Chapter Twenty Six.Amélie.M. Bourget would have been indignant at hearing that he might not accompany his daughter if the mandate had come from a less person than Maître Barraud. But he had a profound respect for any advocate with whose name he was acquainted, as well as for all the machinery of a great trial, and M. Rodoin took him in hand, and carried him off for the interval, as soon as Nathalie had been placed in M. Rodoin’s carriage and despatched to Passy. She had intended to employ her time during the drive in arranging how best to open the subject with Mme. Lemaire, but, to her dismay, found it impossible to concentrate her thoughts. Whatever effort she made to fasten them upon the coming interview, they flitted back to the crowded court. She saw always her husband’s pale face, the look towards her in which she read so piteous an appeal; she heard the jesting remarks whispered around, the questions and answers to which she listened breathlessly, feeling that they held Léon’s doom; she saw the president, who was slightly deaf, hold his hand to his ear, the clerks taking down the evidence, Charles Lemaire’s broad figure, and the white flower in his button-hole; she heard Maître Barraud’s voice, now listless, then suddenly rising to the tone of a trumpet, a voice of which she was beginning to understand the power. One after another figures surged before her eyes, sounds rang in her ears, and before she had collected her thoughts for her errand she found herself driving to the door of a substantially built house, which stood a little back from the road.Madame was at home, but did not receive. Nathalie had got hastily out of the carriage, and, afraid to send in her name lest it might bring a refusal, she merely desired the man to say that her business was of the greatest consequence, and was almost immediately admitted to an ugly room, all gilt and brocade, where stood Amélie ready to go out.At sight of this tall and beautiful woman advancing hastily towards her, Mme. Lemaire showed a little astonishment. She thought it was some one interested in an orphan, for whom she had come to plead the cause; but the visitors who had this end in view generally belonged to a different class. She moved awkwardly forward.“You desire, madame, to speak to me!”“To appeal to your goodness,” faltered Nathalie.“Ah, madame,” said Amélie, with a smile which made her plain face at once attractive, “I am so grieved! It is for some poor little one, is it not, whom you wish to place in our Home! And, alas, we are more than full!”“No, no!” cried Mme. Léon, “it is much more serious. It is on account of this trial that I come. I am the unhappy wife of Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”The other stared at her without comprehending. “A trial?” she repeated, pushing forward a chair. Nathalie sank into it, and leaned forward earnestly:“Your husband—you know that your husband has made a terrible charge against my husband!”“No. I do not know—I do not understand—” returned Mme. Lemaire, speaking with difficulty. “Stop, madame, let me explain. My husband and I do not interest ourselves in the same pursuits. We each follow that which we prefer, leaving the other free. My interest is my Orphanage, and consequently I do not hear much of what goes on in the outside world.”“And you do not know that all Paris rings with this trial?”“No,” returned Amélie, flushing. “I do not read the newspapers, and—and I presume the servants have not liked to speak of it.”Nathalie buried her face in her hands. How could this woman, in everything but name cut off from the world, help her! But the sight of suffering touched Amélie at once.“I am so sorry for your grief!” she said, simply; “pray tell me if there is anything in which I can assist you.”Hard task! But Nathalie began: “It has to do with Monsieur de Cadanet,” she faltered. “Some money which he designed for your husband, my husband took—stay, do not judge him too harshly. He was in great straits at the time; he took it, but he told Monsieur de Cadanet at once—the letter exists—and he only took it as a loan. Every penny was repaid, and Monsieur de Cadanet made no sign; but now, now that he is dead, your husband says that the money was never returned, and that your uncle left it to him to prosecute. He is being tried now—my Léon!”Amélie had turned very white, and drawn involuntarily back. She said, in a suffocated voice:“Why do you come to me?”Nathalie lifted her heavy eyes.“People say you are a good woman,” she said. “If you know anything, you cannot let an innocent man suffer.”“And your name is De Beaudrillart, and you live at—”“At Poissy.”“Ah!” The exclamation ended sharply, like a cry of anguish. In a moment all came back to her—M. de Cadanet’s veiled interest in Poissy; the evident relenting of his heart; most of all those dying words, accidentally heard, but never really forgotten: “You will remember that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.” And now—She rose up with a shudder. “Madame, you are mistaken. I am incapable of helping you.”Nathalie rose, too, and stood looking at her. Then she clasped her hands, feeling her last chance slipping.“Ah, madame, think!” she cried, impulsively. “You nursed Monsieur de Cadanet, you were with him continually—think, I implore you, whether you never heard him speak of my husband, and if you did, whether he did not speak of him indulgently? So much might depend on that! If you do not pity me, pity our little child, our little Raoul!”“Is that his name?” Mme. Lemaire asked quickly, a sudden yearning in her face.“Yes. Imagine what it will be for him to grow up under a cloud of disgrace! You have no children madame; you do not know what that seems to a mother.”Nathalie was wrong. This woman, no mother, but to whom God had given a mother’s heart, could realise it, and much more, with an aching strength, which some mothers cannot feel. She had thought so often and strangely of the little boy at Poissy, of whose existence she was barely aware, that now she could hardly prevent herself from crying out that she would save him. But—there was her husband. In spite of his neglect, his unkindness, his scarcely-veiled contempt, she still loved him. Ignorance of his movements, shutting of eyes and ears to what went on in the world, was her defensive armour. She did not wish to hear or see. She had at one time lived in terror lest something might come to her knowledge which would thrust him out of her heart, and it was dread of this which had turned her virtually into a recluse. And here it was at her doors! She beat against it with all her force. Her look hardened, her voice chilled. She said, coldly:“I am sorry for you, madame, but I cannot help you. Monsieur de Cadanet gave my husband his last directions.” Nathalie stood mute, then turned from her with a look of reproach.“They were not these, and you know it. A dying man does not wreak such a terrible revenge. You are thrusting a sin upon him which he never committed. I dare not stay longer, but ah, madame, take care, for some day it will come back again, more terrible for you than my poor Léon’s has been for him!”Mme. Lemaire stood long where she was left, staring at the empty doorway. Once she made a few staggering steps, as if she would follow her visitor, but caught herself back, and again remained motionless. Her conscience was tender, and Nathalie’s words fell on it like the sting of a lash. It had been the scarcely acknowledged effort of her life to prevent it and her love from meeting in opposition, but the day had come, and she could no longer remain blind and deaf. Still, she resisted. This man had sinned—by his own wife’s confession had sinned. Probably he deserved what had come to him. And she had not absolutely understood all that was happening. She resolved to go to the Orphanage, and think no more about Mme. de Beaudrillart. There she had hitherto found peace, and there she might now find forgetfulness.She was always warmly greeted, this childless woman with the mother’s heart, the children running to her with cries of delight which were the music of her life, one showing a doll, another a cut finger; the sisters came smiling, kind souls with homely faces, who looked on her as their chief benefactress, and poured out their daily chat of all the events which touched their peaceful lives and the lives of these little ones, snatched, some of them, from terrible experiences. One sister walked up and down the babies’ nursery, hushing a wan little fellow to unwilling sleep.