Frances Peard (continued 4)

In this more endurable mood he flung away his cigar and went to find his mother. She kept the reins of the house firmly in her own grasp, and had just been looking into the great presses with old Nanon to make sure that no moth was fretting the linen.

“Ah, Léon,” she said, “I wanted to see you. The wood is getting low. And Nanon thinks it would not be a bad plan to get a few Cochins for the poultry-yard. What do you say?”

Her son stood reflecting.

“I don’t believe that you much like Cochins? Still, they are useful, and we need not have too many.”

“Clumsy creatures. But if Nanon has set her old heart on them—Just as you think best, mother; I can’t give my mind to it to-day; other things are too worrying.”

“Has Pichot been making difficulties about his rent! Sometimes I think that if you could get a good intendant, and not an incapable like Monsieur Georges, you might be spared many annoyances.”

Léon flung himself into a chair with a groan, and stretched his legs.

“I can do with them, but this—this is shameful! What do you say to a rascally relation of Monsieur de Cadanet writing to blackmail me about a letter of his which he avows I took?”

He spoke chokingly. It was difficult to put it into words. Mme. de Beaudrillart smiled.

“A little startling, certainly! But in these days it appears one must be prepared for anything. Does he pretend that the letter was worth anything to you?”

“Oh yes, money; a big sum, which he suggests I should hand over.”

“Of course there would be that demand—there always is. I should like to see how he puts it.”

“Ah,” Léon exclaimed, hurriedly, “I tore the letter up. Its insolence enraged me so much!”

“Naturally. Well, I imagine you will not give him the satisfaction of taking any notice of his attempt. It is always better to say nothing about such a matter and simply to ignore it. I believe there are wretches who make a profession of trying to extort money by getting hold of some forgotten trifle, and magnifying it until they manage to frighten weak-spirited persons. Probably your correspondent is one of the tribe.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart had a heap of linen before her; she lifted one piece after another, and laid it on one side, mechanically counting.

“I know the man,” muttered Léon, his eyes on the heap.

“Yes?”

“And I shall answer him.”

“Unwise.”

“I must. The fellow passes for a gentleman. Why, he has inherited a great part of old De Cadanet’s money.”

His mother paused in her task.

“Then he must be under some strange delusion,” she said, gravely, “and I begin to wish you had not destroyed the letter.”

He assured her that he remembered what was in it, and repeated particulars, avoiding mention of the sum.

“It is scarcely credible that any one should have brought such a mad accusation,” she remarked.

Léon allowed the strangeness of the fact.

“But I must answer the scoundrel, and what shall I say?”

“Refer him to your lawyer if he means to go further. There is nothing else to be done. Make him understand that, by persisting, he lays himself open to an action for libel.”

Léon looked at her reflectively. Then he sprang to his feet.

“I believe you are right. It is best to advance a bold front with such fellows, and show them you don’t mean to knock under.”

“Knock under? But that would be impossible!” exclaimed Mme. de. Beaudrillart, astonished.

“Oh, well, I can quite conceive a man so much worried and bothered by the mere threat that he would pay just for peace and quietness.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart flung up her head.

“I cannot,” she said, proudly.

“You are going to have your way, at all events,” said Léon. He had rapidly reviewed the possibilities of choking off Charles with something approaching the price he demanded, and, if he could not have found security thus, would have done it. But he read the man’s malice, and was sure that he would not be satisfied without accomplishing his social ruin as well as obtaining a large sum. His mother’s suggestion was the best. Even though the fact had reached Charles Lemaire’s ears, the burden of proof was quite another matter, and left him many loop-holes. “Yes,” he declared, “I will write.”

“Write here,” advised his mother. She preferred her room to be used, since by that means his wife was effectually excluded. She pushed the materials towards him, and he sat down and wrote hurriedly, she leaning over his shoulder. “Good. But you have scarcely expressed your amazement at his insolence sufficiently.”

“Oh, I’ll put anything you like,” cried Léon, recklessly. He added a few strong words of her dictating: “There! Will that do?”

“It is better.” She waited while he folded and addressed his letter. “Monsieur Charles Lemaire. So that is his name! Now, my son, not a word of this to any one. The smallest hint, creeping out, might do incalculable harm, in spite of its folly.”

He listened in silence; there was no need for her to utter warnings as to the seriousness of the affair. Going back to his own room, he walked furiously up and down, anathematising Lemaire with all the abuse he could think of. Then, as he was one of those who imperatively require sympathy, he betook himself to his wife, meaning to do no more than let her know he was in trouble. What happened there in spite of Mme. de Beaudrillart’s warnings gave him very considerable comfort. Nathalie displayed the absolute disbelief which he hoped would be the effect upon the world should this story ever be suffered to ooze out. More than that, he felt that he had made her happy, and he liked other people to be happy, although he might not be disposed to put himself out in order to attain that result. When the next morning came his spirits rose, by fits and starts, however, and depending upon nothing more tangible than the distraction of the moment. Nathalie wondered that such an absurd attack as he had confided to her should have power seriously to vex him, and, happy herself, tried her best to turn his thoughts. Mme. de Beaudrillart thought she showed unfeeling want of comprehension by her unusual gaiety; Claire saw that something was wrong, and snubbed Nathalie; and Félicie was too much taken up with delight at the prospect of the bishop’s visit, and with satisfaction at having certainly stepped in before Mme. Lemballe, to have thought for anything else. Already she had begun to plan extensive decoration by means of paper flowers for the church, and was bent upon driving to Tours to seek materials; in her small set voice one idea pattered after the other, the last being so much like what had gone before as to be scarcely distinguishable.

“I am sure that the nicest effect would be to have real bushes in pots covered with tinsel, and pink roses tied thickly on the twigs, unless—yes, certainly one might have pink for the pots, and tinsel flowers interspersed with streamers; perhaps that would be the best, after all. Nathalie, you never suggest anything; do tell me what you think. At any rate, garlands will be charming. I must begin upon them to-day. And then there are all the banners to be looked over, and the new cope to be finished. I really think that Raoul is big enough to walk in the procession, don’t you, mamma? and that would make it perfectly charming!”

The day, outwardly the same as hundreds which had gone before, had, to Nathalie’s mind, a curious restlessness running through its hours, Léon dreading his own society so much that he would scarcely suffer her to leave his side. She was obliged to commit Raoul altogether to the care of his grandmother, with the result that by the evening he was wildly unmanageable. Once or twice miserable depression seized Léon, which his wife could not understand; for to her it appeared absolutely unreasonable, even while she exerted all her powers to cheer him. Over and over again she repeated the same consolation: who would treat such a letter seriously? But the gladness in her heart that he should seek his consolation from her was so great that she felt no impatience. He said at last:

“After all, I have a great mind to go to Paris myself.”

“Why not?” she returned, cheerfully. “Then you could put an end at once to this absurd folly. A few words would certainly bring him to reason, and you cannot say all you want in a letter.”

“I believe I will!” Léon ejaculated. “But I can’t be left alone. You must come.”

Her heart leaped. To have him to herself!

“Only ask me!” she exclaimed, joyously.

“It mayn’t be so pleasant!”

“The more reason that I should be with you.”

He looked at her irresolutely. Should he tell her? Let free the horrid fear which gripped his heart? No, he could not. To have her think of him as he really was required too great a sacrifice.

“Well, then, you and I will go together.”

She pressed his arm. “When?”

“To-morrow.”

“And Raoul?”

“Oh, Raoul must stay behind. It would displease my mother very much if we took him. As it is—” He broke off and looked at her, and they both laughed. “We will make some excuse. You need not tell her that you know anything about that letter.”

The excuse he made was that his wife had a great desire to go to Paris. “And,” he said, privately to his mother, “I may as well take the opportunity of settling with this Lemaire. The fellow thinks he can bully me.”

“You could do it better alone, in my opinion,” replied Mme. de Beaudrillart, determinedly. “Nathalie ought to be very well content to stay here. At any rate, take my advice, and keep the matter to yourself. Your wife cannot be expected to look at the matter as we do; she would naturally think that money might set matters right—perhaps would want you to appeal to that terrible father. Imagine Monsieur Bourget as your adviser!”

Léon cleared his throat. “She need know nothing,” he said.

Mme. de Beaudrillart was more uneasy than she allowed. Faith in her son could not obliterate the remembrance of past folly. She feared that something, some handle, existed to account for this vile accusation, and she dared not examine too closely into the when and where, lest fear should be confirmed. She came down the next morning with dark rings round heavy eyes to find Léon his old self—gay, careless. No letter had come, and he was able to think with exhilaration of Paris, its stifled charm reasserting itself, and old pleasures beckoning. The picture shone with a brilliancy which swept away clouds, and his wife’s delight at having gained her rightful position helped his cheerfulness. Claire looked at her with indignation, believing the happiness in her eyes to belong only to joy at getting what apparently had been her secret longing, a visit to Paris, and letting sharp words fly to show that she understood this depravity.

“And we are to be trusted with Raoul!” she said.

Nathalie’s face changed a little.

“If you will be so good,” she said. “I hope he will not be naughty.”

“I don’t see why he should be more so than usual; but of course since you persuaded Léon to overlook Jean Charpentier’s untrustworthiness, there is no knowing what he may not do.”

“Raoul has promised that he will not go to the river by himself.”

“Promised! That baby!”

“He will not break his word,” said Nathalie, quietly, and for once Mme. de Beaudrillart nodded approval.

“No. He is a true Beaudrillart,” she said, and Claire stopped sparring, content with this thrust.

