Chapter Nine.A Burned Paper.Mme. Lemaire stood in the window of M. de Cadanet’s sitting-room, looking out. The day before he had been wheeled into it, and with the fretfulness of an invalid had declared it was very strange that those who could walk about and see so much had nothing entertaining to tell him. Amélie had accepted the reproach cheerfully, and betaken herself to one of the long windows, with its lace and ugly red moreen curtains, hoping to find materials for his distraction.But the materials were few, or she did not know how to make the best of them. He did not in the least care to hear of a grey sister, with snowy collar and flapping cap, walking with her school; nor, though it made a pretty picture, of the balcony opposite, on which a girl in a black dress stood with her arm on a railing looking down at the busy street below. At last he desired her, irritably, to say no more, and was silent.The room in which they were was not M. de Cadanet’s study, for that looked into the court-yard, and this into the street. It had been chosen because it was sunnier and more cheerful. But the cheerfulness being a failure, he presently insisted upon being wheeled into the study. There, with the stove lit, though it was very warm, he seemed to revive, and Mme. Lemaire left him in charge of André, with many instructions as to food and rest. Charles was burning with impatience as to the conversation which lay before him, and of which the subject was to be Léon de Beaudrillart, but the doctor had forbidden any talk that threatened excitement, until a few more days had passed, and the count was stronger.When Amélie arrived at the house the next morning, she found her uncle in bed and very much weaker. It seemed that he had insisted upon André fetching a tin box from the library, which, when it was unlocked, turned out to contain a bundle of papers. These M. de Cadanet had studied for a long time, afterwards replacing them with marked agitation. He had evidently felt extreme fatigue in consequence, and the doctor spoke with gravity to Mme. Lemaire, declaring that the access of weakness was a very discouraging sign. The old count himself said very little, but towards evening remarked:“Tell your husband I wish to speak to him to-morrow afternoon.” And when Amélie attempted a remonstrance, he added, peremptorily: “I wish it;” and the doctor, to whom she appealed the next morning, only replied:“It may, of course, be injurious—all emotion is likely to be injurious—but I cannot take it upon me to prevent Monsieur de Cadanet from giving what are, possibly, important directions. His condition is too critical.”Charles himself, who had been on thorns, disliked the prospect. If M. de Cadanet was at last dying, he was of opinion that matters had better remain as they were, without further allusions to Léon. André, closely cross-questioned, revealed nothing. His master had read the papers and replaced them, that was all. Certainly no notary had been sent for, and he himself had never once left the room. Charles, always suspicious, had an idea that the man was keeping back something, but as his questions could not find ground for the opinion, there was nothing to say or do. Nor, however much he might have preferred to avoid the coming interview, could he venture to do so, for, weak as he was, M. de Cadanet might no more be safely contradicted now than at any former time. He came accordingly at the hour appointed, and Amélie was waiting in the anteroom.“He is terribly changed,” she whispered. “The doctor thinks there must be another attack shortly.”“Does he know what he is about?” her husband asked, eagerly.“Oh, perfectly. He is asking for you; and you can go in at once, only do be careful.”He went, though unwillingly. Sickness and death were repulsive to him, and he had a dread of some inconvenient request being made, with which he would rather not comply. Still, as he reflected, better he should be sent for than any other man, and he put on a cheerful air as he advanced to the bed in the alcove.“Sorry to find you here again, dear uncle. I’m afraid you have been attempting a little too much. However, in a day or two—”M. de Cadanet interrupted him.“I have something for you to do, Charles.”“With all my heart.”“You know the low book-shelf in my study?”“Perfectly.”“There is a small tin box by its side. Fetch it.”His voice was feeble and broken as well as indistinct. It took him some time to utter a sentence. Charles left the room with a feeling of congratulation that whatever had to be done, he would not have the inconvenience of another witness. If Amélie had been still in the anteroom he would have sent even her, on some excuse, out of the house. But she had vanished, and after all, as he reflected, the precaution would have been absurd. The tin box was where M. de Cadanet had said, where Charles himself had seen it a hundred times. He looked at it now curiously. Something of importance must be in it to cause it to lie so heavy on the mind of the dying man, and he would have given a good deal to have had a peep into its contents before he carried it back. All that he could judge was that it was light, and not closely filled, for he could feel papers slipping loosely inside. Perhaps, after all, the great affair meant no more than that there were letters to be destroyed, perhaps old love-letters—he laughed. If Mme. de Cadanet, Amélie’s aunt, had resembled Amélie, it was not impossible. Another thought made him reflect that the joke might turn out to be awkward, and instead of laughing, he looked angrily at the box which might contain dangerous witnesses. M. de Cadanet received it without a sign, except one which notified that it should be placed on a chair by his bedside. Then he said to Charles:“Sit down.”“Now for the confession,” reflected the young man, drawing a chair near the dying man.“I have a story to tell, and little breath with which to speak,” said M. de Cadanet. “In that bottle is brandy; give me a spoonful.”Charles obeyed. He was silent, because he did not know what to say.“And here are my keys. Unlock the box.”His hand trembling with anxiety, the young man did as he was told. A small packet of letters lay at the bottom, confirming his suspicions. But when he would have lifted it out, M. de Cadanet stopped him.“Not yet. First hear my story. These letters relate to Monsieur Léon de Beaudrillart.”“I was a fool. I might have seen that they were not so old,” thought the other.Relief and curiosity began to struggle with him.“You have not met him for some years.”“No. It has surprised me. Is it six years?”“Between six and seven. He has been afraid to come.”“Yes?” Charles leaned eagerly forward.“The day he was here he committed a crime, and I could have had him arrested.”“Ah!”M. de Cadanet’s voice had grown yet feebler, and Charles, on fire with mad desire to hear, was in terror lest it should fail altogether. He poured out more brandy, but the other pushed it away with an impatient gesture.“When I ask. Not before. And don’t interrupt me. Where was I?”“You said you could have had him arrested.”“So I could. It was this way. You know what straits he was in; you had been clever enough to find out. Well, he had the effrontery to come to me—me, whom he had laughed at—and to invite me to pay his debts; I should say, rather, to lend him money enough to pay them himself.”“The same thing.”“Precisely. Then I had my opportunity. I told my gentleman that I had made inquiries and knew all about his affairs. That if he had come well out of them, I would, for his father’s sake, have made over to him two hundred thousand francs; I even showed him the cheque.”M. Charles whistled.“You think it was imprudent?” said M. de Cadanet, turning his dark eyes towards him.“I think he was a desperate man.”“Well, I still looked upon him as his father’s son. However, in his presence, I directed it to you—” His voice died away, and the next words were undistinguishable. Charles jumped up and poured out brandy.“Drink this, sir, I implore you!”“I must rest. Perhaps in ten minutes a little strength will have come back, but I am very ill—very, very ill.”He was; but his hearer was so burningly anxious to hear more that he almost forgot the sympathy it was incumbent upon him to show. He commanded himself, however, in time, and begged M. de Cadanet for their sakes not to over-excite himself. There was a long, almost interminable, silence. The room was hot, flies buzzed on the window-panes, and the clock ticked loudly, even triumphantly, as if it knew it were measuring out M. de Cadanet’s moments, and that its work was nearly over. When the old man spoke again, Charles clinched his hands with disappointment.“Your wife is a good woman.”“Oh, she is!” He added, “Apparently she takes after her aunt.”M. de Cadanet’s answer was rather a grunt than an assent, but after another pause he remarked:“Nevertheless, neither she nor any one must ever hear what I am telling you.”“Rest assured they will not. You know me, I think, my dear uncle, and that I am not a tattler. But I am deeply interested. You had, if I understood rightly, enclosed that sum of money most generously intended for me, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart was aware of it? What followed?”“A quarrel.”“Did he attempt to wrest it from you?”“I believe he thought of it, but gave up his idea for another.”“Ah, now I have it!” cried Lemaire, triumphantly. “He forged your name.”M. de Cadanet flung him a glance of contempt. “Apparently, monsieur, you are very little acquainted with the De Beaudrillarts.”The young man saw his mistake, and caught it back.“Of course not, of course not! I spoke without thought, and forgetting the family. Pray excuse me, and tell me what really happened.”“We quarrelled, as I said, and I told him never to return. He never has come back. But on his way along the street he was overtaken by André, who, as you know, is an honest dolt, and who was taking my letters to the post Baron Léon, it appears, asked to look at them, and in that moment contrived to substitute a letter of his own for the one which contained the money. You follow me?”“Perfectly, perfectly.” Charles was leaning forward, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground to conceal their exultation. “It is terribly sad.”“He must indeed have been desperate,” said the old count, sadly.“Quite desperate. You know I told you I was afraid that he had got his affairs into a hopeless mess. But how did you discover what had happened? Through André, I imagine?” There was another silence of exhaustion, and this lasted so long that, however unwillingly, Charles felt he must call in one of the women. For some reason or other he distrusted the nurse, and was not sure that his wife was still in the house. He found her, however, in the anteroom, and hurried her back, whispering that she must give a strong restorative, as it was of the greatest consequence that M. de Cadanet should finish what they were about. Her slow methodical movements enraged him, and as quickly as possible he got her out of the room, though she went reluctantly.“Is it quite necessary, my friend?”“Quite. He will never rest until it is told.”“If there is something on his mind, I would gladly fetch a priest.”“No, no, my dear Amélie; it is business—business, I assure you, which only I can arrange. Now, go.” He went back to the bedside, and sat there impatiently before he ventured to remark: “André, of course, told you?”“No,” returned the old count, feebly. “You are quite wrong. It was Léon himself who told me.”“Ah! Repented,” said Lemaire, with a sneer.“Not at all.” A weak smile flitted across the sick man’s face. “If you will be good enough to extract the top letter from that bundle, you may read it. Read it. Read it aloud.” Charles had it in his hand. He glanced at the bed. “Aloud?”“Aloud. Though I know every word.”“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity.”M. Charles silently refolded the letter, and the count lay watching him. “Well?” he asked, at last.“The money has, of course, never been repaid?”“Every penny.”This answer came upon the hearer as an extraordinary surprise. He stared amazedly at the old man.