“He has been so fretful all night!” she said, smiling.“You look quite worn out, sister,” said Mme. Lemaire.“Ah, madame, but when one remembers that his father died in prison, one’s heart bleeds for the poor little mite,” said the kind nurse, recommencing her hushing. Amélie turned abruptly away.But in every child that day the little boy at Poissy seemed to appeal to her. Far from forgetting, she found him looking at her, clinging, kissing her. A new orphan had been admitted that morning. She dared not ask his name, so convinced was she that the answer would be Raoul. He haunted her; do what she would, she could not shake him off. She left the Orphanage at last, flying, as she had never flown before, from the innocent children. On her way home she bought a newspaper, and there read a fuller account of the trial than she had gathered from Nathalie.She had not seen her husband for several days, but this was not unusual, for he had his rooms in Paris, and only came out to Passy at intervals. She accepted her loveless lot, clinging to the Orphanage, and finding in that consolation for almost all trials. Happily for her her nature was the reverse of sensitive, so that she was able to love him without fretting hopelessly over the poor returns her affection brought back. She felt at this moment a turmoil such as she had never yet experienced, a conflict between conscience and love. Could it be her terrible duty to say the words which must denounce her husband? Impossible. She thrust the thought from her.Then she determined on a medium course. She would see him, appeal to him. Alas, what influence had she ever had that she could fall back upon it now? Recall past years as she might, not once could she remember anything she had said moving her husband when he had made a resolution, or even making him swerve in a contrary direction. She could imagine his anger becoming deadly. She did not think he would shrink from locking her up, or from almost any violence by which he could prevent her from speaking; but she could not imagine his yielding to what must be his ruin. She cried out with the pain of these gathering thoughts, which seemed to press upon her, stop her breathing, hurt her almost to death. She reproached herself for giving them room, but all the while knew with fear that it was her conscience which held the open door and let them in. When she got home she stumbled up-stairs like a fainting woman, and fell down on the floor, crying out piteously for help for her soul, although she knew that every moment of delay was a sin.Nathalie drove back to the court, sick with failure. Her strength and will upheld her when there was anything to be done; but when not even that remained, her very limbs seemed paralysed, and she wondered to find other senses still at her command. M. Rodoin’s clerk was looking out for her, and went hastily to fetch his master, who came into a small room which had been set apart for them, and where she tottered towards him with outspread hands and a haggard face.“I could not move her.”“She refused?”“Utterly. But she knew nothing.”“Well, well, dear madame, do not take it so much to heart. If any one can save your husband it will be Maître Barraud. You will go home now?”She flung him a look of reproach.“I am counting the moments until I can be where he will see me,” she said, resolutely.M. Rodoin moved to the door, and she followed him, impelling herself by sheer determination. Once he looked round and said, half to himself: “Whatever happens, there are many who might envy Monsieur de Beaudrillart!” but she took no notice, and did not even hear him, any more than she saw the curious looks turned towards her as she stood at the door of the court. Her eyes were waiting for her husband’s, and the moment that his glance fell upon her a sudden light irradiated them. Now that she had to strengthen him, she was strong again.The court, however, was near adjournment, and there was no doubt that M. de Beaudrillart’s prospects were bad. If his wife could only have gone to him, it seemed to her that half the anguish would have been lightened; but to think of him desolate and despairing was agony. Her father’s presence gave her a certain comfort, although at first she had been seized with the dread that she might have to listen to reproaches of her husband, which she would have found unendurable. But M. Bourget was stolidly silent. By slow degrees he was coming round to believe in Léon’s innocence of the greater charge, and he was extraordinarily impressed with the powers of Maître Barraud. He was kind to Nathalie, telling her of M. Georges’s persistent confidence, and of his bringing Raoul to Tours; and to the poor mother, parted from her child by what seemed years, even a lifetime, it was comfort to have every word repeated, and to know that he was well and happy. She feasted upon it, then was smitten with remorse for letting her thoughts leave Léon, even for a minute. Was there nothing for her to do? They said that Maître Barraud wished to speak to her, and she breathlessly pushed her father out of the room, and waited, holding the door. She tried to speak, but her voice sounded strangely far away, and her eyes dumbly questioned the young advocate. To her surprise he looked as usual, and his voice was as indifferent as ever.“I need only detain you one moment, madame. You saw the wife, and she refused to speak. Do you imagine she had anything to say!”“Once I thought she had.”“What were you speaking of at that moment?”“Of our child.”He nodded. “I knew she had a sentiment. Her husband neglects her, and she spends her days at the Orphanage. I do not despair. The child and her conscience will work upon her.”“She knew nothing of the trial.”“Good! She will think the more. A thousand thanks, madame!” He was gone.Unconscious tact had stifled the question of how he thought the trial was going, and, although she did not know it, she had her reward. He joined M. Rodoin in the court-yard of the hotel, and said:“Crow, man of discernment! Your hazel-eyed Madame de Beaudrillart is a phoenix. She answered my questions, and did not pester me with one of her own. I should like to win the case, partly on that account, and partly because Miron is so confoundedly cocksure.”“Win it, then.”“Any good in the father?”“A typical bourgeois, accustomed to hector his neighbours, and not altogether convinced in his own mind.”Maître Barraud swept his hat to a charming lady who drove by in a victoria.“The Marquise de Pontharmin,” he explained. “I dine with her to-night.”“While poor Madame de Beaudrillart imagines you preparing your defence with a wet towel round your head?”“The world’s remarks are worth a dozen wet towels. Do you know, the world is sometimes extraordinarily shrewd, and you can go and tell your phoenix so. Here we part—till to-morrow!”
M. Bourget would have been indignant at hearing that he might not accompany his daughter if the mandate had come from a less person than Maître Barraud. But he had a profound respect for any advocate with whose name he was acquainted, as well as for all the machinery of a great trial, and M. Rodoin took him in hand, and carried him off for the interval, as soon as Nathalie had been placed in M. Rodoin’s carriage and despatched to Passy. She had intended to employ her time during the drive in arranging how best to open the subject with Mme. Lemaire, but, to her dismay, found it impossible to concentrate her thoughts. Whatever effort she made to fasten them upon the coming interview, they flitted back to the crowded court. She saw always her husband’s pale face, the look towards her in which she read so piteous an appeal; she heard the jesting remarks whispered around, the questions and answers to which she listened breathlessly, feeling that they held Léon’s doom; she saw the president, who was slightly deaf, hold his hand to his ear, the clerks taking down the evidence, Charles Lemaire’s broad figure, and the white flower in his button-hole; she heard Maître Barraud’s voice, now listless, then suddenly rising to the tone of a trumpet, a voice of which she was beginning to understand the power. One after another figures surged before her eyes, sounds rang in her ears, and before she had collected her thoughts for her errand she found herself driving to the door of a substantially built house, which stood a little back from the road.
