Frances Peard

"An Interloper"

Chapter One.

Monsieur Raoul.

Monsieur Raoul, in his carriage, was making the round of the estates. To a certain extent, this was a frequent custom, but there were times when it was attended by a more deliberate ceremony and purpose, and such was the case this morning. The carriage went slowly, as if on a tour of inspection. When it passed men, they gave a ready “Good-day.” Where the white-capped women were not at work, they came smiling to their doorways on hearing the familiar noise of wheels, sometimes holding up their children that they, too, might look at M. Raoul. Evidently he was a great personage, although you might not have guessed it.

As for the estate, to the eye it was all that could be desired. The land, it was true, was flat, but so rich and so highly cultivated that, except the meadows, not a foot but appeared to grow crops. Vineyards caught the hot sun on ripening grapes; apple orchards surrounded cottages; the beauty was glowing, tranquil, a little substantial. Through the heart of the country flowed a broad river, offering excellent fishing, and in places bordered with orderly poplars; on one side was a high bank; the only hill was insignificant, and rose behind the château. It was possible to conceive an ugly air of desolation abroad in winter, but in autumn, and autumn as yet untouched by decay, there was a delightful fresh gaiety in the bounty of the land. At one spot where the carriage arrived in sight of the river, M. Raoul craned his neck forward, but made no remark.

The tour of the cottages accomplished, the carriage turned homeward. When it reached a point where a narrow path broke away, M. Raoul waved his hand in that direction.

“There!” he said, determinedly.

The carriage came to a stand-still. The driver turned doubtfully and scratched his head.

“But, monsieur—” he remonstrated.

M. Raoul interrupted him in a still more peremptory tone.

“There!”

“But monsieur remembers that Madame de Beaudrillart especially said—”

For the third time the one word shot out:

“There!”

Jean scratched his head again, looked round helplessly, and then stared at the sky. Finding no suggestion for extricating himself from the dilemma, he ended by submitting to M. Raoul’s order, and, with a sigh of perplexity, turned in the direction indicated. He had lived long enough at Poissy to have learned that it was often difficult to reconcile opposing wills, and that, as they were strong, there was always the risk of being crushed by them. Moreover, he was not without hope. The way they had taken was scarcely wide enough for the carriage—branches whipped their faces, and they were bumped relentlessly over the rough ground. Jean groaned loudly, and glanced back at his master to see how he liked it. But M. Raoul showed no sign of discomfiture; he sat erect, smiling, and now and then flourishing something which he held tightly grasped in his hand. Presently they reached a grassy opening enclosed with trees. The carriage halted, and Jean advanced towards it, reins in hand.

“Monsieur sees for himself that we can go no farther.”

M. Raoul did not give him time to reach him. Before Jean could realise what he was doing, he had slipped out of the carriage on the opposite side, and plunged into an undergrowth of bushes which clothed a steep bank, and crept down to the river. Jean made an ineffectual effort to follow and stop him, but the small pony, excited by M. Raoul’s triumphant cry, began to back and kick and show signs of bolting, so that his driver was forced, to return to his head. Jean was a person slow to make up his mind, and with a strong objection to responsibilities. He had remarked that they generally brought one into trouble. If Mme. de Beaudrillart, or either of the young ladies, madame’s daughters, happened to be walking in the grounds, as was too likely, and met the carriage and pony without a driver, it was impossible to say what might not happen; and as it was out of the question to keep both the carriage and M. Raoul in view, and he had unbounded confidence in M. Raoul’s capabilities, Jean resolved to stick to the carriage. But though occasionally stupid, he was not a fool, and he recognised the need of letting some one know of M. Raoul’s vagaries. He therefore pushed the pony as quickly as possible through the tangled path, and when he found himself again in a wider road, set off at a fast trot towards the château, hoping quickly to meet his father or another of the gardeners. Unfortunately, however, the first person he encountered was the last to whom he would have desired to tell his story.

Mlle. Claire de Beaudrillart was the younger of the two sisters who lived with their mother, her son and his wife, at the château. Both sisters were some years older than their brother, and Mlle. Claire would never again see her thirty-seventh birthday. Not so handsome as her mother, she was still a striking-looking woman, tall, thin, and carrying herself well. Like all the Beaudrillarts, she was dark; like them, too, her chin was strongly moulded, her nose straight. Once when there were tableaux at Poissy, and old dresses had been drawn from a great armoire, it might have been supposed that the very Claire of two centuries back had stepped out of her frame in the picture-gallery. She was invariably exquisitely neat even in the house, and if her temper was quick, it seldom placed her at a disadvantage. Yet, when Jean caught sight of her, he looked from side to side with helpless longing to escape, and finding it impossible, an ugly, sullen expression gathered in his face, which up to this point had only displayed embarrassment. Mlle. Claire detected the look in a moment, and stopped, him by a sign.

“Where have you been, Jean?”

She used the “you” contemptuously.

“Round the estate, mademoiselle.”

“Alone?”

He brought out M. Raoul’s name.

“You should have said so at once. And where is Monsieur Raoul?”

This was exactly the question which Jean would have been glad to answer to himself; but his face only became more stolid as he replied:

“Mademoiselle must know that he has gone down to the river.”

“To the river! With Monsieur de Beaudrillart?”

He hung his head.

“With Madame Léon! No! With whom, then?” As he remained silent, she added, quickly, “You do not tell me that he is alone?”

Jean burst out with “Mademoiselle—” and stopped helplessly.

“Well?”

“Mademoiselle will comprehend that when monsieur says he will go—”

She looked at him from head to foot, and said in a low voice, perfectly modulated, yet which cut like a whip:

“I have always maintained that you, Jean Charpentier, were untrustworthy, and now I am absolutely convinced of it. It was your duty not to let Monsieur Raoul out of your sight, and you have suffered him to go alone to the river—to the river! It is a case of gross neglect, and I shall consult with Monsieur de Beaudrillart about your dismissal.”

The boy stood staring at her, open-mouthed, water beginning to gather in his round eyes. He, whose family for generations past had lived and died at Poissy; he, whose pride was to continue in the service, and whom the other lads regarded with envy—he to be condemned as untrustworthy, and threatened with dismissal! And he had done his best. It was not his fault if he could not carry out the impossible. All this was slowly heaving in his mind, when a second unwelcome personage came along the path.

She was a young lady of some four or five and twenty, tall, fair, and almost childlike in the soft lines of her face. Her hair was reddish-brown, the colour which painters love; her eyes clear, hazel, frank, steady, and true; her mouth firm, but a little large; her throat delicately white. She looked healthy, and carried a hat in her hand, as if she courted sun and air, and she was walking quickly; but on seeing Mlle. Claire, hesitated, fearful of interrupting. The next moment another impulse brought her to her side, and she, too, cried eagerly to Jean:

“But where is Monsieur Raoul?”

He was silent, and Claire answered:

“I have told Jean that, since he is not to be trusted, I shall take care that he is not permitted to drive Monsieur Raoul any more.”

“Not to be trusted!” The new-comer had grown pale, her eyes wandered questioningly from one face to the other, and when she repeated her question it was in a faltering voice. “But where is he?”

“Apparently he has gone to the river.”

“To the river! Not alone?”

Mlle. Claire said, frigidly:

“Yes, it is inexcusable; but you may leave me to arrange matters. Take the carriage to the stables, Jean, without loitering by the way, and wait there until you are sent for. Come, Nathalie, we will go and look for him.”

Young Mme. de Beaudrillart, who had stood motionless for a moment, raised her hand and checked Jean as he was moving off.

“Pardon, Claire, that is not the best plan; for neither you nor I know anything. If you will be good enough to take charge of the carriage, the boy shall go with me and point out exactly where he lost sight of him. Come, Jean, at once.” And before her sister-in-law had time to recover from the amazement into which this unusual self-assertion had thrown her, she had walked rapidly away, followed by the reluctant Jean. He, too, was bewildered. In the storm of difficulty and reproach which he foresaw, the last person by whom he wished to find himself was Mme. Léon. If she were even disposed to befriend him, she would be ineffective. He had always been tacitly encouraged to disregard her orders, and under other circumstances would not have hesitated to do so now. But something strangely imperative in her tone, something so unexpected that it had discomfited even Mlle. Claire, completed his degradation, and compelled him against his will to follow. He wept, as much for shame as fear, as he stumbled along behind the quick, firm steps of his young mistress, and more than once when she flung him a question as to M. Raoul’s disappearance answered so helplessly that she turned upon him at last with sharp impatience.

“For Heaven’s sake, Jean, don’t be a fool! Show me the path, and cry when there is nothing else to be done. Was it here?”

“No, madame,” murmured Jean, astonished into obedience; “the next.”

She quickened her steps almost to a run.

“And how could you allow him to go alone? You knew, did you not, that he was put into your charge?”

He hesitated.

“Madame sees that when Monsieur Raoul jumped out there was the pony and the carriage to see to; and the pony began to be wicked, as he sometimes is. Madame de Beaudrillart would have been very much displeased if anything had happened to the pony, and I was going as fast as I could to fetch some one when I met Mademoiselle Claire, who stopped me to inquire, and would hear it all—”

“Yes, I understand,” said Nathalie, curbing her anguish by an effort, though still hastening along. “I understand perfectly, and I do not think you were to blame.” But under her breath Jean heard her cry, “Oh, Raoul, Raoul!”