“I received, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, afterwards all that remained of the debt. You are astonished!”“I should not have expected it of—of the Baron Léon.”“Ah, I told you you did not understand the De Beaudrillarts. But now listen. I have never forgiven him. I have never sent him a line of acknowledgment. I have kept his confession and André’s statement—”“Oh,” said Charles, pricking his ears.”—Because I chose to feel that at any time I might crush him. Since then he has married, and has a boy. It seems to me that makes a difference. A boy—innocent, and the old baron’s grandchild. Besides, I am dying. Anger becomes as useless as one’s clothes. What do you feel, Charles?”If at that moment M. de Cadanet had known what the younger man was really feeling, it might have startled him. But Lemaire’s mind sprang quickly from point to point—weighing that, considering this. He saw that the old man was relenting, but that he had done nothing as yet. If he said what was in his heart, it might irritate him—would certainly raise his suspicions; it would be far wiser to appear to go with him, and, if possible, get matters—and proofs—into his own hands.“I feel that you are generous, sir, and your generosity has converted me. Trust to me to help you in anything you wish done.”“Good.” The word was rather sighed than spoken, but, by the relaxation of tense fingers, it was evident that Lemaire’s speech had come as a relief. The young man spoke again:“Do you wish me, perhaps, to write!”“Write! No. Why should I write? I’ve nothing to say, and he would not thank me for saying it. No. The best thing I can do for him is to burn this letter.”Lemaire’s fingers closed round it, and he asked, with an affectation of not understanding: “Burn it? But why!”“Because, when I am gone, that letter will prove the very devil of a witness against him.”“Surely you don’t suppose that any one would wish to rake up such a story?”“I suspect he would give a good deal to sees it destroyed. No receipts for the money paid, and this letting out everything, besides André’s testimony, which I took down myself. The next paper. Yes. That. Give it me. Give them both to me.”Charles looked and decided.“You are quite right, sir; it should be done at once. Will you trust them to me?”“No,” said M. de Cadanet, sharply, “to no one. Do it here by my bed. I would burn them myself, but that I am too— O God, this weakness!”“You shall see your wishes carried out close to you,” Charles promised, consolingly. “I am only going into the next room to get a candle, because those silver ones are so heavy.” He dashed through the anteroom where his wife sat working, and into the study. When he came back he carried a short candle, and up his sleeve, which Amélie did not see, a couple of folded letters. He was pale, for he was not a brave man, and he was playing a dangerous game.M. de Cadanet lay, a shrunk and ghastly figure, with all about him, except his will, exhausted. That still looked out of his eyes, and clutched the papers.“Here it is,” Charles said, cheerfully; “and now you shall see your letters burn. It is a pity the Baron Léon is not here to assist. May I have them?”To his dismay, the old count made a sign of refusal, at the same time that he beckoned to him to bring the light close; and the feeble hand, by an almost superhuman effort, held a corner of the letter to the candle. But the strength was insufficient; and hardly had the flame caught the paper than it wavered and dropped. Charles hurriedly snatched it up, and cried out:“Good Heaven, my dear uncle, what risks you run! Suppose the bed had been set on fire!”“Is anything wrong?” asked Amélie’s voice, anxiously, at the door.Her husband turned round with scarcely subdued wrath. “No, no, nothing! Leave us for another five minutes. Now, sir, you shall see it burn, without danger to yourself.”And standing with light in one hand, and letters in the other, he allowed M. de Cadanet to watch them slowly consume. As the last scrap vanished, the old man uttered a low “Ah!”“There!” said Lemaire. “This has been a good day’s work for Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”“You will remember,”—M. de Cadanet’s voice sounded strangely strong—“that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.”“Hush, hush!” cried the other, glancing round uneasily; “you will fatigue yourself too much. You may be sure I shall always remember.”“And if ever you meet him, you may say it was for the sake of the child—the boy—Now, go, and send your wife.”Amélie, who was again at her post in the anteroom, hurried in, and called the nurse. The two women did what they could to restore the fast-ebbing strength, murmuring reproaches at the obstinacy of man. The doctor came and said that it could not be long. Nevertheless, for some days M. de Cadanet lay, and watched the flies on the ceiling, and the sunshine creep from shadow to shadow, and gradually ceased to watch, and lost all consciousness, until, when M. Lemaire came one rooming, he heard that he was gone.It must be owned that his only feeling was one of relief. The necessary visits to the old man had become a wearisome burden, endured for the sake of gifts, which were generous, and for the prospect of a substantial legacy. A certain part of the property would go to cousins of the count’s, but the sum left to himself was too large to be trifled with; he was in considerable difficulties, and here lay the only road out of it. At the same time, the part of hypocrite, though he could play it with success, was irksome to him, and he raged at the fetters it imposed. He had a capacity for open rebellion, or thought he had, and believed that he would have enjoyed flinging his glove in the face of the world, and defying opinion. Hinderance lay in the fact that the moment never arrived for this more daring attitude, self-interest always clinging to his arm just when he might have hurled the challenge.But with M. de Cadanet out of the way, he was free from his chief difficulty, and in the first frenzy of his dreams he felt himself sailing on a sea of liberty, restraining cords loosened, golden castles on the horizon before him. He thought of his wife as a humdrum nonentity, easy to shake off. He would give up his house, place her in lodgings, and spend his time as he chose. In the midst of these delightful imaginings he remembered Léon de Beaudrillart.Those who talk most of liberty are generally the first to find themselves in bonds of their own making; and it did not take long to oblige Lemaire to own, with an oath, that if he affronted respectability, he would be placed at an immediate disadvantage with regard to what he had in his mind. It might have been supposed that as there was now no fear of M. de Cadanet’s money finding its way to Poissy, his rancour would have taken flight—evil does not so readily spread its wings, and he felt that before he could unrestrainedly take his pleasure, he must ruin the man he hated. To do this he must bring into court a specious semblance: remain outwardly respectable, point to an excellent wife, and the trust proved by M. de Cadanet’s legacy—in fact, impress the world with all the solid weight of character added to substantial proof.He often read the letters, and always with increased assurance. The one point which gave him uneasiness was the absence of the mention of any particular sum. Suppose that Léon chose to say that it was a matter only of some four or five thousand francs, how could the contrary be proved! Here lay the fret; here was the point for a clever counsel to extract an admission; here, unfortunately for Charles, who felt himself injured in consequence, was the necessity to have averyclever counsel, who would be proportionately more expensive, but might be trusted to make his points.He questioned André, the concierge, without arriving at fresh discoveries. The man only repeated what we already know; he might not even have remembered that, if it had not been taken down by a notary in the presence of M. de Cadanet, and therefore indelibly fixed on his memory. He remarked that he had never seen M. de Beaudrillart since, and was sorry for it.“Ah, you got a good pourboire with no more trouble than letting him look at your master’s letters, eh?” said Charles, spitefully.“As to that, the young baron often gave me a piece of twenty sous, when he could not afford it so well as other people,” returned the concierge, imperturbably.“Twenty sous? No more! If you had been sharp, that look should have been worth more than twenty sous.”“Ah, well, monsieur knows better than I. And as I asked for nothing, he might have given me nothing, and that’s all about it,” said André, retreating.The cousins who hurried to the Rue du Bac knew nothing of the old count’s acquaintances, or to whom should be sent notice of his death. They were very glad of Amélie’s assistance, and the arrangement suited her methodical habits. She spent an afternoon with them, suggesting names, and directing envelopes. Charles hated anything which had to do with death, and pleaded the acuteness of his feelings to excuse his absence. When his wife came back he asked if it was finished.“Yes, quite. The poor man, alas, had not many to mourn for him.”“Who has?” asked Charles, cynically. “People please their friends better by dying than by living.”“Oh, Charles!”“Well, we need not discuss it. I, for one, should find it very inconvenient if Monsieur de Cadanet were to come to life again.”“I miss him dreadfully,” said Amélie, simply. “And Charles—”“Well?”“I sent a notice of his death to Poissy.”“To Poissy! What the—” he checked himself. “What possessed you?”“I think he would have liked it, for I am sure he thought of that child.”“What folly!”“It can do no harm,” said his wife, calmly.On reflection, M. Lemaire thought the same—was even glad that she had suggested it. His great desire was to act suddenly, to give no hint to M. de Beaudrillart of the shock that was in store for him until with the thunder came the bolt. This letter would disarm suspicion, and probably relieve Léon’s mind of a great fear. Charles desired, above all, to act prudently. He was racked by doubts of whether in spite of no acknowledgment having been sent, the young baron might not have provided himself with proof of its repayment. If he had grown really careful, he would have done so, and then, although it might be easy to deny that M. de Cadanet had received it, the case would bear, criminally, a very different complexion, and have a very different issue. As it was, all going well, if he could manage to prove that M. de Beaudrillart had stolen money which had been sent to him, he might extract compensation, if by no other way, as hush-money. He sometimes thought it would be the safest plan to work on the young baron’s fears, and after having reduced him to abject misery, sell the compromising papers for something larger than the original sum. By such means his pocket would be very much the better, although his revenge would not have the joy of publicity. A degree of this, even, might be gained, for it is never difficult to let a little evil rumour sift out: a word here, and a word there, and M. de Beaudrillart would be a marked man.Finally, he resolved to move quickly but cautiously at first. If he were imprudent he might find matters taken out of his keeping, and his hand forced. Léon should feel the net closing round him before he was prepared, but the net should be held by Charles Lemaire, and Charles Lemaire only, and the next step would depend upon what that gentleman judged to be of the most advantage to himself. That, and that only, should guide the course of events.
Mme. Lemaire stood in the window of M. de Cadanet’s sitting-room, looking out. The day before he had been wheeled into it, and with the fretfulness of an invalid had declared it was very strange that those who could walk about and see so much had nothing entertaining to tell him. Amélie had accepted the reproach cheerfully, and betaken herself to one of the long windows, with its lace and ugly red moreen curtains, hoping to find materials for his distraction.