Madame was at home, but did not receive. Nathalie had got hastily out of the carriage, and, afraid to send in her name lest it might bring a refusal, she merely desired the man to say that her business was of the greatest consequence, and was almost immediately admitted to an ugly room, all gilt and brocade, where stood Amélie ready to go out.
At sight of this tall and beautiful woman advancing hastily towards her, Mme. Lemaire showed a little astonishment. She thought it was some one interested in an orphan, for whom she had come to plead the cause; but the visitors who had this end in view generally belonged to a different class. She moved awkwardly forward.
“You desire, madame, to speak to me!”
“To appeal to your goodness,” faltered Nathalie.
“Ah, madame,” said Amélie, with a smile which made her plain face at once attractive, “I am so grieved! It is for some poor little one, is it not, whom you wish to place in our Home! And, alas, we are more than full!”
“No, no!” cried Mme. Léon, “it is much more serious. It is on account of this trial that I come. I am the unhappy wife of Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
The other stared at her without comprehending. “A trial?” she repeated, pushing forward a chair. Nathalie sank into it, and leaned forward earnestly:
“Your husband—you know that your husband has made a terrible charge against my husband!”
“No. I do not know—I do not understand—” returned Mme. Lemaire, speaking with difficulty. “Stop, madame, let me explain. My husband and I do not interest ourselves in the same pursuits. We each follow that which we prefer, leaving the other free. My interest is my Orphanage, and consequently I do not hear much of what goes on in the outside world.”
“And you do not know that all Paris rings with this trial?”
“No,” returned Amélie, flushing. “I do not read the newspapers, and—and I presume the servants have not liked to speak of it.”
Nathalie buried her face in her hands. How could this woman, in everything but name cut off from the world, help her! But the sight of suffering touched Amélie at once.
“I am so sorry for your grief!” she said, simply; “pray tell me if there is anything in which I can assist you.”
Hard task! But Nathalie began: “It has to do with Monsieur de Cadanet,” she faltered. “Some money which he designed for your husband, my husband took—stay, do not judge him too harshly. He was in great straits at the time; he took it, but he told Monsieur de Cadanet at once—the letter exists—and he only took it as a loan. Every penny was repaid, and Monsieur de Cadanet made no sign; but now, now that he is dead, your husband says that the money was never returned, and that your uncle left it to him to prosecute. He is being tried now—my Léon!”
Amélie had turned very white, and drawn involuntarily back. She said, in a suffocated voice:
“Why do you come to me?”
Nathalie lifted her heavy eyes.
“People say you are a good woman,” she said. “If you know anything, you cannot let an innocent man suffer.”
“And your name is De Beaudrillart, and you live at—”
“At Poissy.”
“Ah!” The exclamation ended sharply, like a cry of anguish. In a moment all came back to her—M. de Cadanet’s veiled interest in Poissy; the evident relenting of his heart; most of all those dying words, accidentally heard, but never really forgotten: “You will remember that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.” And now—She rose up with a shudder. “Madame, you are mistaken. I am incapable of helping you.”
Nathalie rose, too, and stood looking at her. Then she clasped her hands, feeling her last chance slipping.
“Ah, madame, think!” she cried, impulsively. “You nursed Monsieur de Cadanet, you were with him continually—think, I implore you, whether you never heard him speak of my husband, and if you did, whether he did not speak of him indulgently? So much might depend on that! If you do not pity me, pity our little child, our little Raoul!”
“Is that his name?” Mme. Lemaire asked quickly, a sudden yearning in her face.
“Yes. Imagine what it will be for him to grow up under a cloud of disgrace! You have no children madame; you do not know what that seems to a mother.”
Nathalie was wrong. This woman, no mother, but to whom God had given a mother’s heart, could realise it, and much more, with an aching strength, which some mothers cannot feel. She had thought so often and strangely of the little boy at Poissy, of whose existence she was barely aware, that now she could hardly prevent herself from crying out that she would save him. But—there was her husband. In spite of his neglect, his unkindness, his scarcely-veiled contempt, she still loved him. Ignorance of his movements, shutting of eyes and ears to what went on in the world, was her defensive armour. She did not wish to hear or see. She had at one time lived in terror lest something might come to her knowledge which would thrust him out of her heart, and it was dread of this which had turned her virtually into a recluse. And here it was at her doors! She beat against it with all her force. Her look hardened, her voice chilled. She said, coldly:
“I am sorry for you, madame, but I cannot help you. Monsieur de Cadanet gave my husband his last directions.” Nathalie stood mute, then turned from her with a look of reproach.
“They were not these, and you know it. A dying man does not wreak such a terrible revenge. You are thrusting a sin upon him which he never committed. I dare not stay longer, but ah, madame, take care, for some day it will come back again, more terrible for you than my poor Léon’s has been for him!”
Mme. Lemaire stood long where she was left, staring at the empty doorway. Once she made a few staggering steps, as if she would follow her visitor, but caught herself back, and again remained motionless. Her conscience was tender, and Nathalie’s words fell on it like the sting of a lash. It had been the scarcely acknowledged effort of her life to prevent it and her love from meeting in opposition, but the day had come, and she could no longer remain blind and deaf. Still, she resisted. This man had sinned—by his own wife’s confession had sinned. Probably he deserved what had come to him. And she had not absolutely understood all that was happening. She resolved to go to the Orphanage, and think no more about Mme. de Beaudrillart. There she had hitherto found peace, and there she might now find forgetfulness.
She was always warmly greeted, this childless woman with the mother’s heart, the children running to her with cries of delight which were the music of her life, one showing a doll, another a cut finger; the sisters came smiling, kind souls with homely faces, who looked on her as their chief benefactress, and poured out their daily chat of all the events which touched their peaceful lives and the lives of these little ones, snatched, some of them, from terrible experiences. One sister walked up and down the babies’ nursery, hushing a wan little fellow to unwilling sleep.
“He has been so fretful all night!” she said, smiling.
“You look quite worn out, sister,” said Mme. Lemaire.
“Ah, madame, but when one remembers that his father died in prison, one’s heart bleeds for the poor little mite,” said the kind nurse, recommencing her hushing. Amélie turned abruptly away.
But in every child that day the little boy at Poissy seemed to appeal to her. Far from forgetting, she found him looking at her, clinging, kissing her. A new orphan had been admitted that morning. She dared not ask his name, so convinced was she that the answer would be Raoul. He haunted her; do what she would, she could not shake him off. She left the Orphanage at last, flying, as she had never flown before, from the innocent children. On her way home she bought a newspaper, and there read a fuller account of the trial than she had gathered from Nathalie.