When the two had gone, she reflected for some time as to what mystery had carried them off. Her life was emptier than that of Félicie—who, indeed, had a conviction that she was a most busy person—for Claire hated fancy-work, and despised the small fripperies which more than satisfied her sister. She had the appetite of intellect, with nothing to feed it on, and a love of power in a very contracted realm. Her single life left her harder than her mother, and she was more irritable, though this was perhaps owing to a penetrating knowledge of herself. A Frenchwoman in the provinces, with her tastes, and no means of satisfying them, may have a very dull time of it indeed. She meets with little sympathy from her friends, and it is still a reproach to speak of a woman as taking an independent line of her own, though that line may really be absolutely harmless. If Claire could have brought herself to make a companion of her sister-in-law, to borrow her books, or to discuss them with her, life would have had real interests for her; as it was, pride checked her, and she grew more rigid from bringing her will to bear upon petty and indifferent objects—such, for instance, as the thwarting of Nathalie. She detested M. Bourget, in whom she read possibilities of insolent opposition. She could not bring herself to drive in Nathalie’s pony-carriage, although she would have gladly hailed the variety of an hour or two in Tours, and for this reason Félicie went there alone, Mme. de Beaudrillart refusing to allow Raoul to accompany her.

She came back in high spirits, with rolls of pink paper for the roses, and several small pieces of news which she was an adept in picking up, and which were very welcome at the château.

“Monsieur Darville is to be the new magistrate, and he is already engaged to Mademoiselle Silvestre. Imagine, that little creature! And who do you think I saw at the door of Lafon’s shop? Monsieur Georges. He came up to me, and inquired for Léon and for all.”

“He might have contented himself with a bow, I think,” said her mother, displeased.

“Oh, I assure you, mamma, he was quite respectful in his manner. I think he would very much like to see Poissy again.”

“Not improbably. He would find matters in a different train than when he left it.”

Claire put in, “But, after all, Léon has only done what Monsieur George’s always wished him to do. Léon is so changed!”

“And what has changed him! Realising what Monsieur Georges never had the energy to impress upon him. No. He is an incapable, as I have said from the first.”

“And did you see Monsieur Bourget!”

Félicie pursed her lips.

“Yes, there he was, the dreadful man, planted on the pavement and staring! I suppose he was surprised not to see Nathalie, for his eyes opened like round saucers. I told Francis to drive very quickly.”

It was true, as she divined, that M. Bourget was astonished to see the carriage without his daughter. But as the day for her weekly visit had not come round, he was not uneasy until this arrived and passed without tidings of her. Then, indeed, there was a wrangling match between indignation and anxiety. He vowed that she was neglecting him, as a means of keeping off the fretting fear that something had happened to Raoul. The photograph of Poissy, interrogated, looked gloomily suggestive; for the first time in his life he turned away from it angrily. At the café he browbeat the waiters, and sat so silent and sullen that his acquaintances did not venture to approach him, chafing him the more by holding aloof.

The slight cause he had for anxiety made him ashamed to admit it.

At last, one morning a letter from Nathalie gave an added fright, until he caught sight of the postmark Paris, and stared at it in grumbling bewilderment. What on earth had carried them there all of a sudden, and if the boy was gone, how came it that he had not been told? But opening the letter, its first sentences caught his breath away, and left him staring, a pallid image of himself. A rush of blood to the head followed. “What is the girl dreaming about?” Finally a laugh broke out, a hoarse foolish laugh, the sound of which amazed him. Was he mad? It was a more likely explanation than that the letter spoke truth.

But if he were mad, he was sane enough to perceive that he must come back to his senses, and that quickly. He took the letter and read it through, frowning. The same words stared at him. They were not the delusion of madness.

He stood up, uttering a sound like a choked roar. The passion which had rushed uppermost was rage. That such an accusation should be possible, that a man should dare to utter such—such blasphemy against the honour of the De Beaudrillarts was monstrous, a disgrace to the civilised world! It was the insult which inflamed him. M. de Beaudrillart could of course clear himself and punish the slanderer. But what could wipe out insult?

His first impulse was to fling himself into the train and go to Paris, with some unformed notion of shaking the truth out of the infamous accuser. Then he felt as if it were to Poissy that he must hasten. Vague thoughts, vague fears, floated in his brain, kept down by his resolve not to allow them to take shape. His breath came quickly, his chest heaved, he looked vainly round for something or some one on whom he could vent the storm which oppressed him; if Leroux had presented himself, he might have half-killed him, by way of relief. No one was in the house with him except old Fanchon, who was deaf, and occupied in preparing an omelette for his breakfast. Deaf as she was, she heard the door bang, for it shook the house, and running to look out, saw M. Bourget descending the street like a whirlwind.

On another occasion, if anything had taken him to Poissy, his legs would have carried him; but impatience drove him so fiercely that he hailed the first carriage he saw, to the amazement of the driven, who knew M. Bourget well enough to comprehend that such an event was unprecedented.

“To Poissy, monsieur!” he repeated, open-eyed.

“To Poissy, imbecile!” thundered his fare. “Have you, by chance, ever heard of Poissy? Does it perhaps not exist in the neighbourhood, or have I fallen upon a horse with three legs that cannot go beyond the street?”

“The horse can go well enough,” muttered the man, climbing up on his seat. “But heard ever any one of the miserly old bourgeois taking a carriage for his pleasure!”

If he hoped that the rarity of the proceeding would induce M. Bourget to take his drive leisurely he was mistaken. He was stormed at, urged on, and arrived at Poissy almost as hot as his horse, not daring to grumble at the smallness of the pourboire, lest this terrible M. Bourget should have his licence revoked.

The ex-builder flung himself from the carriage, and pushed by Rose-Marie into the hall. Raoul, at work there, rushed at his grandfather with a welcoming shout. For the first time that day M. Bourget spoke gently.

“There, there, my boy, by-and-by, by-and-by. Now I am going to speak to madame your grandmother.”

Already he breathed more freely. The sight of Poissy, standing as solidly and as fair as ever, reassured him. The hideous thing of which he had heard was whipped by scorn into the regions of the impossible. Raoul, fresh, mischievous, enchanting, Raoul alone, flung denial after it. Everything stood as he had seen it last. He went up the staircase half ashamed of the impulse which had brought him. But when Rose-Marie had opened the door, and he saw Mme. de Beaudrillart standing in the centre of the room, upright, rigid, a figure stiffened into stone, the panic seized him again. The door closed behind him, the two stood facing each other. It was she who spoke first.

“From your presence here, monsieur, I gather that you have heard from Madame Léon of the—the extraordinary attack which has been made upon my son.”

Even at this moment M. Bourget was impressed by the haughty coolness of her bearing. Not a movement, not a look, showed fear. He said, briefly:

“She wrote to me this morning.”

“Ah, so I imagined. It was natural, though I could have wished the affair had not been mentioned out of our own family.”

M. Bourget’s square figure seemed to gain unusual dignity. He said, respectfully:

“Pardon, madame. You forget that although I have no desire to force the fact upon you, we both belong to the same family. What concerns the husband of my daughter, concerns me. But it appears to me there are more important matters to discuss. I am not sure that I know all the facts. Would it displease you if I repeated what seems clear!”

She motioned him to a seat, and sat down herself abruptly.

“What I make out, then,” said M. Bourget, leaning forward, and fixing his eyes on his own broad hands, “is that some Monsieur Lemaire, of whom I know nothing—” he paused, questioningly, but as she remained silent, went on—“the principal inheritor of the wealth of the defunct count, Monsieur de Cadanet, brings an accusation against Baron Léon of having opened a letter intended for him, Lemaire, by Monsieur de Cadanet, and of having extracted the sum of two hundred thousand francs. That is all I know, madame, and, on the face of it, it appears a most egregious accusation.”

Her lips formed the word, “Disgraceful.”

“But you can, perhaps, madame, give me further information. On what ground does he base his charge? Were there any money dealings between this Lemaire and Monsieur Léon?”

“I am certain there were none.”

In spite of herself she was thankful to have this man, with his shrewd business habits, his straightforward common-sense, by her side. She felt his strength a support.

“And between Monsieur de Cadanet and the baron?”

“Ah, that is different.” She hesitated, keeping her eyes fixed on M. Bourget; then went on: “You had better know all. You are probably aware that, owing to the incompetence of his intendant, Poissy became very seriously involved?”

“People said, madame, that Monsieur Léon had squandered his estates,” replied M. Bourget, speaking brusquely for the first time; “but that is neither here nor there. I am aware that at one time the mortgages were very heavy—very heavy indeed; and that Monsieur Léon contrived by degrees to pay them off. To do so required money.”

“Certainly,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, coldly, “he could not work miracles. The money came from Monsieur de Cadanet, who was under a debt of gratitude to my husband.”

M. Bourget hardly heard these last words. “How much?” he said, quickly.

“Two hundred thousand francs.”

He stared at her, and brought his hand down heavily on the table.

“The same sum!”

“A coincidence.”

“More than improbable,” said M. Bourget, shaking his head obstinately. “Depend upon it, this has to do with that loan of Monsieur de Cadanet’s. It was a loan?”

“Of course.”

“And repaid by my money,” was on M. Bourget’s lips. Something, however, withheld him, although he would have said it in all simplicity, and without thought of anything offensive. “Repaid on his marriage,” he substituted. “I knew there was something of the sort. Depend upon it this rascal has got hold of the transaction, and is bent upon making capital out of it. I wish I had Monsieur Léon here, to put one or two question.”

“I believe, monsieur, I am perfectly acquainted with his affairs.”