The boy had a sudden impulse.

“If I were madame,” he said, shyly, “I should have no fear. Monsieur Raoul is so clever, he will find his way.”

He would not have ventured to offer consolation to any other of the family, but no one stood upon ceremony with Mme. Léon, and his momentary awe was subsiding. She was no longer angry, but she did not answer, and he made no further remark until he indicated a spot on their right.

“It was there that Monsieur Raoul went down.”

Where he pointed, the shrubs, which all along grew wildly and untrimmed, presented a still more tangled mass of underwood, so thickly matted together that Mme. Léon had to thrust the branches aside with her strong young hands, pushing them to right and left, as she plunged into their midst, Jean clipping down after her. A soft rush of sound, which for some time had been in their ears, resolved itself now into the cool flow of running water, and the ground, still densely wooded, fell precipitously, evidently forming the high bank of the stream. Nathalie was active and light in movement; she scarcely hesitated, though often forced to swing by the help of flexible branches, or to scramble, as best she could, down sandy slopes. At the foot of the bank ran a narrow grassy strip, fringed with a thick growth of water-plants and broad burdock leave beyond which raced a broad river, broken here and there by pebbly shoals, but in other places flowing deep and strong. The first breath of autumn was carried in the air; it was all fresh, vigorous, and a little keen, but the beauty passed unnoticed by Mme. Léon. She stood still, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked eagerly on either side. Jean clambered to a little height. “Do you see him?” she called, anxiously.

“No, madame. But madame will recollect that monsieur was going that way”—pointing to his right—“to fish. Possibly he may be there.”

She thought for a moment.

“I will take that direction, and do you ran towards the bridge. Only make haste, and if you find him, do not leave him again, but bring him back at once; and call as you go.”

“If it were any one but Monsieur Raoul, now,” the boy said to himself as he went off, “she would not have ventured to give an order. Mademoiselle Claire stared finely when she found herself told to take care of the carriage. It was good! Madame Léon is twenty times better than Mademoiselle Claire, who speaks as if one were a pig; but, then, Mademoiselle Claire is one of the old Beaudrillarts, and has the right, while Madame Léon is bourgeoise. There’s the difference. Nobody would mind if she did speak. Monsieur Raoul! Hi, Monsieur Raoul!”

Nathalie, meanwhile, was walking swiftly in the opposite direction, her eyes devouring the bank and the unfeeling river, which gave her at all times an unconquerable dread. The ground was rough and broken, and she often stumbled where the long grass hid cracks and dips. A small out-jutting promontory for some time hid a bend of the river from her sight. It was covered with thin straggling bushes, which had the appearance of hurrying helter-skelter to dip their green branches in the water. It was necessary to push her way through them, and her dress would have been torn had not an unconscious instinct led her, even at this absorbed moment, to wrap it carefully round her, and avoid the jagged wood-splinters. When she had crossed these obstacles, she called to a fisherman at work some couple of hundred feet away. “Léon, Léon!” she cried, breathlessly.

He turned, nodded, and began deliberately to reel his line. Before he had finished his wife was by his side.

“Léon—Raoul! Have you seen Raoul!”

“I? No. Why should I have seen him?”

“Because he got out of the carriage and made his way down to the river—to the river—alone! Oh, Léon!”

“He will be all right; he has sense enough,” said her husband, easily. “What was that little imbecile Jean about?”

“Dear, I can’t blame him. What was he to do? He has been ordered never to leave the carriage.”

“Do? He might have done something. It is ridiculous to suppose that he could not have prevented it. Who gave him those orders?”

“Your mother.”

“Oh, well, of course it wouldn’t do for the pony to run wild. However, don’t worry yourself; depend upon it, it’s all right.” He began to hum an air. “I believe, after all, I will go with you, if only to keep you quiet. And besides the pleasure of seeing you, I am not sorry that you have come. Fishing is horribly stupid work all by one’s self. I was beginning to think I was sick of it, and from the relief I feel, I am sure. Stop! Where are you going?”

“Dear Léon, I am so uneasy! You can follow.”

“Heartless woman! But I don’t let you off so quietly. Haven’t I told you that my own society fatigues me? haven’t I welcomed your coming? and yet you have the unkindness to propose to leave me! Come, be reasonable. Help me with this detestable rod, which your fingers can manage twice as well as mine, and then we go together.”

But to his amazement his wife only turned her head.

“I cannot stay, Léon; I am too anxious. Come as quickly as you can.”

He stared after her as she hastened away, his face losing some of its easy expression. Dark, like the De Beaudrillarts, his features were small, and their lines rounded. He was of medium height, and broadly made about the shoulders; his eyes were brown, and the eyebrows straight. He laughed readily, yet occasionally a certain haggard look, curiously at variance with the roundness of his cheek, crept over his face and aged it. Now, after a momentary hesitation, he flung his rod and basket on the ground and ran after his wife.

“Women must always have their own way at once, of course,” he said, with a touch of petulance like a child’s. “You might have waited a minute.”

“Ah, forgive me, Léon! If it had been any other time!”

The ruffle had already passed. He smiled gayly.

“Yes, yes, that is what you all say. However, I will own that it is not often you are so unreasonable.”

She flung him a grateful look, and asked, with an effort:

“Have you caught many fish?”

“Only three, and those I gave to old Antoine as he went by. No one can be expected to fish with such a sun shining on the water. Just look at it!”

She looked and shuddered. By way of saying something, she remarked:

“Claire persists that old Antoine is a vaurien.”

“Probably. From what my mother remembers, I suspect his family has been worthless for so many generations as to deserve a reward for consistency, if for nothing else. Claire is dreadfully down upon poor sinners. Must we walk as if a mad dog were at our heels! These bushes scratch. They might as well be trimmed. Do you agree? But you are not attending.”

“Yes, indeed, Léon, I think with you. And with your rod—but where is your rod?”

“Left with my basket. Your fault—you would not wait.”

She half paused.

“Oh, but I am sorry, very sorry! Your new rod! Will it not be hurt?”

“It is extremely probable that old Antoine will find an excellent opportunity for exercising his hereditary inclinations.”

She slipped her hand in his and repeated, regretfully: “I am very sorry! It was so good of you to let everything go that you might come with me, for I am terribly frightened. Where can he have hidden himself?”

“My dear child, you are becoming fussy; and if you don’t check yourself, you will develop lines in your pretty face which I should find unendurable. Raoul is perfectly safe.”

“Do you think so! But—the river?”

“The river—bah!”

M. de Beaudrillart was too sweet-tempered to be annoyed with his wife for her fears, but he was conscious of a failure in the perfect sympathy to which he was accustomed. When his fishing happened to be unsuccessful, Nathalie was alert to discover the reasons for failure, and never by awkward slip set it down to want of skill. If such a thought knocked at his own mind, her tender touch managed to shut the door upon the unwelcome intruder. No matter what other affairs occupied her, they were laid aside to give him her undivided attention, and—what was more—to be grateful to him for asking it. Perhaps he chose to be unaware of the isolated position she occupied in the household, since it had this advantage for him, that with one other he absorbed the warm affections which were strong enough to flow far and wide, could they have found space. He liked the concentration. Now, however, he felt she had not so much as listened; for, when he had finished his relation of a trout which had been so ill-behaved as to get away, instead of her usual commiseration, Nathalie did not even utter a remark. Her eyes were fixed painfully upon the river, which raced along—iron-grey in colour, except where the shallows broke it into bubbles—with its fringe of broad-leaved grasses, burdocks, and flags, a vivid green line in the midst of a somewhat dried-up country. He would have preferred a more leisurely stroll, but his wife’s impatience kept her a pace or two in advance, so that he was forced to exert himself in order to keep up with her light and swift steps. His annoyance took refuge in silence, which she in her anxious absorption did not notice.

Presently, however, she cried: “Oh, Léon, there is the bridge!”

“Did you expect to see it anywhere else?”

Generally she was quick to detect the smallest cloud of displeasure, but now she said only: “He might have been on it.”

Léon shrugged his shoulders.

“We must cross,” she said, decidedly. “I cannot help hoping that he has gone off to the village.”

“I could have told you so much long ago. He has gone off to the village, and is as safe as if he were in the château.”

“You don’t know—you only think. And if he has found him, why has not Jean brought him back?”

“Jean is a fool. It is all his fault,” grumbled the young master.

The bridge was a slight wooden structure, flung across the broad river for the convenience of the Beaudrillarts. On the other side lay the scattered cottages of a little hamlet, the apple orchards and vineyards already spoken of; while higher up a stone bridge spanned the river, available, as this was not, for carts and carriages. Beyond, you saw a white church. The people were poor, but could hardly be miserably so in a part of France where both soil and climate were gracious; ignorant and uneducated, but frugal and industrious. Most of the families had lived in their homes longer than the longest memories stretched back, and, with many, service with the Beaudrillarts still remained an hereditary custom.

Nathalie, when she reached the bridge, involuntarily slackened her steps. Any one who watched her closely would have seen that the hand which grasped the rail trembled, and that her eyes fastened themselves fearfully upon the swift-flowing river beneath. Once she cried out, and stopped. “Eh? What is it?” asked Léon, advancing, startled.

“That!” She pointed below.

“A white stone.”

“Is it really a stone? I thought it moved.”