She had not seen her husband for several days, but this was not unusual, for he had his rooms in Paris, and only came out to Passy at intervals. She accepted her loveless lot, clinging to the Orphanage, and finding in that consolation for almost all trials. Happily for her her nature was the reverse of sensitive, so that she was able to love him without fretting hopelessly over the poor returns her affection brought back. She felt at this moment a turmoil such as she had never yet experienced, a conflict between conscience and love. Could it be her terrible duty to say the words which must denounce her husband? Impossible. She thrust the thought from her.
Then she determined on a medium course. She would see him, appeal to him. Alas, what influence had she ever had that she could fall back upon it now? Recall past years as she might, not once could she remember anything she had said moving her husband when he had made a resolution, or even making him swerve in a contrary direction. She could imagine his anger becoming deadly. She did not think he would shrink from locking her up, or from almost any violence by which he could prevent her from speaking; but she could not imagine his yielding to what must be his ruin. She cried out with the pain of these gathering thoughts, which seemed to press upon her, stop her breathing, hurt her almost to death. She reproached herself for giving them room, but all the while knew with fear that it was her conscience which held the open door and let them in. When she got home she stumbled up-stairs like a fainting woman, and fell down on the floor, crying out piteously for help for her soul, although she knew that every moment of delay was a sin.
Nathalie drove back to the court, sick with failure. Her strength and will upheld her when there was anything to be done; but when not even that remained, her very limbs seemed paralysed, and she wondered to find other senses still at her command. M. Rodoin’s clerk was looking out for her, and went hastily to fetch his master, who came into a small room which had been set apart for them, and where she tottered towards him with outspread hands and a haggard face.
“I could not move her.”
“She refused?”
“Utterly. But she knew nothing.”
“Well, well, dear madame, do not take it so much to heart. If any one can save your husband it will be Maître Barraud. You will go home now?”
She flung him a look of reproach.
“I am counting the moments until I can be where he will see me,” she said, resolutely.
M. Rodoin moved to the door, and she followed him, impelling herself by sheer determination. Once he looked round and said, half to himself: “Whatever happens, there are many who might envy Monsieur de Beaudrillart!” but she took no notice, and did not even hear him, any more than she saw the curious looks turned towards her as she stood at the door of the court. Her eyes were waiting for her husband’s, and the moment that his glance fell upon her a sudden light irradiated them. Now that she had to strengthen him, she was strong again.
The court, however, was near adjournment, and there was no doubt that M. de Beaudrillart’s prospects were bad. If his wife could only have gone to him, it seemed to her that half the anguish would have been lightened; but to think of him desolate and despairing was agony. Her father’s presence gave her a certain comfort, although at first she had been seized with the dread that she might have to listen to reproaches of her husband, which she would have found unendurable. But M. Bourget was stolidly silent. By slow degrees he was coming round to believe in Léon’s innocence of the greater charge, and he was extraordinarily impressed with the powers of Maître Barraud. He was kind to Nathalie, telling her of M. Georges’s persistent confidence, and of his bringing Raoul to Tours; and to the poor mother, parted from her child by what seemed years, even a lifetime, it was comfort to have every word repeated, and to know that he was well and happy. She feasted upon it, then was smitten with remorse for letting her thoughts leave Léon, even for a minute. Was there nothing for her to do? They said that Maître Barraud wished to speak to her, and she breathlessly pushed her father out of the room, and waited, holding the door. She tried to speak, but her voice sounded strangely far away, and her eyes dumbly questioned the young advocate. To her surprise he looked as usual, and his voice was as indifferent as ever.
“I need only detain you one moment, madame. You saw the wife, and she refused to speak. Do you imagine she had anything to say!”
“Once I thought she had.”
“What were you speaking of at that moment?”
“Of our child.”
He nodded. “I knew she had a sentiment. Her husband neglects her, and she spends her days at the Orphanage. I do not despair. The child and her conscience will work upon her.”
“She knew nothing of the trial.”
“Good! She will think the more. A thousand thanks, madame!” He was gone.
Unconscious tact had stifled the question of how he thought the trial was going, and, although she did not know it, she had her reward. He joined M. Rodoin in the court-yard of the hotel, and said:
“Crow, man of discernment! Your hazel-eyed Madame de Beaudrillart is a phoenix. She answered my questions, and did not pester me with one of her own. I should like to win the case, partly on that account, and partly because Miron is so confoundedly cocksure.”
“Win it, then.”
“Any good in the father?”
“A typical bourgeois, accustomed to hector his neighbours, and not altogether convinced in his own mind.”
Maître Barraud swept his hat to a charming lady who drove by in a victoria.
“The Marquise de Pontharmin,” he explained. “I dine with her to-night.”
“While poor Madame de Beaudrillart imagines you preparing your defence with a wet towel round your head?”
“The world’s remarks are worth a dozen wet towels. Do you know, the world is sometimes extraordinarily shrewd, and you can go and tell your phoenix so. Here we part—till to-morrow!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.The Last Witness.Maître Barraud had, by little and little, built up a theory for his defence which, thanks to his keen observation and brilliant intuition, was not far from the truth. He was satisfied that the young baron had repaid the money, and that M. de Cadanet, though he punished him with silence, had no intention of making the matter public. What the advocate thought probable was, however, that by one of those unlucky forgetfulnesses to which all men are liable, the old count had never destroyed the letter of confession, and that Charles Lemaire had found it among his other papers after his death. He believed that it was highly probable M. de Cadanet had given some hint beforehand which was sufficient to enable a sharp and unscrupulous man to put two and two together, and arrive at his accusation. The world with whom he dined was of no more use to him than the wet towel might have been. Mme. de Pontharmin, it is true, said: “Do not disappoint us. I do not know whether he is guilty, but I shall break my heart if you do not prove him innocent,”—but this was a command and not a suggestion, which would have been a hundred times more valuable. When the time arrived for his speech he wore so confident an air that the Procureur rubbed his hands.“We are safe,” he said. “Barraud is hopeless.”One thing was certain—he had never taken more pains. Eloquence and masterly appeals to sentiment held the court breathless. Lemaire dug his nails into his palms and turned livid as he heard his own life presented in the most ignoble colours, his gambling, his follies, and side by side with them the mask he wore before M. de Cadanet. He was scourged with scorn as Maître Barraud’s magnificent voice described him—not content with winning M. de Beaudrillart’s money, also calumniating his victim to the old man who, bound to the Poissy family by ties of gratitude to the father, might have come to the rescue of the son had his mind not been poisoned against him. Lemaire, listening, felt that his cause was lost, but Maître Miron’s face wore its most contented air.It was an unusually long speech, going into very minute details. He insisted upon the absolute probability of the young man’s story, and the readiness with which he had admitted the points which told against himself. He touched pathetically on the life at Poissy—the happy family life, mother and sisters, child, and wife—the heroic wife who was present, suffering the pangs of suspense, and refusing to desert her husband. At another time Nathalie would have crimsoned under the curious looks turned in her direction by those who knew where she eat; but now she was absolutely unconscious of them, her eyes being fixed upon Léon, and her one thought to meet his with hopefulness. He entered fully into the particulars of Léon’s interview with M. de Cadanet. What could be more probable than the description given by the accused; what more tantalising than to have the means of extrication from his difficulties dangled before his eyes, and to hear that though they might have been his, they were now to go to the man who had slandered him? He was not defending the action of the prisoner in the street, but he left it to the jury to say whether the sudden temptation was not almost irresistible! And what could have been more straightforward than his action immediately afterwards? They had