M. Bourget darted an ironical look at her, but refrained from expression of incredulity.

“Do you, at any rate, know, madame, whether Baron Léon was in Paris or at Poissy when he received this assistance from the defunct Monsieur de Cadanet?”

“In Paris.”

“And had he, at that time, any communication with Monsieur Lemaire!”

“I am aware of none.”

“No quarrel? Were they on friendly terms!”

“No. For my son thought ill of him, and once said that if Monsieur de Cadanet knew his real character it would be a bad day for Monsieur Lemaire; but that was all.”

“You do not think he tried to open Monsieur de Cadanet’s eyes.”

“Never,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, drawing herself up. “Do you imagine he would have stooped to the position of tale-bearer?”

“I should have,” said M. Bourget, frankly. “And it would have been decidedly advantageous. However, depend upon it, madame, this accusation has something to do with Monsieur de Cadanet’s loan. As for the theft from the letter, that is absurd. My theory is that Lemaire is perhaps executor—at all events, that by some means or other he has become possessed of papers which have suggested the attempt to coerce the baron. I hope Monsieur Léon will beware of yielding. Fortunately, Nathalie is there, and has a clear head for business.”

“My son is not likely to require support,” said his mother, still haughtily. M. Bourget did not hear her; he was considering, chin on chest.

“He has learned, somehow, that the money was lent to Monsieur Léon, and perhaps he means to deny that it was ever repaid. You will pardon me, madame, if I remark that in your class there are apparently strange reticences and scruples in business matters. I once offended Monsieur Léon, in what probably had to do with this very loan, by asking whether he held any note or agreement which I could look at. Two hundred thousand francs is a large sum to have been paid without so much as a receipt!”

Mme. de Beaudrillart stood up with a smile.

“We are not so foolish as you suppose us, Monsieur Bourget. My son had a receipt, and I can show it to you.”

“In that case—” M. Bourget rubbed his hands exultantly—“I am convinced this will be of the greatest importance. Can you put your hand on it easily, madame?”

She answered by unlocking a cupboard. His face fell. A cupboard for papers of value! But when he saw an iron safe fitting into the recess, his wounded instincts recovered themselves. He could hardly restrain himself from looking over her shoulder.

“You know the paper, madame?” he cried, eagerly.

“I placed it here myself.”

She extracted an envelope from a bundle of receipts, tore it open, and unfolded a paper.

It was a blank sheet.

Chapter Thirteen.

“Here must be some mistake.”

The two stood staring at the paper, which told so little and so much.

When M. Bourget glanced at last at Mme. de Beaudrillart, he pushed a chair towards her.

“Sit down, for Heaven’s sake, madame,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Here must be some mistake. Who gave you this?”

Insensibly and unintentionally his voice had become that of the accuser. She answered, mechanically:

“My son.”

“Do you think—” he glanced at her again and was silent. Both were silent. They could hear the cooing of the pigeons in the yard; presently a child’s shout of laughter rang out, and their eyes met. M. Bourget said, quickly: “There must be some explanation. Could it have been an accident? Monsieur Léon perhaps carelessly handed you the wrong paper!”

She shook her head; he pushed his question.

“Consider, madame. Such a mistake is not impossible. It was at a time when his thoughts were, perhaps, elsewhere. A young man just married hasn’t got his head so clear for business as on ordinary occasions. Or are you certain this is the envelope he gave you? If you were to search a little further?”

“That is the envelope,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, firmly. “At the same time—”

“Yes, yes!” cried M. Bourget, leaning forward, impatiently.—“I think it not impossible that it was a—a little farce on his part, because I pressed him so much for the receipt. I believe,” she went on, her voice and figure regaining strength, “that Monsieur de Cadanet sent him no receipt, and that he gave this to quiet me.”

“Oh!” groaned M. Bourget. He stood gloomily regarding the safe. “How would it be possible that such a sum could be received without so much as an acknowledgment?”

She was silent. He put another question.

“Other letters must have passed; have you seen any of them?”

“No.”

“Nothing, madame, from Monsieur de Cadanet?”

“Since my husband’s death, nothing.”

“Was anything paid before Monsieur Léon’s marriage?”

“Five hundred francs.”

M. Bourget had a perfect recollection of this sum having been mentioned by Léon; he only put the question to see how the accounts agreed.

“Is there, perhaps, a receipt for this?”

“No,” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart. “I was vexed that Léon did not demand it, but he assured me it was impossible.”

“Impossible or not, it is a great misfortune,” murmured the ex-builder, in a gloomy tone.

She looked up with sudden fire in her eyes.

“You say so, monsieur, but you have no reason to link the two points together. This disgraceful attempt by Monsieur Lemaire may have nothing whatever to do with the repayment of Monsieur de Cadanet’s loan.”

M. Bourget rubbed his face with his hand, and glanced at her doubtfully.

“No, madame,” he said, at last; “but with its non-payment.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart rose with all the pride she could summon to the support of a trembling heart.

“No one, monsieur, shall insult Monsieur de Beaudrillart in his own house.”

“Do you think I would?” he returned, hurriedly. “You forget, madame, that we are all in one boat. But something there is which has to be unravelled before things can be set right, and if I work I must have materials to go upon. If this money was the repayment of a loan from Monsieur de Cadanet, some sort of acknowledgment must exist. That,”—he pointed to the envelope—“you see what that is.”

“It was my fault,” she said, firmly.

“Perhaps. That is neither here nor there. It is not what you thought it. That makes it the more likely that Monsieur Lemaire’s action has to do with it. But how? I’ve half a mind to go after them to Paris.”

“No,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, shivering. “Do not. You mean well, I know, but you might make matters worse by interfering. The fewer who are mixed up in it the better.”

“Maybe, madame; though that would not hinder me if only I had a lawyer’s brains to ferret out things. But that’s not my way. Give me a straight bit of work that requires no talking, and I’m your man; but as for hunting up and down in by-ways and back-stairs—well, if I attempted it, there would be blunders. There must be lots of the sort in Paris, though.”

“If it comes to that!”

M. Bourget stood regarding her.

“What does Monsieur Léon say?” he demanded, abruptly.

“He has tried to see this Lemaire, but he refuses to communicate except through a lawyer. It looks as if he could not face him.”

“Impossible to trust to that, madame,” said M. Bourget, with gloom. “The worst liars I ever met looked me straight in the face when they lied. Is Baron Léon going to take action himself!”

“He speaks of having a case for libel. Apparently, Monsieur Lemaire merely reiterates his demand without offering proof.”

“He is keeping his proof,” interjected the ex-builder.

“And Léon thinks that when he finds the money is not forthcoming, he will revenge himself by talking, unless he is threatened with an action.”

“Perhaps it is not a bad plan to see whether it is possible to shut his mouth. Monsieur Léon is the best judge.”

M. Bourget said this reflectively. Mme. de Beaudrillart, looking here and there with the instinct of an animal whose young are attacked, quivered.

“Are you supposing, monsieur, that my son would stoop to bribe?”

“It would not answer. It never does,” he answered, disregarding her indignation; “otherwise, get the fellow to accept a sum, and you have him. He could not move afterwards, because he would have put himself within reach of the law. He could not even blab, because he calls himself a gentleman.” He glanced at Mme. de Beaudrillart, and stopped suddenly. She had drawn a step nearer to him; all her features were sharpened, her voice harsh.

“Do you know what you are saying?” she cried. “To do this would be to acknowledge himself guilty! And you suggest it to me—his mother!”

“Come come, madame,” said M. Bourget, reasonably, “you forget that I also am his father-in-law, and anything which would put an extinguisher on the business without setting the world’s tongues wagging is worth discussion. However, Monsieur Léon, who knows the ins and outs of it all, as you and I don’t, may have some better plan in his head, and I suppose there are honest lawyers to be met with, even in Paris. As I said, too, he has Nathalie at his elbow. Who is his lawyer? Monsieur Rodoin?”

“Yes. Oh, if only I were there!” exclaimed Mme. de Beaudrillart, beginning to walk up and down the room.

M. Bourget conceived it prudent to take no notice of this desire; for privately he thought it as well that her rigid notions of honour, which he admired immensely but considered unpractical, should be replaced by Nathalie’s excellent sense. The discovery of the blank envelope had affected him very disagreeably. If there had been nothing in the shape of a receipt he would have put down the want to carelessness, or some overstrained idea which was pardonable in a Beaudrillart. But the empty enclosure pointed to deceit. For some reason or other Léon had hoodwinked his mother, and M. Bourget was convinced not only that the money had never been repaid, but that this movement on the part of Lemaire was but the sequel to a dark story. Rumours of the Baron Léon’s proceedings in Paris, which he had chosen to ignore when he gave him his daughter, came back to him now with terrible insistence. If the present overhanging disgrace reached the ears of those intimates at Tours whom he had pelted with boasts, could he ever hold up his head again? He shuddered. Wrong or right, honour or dishonour, if a bribe could have stopped the accuser’s mouth, M. Bourget would have urged its payment.

As for Mme. de Beaudrillart, she, too, was shaken. Passionately to proclaim her belief in her son was only the weapon caught up by a wounded heart with which to defend itself. She had covered them with tenderest excuses, but she knew, in that deeper consciousness where she dared not penetrate, that Léon had committed a thousand follies in those old days which she had hoped were buried. Alas, sin is an unquiet ghost. It walks.