“Foolish child! You are in a state in which you fancy anything. You would shock my mother.”

She did not even hear him. She moved forward step by step, her questioning eyes still trying to pierce the secrets of the river. Suddenly she stopped again, lifted her head, and stood motionless, her whole face transformed by a radiant smile.

On the opposite side of the stream the path rose very slightly, and passed before a large walnut-tree until an angle hid it from view. Round this corner trooped a joyous procession of some eight or ten children of all sizes, singing and shouting, headed by a little boy of perhaps five years old, who marched in front, blowing a shrill trumpet with much fire and precision. When he spied Mme. Léon he blew yet louder, and marched more triumphantly, but before he reached her forgot his dignity, and began to run, crying out, “Mamma, mamma!” She opened her arms, and he rushed into them.

For a moment she could not speak. The dim, shadowy terrors which the clasp of his little hands had driven out had been fuller of anguish than she knew. They were gone, but they left her, strong and healthy woman as she was, shaken and trembling. Raoul, recovering from his attack of sentiment, struggled to get free. The children hung shyly back, and Jean, who had been commanded to defend the rear, pushed forward to speak.

“Madame, he was outside Père Robert’s, beating the rappel.”

Then all the other boys and girls began to laugh and whisper.

“Tiens! he said we were his soldiers.”

“We were to march I don’t know where. Oh, out of France!” with a broad sweep of arms, expressive of immensity.

“Big Lonlon was corporal.”

“And he made us call him general.”

They saw regretfully that the game was over, since monsieur and madame had appeared, and scattered like a flock of sparrows, Raoul, finding struggling of no use, watching them gravely with a small air of dignity. His mother’s heart began to beat more steadily.

“Raoul,” she remonstrated, softly, “how could you run away?”

He turned his dark eyes upon her.

“Because Jean was so dull, and the river was much nicer.”

“But you made poor father and mother so frightened!”

Léon interposed.

“Don’t scold the child, m’amie. It was natural enough, and just what I used to do at his age. I believe he has my very same old trumpet. Yes, yes, here’s the notch which I made one day when I banged Pierre’s head.”

He blew a blast, at which Raoul clapped his hands and struggled. But the mother held him fast.

“Raoul will not run away again?”

“It was all that dolt Jean’s fault,” Léon put in once more. “Jean, hasn’t madame fifty times told you not to lose sight of Monsieur Raoul? Answer! Come, yes, or no? But she has, for I have heard her myself, and you are abominably careless.”

“Ah, but—monsieur knows,” stammered Jean, “that—that Madame de Beaudrillart—”

“My mother? Well?”

“Monsieur knows she said that if I let him cry I should be punished, and Mademoiselle Claire said I was never to leave the pony, and—”

The young man burst into a laugh.

“Conflicting orders, eh, Nathalie? Well, you should have managed somehow. And look here, understand from me that it is Madame Léon who is your mistress, and that you are always to do what she tells you. You comprehend?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Jean, in a doubtful tone.

“Good! then now take Monsieur Raoul to the house, and find his bonne or somebody. We have had quite enough of this. My fishing spoiled and all! Not that I was doing much good. Come, Nathalie, the least you can do to make up is to come back with me after my rod. Let that baby go; he is not the person to scold.”

“Dear Léon, he is quite old enough; he must be made to understand.”

He caught her arm, and pulled her playfully away.

“Understand? Bah! you are over-precise, chérie. Wait a year or two, and you shall preach at him as long as you will. Besides, I want you, and that is enough, or ought to be. Now, Raoul, run; I’ve begged you off this time.”

She looked at her husband and hesitated; then, without another word, let go the child and went with Léon. Jean, looking back, saw them walking by the side of the river, and monsieur had his hand on madame’s shoulder.

“For all that!” muttered Jean, thinking uncomfortably of Mlle. Claire.

Chapter Two.

How Poissy was Saved.

It was true, as Jean had murmured to himself, that Mme. Léon was by birth bourgeoise. As for the De Beaudrillarts, all France knew that they belonged, not only to the noblesse, but to the oldest of the noblesse. Their name was ancient. The church at Nonceaux, which at one time stood on the estate, was full of monuments of armed and curled Barons de Beaudrillart, lying stiffly under fretted canopies; old documents in the library of Tours carried their names centuries back, and their beautiful château was an object of interest to all the strangers who come into the neighbourhood.

It is true that, six years ago, before Baron Léon was married, and when he was about three-and-twenty, these same strangers remarked upon the bad state of repair into which the château had fallen, pointing out that in many of the rooms, now disused and shut up, the plaster was peeling from the ceilings and exquisite cornices, and that other parts had reached a state of absolute ruin; but, whatever pain this decay may have caused to the owners, it only added to the tranquil picturesque charm which seemed to cling to the old place. There was a lovely pitch of roof, and the slate, worn out as it was, had gained a rich depth as beautiful as that of a rain-cloud, making a perfect setting for the delicate and fantastic chimneys which sprang lightly into the air. The château was of no great size, nor could it in any way compare with those grand historic houses of which Touraine is justly proud; but whatever architect imagined it had been imbued with the same spirit, and had indulged in the same grace of detail. There was no stiffness, apparently scarcely an attempt at symmetry; yet it would have been difficult to detect a flaw in the harmony of form and colour. A light lantern turret clung to one angle, a wilful little outer staircase ran up, quite unexpectedly, to a balcony, small ferns pierced the crevices of the grey stone, where lizards darted in and out, here and there in spring a rosy cyclamen appeared. The place was never without delight, whether seen under the warm radiance of the sun, which brought out the lizards and intensified into sharpness the rich shadow of each bit of carving, and every golden patch of lichen on the mellow stone, or clothed with a more restful and sympathetic charm under the soft cloudy half-lights of a grey day. Behind the château rose a low wooded hill, in front ran a long terrace, which separated it from the flower-beds and a broad stretch of turf. The kitchen-garden and the pond, where frogs kept up a turbulent croaking, were on one side.

But the decay which may add a charm to architecture becomes dreary and unlovely in a garden. Six years ago the turf was uncared for, the flowers grew untrimmed; it was evident that the fortunes of the family were at a low ebb. So with the interior. The greater number of rooms were closed, and only two or three servants remained of the many who had been there during the lifetime of the Baron Bernard. The Baron Bernard had been a man of sense and integrity, highly respected in the neighbourhood—unfortunately, he was drowned in the river at a comparatively early age, leaving a widow; one son, Léon; two daughters, Félicie and Claire; and a well-ordered estate.

For a few years this continued, but with Léon grown up came change. He was a young man with the easiest of tempers, a genuine charm of face and manner, and the most extravagant tastes. His mother and sisters adored, and did their best to spoil him. They succeeded admirably. He began to spend money at the earliest possible age at which a man masters that easiest of accomplishments, and he denied himself nothing. There had been savings daring his boyhood; he fancied the sum inexhaustible, and looked upon it as loose cash intended to be flung away. It was not, it need hardly he remarked, at Poissy that the money was spent; Paris—Paris became the one place in the world where he cared to pass his days, with an occasional flying visit to Poissy, where his intendant was installed with the impossible task before him of meeting increased expenditure upon diminishing receipts. M. Georges seldom saw his employer, and then was put off by good-humoured banter. If he carried his tale to Mme. de Beaudrillart, she invariably treated him as the one to blame, and would only repeat that it was natural for a young man to enjoy himself during the early years of his life. Money must be raised somehow.

“In that case, madame,” said little M. Georges, as firmly as he could, “portions of the property will have to be sold. Monsieur le baron will consent?”

She paused, struck with dismay.

“You mean that it is absolutely necessary?”

“I mean that no other course whatever remains—except to borrow.”

“Oh, no borrowing!” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart, hastily, and M. Georges smiled covertly, aware of M. Léon’s debts in Paris. She walked to the window, and came back. “If it must be,” she said, reluctantly, “you had better dispose of some of the outlying property. But permit me to remark, Monsieur Georges, that it appears to me that perhaps greater experience might have prevented such a sacrifice.”

Experience had, at any rate, taught poor M. Georges the undesirability of entering upon an argument with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He bowed low, and retired to write to M. Léon, who sent him an airy letter to the effect that in years to come it would be easy enough to buy back whatever their misfortunes required them to part with at the present moment. Mme. de Beaudrillart, whenever she encountered M. Georges, looked at him with displeasure; the only person from whom he received any sympathy was Mlle. Claire, and hers scarcely reached the point of blaming Léon.

The first piece of property sold soon carried another with it. Rich vineyards and mills found immediate purchasers, and changed hands easily. The worst of it was that Poissy was left with land which was not so profitable, and that the rentals became quickly reduced, while M. Léon’s expend it are did not diminish in the same proportion, for if by fits and starts he practised a little economy, it was followed by a reaction, as if he imagined that what he had saved gave him something more to spend. Debts and mortgages, like venomous spiders, crept over poor Poissy, and, once having got it in their clutches, held it tight. They reached this point at last, that nothing remained with which to satisfy his creditors except the château itself; and when the fact forced itself upon his mind, the shock was sufficiently great to stun even M. Léon.

He hurried back, and sent for M. Georges. In the crash of disaster he felt as if he had been purposely kept in ignorance, forgetting the letters which had seemed to him only the tiresome forebodings of a timid man. His mother, who refused to blame her son, offered up the intendant as a scapegoat. If he were not in fault, how could matters have arrived at their present disastrous condition? For what was he placed there, if not to preserve the estates! M. Léon winced.