But the materials were few, or she did not know how to make the best of them. He did not in the least care to hear of a grey sister, with snowy collar and flapping cap, walking with her school; nor, though it made a pretty picture, of the balcony opposite, on which a girl in a black dress stood with her arm on a railing looking down at the busy street below. At last he desired her, irritably, to say no more, and was silent.
The room in which they were was not M. de Cadanet’s study, for that looked into the court-yard, and this into the street. It had been chosen because it was sunnier and more cheerful. But the cheerfulness being a failure, he presently insisted upon being wheeled into the study. There, with the stove lit, though it was very warm, he seemed to revive, and Mme. Lemaire left him in charge of André, with many instructions as to food and rest. Charles was burning with impatience as to the conversation which lay before him, and of which the subject was to be Léon de Beaudrillart, but the doctor had forbidden any talk that threatened excitement, until a few more days had passed, and the count was stronger.
When Amélie arrived at the house the next morning, she found her uncle in bed and very much weaker. It seemed that he had insisted upon André fetching a tin box from the library, which, when it was unlocked, turned out to contain a bundle of papers. These M. de Cadanet had studied for a long time, afterwards replacing them with marked agitation. He had evidently felt extreme fatigue in consequence, and the doctor spoke with gravity to Mme. Lemaire, declaring that the access of weakness was a very discouraging sign. The old count himself said very little, but towards evening remarked:
“Tell your husband I wish to speak to him to-morrow afternoon.” And when Amélie attempted a remonstrance, he added, peremptorily: “I wish it;” and the doctor, to whom she appealed the next morning, only replied:
“It may, of course, be injurious—all emotion is likely to be injurious—but I cannot take it upon me to prevent Monsieur de Cadanet from giving what are, possibly, important directions. His condition is too critical.”
Charles himself, who had been on thorns, disliked the prospect. If M. de Cadanet was at last dying, he was of opinion that matters had better remain as they were, without further allusions to Léon. André, closely cross-questioned, revealed nothing. His master had read the papers and replaced them, that was all. Certainly no notary had been sent for, and he himself had never once left the room. Charles, always suspicious, had an idea that the man was keeping back something, but as his questions could not find ground for the opinion, there was nothing to say or do. Nor, however much he might have preferred to avoid the coming interview, could he venture to do so, for, weak as he was, M. de Cadanet might no more be safely contradicted now than at any former time. He came accordingly at the hour appointed, and Amélie was waiting in the anteroom.
“He is terribly changed,” she whispered. “The doctor thinks there must be another attack shortly.”
“Does he know what he is about?” her husband asked, eagerly.
“Oh, perfectly. He is asking for you; and you can go in at once, only do be careful.”
He went, though unwillingly. Sickness and death were repulsive to him, and he had a dread of some inconvenient request being made, with which he would rather not comply. Still, as he reflected, better he should be sent for than any other man, and he put on a cheerful air as he advanced to the bed in the alcove.
“Sorry to find you here again, dear uncle. I’m afraid you have been attempting a little too much. However, in a day or two—”
M. de Cadanet interrupted him.
“I have something for you to do, Charles.”
“With all my heart.”
“You know the low book-shelf in my study?”
“Perfectly.”
“There is a small tin box by its side. Fetch it.”
His voice was feeble and broken as well as indistinct. It took him some time to utter a sentence. Charles left the room with a feeling of congratulation that whatever had to be done, he would not have the inconvenience of another witness. If Amélie had been still in the anteroom he would have sent even her, on some excuse, out of the house. But she had vanished, and after all, as he reflected, the precaution would have been absurd. The tin box was where M. de Cadanet had said, where Charles himself had seen it a hundred times. He looked at it now curiously. Something of importance must be in it to cause it to lie so heavy on the mind of the dying man, and he would have given a good deal to have had a peep into its contents before he carried it back. All that he could judge was that it was light, and not closely filled, for he could feel papers slipping loosely inside. Perhaps, after all, the great affair meant no more than that there were letters to be destroyed, perhaps old love-letters—he laughed. If Mme. de Cadanet, Amélie’s aunt, had resembled Amélie, it was not impossible. Another thought made him reflect that the joke might turn out to be awkward, and instead of laughing, he looked angrily at the box which might contain dangerous witnesses. M. de Cadanet received it without a sign, except one which notified that it should be placed on a chair by his bedside. Then he said to Charles:
“Sit down.”
“Now for the confession,” reflected the young man, drawing a chair near the dying man.
“I have a story to tell, and little breath with which to speak,” said M. de Cadanet. “In that bottle is brandy; give me a spoonful.”
Charles obeyed. He was silent, because he did not know what to say.
“And here are my keys. Unlock the box.”
His hand trembling with anxiety, the young man did as he was told. A small packet of letters lay at the bottom, confirming his suspicions. But when he would have lifted it out, M. de Cadanet stopped him.
“Not yet. First hear my story. These letters relate to Monsieur Léon de Beaudrillart.”
“I was a fool. I might have seen that they were not so old,” thought the other.
Relief and curiosity began to struggle with him.
“You have not met him for some years.”
“No. It has surprised me. Is it six years?”
“Between six and seven. He has been afraid to come.”
“Yes?” Charles leaned eagerly forward.
“The day he was here he committed a crime, and I could have had him arrested.”
“Ah!”
M. de Cadanet’s voice had grown yet feebler, and Charles, on fire with mad desire to hear, was in terror lest it should fail altogether. He poured out more brandy, but the other pushed it away with an impatient gesture.
“When I ask. Not before. And don’t interrupt me. Where was I?”
“You said you could have had him arrested.”
“So I could. It was this way. You know what straits he was in; you had been clever enough to find out. Well, he had the effrontery to come to me—me, whom he had laughed at—and to invite me to pay his debts; I should say, rather, to lend him money enough to pay them himself.”
“The same thing.”
“Precisely. Then I had my opportunity. I told my gentleman that I had made inquiries and knew all about his affairs. That if he had come well out of them, I would, for his father’s sake, have made over to him two hundred thousand francs; I even showed him the cheque.”
M. Charles whistled.
“You think it was imprudent?” said M. de Cadanet, turning his dark eyes towards him.
“I think he was a desperate man.”
“Well, I still looked upon him as his father’s son. However, in his presence, I directed it to you—” His voice died away, and the next words were undistinguishable. Charles jumped up and poured out brandy.
“Drink this, sir, I implore you!”
“I must rest. Perhaps in ten minutes a little strength will have come back, but I am very ill—very, very ill.”
He was; but his hearer was so burningly anxious to hear more that he almost forgot the sympathy it was incumbent upon him to show. He commanded himself, however, in time, and begged M. de Cadanet for their sakes not to over-excite himself. There was a long, almost interminable, silence. The room was hot, flies buzzed on the window-panes, and the clock ticked loudly, even triumphantly, as if it knew it were measuring out M. de Cadanet’s moments, and that its work was nearly over. When the old man spoke again, Charles clinched his hands with disappointment.
“Your wife is a good woman.”
“Oh, she is!” He added, “Apparently she takes after her aunt.”
M. de Cadanet’s answer was rather a grunt than an assent, but after another pause he remarked:
“Nevertheless, neither she nor any one must ever hear what I am telling you.”
“Rest assured they will not. You know me, I think, my dear uncle, and that I am not a tattler. But I am deeply interested. You had, if I understood rightly, enclosed that sum of money most generously intended for me, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart was aware of it? What followed?”
“A quarrel.”
“Did he attempt to wrest it from you?”
“I believe he thought of it, but gave up his idea for another.”
“Ah, now I have it!” cried Lemaire, triumphantly. “He forged your name.”
M. de Cadanet flung him a glance of contempt. “Apparently, monsieur, you are very little acquainted with the De Beaudrillarts.”
The young man saw his mistake, and caught it back.
“Of course not, of course not! I spoke without thought, and forgetting the family. Pray excuse me, and tell me what really happened.”
“We quarrelled, as I said, and I told him never to return. He never has come back. But on his way along the street he was overtaken by André, who, as you know, is an honest dolt, and who was taking my letters to the post Baron Léon, it appears, asked to look at them, and in that moment contrived to substitute a letter of his own for the one which contained the money. You follow me?”
“Perfectly, perfectly.” Charles was leaning forward, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground to conceal their exultation. “It is terribly sad.”
“He must indeed have been desperate,” said the old count, sadly.
“Quite desperate. You know I told you I was afraid that he had got his affairs into a hopeless mess. But how did you discover what had happened? Through André, I imagine?” There was another silence of exhaustion, and this lasted so long that, however unwillingly, Charles felt he must call in one of the women. For some reason or other he distrusted the nurse, and was not sure that his wife was still in the house. He found her, however, in the anteroom, and hurried her back, whispering that she must give a strong restorative, as it was of the greatest consequence that M. de Cadanet should finish what they were about. Her slow methodical movements enraged him, and as quickly as possible he got her out of the room, though she went reluctantly.
“Is it quite necessary, my friend?”
“Quite. He will never rest until it is told.”
“If there is something on his mind, I would gladly fetch a priest.”
“No, no, my dear Amélie; it is business—business, I assure you, which only I can arrange. Now, go.” He went back to the bedside, and sat there impatiently before he ventured to remark: “André, of course, told you?”
“No,” returned the old count, feebly. “You are quite wrong. It was Léon himself who told me.”
“Ah! Repented,” said Lemaire, with a sneer.
“Not at all.” A weak smile flitted across the sick man’s face. “If you will be good enough to extract the top letter from that bundle, you may read it. Read it. Read it aloud.” Charles had it in his hand. He glanced at the bed. “Aloud?”
“Aloud. Though I know every word.”
“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity.”
“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity.”
M. Charles silently refolded the letter, and the count lay watching him. “Well?” he asked, at last.
“The money has, of course, never been repaid?”
“Every penny.”
This answer came upon the hearer as an extraordinary surprise. He stared amazedly at the old man.
“I received, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, afterwards all that remained of the debt. You are astonished!”