In her heart she cried out against God’s justice. What! Could not those changed years atone? Could not her prayers, Félicie’s devotions, gain grace! Were the faults of his youth to meet him now—now when he was living a blameless life; now when he was the father of an innocent boy? Nathalie she passed over. To her it might be a grief, but she would not feel the pang of a dishonoured name, that, worse than death itself, would hang round Raoul’s neck all his life long. She hated M. Bourget, blaming her own triumphant assurance which allowed him to assist in her search for the papers. If she had gone alone, if that incident of the empty envelope had not come to his knowledge, she could have braved it out by taking the blame on herself. She even distrusted him, not understanding that though differing in form, in degree her pride in Poissy was equalled by his. And yet, she was so terribly alone, and this man knew! Before she realised what she was about, she had faltered an entreaty to him for silence, and was met by an uncomprehending stare. She bowed her head.

“What I mean, monsieur, is that it may do mischief to speak of this affair before my son has stopped it.”

“I speak of it!” cried M. Bourget, irritably. “You don’t seem to understand that I would give ten years of my life to be certain that it would never set tongues wagging! I, madame! What do you take me for? I! Shall you gossip yourself?”

Fear had shaken her. She murmured that he was not one of the family. His wave of the hand had a dignity she had never seen in him before.

“Do I claim to be? But my daughter, madame, is as much a Beaudrillart as yourself, and my grandson more than either. Our interests are identical.”

Under the shock of these words Mme. de Beaudrillart revived.

“Be it so, monsieur,” she said. “It appears to me that for the present we must wait until we know more. If we move, we may only cause mischief, and I would beg of you to give up any idea of going to Paris. I believe that matters will arrange themselves. You have of course breakfasted?”

He had left his house at a moment’s notice, and began to feel the need of food. Mme. de Beaudrillart rang, and gave orders for it to be spread in the dining-room at once, requesting further that Mlle. Claire might be sent for. She felt the need of support, and yet dreaded lest Claire’s sharp tongue might exasperate this man, who already began to represent h power. She need not have feared. M. Bourget felt little of, and cared for less, the prickly darts which Mlle. Claire let fly. He enraged her by his indifference, but in the middle of his hearty meal on red-legged partridges, he demanded Raoul, and though she would have made some excuse, her mother gave a peremptory order that he should be found. When he arrived, Mme. de Beaudrillart wondered that she had not thought before of taking refuge in his chatter.

Still, it had its awkwardnesses. He was bent upon showing his grandfather everything. Had he seen this, had he seen that! Why was it that he did not come oftener to Poissy? Would he come to the river directly? Mamma had made him promise not to go there by himself; but she would not mind if bon père took him.

“Do not be tiresome, Raoul!” said his aunt, sharply. M. Bourget opened his eyes at the idea.

“Pardon, mademoiselle; you do not know, then, that we are very good friends, my grandson and I. With your permission, since he wishes it, I will go with him to the river—”

“And catch fish. Can you catch fish, bon père?” interrupted Raoul.

“Here and there, my prince. But as I was saying, madame, if you will allow Jean to go to bring this young gentleman home, I will return to Tours by the river.”

“You will not walk, monsieur?” said Mme. de Beaudrillart. “There is Nathalie’s carriage doing nothing; pray allow me to order it.”

“No, no, madame. I thank Heaven I am yet strong on my legs, and can walk as well as any of them. The mayor himself would be sorry to engage me in a match, although he prides himself on his powers. Raoul takes after me, as I have told his mother more than once.”

Claire, who had expected her mother to make objections, especially after this insolent assumption that in any point Raoul could resemble the ex-builder, was amazed to find that his wishes were to be carried out. She said so when he had gone.

“Really, mamma, considering how much Raoul is allowed to be with him when Nathalie is at home, we might have kept the child out of his influence in the few days he is left to us!”

“Hush, Claire, you do not know!” exclaimed her mother, feverishly. “The man is terrible, but so far he means well, and it would never do to affront him at this moment.”

Claire shrugged her thin shoulders.

“Léon has had difficulties before now, and has got through them,” she remarked. “The whole affair seems to me so inconceivable that I am inclined to believe Nathalie is persuading Léon to exaggerate it, in order that she may gain a longer time in Paris. I should be capable of doing the same myself, I own.”

She laughed, and an hour or two ago Mme. de Beaudrillart might have admitted the likelihood of such a motive. But M. Bourget’s visit, and the dreadful possibilities suggested by the blank envelope, had left her ten times as uneasy as before. She shook her head and sighed.

“It is serious. More serious than I thought.”

“You have been listening to that man. I shall never forgive Nathalie for inflicting him upon us. And to hear him talking to Raoul as if the child was his! Of course he has made the most of this affair, if only because it would be such delight to him to humble us.”

“No,” said her mother, firmly, “there you are wrong. He identifies himself with us.”

Claire laughed again, this time contemptuously.

“How could you endure it? It seems to me that no misfortune could be so terrible. Really, Félicie’s idea of the cotton-wool was brilliant, only I imagine it will not do for us all to be seized with deafness. Do you suppose that he employs his time with Raoul in teaching the boy how to economise with his pence? Rose-Marie says his driver was forced to come here like a whirlwind, and got six sous for his pains.” But Mme. de Beaudrillart, to whom, great lady as she was, such details were intensely interesting, scarcely heard the words. Fear of something unknown, something overwhelming, because it had to do with Léon, and Léon’s honour, was shaking her. Personal danger would have found her calm, and the crash of misfortune; this was different. Little fears, little uneasinesses, forgotten as soon as their light touch was removed, trooped forth again, and dared her to ignore them now. Haunting dread lay in the thought that truth might, after all, lie in this accusation, at first scouted with scorn. Léon had never confided in her as to the process by which he was disentangled from his difficulties six years ago, had never said much about M. de Cadanet; had suddenly buried himself at Poissy; had shunned Paris, had evaded her desire to assist in the repayment of the debt; had finally, when pressed, deceived her by passing off an empty envelope as the receipt which he wished her to believe he held in his possession. Each fact might be trifling in itself, but heralding, as they had done, the storm which had burst, they became terribly significant. It was the collapse of faith in her son, the sudden admittance of a frightful doubt, before which her proud spirit quailed. If Léon had done this thing! If the net closing round him were, after all, the strong net of justice, implacable and unpitying—before such a dread she became helpless. Then she recalled his evident uneasiness at the charge—nay, further behind, the fits of depression—so opposed to his light spirit, which had now and then seized him without apparent cause during past years. As she looked back, accusing fingers seemed to start and point, phantom voices cried, “He did it! he did it!” She even believed she heard his father’s voice demanding an account from her of the honour of his son, more—the honour of Poissy, bound up as it was in this De Beaudrillart. It was only by a supreme effort that she forced herself into quietude. The horrible intuition in her heart might, after all, be false. Léon might be able to clear himself, the next letter might bring news to shame her for her want of confidence.

Rigid and white, Mme. de Beaudrillart went about the house through the day, and with steady fingers fashioned some of Félicie’s staring pink roses. But any one who had looked into her room that night would have seen a heaped-up figure lying, still dressed, outside the bed, and heard the stifled cry of a sorely smitten woman, “Léon, Léon!”

Chapter Fourteen.

What is Known!

The incident of the empty envelope had sent dreariest conviction home to M. Bourget. That he should have read black proof in it was not perhaps astonishing; yet he had so strong a sense of the code of honour which governed an ancient family like that of Beaudrillart, and so obstinate a belief in his own opinion, that the shock was staggering. Besides, it dealt a direct blow at his vanity. He felt with a shiver that his intimates at Tours would by their jeers revenge themselves for his boasting speeches which they had been forced to endure in silence. Already he saw the smiles, heard the gibes, and a cold sweat broke out as he pictured the secret glee with which Leroux, for instance, under pretence of sympathy, would hand him the local newspaper giving the fullest particulars of this extraordinary affair. Already the letters glared at him: “The Affair Beaudrillart—the Poissy Scandal.” The humiliation sent him hurrying along the straight, flat road as if he felt Fate at his heels, shouting mockery.

Now and then he broke out into a rage of denial. A man working in a way-side field was so amazed at the hoarse sound that he ran to the hedge to behold, as he thought, a short, stout, red-faced mad bourgeois, hastening along with violent gestures and clinched fists. The man stared after him, scratching his head and reflecting. He was a madman, no doubt; but if he were to attempt to secure him, he might very well get some injuries for his pains. Besides, he would have to run to overtake him, and if he stayed where he was, the keepers, who would probably soon come along, might give him a few sous for his information. So M. Bourget went on his excited way unmolested.

He did not think of Nathalie so much as of Raoul. Nathalie was a woman; her father, moreover, had often been annoyed at her failing to show sufficient interest in the great family in which he flattered himself he had placed her. The toppling down of that edifice would not break her heart. But Raoul—the boy whose inheritance should have come to him as his father received it, and who now ran the risk of being branded for a thief’s son—it was when he dwelt upon Raoul that the cry of rage escaped. The child’s unconsciousness made the sin against him the worse. Such a child, such a boy! Manly, daring, wilful, truthful—that he should be weighted with a burden of dishonour!

“When he gets to understand it, if it doesn’t kill him, it will ruin his life,” muttered his grandfather with a groan.

There was a further trial to his practical mind in being forced to remain quiet. If he could have run about from office to office, set lawyers at work, felt himself to be moving events, things would have been more endurable. But Mme. de Beaudrillart’s warning remained in his mind. She had said that by going to Paris he might very likely cause mischief, and he was sufficiently ignorant of the ways of the great city and the great world in it to accept her opinion as probable. At Tours, where he was known, he might browbeat his fellow-townsmen on any point wherein he and they differed; but in Paris, what was he? A unit in a position where his vanity did not care to picture himself.

