”

“Never,” returned his wife with surprise. “But this is an invitation to be given. The bishop is coming to open the new Home at Douay, and Félicie longs that you should ask him here. I think she is right, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, certainly ask him.” He spoke with the same almost feverish haste. “When is it? I will write.”

“Make Félicie happy by letting her write in your name. She is dreadfully afraid that you may omit some formality.” She had expected more difficulty, for the young baron was averse to giving ceremonious invitations. The presence of strangers bored him, and he had sometimes almost vexed his mother by his dislike to exercising the hospitality which she considered due to his position. But it was quite true that he never refused and seldom laughed at Félicie’s appeals for money, although Nathalie fancied they must often have seemed to him, as to her, to be rather fanciful than necessary. Now he was so desirous to carry out his sister’s wishes that he begged her to go at once to set her mind at rest.

Félicie was sitting on a projecting step watching a lizard; she jumped up and came towards Nathalie, all her little features astir with anxiety.

“Well?” she called out.

“Léon is quite ready,” said Mme. Léon, happily. “Write your letter, and he will copy it, or do anything you like.”

“Thanks!” cried Félicie, clasping her hands rapturously. “You were so long that I trembled.”

“Oh, he did not even hesitate, but there was something else which had to be discussed first.”

“Yes, mamma said he was annoyed about a letter, but I forgot to tell you. Do you know you are a strange person? You look quite happy over monseigneur’s coming.”

“I am happy, very happy,” said Nathalie, smiling at her, “though it has nothing to do with monseigneur. Félicie, I am afraid that poor Henri Leblanc is in a bad way. He looks terribly ill.”

Her sister-in-law’s face stiffened.

“I have a very poor opinion of Henri. The abbé says he can make nothing of him, and his politics are a disgrace to the village.”

“But if he is ill?”

“It may bring him to a better mind.”

“Whatever he is,” cried Nathalie, warmly, “the poor man might certainly have something to help him back to health. Might I not ask for some soup?”

“It would displease my mother very much. You had better not interfere about the people, for naturally you don’t know them as we do, and it is the most worthless who appeal to you. That old Antoine!”

Happily, Félicie’s little narrownesses always ended by amusing her sister-in-law. The idea that a man’s opinions should stand in the way of having his hurts dressed was so comical that she began to laugh; and as for Henri, she made up her mind that her father should get him into the hospital at Tours. She had always money enough, too, for anything on which she had set her heart, for she never spent on herself the allowance that was hers. It was part of the bourgeoise nature, as Mme. de Beaudrillart often remarked, to find it almost impossible to spend money without fear of waste, and without regarding waste as sin. Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters had been economical from the good sense which adapts itself to circumstances, never from actual inclination. Nathalie really had the inclination, and was thrifty by nature. Even her father, personally so as much as any Frenchman of his class, was annoyed with her for not, as he said, adopting notions better suited to the Beaudrillarts, and finding pleasure in spending.

Besides, she was so happy this morning that small vexations could not touch her. There had been a sore struggle in her heart these last years, and aching sadness at which no one had ever guessed. It looked out of her honest eyes sometimes, but there was no one to read it, for even the man who loved her best had not given her the love which is unselfish enough to decipher signs, and it was the blank, hopeless wall which her heart had found in his which had caused her trouble. Now it was surely down. She had planted her first step on its ruins, she saw herself safely intrenched in the citadel within, which the greatness of her own love made her yet think of as a place infinitely more sacred and satisfying than it was.

She went away into the garden to dream of her new bliss by herself. The day was gloomy but quiet, and as she walked the rush of the river over its pebbly shoals came up to her ears. Down below, in the level, the vines hung, all but ready for the vintage, and women in great sabots and white caps clattered across the bridge. Behind, Poissy stood, grey and grave, in its nest of thick foliaged trees. But on Nathalie’s face the light of love was shining, the light of faithful, tender love. There was not a hard line left round her mouth, though, before this, it had seemed as if suffering had begun to grave them. The sweet nobility of her eyes was undisturbed, the youth of her face had reappeared. She cared little enough about the women at the château, strong-willed yet petty, less for the slights which came from them through the household; the kingdom she wanted was her husband’s love, that divine gift which, in spite of imperfection, in spite, alas, often, of the worthlessness of the giver, is the crown of a woman’s life.

Yet, as she walked along in her new happiness, she gauged Léon very fairly. She did not expect him to rise to heroic heights. She knew as well as any one that he was self-pleasing, often morally weak, shirking what was unpleasing to the extent of often shutting his eyes and ears. But she loved him. She had credited him at first with finer qualities; these had dropped from his figure, but she had not loved him less for loss of them. His carelessness had often hurt her, his reserve had nearly broken her heart, and through all her own love had never wavered; it held him, held him up perforce.