“I should not have expected it of—of the Baron Léon.”
“Ah, I told you you did not understand the De Beaudrillarts. But now listen. I have never forgiven him. I have never sent him a line of acknowledgment. I have kept his confession and André’s statement—”
“Oh,” said Charles, pricking his ears.
”—Because I chose to feel that at any time I might crush him. Since then he has married, and has a boy. It seems to me that makes a difference. A boy—innocent, and the old baron’s grandchild. Besides, I am dying. Anger becomes as useless as one’s clothes. What do you feel, Charles?”
If at that moment M. de Cadanet had known what the younger man was really feeling, it might have startled him. But Lemaire’s mind sprang quickly from point to point—weighing that, considering this. He saw that the old man was relenting, but that he had done nothing as yet. If he said what was in his heart, it might irritate him—would certainly raise his suspicions; it would be far wiser to appear to go with him, and, if possible, get matters—and proofs—into his own hands.
“I feel that you are generous, sir, and your generosity has converted me. Trust to me to help you in anything you wish done.”
“Good.” The word was rather sighed than spoken, but, by the relaxation of tense fingers, it was evident that Lemaire’s speech had come as a relief. The young man spoke again:
“Do you wish me, perhaps, to write!”
“Write! No. Why should I write? I’ve nothing to say, and he would not thank me for saying it. No. The best thing I can do for him is to burn this letter.”
Lemaire’s fingers closed round it, and he asked, with an affectation of not understanding: “Burn it? But why!”
“Because, when I am gone, that letter will prove the very devil of a witness against him.”
“Surely you don’t suppose that any one would wish to rake up such a story?”
“I suspect he would give a good deal to sees it destroyed. No receipts for the money paid, and this letting out everything, besides André’s testimony, which I took down myself. The next paper. Yes. That. Give it me. Give them both to me.”
Charles looked and decided.
“You are quite right, sir; it should be done at once. Will you trust them to me?”
“No,” said M. de Cadanet, sharply, “to no one. Do it here by my bed. I would burn them myself, but that I am too— O God, this weakness!”
“You shall see your wishes carried out close to you,” Charles promised, consolingly. “I am only going into the next room to get a candle, because those silver ones are so heavy.” He dashed through the anteroom where his wife sat working, and into the study. When he came back he carried a short candle, and up his sleeve, which Amélie did not see, a couple of folded letters. He was pale, for he was not a brave man, and he was playing a dangerous game.
M. de Cadanet lay, a shrunk and ghastly figure, with all about him, except his will, exhausted. That still looked out of his eyes, and clutched the papers.
“Here it is,” Charles said, cheerfully; “and now you shall see your letters burn. It is a pity the Baron Léon is not here to assist. May I have them?”
To his dismay, the old count made a sign of refusal, at the same time that he beckoned to him to bring the light close; and the feeble hand, by an almost superhuman effort, held a corner of the letter to the candle. But the strength was insufficient; and hardly had the flame caught the paper than it wavered and dropped. Charles hurriedly snatched it up, and cried out:
“Good Heaven, my dear uncle, what risks you run! Suppose the bed had been set on fire!”
“Is anything wrong?” asked Amélie’s voice, anxiously, at the door.
Her husband turned round with scarcely subdued wrath. “No, no, nothing! Leave us for another five minutes. Now, sir, you shall see it burn, without danger to yourself.”
And standing with light in one hand, and letters in the other, he allowed M. de Cadanet to watch them slowly consume. As the last scrap vanished, the old man uttered a low “Ah!”
“There!” said Lemaire. “This has been a good day’s work for Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
“You will remember,”—M. de Cadanet’s voice sounded strangely strong—“that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.”
“Hush, hush!” cried the other, glancing round uneasily; “you will fatigue yourself too much. You may be sure I shall always remember.”
“And if ever you meet him, you may say it was for the sake of the child—the boy—Now, go, and send your wife.”
Amélie, who was again at her post in the anteroom, hurried in, and called the nurse. The two women did what they could to restore the fast-ebbing strength, murmuring reproaches at the obstinacy of man. The doctor came and said that it could not be long. Nevertheless, for some days M. de Cadanet lay, and watched the flies on the ceiling, and the sunshine creep from shadow to shadow, and gradually ceased to watch, and lost all consciousness, until, when M. Lemaire came one rooming, he heard that he was gone.
It must be owned that his only feeling was one of relief. The necessary visits to the old man had become a wearisome burden, endured for the sake of gifts, which were generous, and for the prospect of a substantial legacy. A certain part of the property would go to cousins of the count’s, but the sum left to himself was too large to be trifled with; he was in considerable difficulties, and here lay the only road out of it. At the same time, the part of hypocrite, though he could play it with success, was irksome to him, and he raged at the fetters it imposed. He had a capacity for open rebellion, or thought he had, and believed that he would have enjoyed flinging his glove in the face of the world, and defying opinion. Hinderance lay in the fact that the moment never arrived for this more daring attitude, self-interest always clinging to his arm just when he might have hurled the challenge.
But with M. de Cadanet out of the way, he was free from his chief difficulty, and in the first frenzy of his dreams he felt himself sailing on a sea of liberty, restraining cords loosened, golden castles on the horizon before him. He thought of his wife as a humdrum nonentity, easy to shake off. He would give up his house, place her in lodgings, and spend his time as he chose. In the midst of these delightful imaginings he remembered Léon de Beaudrillart.
Those who talk most of liberty are generally the first to find themselves in bonds of their own making; and it did not take long to oblige Lemaire to own, with an oath, that if he affronted respectability, he would be placed at an immediate disadvantage with regard to what he had in his mind. It might have been supposed that as there was now no fear of M. de Cadanet’s money finding its way to Poissy, his rancour would have taken flight—evil does not so readily spread its wings, and he felt that before he could unrestrainedly take his pleasure, he must ruin the man he hated. To do this he must bring into court a specious semblance: remain outwardly respectable, point to an excellent wife, and the trust proved by M. de Cadanet’s legacy—in fact, impress the world with all the solid weight of character added to substantial proof.
He often read the letters, and always with increased assurance. The one point which gave him uneasiness was the absence of the mention of any particular sum. Suppose that Léon chose to say that it was a matter only of some four or five thousand francs, how could the contrary be proved! Here lay the fret; here was the point for a clever counsel to extract an admission; here, unfortunately for Charles, who felt himself injured in consequence, was the necessity to have averyclever counsel, who would be proportionately more expensive, but might be trusted to make his points.
He questioned André, the concierge, without arriving at fresh discoveries. The man only repeated what we already know; he might not even have remembered that, if it had not been taken down by a notary in the presence of M. de Cadanet, and therefore indelibly fixed on his memory. He remarked that he had never seen M. de Beaudrillart since, and was sorry for it.
“Ah, you got a good pourboire with no more trouble than letting him look at your master’s letters, eh?” said Charles, spitefully.
“As to that, the young baron often gave me a piece of twenty sous, when he could not afford it so well as other people,” returned the concierge, imperturbably.
“Twenty sous? No more! If you had been sharp, that look should have been worth more than twenty sous.”
“Ah, well, monsieur knows better than I. And as I asked for nothing, he might have given me nothing, and that’s all about it,” said André, retreating.
The cousins who hurried to the Rue du Bac knew nothing of the old count’s acquaintances, or to whom should be sent notice of his death. They were very glad of Amélie’s assistance, and the arrangement suited her methodical habits. She spent an afternoon with them, suggesting names, and directing envelopes. Charles hated anything which had to do with death, and pleaded the acuteness of his feelings to excuse his absence. When his wife came back he asked if it was finished.
“Yes, quite. The poor man, alas, had not many to mourn for him.”
“Who has?” asked Charles, cynically. “People please their friends better by dying than by living.”
“Oh, Charles!”
“Well, we need not discuss it. I, for one, should find it very inconvenient if Monsieur de Cadanet were to come to life again.”
“I miss him dreadfully,” said Amélie, simply. “And Charles—”
“Well?”
“I sent a notice of his death to Poissy.”
“To Poissy! What the—” he checked himself. “What possessed you?”
“I think he would have liked it, for I am sure he thought of that child.”
“What folly!”
“It can do no harm,” said his wife, calmly.
On reflection, M. Lemaire thought the same—was even glad that she had suggested it. His great desire was to act suddenly, to give no hint to M. de Beaudrillart of the shock that was in store for him until with the thunder came the bolt. This letter would disarm suspicion, and probably relieve Léon’s mind of a great fear. Charles desired, above all, to act prudently. He was racked by doubts of whether in spite of no acknowledgment having been sent, the young baron might not have provided himself with proof of its repayment. If he had grown really careful, he would have done so, and then, although it might be easy to deny that M. de Cadanet had received it, the case would bear, criminally, a very different complexion, and have a very different issue. As it was, all going well, if he could manage to prove that M. de Beaudrillart had stolen money which had been sent to him, he might extract compensation, if by no other way, as hush-money. He sometimes thought it would be the safest plan to work on the young baron’s fears, and after having reduced him to abject misery, sell the compromising papers for something larger than the original sum. By such means his pocket would be very much the better, although his revenge would not have the joy of publicity. A degree of this, even, might be gained, for it is never difficult to let a little evil rumour sift out: a word here, and a word there, and M. de Beaudrillart would be a marked man.
Finally, he resolved to move quickly but cautiously at first. If he were imprudent he might find matters taken out of his keeping, and his hand forced. Léon should feel the net closing round him before he was prepared, but the net should be held by Charles Lemaire, and Charles Lemaire only, and the next step would depend upon what that gentleman judged to be of the most advantage to himself. That, and that only, should guide the course of events.