He reached Tours weary and dusty, and felt the need for his usual cup of coffee at the café—perhaps greater need for the exercise of his usual self-assertion. On his way through the streets he met the doctor, who held up his hands.

“Are you off a journey, my good Monsieur Bourget? You have the air of a man who has been travelling all night.”

“And why should I not, if it pleases me?” demanded M. Bourget, with his most combative air.

“Why not? Why not indeed? Heaven forbid that I should be the one to prevent you!” returned the doctor, laughing. “I merely venture to remark that your journey, wherever it was, has apparently had the effect of causing you fatigue.”

“And you are quite wrong, monsieur, in both your suppositions. I have not had any journey at all, and I am not a bit more fatigued than ordinarily. I suppose I am not so infirm that a walk home from Poissy is likely to prove fatal?”

“Oh, Poissy, is it!” exclaimed the doctor, preparing to escape. “No, no, my good friend; on the contrary, you are quite right to keep up the habit of exercise. But I must not stay gossiping when I have a pressing case in the Rue Royale. Adieu, adieu!”

“Now what takes him off as if the devil himself were at his heels?” muttered M. Bourget, looking after him discontentedly. “A pressing case indeed! If anything serious were the matter in the Rue Royale, it is quite certain that I should have heard of it by this time. The man was fooling me. He didn’t wish to talk about Poissy. And why?”

He marched on, his eyes on the ground, his under-lip thrust out. For the first time for six years he turned into another street to avoid passing the photographer’s window. He reached the café in a bad humour, tired, moreover, in spite of his disclaimer to the doctor, and dropped into a solitary chair, where he sat frowning and facing the street. As he anticipated, before he had been there five minutes M. Leroux approached. M. Bourget thumped the table to draw his attention.

“If you are going to order this poisonous stuff,” he said, “one table will do for us both. Sit there.”

But Leroux, sharp enough to see that he was wanted, was also sharp enough to improve the opportunity. He shook his head.

“I can’t afford to swallow coffee at a café, with all those mouths at home, and that’s the truth,” he said.

“You can sit, I suppose,” growled M. Bourget.

“Oh, I can sit, certainly. But I find it makes me thirsty to look at others drinking, and, by your leave, I’ll not stop to-day.”

For answer M. Bourget rapped his cup with his spoon, and extracted two sous from his pocket.

“There!” He shot the word at the waiter. “If you call this stuff coffee, bring another cup. Now I suppose you’re satisfied,” he continued to Leroux.

“And I shall pay for it,” ejaculated the lawyer to himself. “Poissy, Poissy, Poissy, he is only waiting to be set off. Confound Poissy!” Aloud he said, “You were not at the meeting about the crèche, Monsieur Bourget.”

“Crèche? Absurdity! Why can’t the women mind their own babies?” grumbled the ex-builder. “No, monsieur. If I had been in the town and had attended, it would only have been for the purpose of seeing my fellow-townsmen make fools of themselves. As it was, I went early to Poissy.”

“Now it comes!” Leroux groaned, inwardly. “And what was going on at Poissy?”

“What should go on!” demanded M. Bourget, jealously. “What should go on?”

“Peste! how should I know? I suppose things happen there, as in other places?”

“No foolishness about crèches, at all events.”

His retort pleased him so much that he chuckled, and Leroux, not to be behindhand in civility, chuckled in company. But M. Bourget was too anxious to know whether anything had leaked out to be put off even by his own jests. He flung an elaborate veil of carelessness over his next question, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair.

“You know most of the talk of the place, Leroux, and I have often thought of asking you—merely out of curiosity, you will understand—what is said of my son-in-law, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, in Tours? People don’t like to repeat anything to me, and naturally; but there must be opinions expressed, and it would amuse me to hear them.”

“Something is up,” reflected the little lawyer, rapidly. “He is uneasy. Has our fine son-in-law, perhaps, broken out again? What is said, Monsieur Bourget? Well, not so much now.”

“But what, what?” persisted the other.

“Well, for one thing, they say he is wiser than was supposed, and knows which side his bread is buttered.”

“And what may that mean?”

“That he has a solid father-in-law, whom it is just as well not to offend.”

Leroux said this with some malice, and expected an explosion. It surprised him that M. Bourget showed no sign of wrath. He jerked his head sideways, and flung open his hands.

“No more?”

“As to that,” said Leroux, spitefully, “there were enough disagreeables said about the Baron Léon about the time he married Mademoiselle Nathalie to serve for an ordinary lifetime.”

“Perhaps,” returned M. Bourget, tranquilly, “more has also been said about others in past years than they would care to have brought up against them.”

The lawyer darted an uneasy look, and his manner changed.

“Do not suppose that I am offering my own opinion. You wished to know what was said in the town, and I am trying to remember.”

“I understand perfectly. I should like to know what were some of these disagreeables to which you allude?”

But Leroux was alarmed.

“Ah, for that you must ask some one else. There is plenty of gossip running about the town, but I have not the time or the inclination to listen to it. Besides, what does it matter now! It is no longer a question of marrying Mademoiselle Nathalie. There she is, safe at Poissy, and there are you, father-in-law to a baron. What would you have more?”

M. Bourget brought his hand down so heavily on the little marble table that the cups jumped.

“What have I to do with it?” he asked, angrily. “Did I pay for your coffee that you might inform me what I want or what I don’t want? I ask a plain question, and you wander off to give an opinion on my concerns. Keep to your point. I suppose all you wiseacres had at least the sense to see that Monsieur de Beaudrillart had began to economise before I gave him my daughter? But perhaps they could give him no credit even for that?”

“Oh, they saw he had raised money somehow,” said Leroux, longing to thump the table himself, “and his credit was so low that they said he must have stolen it.”

M. Bourget’s face turned to a dull purple, his voice felt strangled, he leaned forward, and said, with difficulty:

“They are rascals, and you are a fool!”

Leroux jumped up, with a smile on his sharp face. He had merely spoken spitefully, and thought that his companion’s anger was due to the fact that any one should have dared to utter anything disrespectful of the master of Poissy.

“Ah, I dare say, I dare say, my dear Monsieur Bourget; I only tell you what is said, and you know best how much it is worth. A thousand thanks for the coffee, and let me advise you to go home and rest, for you don’t look yourself.”

“He knows more than he will say,” groaned M. Bourget, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, “otherwise he would never have ventured to repeat what he did. There is a report abroad; I know it, I feel it! It was evident enough that Dr Mathurin had heard something, for the very moment I mentioned Poissy, he looked embarrassed, and started away. Yes, yes, it has leaked out, it is in the air; and what wonder! A poor devil whom no one knows or cares anything about has twice the chance. But directly anything disgraceful happens to one of the noblesse, then every stone in the wall has a voice to cry it out. And to a Beaudrillart! No doubt all Paris has got hold of it I should not be surprised if it were in the papers already.”

A Figaro was lying on the table near him; M. Bourget, with a gleam of satisfaction that he had not to pay for it, took it up and hastily scanned its columns. He had just satisfied himself that the thing he dreaded was not there when he caught sight of an advancing figure.

“Monsieur Georges!”

“At your service, Monsieur Bourget.”

“You are the very man I want. I am going in your direction.”

“À la bonne heure. Permit me to venture to remark that you look a little upset—fatigued, Monsieur Bourget.”

“That is what every one finds it agreeable to say to me. Why should I be fatigued? I have only walked from Poissy.”

“Ah!” Across M. Georges’s small anxious face flitted a tremulous smile. Even he, politest of men, was aware of M. Bourget’s weakness. “They are all well there, I trust!”

His companion made no answer to the question. He said, abruptly:

“The baron is in Paris.”

“So I heard.”

“So he heard? Of course! Everything is known,” reflected M. Bourget, mopping his face with a red bandanna. “Have you heard anything else, monsieur?”

“No. Why should I!” returned the other, with surprise. “But to tell you the truth I have been a great deal taken up with my own affairs, for I have had the misfortune to lose my old grandfather at Nantes, monsieur; an excellent man, and an irreparable loss. As his only descendant I inherit a small estate, and I have had to come here on business connected with it. You will understand that this has occupied me.”

“A small estate!” repeated M. Bourget, gazing at him with a new respect. “Things are then looking up for you, Monsieur Georges! That is better than being intendant, even at Poissy. And I never thought the Baron Léon behaved well in that matter.”

M. Georges waved his hand gently.

“The baron was young, and his mother, if I might say so, a little masterful, although I admire her, I admire them all, immensely. People cannot be expected to feel very kindly towards those who are always prognosticating evil, still less when it comes true.”

“But Monsieur de Beaudrillart has managed to pull himself together, and to set the estate upon its legs again. How did he raise the money to do it?”

M. Georges looked at his companion and smiled.

“People would say you could best answer that question, Monsieur Bourget.”

“Not at all,” said the ex-builder, impatiently. “When my money went into the concern, everything was already in train, as you know very well. The crisis was past, and the estate saved. How, how! That is what I ask.”

“I believe,” said M. Georges, with a little surprise, “that the baron received a loan from Monsieur de Cadanet—at least that is what Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart gave me to understand.”

“Ah! Yes! Precisely.” M. Bourget hesitated. “You know nothing, then, yourself! Had Monsieur de Cadanet shown any interest in the family before coming to the rescue at that moment!”

“To my knowledge, no. But Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart, who is an exceedingly capable person, spoke of his having been indebted to the defunct baron, her father. That, I imagine, explains it.”

M. Bourget walked on without answering. His next remark appeared extremely irrelevant.

“Monsieur de Beaudrillart and my daughter are in Paris.”