“What I complain of is that the state of affairs should not have been forced upon me,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Good heavens! if I had once understood, should I have been such a fool?”

Mlle. Claire, who was very pale, looked up.

“Did not Monsieur Georges entreat you to return, or to appoint to see him in Paris!”

“Entreat! He should have insisted,” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart. “If Léon had but understood the gravity of the case, or if I had but known! But Monsieur Georges is a man who lays infinite stress on minute points, and fails altogether to impress you with what is important.”

M. Georges was dismissed; and this was perhaps the only deliberate harshness Léon ever committed in his life. Then the young baron set himself to look into his debts, and get together the total sum; it amounted to more than two hundred thousand francs.

“There is but one thing,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart; “you must marry.”

But to this Léon, who had not shown himself very scrupulous, objected. He had no inclination, he said, to marry, and he disliked the idea of being indebted for Poissy itself to a wife. He would go to Paris, where it would be hard if he could not, among quick-witted advisers, find some means of redeeming his fortunes. He went, and, for the first time in his life, really worked, and with feverish energy. He ran here and there among his old companions, who were prodigal of sympathy, but offered little more substantial. It seemed impossible that he should be unable to raise money when, throughout his prosperous days, it had been pressed upon him. But his eyes were sufficiently opened to perceive that the only terms by which he could free himself from present disaster were ruinous, and would merely serve to postpone the evil day. As the value of his securities decreased, a more extortionate rate of interest was demanded. He cursed his own folly, but could see no way out of the quagmire into which it had plunged him. His friends reiterated Mme. de Beaudrillart’s advice. For the sake of rank, many a girl with a large fortune would be ready to raise his fallen fortunes; one or two were even pointed out to him, and their dowries dangled before his eyes. But he remained obstinate.

When he came to Paris there had been an idea of his seeking some appointment, by means of which, and the strictest economy at Poissy, the interest on his debts might be scraped together. Unfortunately, Léon’s ideas of money were large—so large that a little seemed to him as useless as none. If by one great coup he might gain a considerable sum—good! But to add franc to franc, and painfully lessen his obligations by scarcely perceptible payments, was economy from which his soul revolted, and which, therefore, he contrived to persuade himself was worthless. It might suit the sordid little nature of a bourgeois bonhomme, but not that of the owner of Poissy. Something larger must be attempted, and quickly.

Before Léon’s eyes there had floated for some time the possibility of applying to an old cousin of the family, a certain M. de Cadanet. For various reasons, it appeared as if he were the very person to assist him. Rumour credited him with an immense fortune; and, at any rate, there could be no doubt that he had made more than one successful speculation, among them that of marrying a rich wife, who died childless. Rich and solitary, what better person could be found to come to the rescue of the De Beaudrillarts? And there was an even stronger reason for counting upon his good-will. In the days when he had not found prosperity, and was struggling to stand up against more than one hard buffet dealt by Fortune, Léon’s father had given him a helping hand. Perhaps without him he would have been unable to keep his footing; certainly the support was of material service, and Léon had some excuse for thinking that now was the moment for him to return it.

But, unfortunately, the relations between the young man and the old were already strained. It was not only that Léon’s frivolities, Léon’s extravagances, were hateful to the cautions and clear-headed speculator, who had made his way to wealth by dint of industry and prudence, and set those virtues beyond all others—there was a third person whose influence was extremely damaging to the young baron, a certain Charles Lemaire, who had married a niece of M. de Cadanet’s wife. His uncle credited him with the qualities he loved, and there could be no doubt that he was cautious, and, when it suited his interests, frugal. He had, however, as Léon knew very well to his own cost, a passion for gambling, and at the same time extraordinary luck. When first the two found themselves at the same table, they were unknown to each other, and Charles had never got over the disagreeable shock with which he realised that the handsome young man who lost his money so easily was cousin to the uncle to whose solitary habits he trusted for non-detection. From that moment he detested him, and worked to damage his character in the eyes of M. de Cadanet. His follies—and Heaven knows they were many—were repeated and exaggerated. Each idle rumour, whether well or ill founded, reached the old man’s ears. Rash and youthful political utterances were spoken of with sorrowful gravity. One or two laughing comments upon M. de Cadanet’s habits became cruel ridicule. And with all this M. Charles lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself. He understood the subtile flattery of asking advice, and of outwardly following it. He deferred to his uncle in every point. And he contrived, at last, to make himself so necessary to M. de Cadanet that if he stayed away he was missed and blamed.

Léon made no attempt to act as a rival. Kind-heartedness and general good-will inclined him to look in upon the solitary old man, and he went once or twice to his house. But he was received with coldness and marked displeasure, and had pleased himself too long to endure what he disliked. His visits ceased. M. de Cadanet, who claimed attention, became more incensed. Once or twice he asked Charles where the young fool kept himself.

“My dear uncle, how should I know? You do not expect me to frequent his haunts. And it would pain me too much to repeat to you all that I hear. It is more charitable to shut one’s ears, and to hope that the world is mistaken.”

And he pressed his hand on his pocket, where reposed the notes he had won the night before.

On his part, Léon suspected him of enmity, but would have scorned to retaliate; and Charles based his own assurance upon knowledge of his character, and upon the insidious manner in which he had poisoned his uncle’s mind.

Now, however, when the waters were closing over the De Beaudrillarts, Léon felt that the moment had come for an appeal. Surely gratitude to the dead man who had helped him would induce M. de Cadanet to step forward and save his son from ruin. Léon, whose nature was buoyantly sanguine, made up his mind to a scolding, but saw himself coming away with the estates saved. As he walked along the streets, sparkling with crisp sunshine and gaiety, his spirits rose, and the fears and torments he had been going through fell away. He almost laughed when he thought of a despairing letter to his mother which he had written the night before and had with him, and he assured himself that the postscript which must undoubtedly be added would bring joy to Poissy.

In this hopeful frame of mind he reached M. de Cadanet’s house in the Rue du Bac, a house quiet and somewhat gloomy in appearance. Léon entered the porte-cochère, and passed the small office of the concierge. He went quickly up to the first-floor, and, passing through an austerely furnished suite of rooms, was finally ushered into one smaller than the others, where, surrounded by books and a few indifferent pictures, M. de Cadanet sat writing, an old man, short, bent, and with a skin like yellow ivory.

Léon came in smiling, almost radiant. He had succeeded in persuading his sanguine self that he had reached the end of his difficulties, and he had profound faith in the imperturbable good-humour which seldom failed to charm. He advanced with outstretched hand, coldly received by his cousin.

“I am ashamed, count, to recall how long it is since I have been to call on you. Do you forgive me?”

The old man drew himself up.

“I am not aware of having expected the honour of a visit from Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”

“I accept the rebuke,” said Léon, smiling frankly. “To tell the truth, you might have seen me oftener if I had been sure of a welcome. But I am afraid I have deserved my disgrace.”

“Of that no one, monsieur, can judge better than yourself.”

“Why monsieur?” said the young man, still smiling. “In old days you spoke to me as Léon; and you do not forget that we are cousins.”

“One does not so easily forget one’s misfortunes.”

“Misfortunes!” repeated Léon, colouring. The next moment he recovered himself sufficiently to say good-humouredly, “Pardon me, but was it always a misfortune, count!”

The old man glanced at him with the first touch of wavering in his face.

“You need not remind me,” he said. “I should not now be listening to you were it not for the remembrance of your father. But you did not come here merely to pay a visit of ceremony to a cantankerous old mummy?”

He emphasised the words bitterly, for, according to M. Charles, this title had been attached to him by Léon. Léon stared and shrugged his shoulders, unconscious of offence, and only anxious to propitiate his terrible relative.

“You are right,” he said, looking down and speaking more hurriedly. “I am here because I am in great difficulties, and because I hoped that—that the remembrance of my father would dispose you to come to the help of his son.”

“And may I ask what has plunged you into difficulties?”

“Oh, my own folly; I don’t attempt to deny it—my own folly, helped on by a dolt of an intendant. If I had had any idea—However, I do not excuse myself. I have been confoundedly extravagant, and I mean to pull up short, I assure you. But, after all, other young men have been in the same position, and, with a helping hand, have managed to scramble out of it again. I have been up here for a week seeing what I could do—”

“At the gaming-tables!”

“No, no, I give you my word that is over. I have been trying to raise—”

“How much!”

“Two hundred thousand francs,” said the young man, in a low voice.

“There are money-lenders enough in Paris,” remarked M. de Cadanet, dryly.

“But with the securities I can offer, their terms are ruinous. If I were to accept them, Poissy would have to go. Judge for yourself whether this would not break my mother’s heart.”

“I have not the honour of the acquaintance of Madame de Beaudrillart.”

Léon did not answer at once. He was framing a more direct appeal.

“The estate must right itself in time,” he said, hopefully, “and if I could induce you to take the matter into consideration, and to advance me the money—”

He paused. M. de Cadanet turned towards his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, and drew out a cheque-book.

“You said, I think, two hundred thousand!” he asked, beginning to fill it in.