Chapter Ten.Restraint.And Poissy?After the child’s birth the years slipped swiftly, though not always smoothly, by. Léon, who easily forgot, had very nearly succeeded in forgetting that desperate act of his, and the old count’s threat of the future. There were still, however, moments when it flashed upon him, and brought with it a sudden cloud of depression which he attributed to physical ailments. His wife, sure he was not ill, laughed at these fancies, but his mother, perhaps out of opposition, treated them seriously until they generally ended in his laughing at himself. He spent a great deal of time out of doors, rising early, and going all over the estate, which, bit by bit, was being brought together again; coming in to the eleven o’clock breakfast, and then out again, shooting or fishing or loitering about with Nathalie. If a new idea, a new invention, a new arrangement, attracted him, he was possessed by it, and could think and speak of nothing else. His neighbours smiled at his enthusiasms, but liked and excused him; those who had blamed him in old days were vanquished by the sweetness of temper with which he had accepted his new life, and by the unsuspected strength he had shown in renouncing the extravagances of Paris.His mother was almost content Léon was all she had believed him, Poissy stood in its old position in the neighbourhood, and there was little Raoul, as dear, or dearer, than his father. As for Nathalie, as much as possible she contrived to ignore her, and though M. Bourget was a terrible man, he had the grace seldom to inflict himself upon them.It was Nathalie herself who was the most changed by the years of her married life, or who gave that impression, for her character had not really changed, although it had developed. She had lost, early, a certain frank open-heartedness; she was reserved—with her mother and sisters in law extremely reserved. She never battled for her rights, and the household had almost ceased to remember that she possessed any. But, in avoiding retorts, she had fallen into a habit of grave silence which did not belong to her years, and of which Léon sometimes laughingly complained.“It doesn’t matter when we are alone,” he would say, “but with others—I saw Madame de la Ferraye looking at you this afternoon and expecting you to take your part in the discussion.”She made a laughing excuse.“Dear, how should I? It was better not to expose my ignorance.”“You cram that little head of yours with all kinds of learned stuff, and then talk of ignorance? What makes you read so much?”“Because I will not have Raoul ashamed of me.”Every now and then—not often, and always suddenly—a gust of passion seemed to sweep through the mask under which she relentlessly hid her more spontaneous self. Such a gust had come now. Léon looked at her, amazed at the tone in which the words were spoken, concentrated will passionately pushing them forward, as if they carried a standard of rebellion. She never now complained to him, never invited a suggestion which should shape her conduct towards his mother and sisters, and though he was quite shrewd enough, if he had chosen, to perceive the slights which she had daily to endure, he preferred to shut his eyes, and tell himself that with him and the child she was so happy as to be indifferent. Such a passionate outcry as this shook his easy-going reflections, and annoyed him. But he marched on silently, aware that she would soon curb her rebel tongue with shame at its weakness.They were walking towards Poissy; a fine rain had browned the road, and, falling on a sun-baked soil, sent up a pleasant smell of growing things. The sky was stormy, a sweet insistence of blue above changing in the west to pale, mysterious green. Low down lay a horizontal flame-coloured line of clouds, broken by nearer drifts of dark grey, tattered and vaporish at the edges and flecked with red. One small portion, rent from the rest, had drifted lightly across the blue above. Nathalie, fronting the sunset, with its level light on her face, looked a very noble woman. The lines had grown a little harder, but not one was mean or weak. It was a face to which poor sinners would look for help, and never look in vain. Léon, glancing at it, felt its force and began to speak, although he had resolved on silence.“You can’t say, I’m sure, that I’ve ever been ashamed of you.”She turned, and her gravity melted into a lovely smile.“Ah, but Raoul is going to be much cleverer than you. If you doubt it, listen to my father. Besides, my friend, I spoke hastily; I did not really mean that he would ever be ashamed of his mother, but that it would be useful for him if I could help him in his work. For, wonderful as it seems, the monkey will have to work one day.”He had quickly forgotten the reproach he had made against her silence, for he was always more taken up with his own thoughts or actions than with those of others, and went on:“They want me to go over to dine with them to-morrow. And sleep.”“The La Ferrayes?”“Yes; the prefet is due there, and two or three others. Madame de la Ferraye made a hundred apologies for not asking you. I forget why it was—no room, I think.”“I hope you accepted, Léon. It is my turn now to scold you, for I don’t think you are so sociable with your neighbours as you might be. Here you have nothing but women, women! It will do you good to be away from us for a little; indeed, I often wish you would run up to Paris for a few days. You must have many friends there.”“None, now. And I hate Paris,” said Léon, sharply.“You puzzle me when you say that,” she returned, looking at him with a smile. “And as for friends, at any rate there must be that old Monsieur de Cadanet, whose name your mother suggested as Raoul’s second. Would it not please him if you were to pay him a visit!”“Hardly.”“Well, go to the La Ferrayes, then, and Raoul and I, we will do something to amuse ourselves, perhaps drive to Tours and see my father. Happily, those two love each other.”To say that M. Bourget loved his grandson was not enough—he adored him. From the first moment when he had gazed, awe-struck, at a small red contorted face, lying in the capacious arms of the nurse, his joy, his pride, his self-satisfaction had been almost beyond control. If his acquaintances had avoided him before, they fled from him now. To know that this true, actual Beaudrillart—not Beaudrillart by grace of marriage, but by birth and actual right, was also his—Bourget’s—grandson, proved sufficient to turn his head, and lead him into extravagant follies. He looked at his daughter with reverence; was she not the mother of this phoenix, this wonder? She was obliged to interfere to prevent him—he, M. Bourget, who called himself to account for every penny he spent—from making perpetual gifts to the nurse, and since she objected to the practice, he indulged himself by presenting his gifts by stealth, so delightful was it to him to sit down before his ledger and make an entry of moneys expended “on behalf of my grandson, the Baron Raoul de Beaudrillart.” As for the photograph of Poissy, words cannot describe the look with which he regarded it. Planted squarely on the pavement, his coarse broad hands clasped behind him, his legs a little apart, his solid head advanced as far as a short neck would allow, he would stand in rapt contemplation, knowing already every line of the windows, every fret of the tracery, but devouring them with his eyes, and utterly indifferent to the smiles and nudges of the passers-by. This worship satisfied him as well as a visit to the actual Poissy. Nathalie, in spite of objections raised at the château against the baby being so constantly taken to the town, was absolutely firm in driving him at least once a week to see his grandfather. Once persuaded of the right of an action, she was tenacious of purpose, and weekly the grey ponies rattled merrily along the narrow street to M. Bourget’s door. This quite contented him, and though, by Léon’s desire, she now and then asked her father whether he would not drive back with her, she was always relieved when he declined. The little slights or sharp speeches to which he was subject there stung her almost beyond endurance, even when he appeared absolutely impervious. Nothing that could be said to herself hurt like these vicarious stings.Oddly enough, he had grown either more indifferent or less suspicious of neglect on her behalf since the birth of the boy. Before this he had evidently resented the attitude of Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters, and at intervals shot out a question at Nathalie which she found it difficult to parry. But now, either he believed her position to be assured, or had concentrated his thoughts upon his grandson, for he asked nothing awkward, and seemed profoundly careless of what was done at Poissy by its older inhabitants. They were, after all, only women, and of little importance compared to Nathalie’s child. It would have surprised them amazingly if they had realised the small account in which their bête noir held them.The pitched battle of the portrait had, through Léon’s skilful management, ended in a compromise. He became extremely full of the idea, and did not rest until the painter on whom he had fixed his mind came down to Poissy. M. Bourget had his way so far, though it displeased him that his daughter absolutely refused to be painted as he would have had her, resplendent in white satin. She insisted upon an every-day dress, the dress in which she generally walked with Léon, and she had her way, with the result that nothing could have been more charming. Compromise also effected her entrance into the gallery, for, although Mme. de Beaudrillart was as stubborn as M. Bourget, Léon suggested that, in place of hanging, the portrait might lean against the wall, a position less assured, and—his mother satisfied herself—more humble.But, strangely enough, the boy’s birth, which had reconciled his grandfather to anything anomalous in his daughter’s position, produced a contrary effect upon Nathalie. Before the child arrived she had accepted the contemptuous treatment she received with philosophy, almost with indifference; Léon’s love appeared sufficient to satisfy her, and she treated disagreeables lightly, as something of which she had already counted the cost. Now there was a change. The trivial galled. Mme. de Beaudrillart was jealous of any influence which the young wife might have upon her son, and hitherto she had drawn aside with a smile, and been content to efface herself; but she no longer did this with ease. She resented the necessity. It seemed that she had fallen into the position of a mere plaything; that her husband liked her to walk with him, to laugh with him; that he found her pleasant to look at; but that when a cloud came between him and the sun—such a cloud as flung a shadow on his face now and then without visible reason—it was to his mother that he turned. His wife was strong enough to face facts and to meet them without repining or fretfulness. She never complained to her husband or her father. But she suffered.And she had lost illusions about Léon. She saw that he was weak, that his very sweetness of temper was often mere selfishness, and clinging to what was pleasant. She loved him as passionately as ever, but she wanted to keep her boy from the same faults, and it did not seem as if she would succeed. For she was sure that if ever man had been injured by his bringing up, Léon was that man, and here were all the same influences, and more, at work. Mme. de Beaudrillart spoiled her grandchild outrageously. His father laughed at his naughtiness, and even M. Bourget could see in them nothing but an added charm. All the thwarting, all the reasoning, was left to the mother, forced often into strictness by the indulgence of others. The boy had a fine nature, brave and true; but in him, too, the Beaudrillart will was already asserting itself, and Nathalie, looking at him, trembled and prayed.On the morning after the young baron’s departure for the La Ferrayes, there was a not infrequent scene in the breakfast-room. Raoul had been rude to his aunt Félicie, and his mother required him to say he was sorry. Mme. de Beaudrillart at once remonstrated.