“Indeed? Your daughter, too?”

“You had not heard it?” He turned to him with unmistakable relief.

“No, I have heard very little.”

“And yet of all the gossiping places—However, it is quite true there is nothing remarkable in a visit to Paris. Here we part, I imagine, Monsieur Georges. I begin to believe that what you have all insisted upon is correct, and that I am a little fatigued. You must go out to Poissy yourself. You have never seen the little baron? No? Then decidedly you must go.”

This conversation to a certain degree comforted M. Bourget, since it proved to him that M. Georges, at any rate, had no suspicions, and had accepted the De Cadanet loan as a matter of history. He felt very tired, owing no doubt to the unusual emotions which had been at work ever since he received his daughter’s letter, and he thought it advisable to report himself to Fanchon, who was naturally in a state of uneasiness at his sudden departure. He stopped her reproaches, however, abruptly, with an air of ill-temper which reduced her to silence, and sat down in his own room, desiring that he might be left in peace and not pestered with questions. Fanchon retired grumbling; but when M. Bourget was in this humour it was not safe to cross him, and she was obliged to satisfy her curiosity with such poor fare as could be supplied by her own imagination.

But, although M. Bourget lingered a little while with satisfaction on the thought that he had perhaps been mistaken in imagining that Tours was already greedily discussing the crime of M. de Beaudrillart, he soon came back to the conviction that M. de Beaudrillart was guilty. What M. Georges had said threw no fresh light upon the transaction. He believed what he had been told, and what no doubt the whole family at Poissy had believed. Only the young baron knew if any dark secret was connected with the money which had been procured so fortunately at the time of his greatest need. If it were so, circumstances had no doubt thrown the knowledge into the hands of a man—perhaps already an enemy—who had no scruple in using it for his own ends.

But what had Léon done with the money which he had ostensibly applied to the payment of the debt? M. Bourget groaned again over his own conviction, and wiped his forehead.

“It has gone as hush-money. This Lemaire has not waited six years without putting on the screw. No doubt Baron Léon kept it to hand over in instalments when matters grew desperate. Lemaire has had the last of it, and now advances more boldly. Yes, that is it. I understand perfectly. But what is to be done?”

Chapter Fifteen.

In Paris.

Meanwhile, with father and mother torn by a hundred miserable fears at home, it may be supposed that, in Paris, the wife’s trouble was greater. Nothing of the sort. Nathalie was worried, because Léon was so evidently uneasy; but not a shadow of doubt had touched her mind, and she was not really unhappy. Never before had she lived alone with her husband, or found herself in an atmosphere free from chilly slights. All that she saw and heard about her interested her. Her intellect, freed from vexing cramps, leaped to its kingdom. Léon looked, listened in wonder. If only Raoul had been there!

And in Léon’s nature there was nothing of the moroseness which is angry because its own wretchedness is not shared. Sometimes, often even, he was miserably depressed, but at such times he really preferred that Nathalie should refuse to see reason for his low spirits, should indeed persist in ignoring them. She treated the whole affair as a malicious attempt to extort money, to which her husband should not yield for a moment.

“Dear Léon, the thing is so ludicrous, so impossible! Tell the man that he may do his worst; or, rather, threaten him with an action for defamation of character. I am sure that would be by far your best plan, and the only means by which you can protect yourself in future. Of course he will not venture even now to take further steps; but the point is that he will always be threatening and pretending to have proof, and by-and-by the thing may really get abroad. If you take no steps to punish him, people will begin to imagine you were afraid, and that there was something in it. I am quite certain that my father, who has excellent common-sense, would advise you to put a summary end to Monsieur Lemaire’s attempts.”

They were driving together up the Champs-Elysées. Léon waited for a few moments before answering.

“That is all very well, but you do not understand.”

It was the argument he used most frequently, and it was not one which offered points for discussion. Nathalie accepted it, as usual, as to detail.

“I dare say I don’t. But I understand the absurdity, and so will every one who hears. The man must really be quite foolish! While he was about it, why did he not design something more probable. A common theft!” She laughed gayly.

He bathed deliciously in her disbelief. It reanimated him.

“I do not really think any one will be found to credit it.”

She exclaimed at the bare notion. Impossible!

He gazed at her admiringly; the noble lines of her face made other women appear insignificant.

“I believe your own taste is right, if a little severe,” he said, at last. “Frills and furbelows would not suit your style.”

“Converted! A triumph!” she cried, merrily. “There is a charming toilette in that carriage, but if I were to wear it I should have the effect of a dancing monkey. But how brilliant it all is! How delightful!” She paused a moment. “The real enchantment is that you and I should be together and alone, and do you know that if it were not that you allow yourself to be vexed, I should be almost grateful to this Monsieur Lemaire for giving me such delightful days.”

He turned his head away, and the grip of his hand on the carriage door tightened.

“Don’t let us talk of the rascal any more!” he cried. “Look, there is the President’s carriage. What a pity Félicie is not here to turn her back! And there is the Marquise de Saurigny, in white and green. She sees you, and you are sure to have a card for her reception. Directly it is known we are in Paris, there will be invitations, although all the world is by the sea. Will you go?”

“If you like.”

“You are not frightened?”

“Why should I be?”

He smiled. The answer pleased him. Against his mother he had always maintained that Nathalie would take her place in the great world without awkwardness or mauvaise honte. For the moment he forgot the sword which hung over him; he enjoyed the exhilaration, the gaiety, the lightness of the air, and his wife smiled to herself to see his spirits rise.

“To think that you should have known none of this, little bourgeoise!” he said, jestingly. “I must take you somewhere to-night. Where shall we go? To the theatre?”

“Charming!”

Then, looking at him, she saw his face suddenly change, whiten. She turned quickly; a victoria had just passed, but she was too late to catch a glimpse of its occupant.

“What is it, Léon?” she cried. “Are you ill? Have you seen any one?”

Evidently it cost him a great effort to recover himself—so great that he could not at first answer. Nathalie had got hold of the hand nearest herself, and held it firmly, as if to give him strength. He drew his breath deeply; she pressed no more questions upon him, but waited. When at last he spoke, it was in as low a tone as if he feared being overheard. “You saw?”

“A carriage—no more.”

“Not the man in it?”

“No. Who was it?” She checked herself. “Don’t tell me if you would rather not.” For the paleness of his face startled her.

“It was Lemaire. He saw us.”

She smiled. “And you let the sight of him disturb you? Dear Léon, I shall begin to think you are ill indeed! He might very well be shocked—not you. Let us turn and drive after him, for you know he persistently refuses an interview, and here is our opportunity.”

She leaned forward to give the order, but her husband caught her arm.

“No, on no account; you might see for yourself, I think, that I am in no condition to meet him on such a subject, and that he would have me at a disadvantage.”

“I believe if you got hold of him you would put an end to all this annoyance; but I suppose, even if you desired it, we should hardly have overtaken the carriage. Was he alone?”

Léon made a sign in the affirmative.

“I wish I had seen him,” mused his wife. “If you see a person you can judge so much better what he is like. And his face, when he caught sight of you, must have been a study.”

“He is a villain!” muttered the young baron, still pale.

“But so foolish a villain! Does he really suppose that any one will believe his story? Dear Léon, I do think you ought to put a stop to it at once, and as the man himself will not see you, send for Monsieur Rodoin, and desire him to take the necessary steps for bringing an action for libel, or for writing threatening letters to extort money, or whatever it is he has made himself subject to. You must feel that he deserves punishment, and you will be worried to death if this sort of annoyance goes on. Come, dear. You know that is Monsieur Rodoin’s own opinion. Be firm, and the silly plot will collapse.”

What burst from Léon was: “All that he says is a lie!”

“Who doubts it! But lies can’t be left to grow unmolested.”

“What proof can he have?”

“None, of course. I suppose he hopes some foolish trumped-up story will do instead; but you can’t pass it by. M. Rodoin said it had gone too far. The man has dared to speak of it.” Her voice dropped.

There was silence. Nathalie looked at him uneasily. She read weakness in the hesitation, and that dislike to facing what was painful which she knew to be part of his character. He said at last:

“It may cost a lot.”

“Let it. We will economise.” She pressed her eyes on his with a force under which he moved fretfully, and added: “For the sake of your family—most of all, for Raoul’s sake—it is impossible to ignore the slander.”

“Very well, very well!” he spoke with petulance; “you don’t understand, but you shall have your way. Only don’t blame me if things go wrong.”

“Do I ever blame you?” she said, tenderly. “And they will not go wrong; how should they? Show a firm front, and you will see how the absurd attempt at extortion will melt away. I wrote to my father this morning, as you advised, in case rumours reached Tours, and I am sure we shall have a letter advising you to be very determined. How angry he will be! I believe he thinks more of the De Beaudrillarts and Poissy than you do.”

Léon began to laugh.

“Perhaps he will go off to Poissy.”

“And we not there to keep the peace! Oh, Léon!”—her face was tragic—“I ought to have thought of that, and to have warned him.”

Léon’s good-humour had come back; he teased his wife, compared her with the other women they met, and told her ridiculous tales. They laughed and chatted so gayly that, more than once, people with sad stories in their lives looked at them enviously, and wished for a little of the same happiness. Then they drove to a restaurant, dined, and afterwards went to the play. Seemingly, the young baron’s anxieties had slipped from his shoulders. Even the next morning, when he sent off a special messenger to request Monsieur Rodoin to come to the hotel, it was done with a jest, and Nathalie looked at him with delight. To her the whole affair had seemed so trivial and impossible that only its strange effect on her husband had given her uneasiness. Now that had passed, and she made no doubt that threat of strong action would oblige M. Lemaire to offer ample reparation.