“Two hundred thousand,” repeated the young man, joyfully, without an attempt to conceal the exultation with which he watched the proceeding. All had gone more easily than his most sanguine expectations had ventured to suggest, and he was amazed at his own folly in having hesitated to apply to his rich cousin, whose bark, after all, was worse than his bite. M. de Cadanet’s movements were deliberate in the extreme. He wrote a cheque, folded it, and sought for an envelope of the right size. This found, he proceeded to direct it. Léon smiled to himself. “An unnecessary formality,” he thought; “but I had better hold my tongue, and let him please himself as to his way of doing.” It seemed to him, however, that the moment had come when he might express his gratitude, and he was beginning to stammer a few words, when M. de Cadanet put up his hand.

“One moment, monsieur. Allow me to explain. Neither the honour of this visit nor the particulars with which you have favoured me have taken me by surprise. I have already given the affairs of Poissy my best consideration.”

Léon nodded cheerfully. This explained.

“And I have arrived at the conclusion that since the Beaudrillart family has reached the point indicated by you, it must be decreed that it should pass the remainder of its existence without a château. Heaven forbid that I should attempt to fight against fate!”

The scorn of his words stung like a lash. Léon, bewildered and astonished, turned white. He murmured something which the old count interrupted with a sudden outburst of passion.

“What, monsieur! You squander your birthright on miserable follies, you drag the name you profess to honour into the lowest depths, and then come to beg—yes, monsieur, I repeat it, to beg—from those whose advice you have scorned, and whose character you have calumniated! No. I give you my word—a word which, however strange it may appear to you, has never yet been broken—that, in whatever straits you find yourself, I will not so much as lift my little finger to help you, nor fling a penny to keep you from starving. Understand that, if you had become poor by honest misfortunes, I would have set you again on your legs. You have had your chance. I would not trust mere report, though to those who were acquainted with your habits it appeared only too probable. Close and searching inquiries have been made, and it is possible that I know more of your affairs than you know yourself—certainly more than you have permitted me to hear from you to-day.”

Léon sprang to his feet.

“Enough, monsieur!” he cried. “You have a right to refuse assistance, but none to insult me. If you have employed spies to search into my private affairs, you have taken an unwarrantable liberty, upon which you would not have ventured had you been of an age for me to retaliate. Much of what you say is incomprehensible to me; a little more might cause me to forget the respect due to your years.”

“Spare me theatrical language, monsieur; and, as you have forced yourself upon me, be good enough to listen to what I have to tell you. This letter contains an order for two hundred thousand francs.”

Against his will, the young man’s eyes turned greedily towards it.

“Are you not inclined to add to your accomplishments by robbery and murder?” sneered M. de Cadanet.

“If I had the chance, I should be glad to get hold of the money,” said the young man, lightly. His anger burned out as quickly as dry straw, and the other, who had not expected this frank answer, stared and went on:

“When I gave myself the annoyance of looking into your affairs, I resolved that, if you came out of the ordeal acquitted, I would apply the earn to their settlement; if you failed, it should go to—another person.”

Léon laughed. The count, who had not the young man’s command of temper, became furious.

“You laugh, monsieur! Let those laugh who win.”

“Exactly,” said M. de Beaudrillart, coolly. “And who wins? The admirable Charles?”

“Yes, monsieur!” thundered the count. “He whom you are pleased to sneer at as the admirable Charles, and who, if not a Beaudrillart, has shown himself to be what is better—an honourable man. You follow me?”

“Perfectly. You express yourself with unmistakable clearness. So Monsieur Charles is to have the money!”

“And will make a worthy use of it. He may find more follow.”

“I comprehend,” said Léon, still smiling. “Under the circumstances, you are doubtless anxious to despatch your letter to Monsieur Charles. Can I post it for you?”

It was M. de Cadanet’s turn to laugh—gratingly.

“Permit me to prefer a safer messenger. My cheque is payable to bearer.”

“Then I have the honour to wish you good-day.”

“Go. And understand, once for all, that should you apply to me again, you will not be admitted.”

“Do not fear, monsieur. The impression I take with me is not so agreeable that I should wish to renew it.”

And with this last word M. de Beaudrillart found himself outside the room.

He went slowly down-stairs, the smile still lingering mechanically on his lips, but something like despair in his heart. So far as he could see, but one way presented itself out of his troubles, and this would only affect himself, and leave his mother, whom he loved, with added misery in her heart. No misfortune would touch her, he knew, so nearly as his death, and if he had the cowardice to be ready to slip out of his troubles by self-murder, he had not the cruelty to inflict such anguish upon her. Besides, another reflection, not so amiable, restrained him. M. de Cadanet had hinted at coming gifts for M. Charles, and the thought had flashed upon him with the force of intuition that it was not improbable, should the mortgages be foreclosed, for the count to get hold of Poissy and present it to M. Charles. Now, without knowing all the mischief that he had worked, Léon hated M. Charles. His hate was not virulent, but it was impulsive; and although he had no proof, he strongly suspected who had brought an exaggerated report of his follies to M. de Cadanet’s ears. He might have retaliated, but that he would never stoop to such a course, and he reflected with a laugh that, if Charles was convicted of gambling, he would be ready with the excuse that he had gone there to watch himself. But Charles at Poissy! Charles a successor of the De Beaudrillarts! Léon ground his teeth, and felt that he must remain alive while a hope of baffling such a disaster was left.

Again he passed the little room of the concierge. André, who was something of a gourmand, was within at work upon cooking a fish, and looked up to salute M. Léon. In another moment the high green gates had closed behind the young baron, and he was walking along the street.

The sun was shining. Paris—the Paris he loved, the Paris which had proved herself so fatal a rival to Poissy—had never looked more smiling; there was neither fog nor chill in the air; but everywhere bright keen colours, people chatting, shops brightly dressed, women in their white caps, carriages rolling along. Gay, yet with a touch of hardness. For the first time in his life Léon became conscious of the hardness.

He knew himself now to be absolutely without resource; turn which way he would, rack ready wits as he might, no road suggested itself except, perhaps, marriage. And, strangely enough, as has been said, this man, who, young as he was, had few ideals left, had this, that he shrank from mending his broken fortunes by a marriage for money. True, it was common, almost universal. True, in matters relating to his own ease and comfort, selfishness generally became paramount. True, this fancy contradicted other characteristics. The fact remained that he hated the idea, and refused to entertain it, even in this moment of despair, when he had entertained others which seemed worse, when he acknowledged that M. de Cadanet had been rash in letting him see the cheque, and that if it had been M. Charles who had stood there between it and him—

He took an open letter from his pocket, and groaned as he closed it, so that a woman who was passing looked round; but seeing only a handsome young man with a cheek as round as a child’s, she smiled and went on. The letter was addressed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, at Poissy, and had been brought with him with the hope that an added postscript might have told of some happy turn of Fortune’s wheel. Now it must go as it stood, messenger of ill-tidings.

“Monsieur le baron has not got far.”

Léon looked hastily round; André the concierge was by his side. His first wild thought was that M. de Cadanet had relented and sent after him, the next moment his eye fell upon a packet of letters which the man carried, and he was seized with longing to know whether the letter addressed to M. Charles was among them. His genial manner made him a favourite with servants.

“Ah, André,” he said; “you have there monsieur le comte’s letters?”

“As monsieur le baron sees.”

“Permit me to glance at them. I wish to see whether one of which he spoke is there.”

They were in his hand even before he had finished speaking—four. Yes; the address to M. Charles Lemaire stared him in the face. The next moment the concierge had four letters again, but one of the four was addressed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, at Poissy.

“Thanks, André.” M. Léon burst into a laugh, and tossed the man a piece of twenty sous. “Tell monsieur le comte—No; tell him nothing; I will write.”

That evening M. de Cadanet received a letter:

“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 were certainly indebted for your prosperity.”

It must be owned that this was a strange letter to write and to receive. The answer that came back was brief:

“Monsieur,—You have confirmed me in my judgment. I preserve your letter. For the present I hold my hand; when the time arrives I shall know how to act. “Martin de Cadanet.”

Chapter Three.

The Household at Poissy.

The letter which arrived at Poissy came with all the force of a shock to Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters. It was true that they were well aware that an evil menaced, but it appeared inconceivable that it should have arrived. Léon had assured them that something would turn up; he was confident that Paris must offer a means of evading the worst, and, indeed, in all that he had said had temporised, excused himself, and hinted at unforeseen misfortune. M. Georges, indeed, had spoken more plainly to Mlle. Claire, but his words had been indignantly scouted by Mme. de Beaudrillart. Even now, when Léon had taken refuge in a letter which might break the worst in his absence, and spare him the pain of seeing, not reproachful looks, but tears, they refused to face the crash as inevitable. That the De Beaudrillart home should pass from the De Beaudrillarts was absolutely out of the question. That Léon’s extravagance had brought about even threat of such disaster immediately required extenuating words, and a laying of blame on any shoulders except his. Of the three, Claire was the only one who permitted a tinge of bitterness to creep, now and then, into her words.

“My poor boy!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, with tears in her eyes; “if this is hard for us, what must he not have suffered? Of course the affair will arrange itself somehow—Heaven forbid that I should be so faithless as to doubt it!—but the annoyance, the anxiety! Well, it is only another proof, if proof were wanted, of the incompetency of that Monsieur Georges. If Léon had not been so tender-hearted he would have sent him away long ago.”