She said no more to him about the letter, fearful of frightening away his new-born confidence, and Léon himself seemed to have forgotten it. He displeased his mother by his smiles, his looks, at Nathalie. And when night came, and restless Raoul had been disposed of, husband and wife strolled out together. They went down to the bridge, and stood facing the western sky. The river ran dark under their feet, overhead spread black night, with here and there a faint gleam of stars, and the slender crescent of a new moon. A wind rustled through the low trees, a red light flung itself from a cottage door, and somebody stumbled out and across the bridge.

“Old Antoine,” said Léon, when he had passed.

“Impossible! He had really a bad accident to-day—lost a good deal of blood, and was feverish.”

“And now he has been drinking in honour of the occasion. He it was, I assure you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Nathalie. She added, with a laugh, “Don’t tell Félicie!”

Chapter Twelve.

Blank!

Only Léon’s power of letting trouble slip from him as readily as water trickles from a duck’s back enabled him to go about the estate as if to-day were the same as yesterday. He had, however, bad moments when he was alone, or when the thought which dogged his footsteps caught him by the throat.

The letter, it need scarcely be said, had come from Charles Lemaire. It was not long, but every word fell like the lash of an avenging fate. During the last illness of M. de Cadanet, he said, it had come to his knowledge that a letter directed to and designed for him had been stopped on its way by M. Léon de Beaudrillart, and the contents—a large sum—abstracted. Reluctance to bring disgrace upon a family with whom he was connected had no doubt caused M. de Cadanet to abstain from taking proceedings; but the writer, not being bound by such considerations, did not consider himself at liberty to condone a felony, added to which he was the person who had been the direct loser. M. de Cadanet was aware of his intentions to commence proceedings. He had, however, implored him to give the Baron Léon one chance of restitution of the two hundred thousand francs, hence this letter. He awaited an answer before taking further steps, and had the honour to remain, etc, etc.

When it reached him, Léon was sitting smoking in a room leading out of the hall, where he was in the habit of transacting business with his tenants, for he had never either reinstated M. Georges or engaged another intendant. He had good business capabilities, and it rather pleased him to exercise them, to M. Bourget’s great satisfaction. He was in particularly good spirits, for with the death of M. de Cadanet the uneasiness which every now and then haunted him had passed away. He had not feared legal proceedings, he had never feared them after the first two or three days, and, if he had, his repayment would have relieved him of all dread. But he had had a fear lest some imprudent word of the old count might have betrayed him, and it was a great relief to him to be no more haunted with this anxiety. He opened his letters with a laughing remark to Jacques Charpentier, who brought them.

The man had put them down, and gone to the window to draw back the muslin curtains. When he returned he started at the grey pallor of his young master’s face. The baron was sitting where he had left him, his elbows on the table, and his eyes fixed with a look which could be only described as that of horror on the letter which he held with shaking hands. Jacques was an old servant, devoted to the Beaudrillarts, and absolutely trustworthy. He said at once:

“Monsieur has had bad news? Shall I call Madame Léon?”

He made a shuddering sign of refusal.

“Can I do anything? Monsieur knows he may depend on me.”

Léon stretched out his hand—even at this moment the little action was full of kindly grace.

“You are a good fellow, Jacques. Say nothing. I have had a blow.”

He sent him away, and sat thinking, trying to collect his senses, and to decide how to meet the attack, so unexpectedly terrible and beyond everything that he could have feared. It had never entered his head that his payment could be disputed; what did it mean? Even if the stroke had come from the old count it would not have been so menacing; but that Charles Lemaire, always, he was certain, his enemy, should be on the track, and should, apparently, be wielding such a terrible weapon, was at first sight overwhelming. Then he had to reflect how much he should tell his mother. The letter itself was too precise, too exact in its revelations for him to venture to show it, he must destroy it; and let it be supposed that in his first indignant rage he had torn it up. He suited the action to the thought, and as he raged at the morsels, wondered he had kept his fingers off them so long. It was almost as if by such action he had succeeded in strangling the monstrous accusation; he flung the last atoms from him with a groan of relief. Here the buoyancy of his nature came to his aid. Such a stroke could not fall; it would not be permitted, it would be a crime against the eternal justice. Its impossibility pacified him, its sinfulness made his own deed look innocent; he stood, the mark, the victim, of calumny, and the dignity of martyrdom soothed him into assurance.