M. Rodoin arrived with speed—a grave, hatchet-faced man, with hair already slightly grizzled, although his fortieth birthday had only lately been passed. He bowed formally to Mme. Léon, whom he had not yet seen, and whose appearance, after what he had heard of her family, surprised him, and to the baron. Without waiting for him to speak, Léon said, abruptly:

“Well, Monsieur Rodoin, you find me decided. Threaten this Lemaire with as many penalties as you will.”

The lawyer repeated the word—“Threaten.”

“Take steps. Do what is necessary. Let him know that I refuse to pay anything, and that I consider him a scoundrel.” A one-sided smile passed across M. Rodoin’s thin face. “Well, well, monsieur le baron, I don’t wonder at your anger, but—at any rate, he shall be met with an action.”

“And let him hear something strong, since the rascal won’t give me an opportunity of saying it to his own face,” said Léon, lashing himself into rage.

“We will leave the law to do that with better effect,” returned the lawyer, calmly. “Meanwhile, with your permission, I have to ask you a few questions.”

Léon rested his elbows on the table, and, sitting with his back to the light, buried his face in his hands. He might have been trying to recall the past.

“Go on, monsieur,” he said. “But remember that these events took place six years ago, and more.”

“You were in difficulties, monsieur, at the time!”

“As you know very well. Suppose we even allow that I had been abominably extravagant. Worse than you can imagine, Nathalie; but as you insisted upon assisting at this interview, you must prepare for revelations. Poissy was heavily mortgaged, and I was threatened with foreclosure. Wherever I looked, I saw nothing but disaster; and I vow it came upon me all at once, in spite of what Monsieur Georges may say of having tried to tell me. He had a way of telling which would not have affected a fly. Where was I to turn! Naturally to Monsieur de Cadanet.”

The lawyer had been noting these facts in his note-book. He looked up here.

“This was in August, 188-, I think, monsieur?”

“Precisely.”

“And Monsieur de Cadanet?”

“After a long argument, I succeeded in obtaining from him the sum of two hundred thousand francs, as a loan.”

“In what form, monsieur le baron?”

“In a cheque.”

“Drawn in your favour?”

“To bearer, I think,” said Léon, slowly. “I believe he expected my visit, and I may add further that I do not think he had made up his mind whether it should go to me or to Charles Lemaire.”

M. Rodoin looked up quickly.

“That is new to me. And the doubt was decided in your favour?”

“Certainly I had the money. Only, you understand, as a loan. And the whole sum, with interest, was repaid within eight months of the date.”

“Have you any acknowledgment?”

“None,” said Léon briefly, “Monsieur de Cadanet was peculiar in his dealings, and perhaps disliked considering it in the light of a business transaction. What is certain is that it was repaid in two sums, one of five hundred, the other of two hundred and three thousand francs.”

“You might have insisted upon having a receipt of some sort, monsieur,” said the lawyer, testily. “There can be no doubt, I imagine, that Monsieur Lemaire’s claim relates to the same sum, and to have proved that it was a loan on Monsieur de Cadanet’s part would have been a sufficient answer. From what I have gathered, he asserts that you waylaid a messenger on his way to the post, and took from him a letter containing this sum, sent to him by Monsieur de Cadanet.”

“In fact, a highway-robbery,” interposed Nathalie, laughing.

“Yes, it proves Monsieur Lemaire to be the possessor of a lively imagination,” remarked M. Rodoin; “but it is an encouragement to fraud when people persist in depriving themselves of their legal safeguards. However, I had better communicate with his lawyer, and it is not impossible that when he finds we are in earnest, and mean to push the matter home, he will grow alarmed and offer to publish an apology.”

“Well, take it, take it!” said the young man, hastily. His wife leaned forward and put her hand on his arm.

“Ought he not to have a lesson, Léon? I am harder than you, I don’t like him to get off so easily.”

“We have not reached it yet,” said M. Rodoin, dryly. “When it comes, we will see. But I think you do well, monsieur le baron, to take the initiative and forestall them. Depend upon it, I will lose no time. Shall you remain in Paris?”

“No,” said Léon, still speaking quickly. “Nathalie, we shall go home to-morrow. You can let me know what has to be done there, Monsieur Rodoin.”

“Certainly, certainly, monsieur. At the same time, there are certain instructions to be given to your counsel—I will try to secure Maître Barraud—and it would be more convenient if you were on the spot.”

“Impossible,” said the young baron, with the smile which disarmed opposition. “I give you to-morrow morning, and if I am wanted I will run up; but what more can I do or say than I have already told you? I know no more. There are the facts, and the law must worry them into shape as it best can.”

“We must find some witnesses.”

“Where? Not a soul knew of the affair, except my mother.”

“That receipt!” said M. Rodoin, mournfully, as he rose. “However, it is they, fortunately, who have to prove their assertions. They will have to bring forward the man from whom they assert you took the letter, monsieur le baron.”

“Oh, I can forewarn you what will be their line on that point,” returned Léon, easily, “and I shall have to confess to an impulse of curiosity. The man was André, Monsieur de Cadanet’s concierge. He overtook me as I left the house, carrying Monsieur de Cadanet’s letters. Here comes the curiosity. Monsieur de Cadanet had talked of a letter which he meant to despatch to Monsieur Lemaire, and of which he told me the contents. I had an absurd desire to know whether it had gone, and asked André to let me look at the letters. I had them in my hand for moment, and returned them.”

“Was the letter there?” asked M. Rodoin, startled.

“Certainly, and three others.”

“And you gave them back?”

“Ask André. He will, I think, acquit me of having retained any,” said Léon, with no change of manner. “But there lies their point.”

“It was unfortunate,” said M. Rodoin, thoughtfully.

“But hardly criminal,” put in Nathalie.

He smiled.

“No, madame. One does not expect to find anything criminal. Well, monsieur le baron, permit me to take my leave. I will see Maître Barraud to-day, and he will probably request an interview with you before you go down to Poissy.”

“Let me wish you good success, and prognosticate victory,” said Nathalie, giving him her hand with a smile.

“I shall work for it, madame, were it only to justify your prophecy,” returned M. Rodoin, bowing low.

Chapter Sixteen.

Father and Daughter.

The country round Poissy, mellow with ripening grapes, sunned itself in broad luxuriance, and the river threaded it lazily, its silver length curving snake-like between green edges. Nathalie and her little son were by its side, she bareheaded, with only a white umbrella between her and the sun, which now and then caught the rich red-brown of hair and brightened it. Raoul, with his little closely-cropped head and dark dancing eyes, was engaged in plying a primitive fishing-line, formed of whip-cord fastened at one end to a long stick, and adorned at the other with a crooked pin and a small piece of meat. Every now and then a bit of weed caught the bait, and gave all the excitement of a bite, and this and the joy of getting his feet wet kept him perfectly content and happy. Occasionally a peasant passed them, always with the same remark, “Fine weather, madame, for the grapes;” but otherwise the sleepy silence of the place was undisturbed, and Nathalie liked it better than she had ever liked it before.

She was happier, for one thing, though she blamed herself for the selfishness of her happiness, since evidently a cloud of uneasiness rested on Poissy. Mme. de Beaudrillart did not confide in her daughter-in-law; but a change had come over her since their departure for Paris; age seemed to have suddenly laid a grasping hand upon her; she was silent, grave, rigid. Léon’s moods varied from gloom to gaiety. Claire indulged in taunts as to the delights of Paris. Only Félicie’s small interests kept her busily occupied. Her own father’s advice had amazed Nathalie. From him she expected fighting counsels, whereas he wrote with a hesitation new to him, and talked temporisingly, with suggestions of possible arrangements. Moreover, they had been at home three days, and he had not come out, as she had expected, to see Léon on the matter, while she disliked leaving her husband for as many hours as would be required for driving into Tours.

Yet she was happy. The bare shadow of doubt had not once fluttered across her mind. She could conceive that there were difficulties in the case, and that certain unfortunate circumstances might be difficult to get over; she had realised that M. Rodoin was not so sanguine at the end of his interview as at the beginning, and that Maître Barraud was taciturn; but her own conviction stood like a rock, and wanted no support, was troubled by no inconsistencies. And it was bliss to feel herself no longer shut out. Before, when Léon was in perplexity or trouble, he turned to his mother; now he turned to her. Perhaps he felt the influence of her implicit faith, a sun in which he might still plume himself. Presently he joined her.

“I saw your white flag from the bank. Many fish caught!” Raoul was too much absorbed to answer, and his father watched him with amusement. “Upon my word, the monkey has such a good idea of throwing his line that I must get him a proper rod. I have just been talking to Jacques, and he tells me they begin the vintage to-morrow.”

“And the weather so superb! It will be a good year for us all,” said Nathalie.

“Oh, excellent! If only I had not this confounded business hanging over my head!”

“Let us hope it will soon be ended.” She slipped her hand into his. “I think Monsieur Rodoin quite understood that there should be no delay, but perhaps you will have to go up again soon and hurry them.”

“Not without you,” he said, quickly. Her heart bounded, and she sent him a smile for an answer. “The nuisance is, having to give evidence one’s self.”

“Oh, you will be glad to do that,” she said, comfortingly. “No one can explain it all so well.”

“That’s very fine!”—he spoke with irritation. “Who can explain, when those fellows are at one all round with their questions!”

“What can they bring out but the truth!” said Nathalie. “And the more of that the better.”

“It might go against me,” he hazarded.