“I wonder if it would have really made any difference?” remarked Félicie, her eldest daughter, looking up from the altar-linen she was embroidering. She was near-sighted, and had to stoop very much to bring her work within range of her eyes, but she would not be persuaded to wear spectacles.

“We should remember, however, that Monsieur Georges constantly implored Léon to pay a closer attention to his affairs. I must say, I think it is unjust to blame the poor man,” said Claire, sharply.

“Then you must blame your brother, which would be far more unjust,” said her mother, with decision. “For what is an intendant engaged? Until this moment, I have always been under the impression it was that he might look after the estates, and avert the possibility of such a humiliating position as that in which our poor Léon now finds himself.”

“It is certain that Léon must have been terribly extravagant,” persisted Mlle. Claire.

“Oh, extravagant, extravagant!—I dare say. How can you, a woman, with every want provided for, and with absolutely no temptation to spend money—how can you possibly judge of the difficulties of a young man in Paris? A young man, too, such as Léon, impulsive, generous, attractive.” Claire agreed. “Yes, he is very attractive.”

“And very generous,” added Félicie, looking up again, and holding her needle in the air. “When I spoke to him the other day about the pilgrimage, he told me we might count on him for fifty francs. Now Madame de Montbreuil assured me with tears that her husband would give no more than twenty.”

“Ah, and it is that generosity of his of which people take advantage,” said his mother. “If we knew all the truth, which you may be sure he will never permit us to learn, I am certain we should find some kind-hearted action at the bottom of this trouble. He has come to the rescue of a friend, or helped a poor struggling creature, and been dragged in himself, poor fellow! As for the old count, I shall never forgive him. He must have guessed how disagreeable it was to Léon to be forced to apply to him for assistance; and after his indebtedness to your father, the least, the very least he could do, was to have helped him liberally, and to have rejoiced at the opportunity.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart had a white face, an aquiline nose, and pinched lips—the features of a shrewd woman who would hold her own. She had little compassion for shortcomings, and never failed to point them out—perhaps to compensate for her blind adulation of her son. A large photograph of him stood on the table; she took it up, and carried it to the window, gazing at it fondly.

“I suppose it is difficult for such a boy as Léon to avoid spending money in a place with so many temptations as Paris,” Claire remarked, in a low tone. She was like her mother, but her face was more sallow and sharper.

“I don’t like you to speak as if this trouble were poor Léon’s fault,” said Félicie, in her thin, gentle voice.

Claire began to laugh.

“Whose, then? Yours or mine? I have not spent a penny for a month, so I cannot feel that I am responsible; and though you are disposed to be extravagant for the Church—”

“That is only one’s duty.”

“As you like, ma chère. I was going to add that you had no money to give, so that we can hardly lay our ruin at your door. Who is there but Léon?”

“Our mother thinks he has met with some misfortune.”

“Bah!” said Claire, under her breath. “It is no misfortune. I love Léon as well as you love him, but I can see his faults. He is no saint. This is his doing, and his only. He has squandered his money, and in bad ways.”

“What bad ways?” asked her sister, with wide-open eyes. “If I were to tell you, you would be shocked.”

“You can’t know!”

“Do I not? Léon is horribly careless, and if you were to see some of the photographs and letters he leaves scattered about his room, you would acknowledge that I know what I am talking about.”

Félicie thrust her fingers into her ears, and a flush rose in her thin cheek.

“Hush, hush, Claire!” she cried. “It is a sin to speak of such things! It is a sin even to listen to you!”

“Oh, I mean to be vielle fille, and privileged,” said Claire, with a laugh. “I could not go about the world with my eyes shut, as you do. Do you really believe it to be rose-coloured?”

Mme. de Beaudrillart crossed the room from the window, where she had been standing.

“What are you talking about, children?” she demanded.

“Claire says such things,” murmured Félicie, resuming her work. “It is shocking!”

“Félicie is a baby,” remarked the younger sister, contemptuously.

“Hush, hush! I have often desired you, Claire, to be more careful in what you repeat before your sister. And I am surprised you can think of anything but this anxiety of poor Léon’s. I have been turning the matter over and over.”

“Have you decided on anything?”

“I will tell you. Of course, what he appears to dread cannot happen. It is impossible to conceive the idea of Poissy passing from the family.”

“Impossible!” Claire repeated the word with emphasis.

“But it is our duty to make all the sacrifices we can. We must economise more strictly.”

“Oh, certainly, mamma,” said Félicie, cheerfully. “If you remember, in the last address which we had from the abbé, he counselled us to cast away superfluous luxuries. And here is our opportunity. It seems quite a coincidence.”

Mme. de Beaudrillart nodded, waiting for her other daughter to speak. Claire lifted her head and glanced round the room.

“I wish the coincidence had not arrived,” she said. “I am ready to do anything that is suggested; but I own I hardly see what we have which can be called superfluous.” Her mother folded her thin white hands in her lap.

“We must do with fewer servants,” she said.

“I suppose so,” Claire assented, doubtfully. “Which will you dismiss? François is the least necessary.”

“To us, but not to Léon. No; I have been reflecting, and I believe we can dispense with Rose-Marie. You are both active, and I, I thank Heaven, not yet infirm, so that between us, with old Nanon and Jacques Charpentier to help, we shall very well be able to manage the house-work.”

“Mamma,” gasped Félicie, with anguish in her voice, “I have just remembered the most terrible thing!”

“What, then?”

“I told you just now that Léon promised me fifty francs for our pilgrimage.”

“Well, he cannot give it,” said Claire, hastily.

“But consider! The money is already consecrated—”

“How!”

“Oh, in his own mind; and they have even told his Grandeur. If he withdraws the offer, will it not be sacrilege?”

“Whatever it may be,” her sister declared, “I am certain you will not see your fifty francs.”

“Oh, Claire, don’t say so! It is the most terrible position! A promise to the Church is as sacred as a vow—it must be kept, at whatever cost; and if Léon withdraws it, I shall never again have a moment’s peace! I am ready to make any sacrifices, but this is too unendurable!”

It was quite true that she was shaken by the mere possibility—far more shaken than she had been by the news the post had brought. She began her lament again, almost in tears: “It would be a sin.”

“If Léon has not the money, how can he give it?” demanded her sister, looking at her with pitying scorn. She accepted the fact that Félicie, being dévote, must be allowed to go certain lengths; but she thought her eagerness childish, and turned to her mother. “What else can we think of? It is so difficult to economise when already we have cut down our expenses to their very lowest.”

“Not quite to their lowest. We must counter-order my winter cloak and your dresses. Write to Tours at once, Claire.”

“Your cloak!” repeated her daughter, depreciatingly. “Is that necessary? You suffer so much from the cold, and the old one is so thin!”

“It cannot be helped.” Mme. de Beaudrillart spoke with sharp impatience. “I am quite aware of what you say; but if Monsieur Georges and the other men have ruined Léon, we must take our share in his suffering.”

“Poor Monsieur Georges! I really believe he did his utmost for the property.”

“Do not talk of what you do not understand,” said her mother, coldly. “What do you know about business matters? You might judge from the results.”

Claire, however, persisted.

“I am certain he was not dishonest.”

“If he was not dishonest, he was a fool, which is as dangerous.”

“Shall you write to our poor Léon to-day, mamma?” asked Félicie, turning tear-laden eyes towards her.

“Certainly. He will expect it. Dear fellow, I shall tell him that we are ready to make every possible effort, every sacrifice, and implore him not to afflict himself, because there can be no doubt that something will be arranged.”

“But you will not say anything against the pilgrimage?”

“Félicie, you are too foolish with your pilgrimages!” Claire was beginning, impatiently, when Mme. de Beaudrillart stopped her.

“Do not vex your sister. It is very certain that we want all the prayers and the help we can have, and perhaps—” Suddenly she flung up her hands and clasped her head. “Oh, Léon, my poor Léon! To lose Poissy!”

This little action in one hitherto so confident gave her daughters a shock; they seemed for the first time to realise the full force of the disaster hanging over their family, and to comprehend that it was close at hand. Claire stood up right, her face hard and set; Félicie pushed away her embroidery-frame, and broke into sobs. But the next moment Mme. de Beaudrillart’s strong will reasserted itself, and she lifted her head rigidly.

“This is weak,” she said. “Félicie, go on with your work. Claire, send Rose-Marie to my room, and see whether Pierre has called for the letters. Do not on any account allow him to leave without mine.”

All that day the sisters talked together; if without much sympathy, yet with that certain amount which a close tie of relationship must bring in such a crisis. Their mother remained absolutely silent. She took up one thing after another, and laid each down with restless unquiet; more than once walked without apparent purpose to the window, and stood mutely looking out. Poissy had never been fuller of charm. Young spring was at work beautifying the old château; a sweet, clear sunlight fell upon the delicate turret, and flung light shadows along the open stone-work with which it was fretted. Over a doorway was carved the Beaudrillart escutcheon, and a slender tuft of grass waved audaciously from a crevice above. If, as she looked, there was agony in Mme. de Beaudrillart’s heart, she made no sign. Only Claire noticed how tightly her hands were locked together and her lips compressed; but even Claire, whose feelings most resembled hers, dared not touch again upon the subject near all their hearts, although there was more than one question which she longed to have answered. Visitors came, and she received them as usual—even talking undauntedly of certain improvements which her son contemplated making about the château.