“It is absurd to expect repentance from a baby. You weaken your authority by making sins out of such trifling matters. Come here, Raoul, and I will give you some melon.”“No,” said Nathalie, with a firm grasp of the delinquent, “you must pardon me, madame, but Raoul knows that he must do what I have told him.”“Ne veux pas,” said the small rebel, standing stiff and resolute.“Pray don’t let us have a scene,” said Félicie, nervously. “I assure you, Nathalie, that I am not in the least vexed with him.”“But I am,” said her sister-in-law, trying to smile. “Raoul, your aunt Félicie is very kind; will you go and kiss her, and say you are sorry!”He hesitated, made a step towards her, and caught sight of his grandmother, smiling and signing to him with her head to come for the melon. With a laugh of gleeful mischief he broke from his mother, rushed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, cried out again, “Ne veux pas,” and buried his round black head in her lap.“Let him alone, Nathalie,” said his grandmother, delightedly. “He has found sanctuary.”From her! With a pang at her heart, Mme. Léon showed no trace of ill-temper. She followed, however, and lifted him, now kicking and crimson, in her strong young arms. Mme. de Beaudrillart looked much displeased.“A storm about absolutely nothing!” she exclaimed. “The child would have been perfectly good if he had been let alone.”“When he is good, he shall come back,” said his mother, calmly, carrying him out of the room.“Ridiculous!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, as they vanished.“It is just the way to spoil his temper,” Claire remarked, adding seltzer-water to her white wine. “But Nathalie delights in a scene, and in insisting upon her own authority.”“Poor darling! And he will think I was the cause of it all,” cried Félicie. “I must find something for him, to make up.”“A medal,” suggested Claire. “I am sure you have a drawer full.”“Not for playthings,” Félicie said, reproachfully. “If he might wear one always, now, it would make me really happy; but Nathalie is so unsympathetic in those matters that I could not trust to her seeing that it was firmly secured. And as likely as not that dreadful Monsieur Bourget might say something irreverent if he discovered that it hung round the dear child’s neck.”“He will never believe that you are not deaf,” her sister remarked, with a laugh.“Thank Heaven, he does not come here often,” acknowledged Mme. de Beaudrillart. “I must say, I feel grateful to him for his forbearance. By-the-way, I have received a letter this morning, and I see there is another for Léon, announcing the death of old Monsieur de Cadanet.”“Really? A cousin, is he not?”“A distant cousin, and Léon once was under a certain obligation to him.”“Ah,” said Claire, “at that time when there was such a panic as to Léon’s affairs? I begin to understand. So it was Monsieur de Cadanet who came to the rescue? Félicie, will you kindly pass the fruit?”“He had good reason for doing so,” returned her mother. “You know, or perhaps you don’t know, that he was under great obligations to your father, so that he could not very well have refused. And I do not fancy that he behaved very graciously, for Léon does not speak of him with warmth. However—he did his duty, and he is dead.”Félicie bent her head, and murmured a little prayer for the repose of the soul of M. de Cadanet. When she had finished, Claire said, as she peeled a pear:“His death is not likely to make much difference to us—ah, here is Raoul! Come to me, treasure!”“One moment,” interposed Nathalie, firmly. She led the little boy to Félicie. “Now, dear Raoul.”“Ne veux pas,” whispered Claire in his ear, with a laugh. He looked at her, and glanced at his mother.“I’m sorry, but I’m notverysorry, Aunt Félie.” Then he threw his arms round Nathalie’s neck. “Will that do? Shall we go to Tours, and may I have the reins?”Mme. de Beaudrillart said, hastily:“Not Tours again, I hope. It really is not at all good for the child to pass so much of his time in the close streets of a town. Pray, for once leave him with us. I know, too, that they have fever there.”“His grandfather expects to see him every week,” replied Nathalie, in a quiet tone.Mme. de Beaudrillart hated to hear M. Bourget called “his grandfather.”“That may be,” she said, “but I think my wishes might also be respected. Raoul, would you not rather remain here and let Jean drive you?”“No,” said Raoul, sturdily. “And I shall go to Tours, because mother promised.”“Ah, it is a pity your mother spoils you,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, rising, and looking displeased. “May I ask when you start!”“At once,” Nathalie answered, “so as to be at home when Léon arrives.”“I shall want him to walk with me.”“Certainly, madame.” As her mother-in-law left the room, Mme. Léon took up her husband’s letters, which lay on the table. “Such a black border!” she remarked, looking at one of them. “These letters of announcement always give one a shiver.”“That need not, at any rate, for it does not concern you,” said Claire, carelessly. “I suppose you have scarcely heard of old Monsieur de Cadanet, in Paris?”“Léon and I were speaking of him only yesterday. Is he dead?”“So it seems. By-the-way, if Léon had been at home, perhaps he would have run up for the funeral.”“It appears as if it would require a great deal to drag Léon to Paris,” Nathalie remarked, smiling.“Perhaps, my dear, he has never informed you of the reasons he has to avoid it.”Her sister-in-law coloured.“No,” she said, “he never speaks of his life there.”“And such a good wife asks no questions! Well, I have often wished to go there myself.”“Oh, you are quite extraordinary, Claire,” said Félicie, shuddering. “When Paris is such a wicked place!”“I believe I should like to see a little of the wickedness and judge for myself,” Claire announced, as she followed her mother out of the room.When Nathalie and her boy reached M. Bourget’s house, he had already been more than once to the door to see if they were coming, although he would not have acknowledged it for worlds. He professed great surprise at their appearing, for, by an established fiction, they were never expected on the days when they arrived, and by another fiction it was supposed to be an extraordinary fact that Raoul should have been allowed to drive in with his mother.M. Bourget would stand, thumbs in button-holes, and look him up and down with a pride which cannot be described.“Ta, ta, ta, and this is our baby?” he would say, pursing his lips. “Only the other day he was tied into his chair, and here, if you please, he is driving with his mamma like a gentleman! The times march, upon my word!”By this time Raoul would have plunged his hands into his grandfather’s pocket.“Softly, softly, what now!” And, aside to his daughter, “He grows more of a Beaudrillart every day. What he will have, he will, one can see it in everything. Now then, little robber, little brigand, what are you stealing from your poor grandfather!”And with a shout of delight, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, Raoul would extract a whip, or a top, or a packet of chocolates, and run round the room chased by M. Bourget with terrific show of indignation. Later on, another ceremony was observed, which Nathalie herself always suggested, having discovered the pleasure it afforded to her father. All three would set forth for a walk through the streets of Tours, M. Bourget with his grandson by his side. The ostensible reason for the promenade was that Raoul should see the shops, and to this end they walked up and down the streets for half an hour. M. Bourget did not, at these times, stop to converse with any of his friends, but he took care that they should see him, passed and repassed the café and his other most usual haunts, and would have been greatly disappointed had he not met Leroux, Docteur Mathurin, and at least one of the principal officials. If they went into the cathedral, where Raoul liked to look at the tomb of the little boy and girl princess with their watching angels, he would even make the concession of lifting him up to dip his small fingers into the stoup for holy-water. Then, while Nathalie knelt and prayed—little knowing, poor soul, how much at that very moment her prayers were needed!—the two would wander off into quiet corners, Raoul putting questions which his grandfather treasured jealously, to be repeated with shaking shoulders to the impatient Leroux.“He must have an answer for everything,” M. Bourget would declare, and Leroux, who, as a father, suffered under the not unusual infliction himself, was expected to express amazement.After this, it was necessary to stand in front of the cathedral, and scatter crumbs, brought for the purpose, to the pigeons; returning by way of the Rue Royale, that M. Bourget might be certain Raoul had not forgotten how Balzac was born in Number 39. Raoul knew it as well as his grandfather, by this time, but he would sometimes pretend forgetfulness in order to have his memory jogged by chocolates.On this day the round was shorter, as Mme. Léon wished to be at home early to meet her husband.“He will hear of the death of an old cousin,” she said, knowing her father’s interest in all Beaudrillart affairs—“Monsieur de Cadanet. I believe he was very old, but I do not think there had been any news sent of his illness, so that I do not suppose it was expected.”“Ah,” said M. Bourget, “Cadanet. Yes. A branch. His grandmother was a Beaudrillart. Have they said much about it at Poissy?”“Not to me,” she replied, briefly. “Léon, you know, is absent.”“It is too far off, probably, for Raoul to benefit,” remarked his grandfather, gazing at him. “If he could have seen him now! Monsieur de Beaudrillart should have taken him there on a visit.”“It might have been only another to spoil him,” she said, with a laugh, capturing her son as he was thumping upon the table with both lists.“Pooh, you are a fidget! He gets no spoiling here. I dare say those women at Poissy don’t know how a boy should be treated. Let him hammer. The table is solid. You lose your authority by always scolding. Come here, Raoul, and tell me how the pony goes. And Jean? Does he do what you tell him?”Driving back that afternoon, Nathalie reflected, as she reflected often, on the difficulties which lay about the bringing up of her little son. Indulged on all sides, with the strong family will quite ready to develop itself, it seemed as if his path was to be strewn with rose-leaves. She had absolutely no one to help her, except Jacques Charpentier, Jean’s father, an honest, sensible man, devoted to the family, and no less so to Mme. Léon. When Raoul was with him, his mother was at ease. With his grandmother and aunts, she was sure that they often indulged the boy out of opposition to her. His father hated disturbance of any sort, and found it easier to laugh than to rebuke. All the training was left to her. Her own father, usually sensible, here was weak, and, in fact, it was who should gain his love by yielding. Happily, as yet, Raoul adored his mother, and as she thought of this she blamed herself for her misgivings.She told herself, with a sigh, that she was a very happy woman. And afterwards she stared back at that sigh with amazement at her ignorant discontent.Léon received the news of M. de Cadanet’s death in silence, which was unusual. He answered Claire’s question whether he would have gone to the funeral briefly in the negative, and was leaving the room, when his mother detained him to say in a low voice:“It will make no difference to you!”“No. But it might have.”“Who will have his money?”“I imagine he will leave all he can to one Monsieur Charles Lemaire, his wife’s nephew.”“Ah, well! I am glad things were settled before there could be any complications.”Léon, who was pale, went out of the room without answering her.
And Poissy?