“You mean you may not establish the libel! I don’t see how it is possible; because they don’t deny having made the claim, and as they can’t support it, it must surely upset them.”

“I wish you’d find out what your father thinks about it. Drive in to-morrow.”

One of his fits of uneasiness was on him, as she perceived, and, to soothe him, she made the promise.

“And get the boy a rod. Here, Raoul, tell your mother to go to Tours and buy you a proper fishing-rod.”

Raoul came with a rush, and fell on his father. “As big as yours?”

“Big enough for a black-eyed imp like you.”

A pommelling match followed, ending by Raoul snatching off his father’s straw hat and flinging it into the river, where it sailed slowly down, Raoul shrieking with delight, and Léon running along the edge to rescue it at last with difficulty from a clump of flags. He came back threatening his son, who by this time was worked into wild unruliness, so that Nathalie was obliged to hold him fast in spite of his struggles. He grew quiet in time, and they went across the bridge to one or two of the nearest vineyards, where preparations had already begun, and where the finest bunch was gathered and offered to the master. The cloud had lifted again, and Léon was at his kindliest, with a smile and a cheery word for everybody. Who could wonder that Nathalie was happy?

At the door of her father’s house she met Fanchon, who immediately fell to making mysterious signs with hand and head, implying cautious communications of importance. Nathalie, vaguely uneasy, inquired whether her father was ill.

“Mademoiselle ought to know that he is not himself,” whispered Fanchon. “He sits there,”—signalling with her thumb over her right shoulder—“thinking, thinking, though the saints only know what he has got to think about! Don’t I make him his bouillon, and his salad, and his coffee, just as he likes them, and leave him to find fault as much as it pleases him, since that gives him an appetite? But there! ever since that morning when he left me in the midst of an omelette, and dashed off to Poissy, hiring a carriage and all—he that I never thought to see in a hired carriage, unless it was to be taken to his grave—he’s never been the same man. And not once has he been out to the door to look for mademoiselle—for madame, I should say—and Monsieur Raoul, though on the days he expected them he was always popping in and out. Well, I dare say it will do him good to see mademoiselle, and I shall be back in five minutes to hear what she thinks, for I am only going to run round to Madame Boucher, and show her what sort of an egg she sold me this morning.”

M. Bourget, indeed, was unlike his usual turbulent self. He greeted his daughter without effusion, and did not even ask for Raoul, or show any disappointment at not seeing him. He was sitting near the window, a newspaper in his hand, but she fancied he had only just unfolded it to avoid the charge of idleness. He did not look ill, or she might have felt less uneasy; if it were possible to apply such a word to M. Bourget’s square personality, he looked crushed. Mme. Léon went quickly up to him and kissed him.

“Have you been expecting us, dear father? I should have come at once on our return, but that Léon wanted some one to talk matters over with. I am afraid you have been anxious, and I wish now that I had written.”

“Have you anything good to tell?” inquired M. Bourget, brusquely.

He had fastened his eyes upon her determinedly, and bent forward.

“I think so. Léon has agreed to bring an action against this man.”

“What for? What for!”

“For slander,” said Nathalie, surprised that he should put the question.

“Then he’s got evidence to disprove it?”

“His own word,” replied the wife, proudly.

“Ah-h—!” M. Bourget’s ah-h—! was like a snarl; he fell into his original position, and fixed his eyes on the ground. She drew back a step, in her turn holding him with her eyes. “Father! You doubt him!”

He sat silent, gloomy, slowly nodding.

“Oh!” In the word was anger, scorn, incredulity. She had difficulty in commanding herself from uttering more; but the one exclamation was eloquent. Her father looked up at her.

“Hum! I see you don’t. Well, prove it; prove that he’s innocent. That can’t be such a hard matter. Do you think I want it the other way? Why, I can’t even go for my coffee but that little imbecile Leroux flings a taunt in my face. I tell you that I—I!—after all these years—walk about the town in dread of what I shall hear.”

He began almost inaudibly, ended loudly. There was no softening in her glance.

“Oh!” she reiterated. “The shame of hearing you say this! You, who know him!”

“Ask his mother,” he muttered. “She can’t deny it. She thinks the same. Do you know what he did! Gave her the receipt, as she supposed, to keep, and it was a blank sheet of paper.”

She burst in: “What of that? She fretted him into it. She can fret, I tell you! He had no receipt; he has said so throughout Oh!”—she laughed—“and this is what has persuaded you!”

“Well, I hope you are right.” But she could see he was not shaken.

“Léon sent me to know what you thought about it all.”

“Sit down, then, and let’s hear,” he said, gloomily. “There’s a chair.”

She drew it back, sat down, and said, coldly: “What do you wish to hear!”

“What line he takes—what he has to go upon.”

She looked at him unflinchingly.

“There is no line, as you call it, but the straight one of what happened. Monsieur de Cadanet lent the money to Léon, not very willingly, but after some persuasion. Léon thinks that perhaps when it got to this Lemaire’s ears, it enraged him, because he was so jealous; and that he caught hold of the trifling circumstance—that when Léon was in the street, he met Monsieur de Cadanet’s messenger, and glanced at the letters he carried—to make up his absurd story.”

He raised bloodshot eyes and stared restlessly at her, meeting her own untroubled by a shadow of doubt. Then he bent his head again—

“What does the lawyer say!”

He did not believe one word of the story. Now that his faith was gone, it had sunk utterly, crumbled into dry dust, and he was only possessed with a dull rage against the man who had shattered the dream and delight of his life, and left him a laughing-stock to Leroux and his fellows. She tightened the lock of her hands, recognising his antagonism.

“He urged Léon to take the initiative.”

“Yes, yes; they will get something out of it!” he cried, wrathfully, and then muttered to himself, “Collapse, collapse!” She started to her feet.

“Father, I cannot stay and listen to you! May God forgive you! Oh, my dear Léon, that it should be any one belonging to me that does you this dishonour! Father, one day you will be sorry—bitterly sorry. I think you must be mad—ill! Are you ill? Has anything happened to you! You have been sitting here alone, and letting yourself get confused. Look at me. I am his wife. Do you suppose I could stand and smile if I were not as sure—as sure of him as of my own life!”

Her words fell on his heart as if it had been made of flint, rolling off the surface. He did not feel them. He did not even pity her. He said, brutally:

“You had better ask what he was before you married him.”

She did not shrink, as he expected. Her breath came quickly, but unshaken confidence was in her face.

“I know my husband.”

“Then, go!” He waved his hand. “Go!”

“I am going, and I shall try not to be angry, because you are not yourself.”

He looked up gloomily.

“No; I am not myself. I don’t expect ever to be myself again. Before this, I have always held up my head; but now—” He drooped again into depression; and her heart smote her.

“Father, fling away this horrible, unjust suspicion!” she cried, coming close, and laying her hands on his shoulders. “It does Léon such cruel harm! Only reflect what it means. One would suppose you were his enemy.” Then she knelt down by his side. “Father!”

“Let him disprove it.”

“So he will.”

“Not with that cock-and-bull story. There, there, you’d better go. What’s the good of talking? I cannot pardon.” He was implacable. Self-love refused to waste pity on others when he suffered so much himself. Her steadfastness merely incensed him. He was granite. But at his words she rose up quickly.

“Do not do him the wrong of supposing I am asking you to pardon him. May God forgive you!”

“You’ve said that twice. Now, go.”

She went out of the room, looking back. A sign of compunction would have taken her again to his side, but none came. Fanchon marched out of the kitchen, wiping the flour from her hands with a cloth.

“But, Mademoiselle Nathalie, you are not going to leave monsieur so soon! As soon as ever I saw you, I said to myself, ‘There, now, here comes the best medicine for monsieur,’ and I made up my mind you’d stop a good bit, and that would cheer him up. Why, you’ve been here next to no time! And monsieur not even coming out to see you off! Well, that’s droll! I never knew him not come out.”

“I do not think he is quite himself to-day,” said his daughter, catching at straws. “Has any one been here—any one to vex him?”

“Holy Virgin! no, who should come? And as for vexing, there’s no one would dare. Something he’s eaten or drunk, but not of my getting, has just set the world upside-down with him. Oh, he’ll be better to-morrow, you’ll see! And Monsieur Raoul, the treasure, how is it with him?”

Nathalie drove home, unshaken but thoughtful. The slander, then, was more serious in its effects than she had imagined, since her father, with all his pride in Poissy and the De Beaudrillarts, was affected by it. To her it had seemed only ludicrous; but she began to perceive that other people would expect absolute proof that the thing was not. By her own feelings she was sure this would be agony to Léon. She blamed herself for having treated his fits of depression too lightly, and promised herself to be more sympathetic. She would ask him, too, to explain the incident of the envelope.

As for Mme. de Beaudrillart, that she could really have any doubt, was impossible, and she smiled again at the bare idea. She could imagine how it had been struck into her father’s mind by her mother-in-law’s impassive manner. Secure, as she would have been, she probably did not attempt to express her security, and, especially with M. Bourget in the room, would have been so coldly indifferent that he had misjudged her. Nathalie understood that her father would have expected indignation and protestations, and not meeting them, thrust their absence upon conviction of guilt. She tried to think calmly, justly of him. “Some chance word has stung him,” she thought, wondering that the clang of rumour had so soon reached the quiet town, and not understanding that it was M. Bourget’s own fear which had given chance words their imaginary force. She was only thankful that Léon had not accompanied her. If he had read distrust in M. Bourget’s manner, she could scarcely have borne it. They must be kept apart until the time when the force of the law obliged her father to admit the shamefulness of his distrust.