“Monsieur de Beaudrillart does not, however, spend much time here?” asked one lady, curiously. Like others in the neighbourhood, she had heard rumours, and her visit was in a great measure due to a desire to know how much was true. “Apparently he finds it dull?”

“I hope we may see more of him in the future,” returned the mother, looking at her without shrinking.

“I am glad of it; he is always so pleasant! What can we do to keep him? I said to my husband that his family should persuade him to marry, for nowadays there are always plenty of girls going about with really fine fortunes; and he need not be particular as to family,” she added, with a laugh. “He, if any one, could afford a roturier for his father-in-law.”

“I agree with you,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, calmly; “but I am afraid that a fortune has no attraction for Léon. He is unlike other young men, for he was born with romantic ideas, and I, for one, cannot wish it to be otherwise.”

“She could hardly have been so cool if all we have heard is true,” said Mme. de la Ferraye to her husband, as they drove away. “She talked of his return, and even of improvements to the estate. I cannot believe the rumour. It is incredible!”

“She is a strong woman; but it is true, for all that.”

“Then what can he do? He is not the man to be chosen for any public appointment.”

“No. He is clever enough, but his education has taught him nothing beyond the classics, and he has no habits of industry.”

Mme. de la Ferraye shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“As I told his mother, he must marry—there is nothing else for it. Let us find him a wife, Gaspard, though, Heaven knows, I pity the poor girl who has that will of iron for a mother-in-law!”

“Or Léon de Beaudrillart for a husband.”

“No, no; now you are too hard, and you will never get me to agree with you. There is something so fascinating and charming about him, that I am convinced he would make his wife very happy.”

“If she were content to keep her eyes shut.”

“Well, she would be. Trust me, Gaspard, Léon’s wife, whoever she was, would believe nothing against him.”

“In that case—”

While the La Ferrayes were taking leave, Mme. de Beaudrillart stood rigidly unbending; but as soon as they were gone she hurriedly left the room.

“Poor mamma!” cried Félicie, her eyes filling with ready tears.

“That woman came from curiosity,” Claire said, pacing up and down indignantly; “she has heard something, and meant to worm it out of us. It is too horrible that Léon’s affairs should be the common gossip of the country!”

“Claire,” faltered her sister.

“Well?”

“Do you—do you think it even possible that we might have to—to leave Poissy?”

“Monsieur Georges feared it long ago. But I cannot believe it,” said Claire, clinching her hands. “Poissy without a Beaudrillart! No—it will not be permitted!”

“Heaven will not interfere if Léon fails in his promises to the Church,” sobbed Félicie. With her the family will, not so openly apparent, took refuge in a gentle obstinacy, which was perhaps more irritating. “I believe these misfortunes are sent as a chastisement for my having listened to you, and not left the world when Père Roget spoke to me about it. I am certain that I had a vocation, and then what might I not have gained for Léon! I wonder where we shall live? In Tours? Imagine losing the Abbé Nisard as one’s director!”

“Oh, be quiet, Félicie, or you will drive me mad! How can you think, how can you talk, of these horrible possibilities? Something must be done. If only I were a man!”

“Why?” asked her sister, opening her eyes.

“Because I would work, fight, starve!”

She walked swiftly up and down the room like some caged creature.

“Léon is a man, and it doesn’t seem that he can do anything.”

“No, but I would!” cried Claire, flinging back her head. “If I could only be out in the world, you would see that I should not allow myself to be beaten!”

Félicie shuddered.

“That terrible world. I give constant thanks that I am not forced into it. It is wicked of you, Claire, even to wish to be there; for what would become of you in all its temptations?”

“I should get through them somehow, like other people, I suppose,” said the younger sister, recklessly. “You and I are different, Félicie. I do not profess to be devote. All your good little fripperies would weary me—oh, weary me to death! I could not ask permission from the abbé as to every book I read, almost as to every word I spoke, nor, though there is time enough on one’s hands, Heaven knows, spend it in collecting money from the peasants, or in working banners. I should hate a convent, unless—perhaps—I were Mother Superior.”

“Yes, we are different,” Félicie placidly agreed. “I am happy to be directed.”

Claire looked at her with a short laugh.

“And yet, my dear, you like your own way, and generally get it.”

Félicie took no notice of the criticism, merely remarking, with a sigh:

“Without Rose-Marie we shall have a great deal to do, and I only hope my other duties will not suffer. I shall draw up a little paper and arrange my time. Poor Rose-Marie! What a grief for her!”

“For her! A servant! Do you understand what lies before us—us Beaudrillarts?”

Claire’s tone was tense and sharp. Félicie sighed again and cried a little, taking care not to drop a tear upon her work. She had charge of the ecclesiastical vestments of the parish, and was almost as proud of them as of the Beaudrillart blood.

The next day all was joy at Poissy. Léon wrote briefly, merely saying that he had managed to raise the full sum of money by a loan. He would thus be able to consolidate his debts, and have one creditor in place of many.

“It is true,”—this was what he wrote—“that the loan must be repaid, but for this purpose look forward, dear mother, to a change in all my habits. I am going to renounce wandering, and to spend my time at Poissy, cease to play the fool, farm, economise, reform—Heaven knows what admirable paths do not stretch themselves before me! You will make them so charming that I shall not regret Paris, and I shall be so changed that you will forget your troublesome son, and fall in love with a new, a whitewashed, Léon, at whom, if only the past is merciful, no one will dare fling a stone.”

“Ah, my dear one!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, passionately kissing the letter.

“Tell Félicie I mean to redeem my promise, and she shall have a hundred francs instead of fifty for her do—” If he had been going to write dolls, he scratched out the irreverent word and substituted “decorations. I return to-morrow, or so I hope; but, come what may, rejoice, dear mother, that Poissy is spared to us.”

If there were one or two slightly enigmatical expressions in his letter, the mother did not notice them; nor even to her daughters did she show outward signs of exultation. She announced the change to them by saying, calmly:

“It is as I expected: Léon has arranged matters; but we must still economise strictly.”

Félicie went about with clasped hands and a radiant face, enchanted with her hundred francs. Claire’s features seemed to have grown a little sharper, and her voice more haughty, that was all; and so the cloud rolled off.

Léon came home. He looked ill; but, then, as Mme. de Beaudrillart said, he had been sadly harassed. She was a little disappointed that he did not communicate more particulars of the interview with M. de Cadanet, for on this point, although he generally talked very freely, he was reticent.

After all, as she told herself, what did it matter?

Chapter Four.

Nathalie.

Young M. de Beaudrillart was as good as his word. In her wildest dreams even his mother—whose hopes had undergone many deaths and many resurrections—had not ventured to picture him so content to remain in the quiet of the provinces as he proved himself. Whatever distaste he felt, very few outward signs betrayed it. An easy temper came to his help, and carried him lightly over rough places. He applied himself to looking into his affairs, a work which the unlucky M. Georges had long and vainly urged, and he showed a somewhat unexpected aptitude for business matters. He made no protests—beyond an occasionally wry face—against the strict economies of the household, and, to Félicie’s unbounded delight, not only refrained from mocking her pious works, but more than once gave her unexpected assistance. To the women it appeared as if golden days had begun, only Claire felt that here was the fruit of M. Georges’ prudent counsels, and thought it hard that M. Georges himself should remain under undeserved obloquy. Perhaps these few months were the happiest Mme. de Beaudrillart had ever known. Her belief in her son was justified—more than justified—and she looked the world proudly in the face.

Then Léon made another step in the path of surprises, and fell in love. As has been already remarked, a rich marriage had seemed the easiest way out of his difficulties, and again and again had been suggested to him, not only by his mother, but by his boon companions. Fortunes were dangled temptingly before his eyes, and he would none of them. Some strange scruple—strange, at least, in the man—some mastering sentiment, had rooted itself so deeply in his heart that it was not to be disposed of. It was the noblest thing there, and it was sighed over and laughed at, as first one, then another, tried their hand at eradication. Léon would not give it up. He declined to marry for anything short of love, and he had persuaded himself that he should never know what that meant, when he accidentally caught sight of a tall, fair, innocent-faced girl, with red-brown hair, and, once seen, would not rest until he had contrived to hear her speak and to learn her name. Then he went home and implored his mother to make the necessary advances.

Mme. de Beaudrillart yielded with scarcely a word, and yet the pang to her was great. She had been prepared for, had even urged upon her son, a sacrifice to mammon in the shape of a wife of inferior birth and large wealth. If such a one had been chosen in Paris she would hardly have sighed; but it was a different matter to be asked to accept a roturière at their very doors. The wrong to the De Beaudrillarts became infinitely more insulting, and though, as has been said, strong common-sense led her immediately to grasp the advantage and to yield, it was tolerably certain that she would never forgive the offender.

She spoke of it, however, to her daughters calmly one morning as they were walking home from mass.—Félicie anxiously inquired for her brother, who occasionally, though rarely, accompanied them, and was told that he had driven that morning into Tours.

“To Tours? And so early!”

“He finds himself very often in Tours of late,” remarked Claire, significantly.

“He will have been at mass at the cathedral.”

“There is some one, then, whom he wishes to see?” Claire continued. “Does he think of marrying?”

Félicie cried out: “Claire, how you talk!”

“Your brother has different notions from other young men,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, speaking, as her younger daughter detected, with an effort. “You are correct in supposing that he has an idea of marriage, and I am sure he is right. Good-morning, Martine. I did not see your eldest son at mass.”