heard his letter, avowing everything, placing himself at the disposal of M. de Cadanet. Surely, if ever the count thought of taking action, he would have taken it then. Was it probable that a man—a man, especially, who was under so great obligations to the De Beaudrillart family as M. de Cadanet—would have nursed such a terrible, such a savage revenge, as to keep silence for years in order that the bolt might fall when it was least expected, and when his own death might have relieved them from the last vestige of uneasiness? Supposing, even, that the debt had remained unpaid, he refused to think so meanly of human nature.Charles Lemaire moistened his dry lips, the Procureur’s face expressed nothing but contented indifference.After a momentary pause, Maître Barraud proceeded. But, he said, what made it actually impossible was that the debt had been wholly repaid, first by an instalment of five hundred francs, a small sum certainly, but one which in the then condition of the estate, represented the most honourable economies, and, directly his marriage gave him the means of discharging it in full, by the entire sum of principal and interest. M. Bourget, the father-in-law of M. de Beaudrillart, had proved that at the time of the marriage, he, being desirous to clear off all debts on the estate, was told by M. de Beaudrillart that the sum of two hundred thousand francs was necessary for this object, and agreed to its being thus used. What suggestion, even, had been offered by the prosecution as to any other destination for this large sum? Had they brought forward a single creditor who could account for so much as a part of it? The explanation given by the accused was perfectly simple and straightforward. He had redeemed the promise in his letter and had despatched it at once to M. de Cadanet, who, owing to a natural indignation at what, no doubt, had been a forced loan, took no notice of the repayment and left M. de Beaudrillart to draw his own conclusions.Here he paused for an instant again, and glanced at the spot where sat Charles Lemaire, from whose face he drew what small encouragement he felt. To his astonishment it was empty. Maître Miron, however, had not moved, so that it did not seem as if he were connected with the disappearance. Maître Barraud went on, his voice more slow and impressive as he reached the point of M. de Cadanet’s last illness, his mind busily engaged in revolving why Lemaire had gone. He spoke of the influence which, by his own showing, Lemaire must have exercised upon the old count, who saw no one except the prosecutor and his wife. Only connected with him by marriage, he said, he had become his chief heir, his executor, apparently the receiver of his secrets. You were asked to believe that this dying old man, grasping revenge with palsied hands, had put into his possession an instrument powerful enough to ruin a noble family, and bidden him use it. Was it likely? The heart of every man and woman in that building he believed would cry out against such a shameful possibility. What really happened it was not difficult to conceive—At this point a piece of paper with a few lines scrawled upon it was handed up to the counsel. He read it mechanically without pausing in his speech, and the only thing the closest observer could have noticed was a slight change of manner. His voice became slower, almost drawling, and it might have been thought that at this moment he had yielded to the hopelessness of the case, and given up his efforts. The change surprised the listeners, and one person was affected by it, for all the Procureur’s keen attention revived, his eyelids contracting, and his mouth tightening. Maître Barraud went so languidly on that Nathalie, for a moment, covered her eyes with her hand in despair. He touched upon the old man’s death-bed, but with an entire absence of emotion. He could imagine, he said, that M. Lemaire would receive instructions for the future, perhaps be called upon to destroy certain documents, which M. de Cadanet never intended should survive him.“And in this softened moment,” he proceeded, “the first thing to be put out of the way would be Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s frank confession. You ask me what really happened. I am now in a position to tell you. The document was given to Monsieur Lemaire to destroy on the spot. For it he substituted another paper, kept back this, and allowed Monsieur de Cadanet to die in the belief that Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s safety was assured.”With one of those sudden changes of tone which he knew how to use so effectively, he allowed his last sentences to ring out like a trumpet. The next moment the Procureur was on his feet, protesting against such a charge being made; the crowd, stirred to its depths, broke into an inarticulate murmur, promptly hushed; Nathalie, the tears raining down her cheeks, kissed her hand impulsively to her husband; Maître Barraud, remarking quietly that an important though late witness had arrived who would prove what was said, merely appealed to the Court to hear her, and sat down without troubling himself to carry his speech any further; presently, and before the agitation had subsided, and after a consultation with the judges, it was seen that a plain woman, dressed in black, her eyes fixed on the ground, was in the witness-box, and a whisper went round the court that this was M. Lemaire’s wife.Her answers were at first mechanical, and throughout scarcely audible. As she was sworn, those who were near saw a tremor pass over her, and compassion made the judge cease to request her to speak more plainly, as soon as he discovered that to do so was beyond her powers. Maître Barraud, in place of his junior, examined her himself, and very briefly. After the necessary particulars as to who she was, he went direct to M. de Cadanet’s last illness, and inquired whether the name of De Beaudrillart had been mentioned to her by him.She replied that it had, more than once.In what manner?He gave her the impression of having a yearning towards them; particularly, here her voice shook, towards the boy.Did she suggest his sending for them?Yes.He refused?Yes.Did he speak of the prisoner? She looked uncomprehending, and he added, “Of Monsieur de Beaudrillart?”“He said he had behaved very ill.”“And you tried to soften your uncle?”“I thought he was very desolate, and that it was a pity some one should not come.”“Did your husband approve of this attempt of yours?”She hesitated, and then said that her husband feared it might excite M. de Cadanet.“Do you remember the 12th of August, 188-?”“Yes.”“Give an account of what happened.”She lifted her face, and looked imploringly round the court. Meeting only the gaze of countless eyes riveted upon hers, she looked on the floor again quickly, locking her hands together. Her voice trembled so exceedingly that the writers taking down the evidence could scarcely hear, and more than once she stopped altogether, and Maître Barraud had to ask a question or two to induce her to go on. But the gist of the evidence was to the effect that M. de Cadanet was very ill, and she watched anxiously for an opportunity to send for a priest. He was desirous to speak alone to her husband; she hoped when that interview was over to succeed in persuading him.“Where were you during the interview?”“In the anteroom. It was necessary that some one should be at hand in case of need.”“Were you needed?”“Not actually—I heard my husband’s voice raised once as if in alarm.”“Not anger?”“Oh, no, no! I ran to the door and found I was not wanted.”“Was all as usual?”“A candle was lighted.”“Did you go away!”“Not instantly. I wish now I had!” she cried, involuntarily.“Repeat what you heard,” said the judge, gently, “and saw.”“Something was burnt. I had half closed the door, and could not hear what my husband said, but Monsieur de Cadanet—”“Yes?”“He said: ‘You will remember that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.’”The words died away. The silence in the court had become profound. Poor Mme. Lemaire buried her face in her hands.“Have you,” said the judge at last, “ever mentioned what you overheard to your husband!”“No. I was afraid it would vex him.”“But when you heard that he was bringing this trial!”“I never heard it. I live very much out of the world—too much, perhaps.”“And what induced you to come forward to-day!”“Madame de Beaudrillart came and implored me. They have a child who would have been disgraced. I—am more fortunate,” she murmured.Maître Barraud had meanwhile been examining the letter written by Léon, of which one corner had been torn off—no doubt where the old man’s attempt to burn it had left a blackened edge. He had relapsed into his most tranquil and uninterested air, and sat down.The Procureur attempted to cross-examine Mme. Lemaire, but it was useless. He asked how it was that she could hear so clearly the words of a dying and feeble old man, when by her own account the door was half closed, and she had failed to catch her husband’s words.She replied simply that she could not tell.Was it not possible that she had been mistaken.“I heard what I have repeated.”“And you have come here to give evidence against your husband without so much as telling him what you were going to do!”“I—I tried—I sent—” She looked wildly round, and, before any one could reach her, dropped unconscious on the floor.