After the child’s birth the years slipped swiftly, though not always smoothly, by. Léon, who easily forgot, had very nearly succeeded in forgetting that desperate act of his, and the old count’s threat of the future. There were still, however, moments when it flashed upon him, and brought with it a sudden cloud of depression which he attributed to physical ailments. His wife, sure he was not ill, laughed at these fancies, but his mother, perhaps out of opposition, treated them seriously until they generally ended in his laughing at himself. He spent a great deal of time out of doors, rising early, and going all over the estate, which, bit by bit, was being brought together again; coming in to the eleven o’clock breakfast, and then out again, shooting or fishing or loitering about with Nathalie. If a new idea, a new invention, a new arrangement, attracted him, he was possessed by it, and could think and speak of nothing else. His neighbours smiled at his enthusiasms, but liked and excused him; those who had blamed him in old days were vanquished by the sweetness of temper with which he had accepted his new life, and by the unsuspected strength he had shown in renouncing the extravagances of Paris.
His mother was almost content Léon was all she had believed him, Poissy stood in its old position in the neighbourhood, and there was little Raoul, as dear, or dearer, than his father. As for Nathalie, as much as possible she contrived to ignore her, and though M. Bourget was a terrible man, he had the grace seldom to inflict himself upon them.
It was Nathalie herself who was the most changed by the years of her married life, or who gave that impression, for her character had not really changed, although it had developed. She had lost, early, a certain frank open-heartedness; she was reserved—with her mother and sisters in law extremely reserved. She never battled for her rights, and the household had almost ceased to remember that she possessed any. But, in avoiding retorts, she had fallen into a habit of grave silence which did not belong to her years, and of which Léon sometimes laughingly complained.
“It doesn’t matter when we are alone,” he would say, “but with others—I saw Madame de la Ferraye looking at you this afternoon and expecting you to take your part in the discussion.”
She made a laughing excuse.
“Dear, how should I? It was better not to expose my ignorance.”
“You cram that little head of yours with all kinds of learned stuff, and then talk of ignorance? What makes you read so much?”
“Because I will not have Raoul ashamed of me.”
Every now and then—not often, and always suddenly—a gust of passion seemed to sweep through the mask under which she relentlessly hid her more spontaneous self. Such a gust had come now. Léon looked at her, amazed at the tone in which the words were spoken, concentrated will passionately pushing them forward, as if they carried a standard of rebellion. She never now complained to him, never invited a suggestion which should shape her conduct towards his mother and sisters, and though he was quite shrewd enough, if he had chosen, to perceive the slights which she had daily to endure, he preferred to shut his eyes, and tell himself that with him and the child she was so happy as to be indifferent. Such a passionate outcry as this shook his easy-going reflections, and annoyed him. But he marched on silently, aware that she would soon curb her rebel tongue with shame at its weakness.
They were walking towards Poissy; a fine rain had browned the road, and, falling on a sun-baked soil, sent up a pleasant smell of growing things. The sky was stormy, a sweet insistence of blue above changing in the west to pale, mysterious green. Low down lay a horizontal flame-coloured line of clouds, broken by nearer drifts of dark grey, tattered and vaporish at the edges and flecked with red. One small portion, rent from the rest, had drifted lightly across the blue above. Nathalie, fronting the sunset, with its level light on her face, looked a very noble woman. The lines had grown a little harder, but not one was mean or weak. It was a face to which poor sinners would look for help, and never look in vain. Léon, glancing at it, felt its force and began to speak, although he had resolved on silence.
“You can’t say, I’m sure, that I’ve ever been ashamed of you.”
She turned, and her gravity melted into a lovely smile.
“Ah, but Raoul is going to be much cleverer than you. If you doubt it, listen to my father. Besides, my friend, I spoke hastily; I did not really mean that he would ever be ashamed of his mother, but that it would be useful for him if I could help him in his work. For, wonderful as it seems, the monkey will have to work one day.”
He had quickly forgotten the reproach he had made against her silence, for he was always more taken up with his own thoughts or actions than with those of others, and went on:
“They want me to go over to dine with them to-morrow. And sleep.”
“The La Ferrayes?”
“Yes; the prefet is due there, and two or three others. Madame de la Ferraye made a hundred apologies for not asking you. I forget why it was—no room, I think.”
“I hope you accepted, Léon. It is my turn now to scold you, for I don’t think you are so sociable with your neighbours as you might be. Here you have nothing but women, women! It will do you good to be away from us for a little; indeed, I often wish you would run up to Paris for a few days. You must have many friends there.”
“None, now. And I hate Paris,” said Léon, sharply.
“You puzzle me when you say that,” she returned, looking at him with a smile. “And as for friends, at any rate there must be that old Monsieur de Cadanet, whose name your mother suggested as Raoul’s second. Would it not please him if you were to pay him a visit!”
“Hardly.”
“Well, go to the La Ferrayes, then, and Raoul and I, we will do something to amuse ourselves, perhaps drive to Tours and see my father. Happily, those two love each other.”
To say that M. Bourget loved his grandson was not enough—he adored him. From the first moment when he had gazed, awe-struck, at a small red contorted face, lying in the capacious arms of the nurse, his joy, his pride, his self-satisfaction had been almost beyond control. If his acquaintances had avoided him before, they fled from him now. To know that this true, actual Beaudrillart—not Beaudrillart by grace of marriage, but by birth and actual right, was also his—Bourget’s—grandson, proved sufficient to turn his head, and lead him into extravagant follies. He looked at his daughter with reverence; was she not the mother of this phoenix, this wonder? She was obliged to interfere to prevent him—he, M. Bourget, who called himself to account for every penny he spent—from making perpetual gifts to the nurse, and since she objected to the practice, he indulged himself by presenting his gifts by stealth, so delightful was it to him to sit down before his ledger and make an entry of moneys expended “on behalf of my grandson, the Baron Raoul de Beaudrillart.” As for the photograph of Poissy, words cannot describe the look with which he regarded it. Planted squarely on the pavement, his coarse broad hands clasped behind him, his legs a little apart, his solid head advanced as far as a short neck would allow, he would stand in rapt contemplation, knowing already every line of the windows, every fret of the tracery, but devouring them with his eyes, and utterly indifferent to the smiles and nudges of the passers-by. This worship satisfied him as well as a visit to the actual Poissy. Nathalie, in spite of objections raised at the château against the baby being so constantly taken to the town, was absolutely firm in driving him at least once a week to see his grandfather. Once persuaded of the right of an action, she was tenacious of purpose, and weekly the grey ponies rattled merrily along the narrow street to M. Bourget’s door. This quite contented him, and though, by Léon’s desire, she now and then asked her father whether he would not drive back with her, she was always relieved when he declined. The little slights or sharp speeches to which he was subject there stung her almost beyond endurance, even when he appeared absolutely impervious. Nothing that could be said to herself hurt like these vicarious stings.
Oddly enough, he had grown either more indifferent or less suspicious of neglect on her behalf since the birth of the boy. Before this he had evidently resented the attitude of Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters, and at intervals shot out a question at Nathalie which she found it difficult to parry. But now, either he believed her position to be assured, or had concentrated his thoughts upon his grandson, for he asked nothing awkward, and seemed profoundly careless of what was done at Poissy by its older inhabitants. They were, after all, only women, and of little importance compared to Nathalie’s child. It would have surprised them amazingly if they had realised the small account in which their bête noir held them.
The pitched battle of the portrait had, through Léon’s skilful management, ended in a compromise. He became extremely full of the idea, and did not rest until the painter on whom he had fixed his mind came down to Poissy. M. Bourget had his way so far, though it displeased him that his daughter absolutely refused to be painted as he would have had her, resplendent in white satin. She insisted upon an every-day dress, the dress in which she generally walked with Léon, and she had her way, with the result that nothing could have been more charming. Compromise also effected her entrance into the gallery, for, although Mme. de Beaudrillart was as stubborn as M. Bourget, Léon suggested that, in place of hanging, the portrait might lean against the wall, a position less assured, and—his mother satisfied herself—more humble.
But, strangely enough, the boy’s birth, which had reconciled his grandfather to anything anomalous in his daughter’s position, produced a contrary effect upon Nathalie. Before the child arrived she had accepted the contemptuous treatment she received with philosophy, almost with indifference; Léon’s love appeared sufficient to satisfy her, and she treated disagreeables lightly, as something of which she had already counted the cost. Now there was a change. The trivial galled. Mme. de Beaudrillart was jealous of any influence which the young wife might have upon her son, and hitherto she had drawn aside with a smile, and been content to efface herself; but she no longer did this with ease. She resented the necessity. It seemed that she had fallen into the position of a mere plaything; that her husband liked her to walk with him, to laugh with him; that he found her pleasant to look at; but that when a cloud came between him and the sun—such a cloud as flung a shadow on his face now and then without visible reason—it was to his mother that he turned. His wife was strong enough to face facts and to meet them without repining or fretfulness. She never complained to her husband or her father. But she suffered.
And she had lost illusions about Léon. She saw that he was weak, that his very sweetness of temper was often mere selfishness, and clinging to what was pleasant. She loved him as passionately as ever, but she wanted to keep her boy from the same faults, and it did not seem as if she would succeed. For she was sure that if ever man had been injured by his bringing up, Léon was that man, and here were all the same influences, and more, at work. Mme. de Beaudrillart spoiled her grandchild outrageously. His father laughed at his naughtiness, and even M. Bourget could see in them nothing but an added charm. All the thwarting, all the reasoning, was left to the mother, forced often into strictness by the indulgence of others. The boy had a fine nature, brave and true; but in him, too, the Beaudrillart will was already asserting itself, and Nathalie, looking at him, trembled and prayed.
On the morning after the young baron’s departure for the La Ferrayes, there was a not infrequent scene in the breakfast-room. Raoul had been rude to his aunt Félicie, and his mother required him to say he was sorry. Mme. de Beaudrillart at once remonstrated.
“It is absurd to expect repentance from a baby. You weaken your authority by making sins out of such trifling matters. Come here, Raoul, and I will give you some melon.”
“No,” said Nathalie, with a firm grasp of the delinquent, “you must pardon me, madame, but Raoul knows that he must do what I have told him.”
“Ne veux pas,” said the small rebel, standing stiff and resolute.