“No, madame,” said the old woman, sadly; “he has come back from his soldiering saying things which would have made his father’s hair stand on end; and though I tell him that, even if matters are as his clever friends tell him, there’s always a chance that he will find Monsieur Abbé right after all, and then he will wish he had taken the precaution of going to mass, he won’t listen.”

“That is very bad,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, gravely. “You should not have him at home with the others, Martine.”

“Ah, madame, he is my son, and the good God gave him to me!”

“That is true; but I am afraid you are weak with him. Well, I will speak to Monsieur Nisard, and he will talk to Jacques.”

She moved on, and Claire cried, eagerly: “Mamma, I am dying of impatience! Of whom is Léon thinking?”

“The young lady is Mademoiselle Bourget.”

“Mademoiselle Bourget!” exclaimed Claire, stupefied. “But—you do not mean the daughter of Monsieur Bourget, at Tours?”

“Precisely.”

“Léon! A Beaudrillart marry a Tours bourgeoise!”

“Is the idea so new to you?” demanded her mother, coldly. “For myself, I am satisfied. Poor Léon’s misfortunes have brought him many trials. With this marriage he will be able to pay off debts which otherwise would have hung round his neck for years, and be relieved from some of the privations which he has borne so nobly. Reflect whether it is not so.” Mlle. Claire marched towards the bridge, upright and frowning. It was Félicie who broke into gasping protestations.

“But you do not mean that terrible radical of a man who opposes all that is good and holy in the neighbourhood! Mamma, impossible! Say that it is impossible!”

“I believe that he is a radical.”

“An enemy of the Church.”

“That is not inconceivable. Hush, Félicie, and submit yourself to the inevitable. If Léon has resolved to marry the girl, he will do it.”

“Oh,” moaned her daughter, “why was any one so cruel as to mention her to him?”

Mme. de Beaudrillart was silent. To have told Félicie that Nathalie was Léon’s own choice would have shocked her further; and while detesting the proposed marriage more than either of her daughters, the task of reconciling them to it caused her sharp impatience. Nor were her prejudices without excuse.

M. Bourget was a retired builder, who, by dint of extreme sagacity and small economies, had contrived to amass a large fortune. It should be said at once that no suspicion of dishonesty had touched his name. It was popularly believed that he had never been known to forego an advantage or to condone a debt; but this reputation did him no harm in the eyes of those who had not felt his grasp, and the town was inclined to be proud of its shrewd citizen, the more so as he was never so happy as when he was in the thick of battle, where it is but doing him bare justice to allow that he seldom permitted himself to be beaten. He fought municipal authorities, he fought the arrondissement, he fought deputies and bishops, with equal delight and success, until his name had become in certain quarters a thing of terror. Radical and republican, it was considered extremely probable that he would put himself forward as a candidate for the Conseil-Général, and if he did, it was owned with a shudder that he would certainly carry his election. Perhaps, had Léon known from the first that the girl he one day noticed on her way from the cathedral was the daughter of old Bourget, he would have shut his heart to her image; but by the time he made the discovery it was installed.

The incident of their meeting was of the slightest. A little child had fallen down, and Nathalie, walking swiftly and firmly across the open space in front of the great church, an old woman for her companion, ran to pick him up. Struck by something frank and noble in her bearing, Léon pleased himself by stopping to assist her. At first Nathalie, whose thoughts were concentrated upon the child, scarcely glanced at him, but when the small victim was found to be practically unhurt, she looked full in his face with a smile and a frank directness which delighted him. He was not a bad judge of expression, and in hers he read certain qualities which he might not have been expected to appreciate, but which attracted him as much as if he had been a better man. He did not rest until he had found out all about her, and contriving more than once to get sight of her, commissioned a friend to make the necessary advances.

His suit was not so certain to be successful as he and Mme. de Beaudrillart supposed. But for one point in the old builder’s character, it might even have been violently rejected. The point was one which he shared with a large number of mercantile Frenchmen, republican or not, and it consisted in an inordinate craving to see his family become noble. He would not follow the example of many of his neighbours: adopt the de, and trust to time and custom riveting the distinction; but he desired it for his child with an intensity which became all the stronger because he was ashamed to admit it openly. When overtures reached him from Léon de Beaudrillart, he hesitated, knowing that rumour had been unpleasantly busy with his name. But—a De Beaudrillart! The temptation was irresistible. His affection for his daughter had woven itself into the strongest resolution of his life—a determination that she should be received into an aristocracy which he ran down in word and worshipped in heart. It was the strongest and the most difficult; the more reason for his stubborn will to carry it.

For many years it had been a bitter disappointment to him that he had no son, but by the time his wife died all his affections and all his ambitions had become centred in Nathalie, and he felt that if he could but see her married as he desired, the struggles and privations of his life would be amply repaid. For this end, as for his other ends, he worked shrewdly. From the first, and while still pinching himself in many ways, he had given her an excellent education at a convent. Nothing so much irritated him as extravagance, but he was almost displeased with Nathalie when she showed a shrinking from expenditure. He himself marched about Tours in the rustiest of coats, yet the girl’s dress must be as dainty as the best milliner could produce. His neighbours were amazed at such inconsistencies; they did not understand that they were part of a carefully-thought-out, well-organised intention. In his treatment of his daughter he was influenced not so much, perhaps not at all, by the impulse to indulge her with which they credited him—for her tastes were, in truth, provokingly simple—as by a clearly-formed design to fit her for another class than that in which she was born.

Perhaps, however, his ambitions and his methods would have been equally in vain had it not been for the fact that Nathalie was charmingly pretty. She was tall, slender, with hazel eyes, and as unlike as possible to M. Bourget himself. Moreover, she had the grace of simplicity, and appeared to be indifferent to her own beauty. This simplicity it was which, joined to a certain sweet dignity, first attracted Léon.

And then began M. Bourget’s struggle. He required no enlightenment. M. de Beaudrillart’s extravagances, M. de Beaudrillart’s follies, were well known in Tours and its neighbourhood. Over against them in the scale had to be placed Poissy and M. Bourget’s ambition. He knew very well that he would have to give, not only his daughter, but a great deal of money, and, to do him justice, he thought more of his daughter than of his money. But Poissy, Poissy! Poissy for years had been the safety-valve of his imagination, a quality the stronger for being unsuspected. It appeared to him that nothing which could befall Nathalie could quench the glory of becoming merged in that ancient family. When, therefore, the question arose of her being mistress, it will be perceived what a strong advocate was presented for Léon.

Moreover, sops for his better judgment were not wanting. If Léon’s conduct had exposed him to criticism, there always remained the strange change in his life, in his disposition, apparently in his fortunes. At a time when rumour had been most busy, and when misfortune appeared to hang most threateningly over the heads of the De Beaudrillarts, rumour had been checkmated. Money had been forthcoming, debts had been paid, and Léon, wrenching himself from life in Paris, had come back to work in a way which M. Bourget could appreciate and respect, and had saved Poissy. It is true that, during the time when talk had declared its fate to be imminent, M. Bourget had a hundred times turned over the possibility of stepping in himself and buying up the mortgages, but it is doubtful whether he would ever have been able to make up his mind to such an act; for while to his little world he delighted in breathing out all manner of ferociously republican sentiments, in heart he was an abject adorer of the ancien régime—at all events, so far as Poissy was concerned. It would have given him no real pleasure to become its owner; it is doubtful whether he would not have been the first to consider himself a sacrilegious dispossessor of the old family. It was not the bare possession which he coveted; for the De Beaudrillarts to go out and the Bourgets to come in was as unsuitable, as horrible in his eyes, as it could have been in their own. But for his family to become merged in theirs, his child to be actually one of them, that—that was indeed to satisfy the deeper subtleties of his ambition.

As he marched with short, determined steps through the streets of Tours, M. Bourget flung back his head, advanced an aggressive chest, swelled, and assumed what he felt to be the grand air. Passing in front of a photographer’s shop, it seemed like a response to behold Poissy in all its delicate beauty looking serenely at him from out of a collection of Touraine châteaux.

“Aha, see there!” he cried, rubbing his hands in delighted apostrophe. “And to think that the day is come when Nathalie may, if I but say the word, step into its walls, and hold up her head with the proudest of them. She shall be painted, too, and by the best painter in France, so as to hang with the others in the picture-gallery—Nathalie de Beaudrillart, née Bourget, my child.”

The man’s whole figure was transformed, his round red face, garnished with thick iron-grey eyebrows, gleamed with pride and exultation, and at this moment, although it pleased him to profess that the overture he had received was still under consideration, worse sins than any which he had heard laid to the charge of Léon de Beaudrillart would assuredly have been condoned.

The matter, therefore, went on apace. To the elder people the preliminaries were the most important part, and Mme. de Beaudrillart, although she found it a bitter draught to swallow, had long desired that her son’s romantic notions should give way to what she called reason. Here was reason, plain, bourgeois, moneyed reason, and there was no excuse for falling foul of it. Such a dowry as Nathalie would bring was sufficient to wipe off the debt to M. de Cadanet, and to replace the owner of Poissy in his old position. And, after all, when a man marries a woman, Mme. de Beaudrillart argued, it is she who is raised, not he who is dragged down. King Cophetua’s beggar-girl became a queen, and the Bourget would be merged in the De Beaudrillarts.