Maître Barraud had, by little and little, built up a theory for his defence which, thanks to his keen observation and brilliant intuition, was not far from the truth. He was satisfied that the young baron had repaid the money, and that M. de Cadanet, though he punished him with silence, had no intention of making the matter public. What the advocate thought probable was, however, that by one of those unlucky forgetfulnesses to which all men are liable, the old count had never destroyed the letter of confession, and that Charles Lemaire had found it among his other papers after his death. He believed that it was highly probable M. de Cadanet had given some hint beforehand which was sufficient to enable a sharp and unscrupulous man to put two and two together, and arrive at his accusation. The world with whom he dined was of no more use to him than the wet towel might have been. Mme. de Pontharmin, it is true, said: “Do not disappoint us. I do not know whether he is guilty, but I shall break my heart if you do not prove him innocent,”—but this was a command and not a suggestion, which would have been a hundred times more valuable. When the time arrived for his speech he wore so confident an air that the Procureur rubbed his hands.
“We are safe,” he said. “Barraud is hopeless.”
One thing was certain—he had never taken more pains. Eloquence and masterly appeals to sentiment held the court breathless. Lemaire dug his nails into his palms and turned livid as he heard his own life presented in the most ignoble colours, his gambling, his follies, and side by side with them the mask he wore before M. de Cadanet. He was scourged with scorn as Maître Barraud’s magnificent voice described him—not content with winning M. de Beaudrillart’s money, also calumniating his victim to the old man who, bound to the Poissy family by ties of gratitude to the father, might have come to the rescue of the son had his mind not been poisoned against him. Lemaire, listening, felt that his cause was lost, but Maître Miron’s face wore its most contented air.
It was an unusually long speech, going into very minute details. He insisted upon the absolute probability of the young man’s story, and the readiness with which he had admitted the points which told against himself. He touched pathetically on the life at Poissy—the happy family life, mother and sisters, child, and wife—the heroic wife who was present, suffering the pangs of suspense, and refusing to desert her husband. At another time Nathalie would have crimsoned under the curious looks turned in her direction by those who knew where she eat; but now she was absolutely unconscious of them, her eyes being fixed upon Léon, and her one thought to meet his with hopefulness. He entered fully into the particulars of Léon’s interview with M. de Cadanet. What could be more probable than the description given by the accused; what more tantalising than to have the means of extrication from his difficulties dangled before his eyes, and to hear that though they might have been his, they were now to go to the man who had slandered him? He was not defending the action of the prisoner in the street, but he left it to the jury to say whether the sudden temptation was not almost irresistible! And what could have been more straightforward than his action immediately afterwards? They had heard his letter, avowing everything, placing himself at the disposal of M. de Cadanet. Surely, if ever the count thought of taking action, he would have taken it then. Was it probable that a man—a man, especially, who was under so great obligations to the De Beaudrillart family as M. de Cadanet—would have nursed such a terrible, such a savage revenge, as to keep silence for years in order that the bolt might fall when it was least expected, and when his own death might have relieved them from the last vestige of uneasiness? Supposing, even, that the debt had remained unpaid, he refused to think so meanly of human nature.
Charles Lemaire moistened his dry lips, the Procureur’s face expressed nothing but contented indifference.
After a momentary pause, Maître Barraud proceeded. But, he said, what made it actually impossible was that the debt had been wholly repaid, first by an instalment of five hundred francs, a small sum certainly, but one which in the then condition of the estate, represented the most honourable economies, and, directly his marriage gave him the means of discharging it in full, by the entire sum of principal and interest. M. Bourget, the father-in-law of M. de Beaudrillart, had proved that at the time of the marriage, he, being desirous to clear off all debts on the estate, was told by M. de Beaudrillart that the sum of two hundred thousand francs was necessary for this object, and agreed to its being thus used. What suggestion, even, had been offered by the prosecution as to any other destination for this large sum? Had they brought forward a single creditor who could account for so much as a part of it? The explanation given by the accused was perfectly simple and straightforward. He had redeemed the promise in his letter and had despatched it at once to M. de Cadanet, who, owing to a natural indignation at what, no doubt, had been a forced loan, took no notice of the repayment and left M. de Beaudrillart to draw his own conclusions.
Here he paused for an instant again, and glanced at the spot where sat Charles Lemaire, from whose face he drew what small encouragement he felt. To his astonishment it was empty. Maître Miron, however, had not moved, so that it did not seem as if he were connected with the disappearance. Maître Barraud went on, his voice more slow and impressive as he reached the point of M. de Cadanet’s last illness, his mind busily engaged in revolving why Lemaire had gone. He spoke of the influence which, by his own showing, Lemaire must have exercised upon the old count, who saw no one except the prosecutor and his wife. Only connected with him by marriage, he said, he had become his chief heir, his executor, apparently the receiver of his secrets. You were asked to believe that this dying old man, grasping revenge with palsied hands, had put into his possession an instrument powerful enough to ruin a noble family, and bidden him use it. Was it likely? The heart of every man and woman in that building he believed would cry out against such a shameful possibility. What really happened it was not difficult to conceive—
At this point a piece of paper with a few lines scrawled upon it was handed up to the counsel. He read it mechanically without pausing in his speech, and the only thing the closest observer could have noticed was a slight change of manner. His voice became slower, almost drawling, and it might have been thought that at this moment he had yielded to the hopelessness of the case, and given up his efforts. The change surprised the listeners, and one person was affected by it, for all the Procureur’s keen attention revived, his eyelids contracting, and his mouth tightening. Maître Barraud went so languidly on that Nathalie, for a moment, covered her eyes with her hand in despair. He touched upon the old man’s death-bed, but with an entire absence of emotion. He could imagine, he said, that M. Lemaire would receive instructions for the future, perhaps be called upon to destroy certain documents, which M. de Cadanet never intended should survive him.