“Pray don’t let us have a scene,” said Félicie, nervously. “I assure you, Nathalie, that I am not in the least vexed with him.”
“But I am,” said her sister-in-law, trying to smile. “Raoul, your aunt Félicie is very kind; will you go and kiss her, and say you are sorry!”
He hesitated, made a step towards her, and caught sight of his grandmother, smiling and signing to him with her head to come for the melon. With a laugh of gleeful mischief he broke from his mother, rushed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, cried out again, “Ne veux pas,” and buried his round black head in her lap.
“Let him alone, Nathalie,” said his grandmother, delightedly. “He has found sanctuary.”
From her! With a pang at her heart, Mme. Léon showed no trace of ill-temper. She followed, however, and lifted him, now kicking and crimson, in her strong young arms. Mme. de Beaudrillart looked much displeased.
“A storm about absolutely nothing!” she exclaimed. “The child would have been perfectly good if he had been let alone.”
“When he is good, he shall come back,” said his mother, calmly, carrying him out of the room.
“Ridiculous!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, as they vanished.
“It is just the way to spoil his temper,” Claire remarked, adding seltzer-water to her white wine. “But Nathalie delights in a scene, and in insisting upon her own authority.”
“Poor darling! And he will think I was the cause of it all,” cried Félicie. “I must find something for him, to make up.”
“A medal,” suggested Claire. “I am sure you have a drawer full.”
“Not for playthings,” Félicie said, reproachfully. “If he might wear one always, now, it would make me really happy; but Nathalie is so unsympathetic in those matters that I could not trust to her seeing that it was firmly secured. And as likely as not that dreadful Monsieur Bourget might say something irreverent if he discovered that it hung round the dear child’s neck.”
“He will never believe that you are not deaf,” her sister remarked, with a laugh.
“Thank Heaven, he does not come here often,” acknowledged Mme. de Beaudrillart. “I must say, I feel grateful to him for his forbearance. By-the-way, I have received a letter this morning, and I see there is another for Léon, announcing the death of old Monsieur de Cadanet.”
“Really? A cousin, is he not?”
“A distant cousin, and Léon once was under a certain obligation to him.”
“Ah,” said Claire, “at that time when there was such a panic as to Léon’s affairs? I begin to understand. So it was Monsieur de Cadanet who came to the rescue? Félicie, will you kindly pass the fruit?”
“He had good reason for doing so,” returned her mother. “You know, or perhaps you don’t know, that he was under great obligations to your father, so that he could not very well have refused. And I do not fancy that he behaved very graciously, for Léon does not speak of him with warmth. However—he did his duty, and he is dead.”
Félicie bent her head, and murmured a little prayer for the repose of the soul of M. de Cadanet. When she had finished, Claire said, as she peeled a pear:
“His death is not likely to make much difference to us—ah, here is Raoul! Come to me, treasure!”
“One moment,” interposed Nathalie, firmly. She led the little boy to Félicie. “Now, dear Raoul.”
“Ne veux pas,” whispered Claire in his ear, with a laugh. He looked at her, and glanced at his mother.
“I’m sorry, but I’m notverysorry, Aunt Félie.” Then he threw his arms round Nathalie’s neck. “Will that do? Shall we go to Tours, and may I have the reins?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart said, hastily:
“Not Tours again, I hope. It really is not at all good for the child to pass so much of his time in the close streets of a town. Pray, for once leave him with us. I know, too, that they have fever there.”
“His grandfather expects to see him every week,” replied Nathalie, in a quiet tone.
Mme. de Beaudrillart hated to hear M. Bourget called “his grandfather.”
“That may be,” she said, “but I think my wishes might also be respected. Raoul, would you not rather remain here and let Jean drive you?”
“No,” said Raoul, sturdily. “And I shall go to Tours, because mother promised.”
“Ah, it is a pity your mother spoils you,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, rising, and looking displeased. “May I ask when you start!”
“At once,” Nathalie answered, “so as to be at home when Léon arrives.”
“I shall want him to walk with me.”
“Certainly, madame.” As her mother-in-law left the room, Mme. Léon took up her husband’s letters, which lay on the table. “Such a black border!” she remarked, looking at one of them. “These letters of announcement always give one a shiver.”
“That need not, at any rate, for it does not concern you,” said Claire, carelessly. “I suppose you have scarcely heard of old Monsieur de Cadanet, in Paris?”
“Léon and I were speaking of him only yesterday. Is he dead?”
“So it seems. By-the-way, if Léon had been at home, perhaps he would have run up for the funeral.”
“It appears as if it would require a great deal to drag Léon to Paris,” Nathalie remarked, smiling.
“Perhaps, my dear, he has never informed you of the reasons he has to avoid it.”
Her sister-in-law coloured.
“No,” she said, “he never speaks of his life there.”
“And such a good wife asks no questions! Well, I have often wished to go there myself.”
“Oh, you are quite extraordinary, Claire,” said Félicie, shuddering. “When Paris is such a wicked place!”
“I believe I should like to see a little of the wickedness and judge for myself,” Claire announced, as she followed her mother out of the room.
When Nathalie and her boy reached M. Bourget’s house, he had already been more than once to the door to see if they were coming, although he would not have acknowledged it for worlds. He professed great surprise at their appearing, for, by an established fiction, they were never expected on the days when they arrived, and by another fiction it was supposed to be an extraordinary fact that Raoul should have been allowed to drive in with his mother.
M. Bourget would stand, thumbs in button-holes, and look him up and down with a pride which cannot be described.
“Ta, ta, ta, and this is our baby?” he would say, pursing his lips. “Only the other day he was tied into his chair, and here, if you please, he is driving with his mamma like a gentleman! The times march, upon my word!”
By this time Raoul would have plunged his hands into his grandfather’s pocket.
“Softly, softly, what now!” And, aside to his daughter, “He grows more of a Beaudrillart every day. What he will have, he will, one can see it in everything. Now then, little robber, little brigand, what are you stealing from your poor grandfather!”
And with a shout of delight, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, Raoul would extract a whip, or a top, or a packet of chocolates, and run round the room chased by M. Bourget with terrific show of indignation. Later on, another ceremony was observed, which Nathalie herself always suggested, having discovered the pleasure it afforded to her father. All three would set forth for a walk through the streets of Tours, M. Bourget with his grandson by his side. The ostensible reason for the promenade was that Raoul should see the shops, and to this end they walked up and down the streets for half an hour. M. Bourget did not, at these times, stop to converse with any of his friends, but he took care that they should see him, passed and repassed the café and his other most usual haunts, and would have been greatly disappointed had he not met Leroux, Docteur Mathurin, and at least one of the principal officials. If they went into the cathedral, where Raoul liked to look at the tomb of the little boy and girl princess with their watching angels, he would even make the concession of lifting him up to dip his small fingers into the stoup for holy-water. Then, while Nathalie knelt and prayed—little knowing, poor soul, how much at that very moment her prayers were needed!—the two would wander off into quiet corners, Raoul putting questions which his grandfather treasured jealously, to be repeated with shaking shoulders to the impatient Leroux.
“He must have an answer for everything,” M. Bourget would declare, and Leroux, who, as a father, suffered under the not unusual infliction himself, was expected to express amazement.
After this, it was necessary to stand in front of the cathedral, and scatter crumbs, brought for the purpose, to the pigeons; returning by way of the Rue Royale, that M. Bourget might be certain Raoul had not forgotten how Balzac was born in Number 39. Raoul knew it as well as his grandfather, by this time, but he would sometimes pretend forgetfulness in order to have his memory jogged by chocolates.
On this day the round was shorter, as Mme. Léon wished to be at home early to meet her husband.
“He will hear of the death of an old cousin,” she said, knowing her father’s interest in all Beaudrillart affairs—“Monsieur de Cadanet. I believe he was very old, but I do not think there had been any news sent of his illness, so that I do not suppose it was expected.”
“Ah,” said M. Bourget, “Cadanet. Yes. A branch. His grandmother was a Beaudrillart. Have they said much about it at Poissy?”
“Not to me,” she replied, briefly. “Léon, you know, is absent.”
“It is too far off, probably, for Raoul to benefit,” remarked his grandfather, gazing at him. “If he could have seen him now! Monsieur de Beaudrillart should have taken him there on a visit.”
“It might have been only another to spoil him,” she said, with a laugh, capturing her son as he was thumping upon the table with both lists.
“Pooh, you are a fidget! He gets no spoiling here. I dare say those women at Poissy don’t know how a boy should be treated. Let him hammer. The table is solid. You lose your authority by always scolding. Come here, Raoul, and tell me how the pony goes. And Jean? Does he do what you tell him?”
Driving back that afternoon, Nathalie reflected, as she reflected often, on the difficulties which lay about the bringing up of her little son. Indulged on all sides, with the strong family will quite ready to develop itself, it seemed as if his path was to be strewn with rose-leaves. She had absolutely no one to help her, except Jacques Charpentier, Jean’s father, an honest, sensible man, devoted to the family, and no less so to Mme. Léon. When Raoul was with him, his mother was at ease. With his grandmother and aunts, she was sure that they often indulged the boy out of opposition to her. His father hated disturbance of any sort, and found it easier to laugh than to rebuke. All the training was left to her. Her own father, usually sensible, here was weak, and, in fact, it was who should gain his love by yielding. Happily, as yet, Raoul adored his mother, and as she thought of this she blamed herself for her misgivings.
She told herself, with a sigh, that she was a very happy woman. And afterwards she stared back at that sigh with amazement at her ignorant discontent.
Léon received the news of M. de Cadanet’s death in silence, which was unusual. He answered Claire’s question whether he would have gone to the funeral briefly in the negative, and was leaving the room, when his mother detained him to say in a low voice:
“It will make no difference to you!”
“No. But it might have.”
“Who will have his money?”
“I imagine he will leave all he can to one Monsieur Charles Lemaire, his wife’s nephew.”
“Ah, well! I am glad things were settled before there could be any complications.”
Léon, who was pale, went out of the room without answering her.