“And in this softened moment,” he proceeded, “the first thing to be put out of the way would be Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s frank confession. You ask me what really happened. I am now in a position to tell you. The document was given to Monsieur Lemaire to destroy on the spot. For it he substituted another paper, kept back this, and allowed Monsieur de Cadanet to die in the belief that Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s safety was assured.”
With one of those sudden changes of tone which he knew how to use so effectively, he allowed his last sentences to ring out like a trumpet. The next moment the Procureur was on his feet, protesting against such a charge being made; the crowd, stirred to its depths, broke into an inarticulate murmur, promptly hushed; Nathalie, the tears raining down her cheeks, kissed her hand impulsively to her husband; Maître Barraud, remarking quietly that an important though late witness had arrived who would prove what was said, merely appealed to the Court to hear her, and sat down without troubling himself to carry his speech any further; presently, and before the agitation had subsided, and after a consultation with the judges, it was seen that a plain woman, dressed in black, her eyes fixed on the ground, was in the witness-box, and a whisper went round the court that this was M. Lemaire’s wife.
Her answers were at first mechanical, and throughout scarcely audible. As she was sworn, those who were near saw a tremor pass over her, and compassion made the judge cease to request her to speak more plainly, as soon as he discovered that to do so was beyond her powers. Maître Barraud, in place of his junior, examined her himself, and very briefly. After the necessary particulars as to who she was, he went direct to M. de Cadanet’s last illness, and inquired whether the name of De Beaudrillart had been mentioned to her by him.
She replied that it had, more than once.
In what manner?
He gave her the impression of having a yearning towards them; particularly, here her voice shook, towards the boy.
Did she suggest his sending for them?
Yes.
He refused?
Yes.
Did he speak of the prisoner? She looked uncomprehending, and he added, “Of Monsieur de Beaudrillart?”
“He said he had behaved very ill.”
“And you tried to soften your uncle?”
“I thought he was very desolate, and that it was a pity some one should not come.”
“Did your husband approve of this attempt of yours?”
She hesitated, and then said that her husband feared it might excite M. de Cadanet.
“Do you remember the 12th of August, 188-?”
“Yes.”
“Give an account of what happened.”
She lifted her face, and looked imploringly round the court. Meeting only the gaze of countless eyes riveted upon hers, she looked on the floor again quickly, locking her hands together. Her voice trembled so exceedingly that the writers taking down the evidence could scarcely hear, and more than once she stopped altogether, and Maître Barraud had to ask a question or two to induce her to go on. But the gist of the evidence was to the effect that M. de Cadanet was very ill, and she watched anxiously for an opportunity to send for a priest. He was desirous to speak alone to her husband; she hoped when that interview was over to succeed in persuading him.
“Where were you during the interview?”
“In the anteroom. It was necessary that some one should be at hand in case of need.”
“Were you needed?”
“Not actually—I heard my husband’s voice raised once as if in alarm.”
“Not anger?”
“Oh, no, no! I ran to the door and found I was not wanted.”
“Was all as usual?”
“A candle was lighted.”
“Did you go away!”
“Not instantly. I wish now I had!” she cried, involuntarily.
“Repeat what you heard,” said the judge, gently, “and saw.”
“Something was burnt. I had half closed the door, and could not hear what my husband said, but Monsieur de Cadanet—”
“Yes?”
“He said: ‘You will remember that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.’”
The words died away. The silence in the court had become profound. Poor Mme. Lemaire buried her face in her hands.
“Have you,” said the judge at last, “ever mentioned what you overheard to your husband!”
“No. I was afraid it would vex him.”
“But when you heard that he was bringing this trial!”
“I never heard it. I live very much out of the world—too much, perhaps.”
“And what induced you to come forward to-day!”
“Madame de Beaudrillart came and implored me. They have a child who would have been disgraced. I—am more fortunate,” she murmured.
Maître Barraud had meanwhile been examining the letter written by Léon, of which one corner had been torn off—no doubt where the old man’s attempt to burn it had left a blackened edge. He had relapsed into his most tranquil and uninterested air, and sat down.
The Procureur attempted to cross-examine Mme. Lemaire, but it was useless. He asked how it was that she could hear so clearly the words of a dying and feeble old man, when by her own account the door was half closed, and she had failed to catch her husband’s words.
She replied simply that she could not tell.
Was it not possible that she had been mistaken.
“I heard what I have repeated.”
“And you have come here to give evidence against your husband without so much as telling him what you were going to do!”
“I—I tried—I sent—” She looked wildly round, and, before any one could reach her, dropped unconscious on the floor.
Chapter Twenty Eight.The Awakening of a Soul.The famous trial was at an end, and talk rapidly subsiding. After Mme. Lemaire’s evidence it was felt that the prosecution fell to the ground, and the jury brought in an acquittal at once. When Léon and Nathalie met they could not speak. The woman in both was uppermost but voiceless until they found themselves alone. He was aged, and there were lines in his face which would never leave it, for although his nature was not deep enough to suffer deeply, its easy lightness had offered no sort of resistance when shaken by despair. Yet it seemed as if something had come to him—perhaps the soul, which was wanting before, or lay undeveloped, waiting for the touch of a great love. Love and suffering. Their union is divine, and divine their mission and their strength.A warrant was issued for the arrest of Charles Lemaire on the charge of perjury, but he had taken advantage of the warning which at last reached him from his wife to escape—it is believed—to America. For a long time after that testimony to which her conscience forced her she was very ill. She recovered at last, and found consolation in her Orphanage. She would never see Nathalie again, but once Raoul was taken to the Home, and stared amazedly at rows of little white beds, and at a lady in black who looked at him and cried.Perhaps of the actors in the little drama, M. Bourget, who seemed the most square and solid figure of all, showed the roost change, or shared that feature beyond the others with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He had gone through a collapse. Hopes, opinions, ambitions, affections had tumbled down together in one vast ruin, and although he managed to build some of them up again, the feeling of insecurity which follows an earthquake could not be easily got rid of. Until then he had scarcely believed that there was any possible contingency in which money would not carry the day. Certain it is that he bullies less, and on more than one occasion has been known to abstain from laying down the law. Leroux has never been forgiven, but the person for whom he displays the most sincere respect, and to whose opinions he attaches a quite disproportionate value is M. Georges. Meanwhile, although he has once declined the honour, it is pretty certain that he will be chosen for the next mayor.As for M. Georges himself, it is the incredible which comes to pass, and his wife—to his own utter amazement—is no other than a Demoiselle De Beaudrillart. Had Mme. de Beaudrillart been herself, it could never have happened, but the poor woman was struck down and shattered by the storm which had shaken the very foundations of Poissy, and all her old landmarks were swept away. And M. Georges had been such a stay, such a support in the hour of trouble! Everybody turned to him. His unfailing helpfulness, his good sense, his courageous loyalty attracted them to the little man. Poor Claire! She had been attracted first of all, and it was hard that having stood up for him when others blamed, she should be obliged to look on and see Félicie chosen. As for Léon, what could he say? It shocked him; but had he not been the cause of what might have proved a really overwhelming disgrace? After all was said and done, the fact remained that he had taken the notes, and there were people who would throw it up at him when they heard his name all his life long. And Nathalie was on M. Georges’s side.“Dear, if you married me, why should not Félicie marry Monsieur Georges?”It was one of those differences which seem infinite to the person who has to decide, but which cannot be explained to the world. As for Félicie herself, bliss smiled in her face. M. Georges had behaved admirably. After welcoming M. and Mme. Léon, he had sought an interview with Léon, laid himself and his small prospects most humbly at Mlle. Félicie’s feet, and taken himself off at once to Tours. Léon had gone so far as to argue with his sister, and to ask her whether she had fully considered what the change in position meant.“Oh, it will be delightful!” exclaimed Félicie. “We shall be within reach of Nantes, and every summer we shall take sea-baths, and see something of the world.”“Of the world!” repeated Léon, petrified. “I thought you dreaded it!”“As a girl, yes; but with my husband what should I dread?” said Félicie, calmly. “Here it is certainly not gay, and lately, I can assure you, Léon, with poor mamma so crushed, and Claire walking about with a face of stone, and you in prison, if it had not been for Michel I don’t know what one would have done! Is it not delightful that he should have such a beautiful name? Saint Michel’s has always been a special day for me, and I had all the new embroideries ready for it.”How could Léon answer this speech? Félicie’s obstinacy was well known in the family. He persisted so far as to ask whether she was prepared to live in a very small way, and probably have no money for pilgrimages—“Michel has not quite made up his mind that pilgrimages do all the good we suppose,” interrupted Félicie, with the air of a discoverer.”—And find yourself Madame Georges, instead of Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart?”“Claire said that no one would recognise us again,” she remarked, in answer; “and though it has all turned out so much better than we expected, I do think that Michel was the only person who really believed in you. Even the abbé was doubtful. I am sure you must be very grateful to Michel always, dear Léon.”She carried the day. Claire would say nothing. Claire’s misery seemed scarcely lessened. It was as if the very possibility of such a disaster as had threatened had turned her to marble, and that she could not come to life again. She spent her time either with her mother, who was now always in her own room, or wandering about the grounds by herself, especially avoiding Félicie. All that Nathalie could do was to leave books about in the salon, books such as she knew would interest her sister-in-law, and to avoid comment when they disappeared. She hoped by this means to offer a little food to her active mind without giving her the annoyance of feeling herself under an obligation.Two others who were perfectly happy at the château were Jacques Charpentier and Raoul, and perhaps it was Raoul’s talk which most reconciled his father to Félicie’s marriage. He was never tired of vaunting M. Georges, or of bringing forward the small surprises which had been prepared for this happy moment. Spurred by their motive, he had submitted to learn to read, to print his own name, and to sing a funny little song about a drummer in a shrill childish voice. He was not content until he had dragged his father and mother down to the river, that he might show them how he could throw his line like a grown-up man.It was a day in late autumn, one of those days which come laden with the sweetness of the past. A ripe golden glow was abroad, shining on the yellow leaves of the poplars, and reaching the hearts of husband and wife as they stood by the river and watched it flowing by strong and swift. There was enough wind to stir the long grasses by its side, always moist and green; to drive a few white clouds softly across the sky, and to give a delicious exhilaration to the light air. Gnats danced in the sun, a distant sound of children’s voices reached the ear, and old Antoine, in his sabots, clattered across the bridge. On this bridge there was a patch of new wood, still out of tone with the old railing and its soft, rich grey, and a few bits of useless stuff which the river had flung on one side on a certain wild night not so very long ago had been turned over by the thrifty villagers, and left as of no value. Antoine was looking forward to a good storm when he would go up to the château and come back unmolested with a fine supply of fuel. He glanced at the two figures as they stood by the water-side, and chuckled. “It’s as easy to hold one’s tongue as to talk,” he muttered, “and pays better.”For a time the two were silent. Now first had they seen the river since that terrible night, and their hearts were too full for speech. Suddenly Nathalie was in her husband’s arms, strained there passionately. “My dear one!” he whispered, again and again; nothing more, and perhaps it was a good sign that his old flow of words was wanting.She had closed her eyes in the dizziness of her bliss, and when she opened them again he rained kisses on them, those eyes which held in the brown clearness the fresh healthiness of a mountain stream.After a time they could speak, both trembling.“You saved me,” he said, “three times over. Here—”“Don’t talk of that,” she shuddered.”—Then by making me tell the truth, then by going to that poor woman. Body and soul, three times over.”He had let her go, and they walked, step by step, through the long green grass. She sighed softly: “I am so happy that I am afraid.”She felt as if she had reached heaven, and, as she had said, it frightened her until she had breathed a prayer. That calmed her swelling heart, and she could bear to hear him whisper again:“Three times over.”“Dear,” she said, “what of that? When one loves—”“They all loved me. But only your love was strong enough to stand by me.”She gave a quick, happy laugh.“We have gained friends,” she said. “Monsieur Rodoin.”“And Maître Barraud.”“Not he. He only thought of his case, and of triumphing over Maître Miron. When they were all congratulating you afterwards, do you know what I saw?”“What?”Her voice sank. “He yawned.”Léon’s vanity felt a momentary mortification. Then he laughed.“Forgive him,” he said. “The situation was not so novel to him as to us.”They were sitting together by this time, within easy reach of Raoul, on a small, thick bough of a tree which jutted out from the bank. The river ran by, swift and silvery, though Nathalie kept her eyes persistently turned from it; the poplars rustled, above them were fathomless depths of white and blue. The château itself lay behind and out of sight, yet at this moment both were thinking of it; of its grey stones, which somehow seemed to be built into the very lives of the De Beaudrillarts; of those who had fought for it, sinned for it. Not one of them had shielded it to more purpose from dishonour than the young wife who had met so much contempt within its walls, whose picture had been refused a place among the old ancestors.Nathalie broke the silence.“Have you read the bishop’s letter!”“To you?”“Yes.”“Oh, poor Félicie!” Nathalie laughed.“She does not care. All the vestments are going off to Madame Lemballe to-morrow morning, and she intends to embroider herself an evening dress. But the letter is delightful. So hearty! And he means to come again.”“He will be more welcome than he was before. Nathalie, dearest,” his voice sank, “Monsieur Georges wants us to have rejoicings—something to mark my home-coming. How can one have a merrymaking over what grew out of misery and weakness? If it had not been for you the weakness would have cost me my life; and as it is, my poor mother is left a wreck. There is nothing to be proud of, though I hope I am thankful. What do you say?”She clung to him. “Dear love, no! Not merrymaking. One can show one’s thankfulness in some other way.”“Raoul will be a better man than I have been.”“Never dearer to those who love him.”“Even after all you heard in Paris?”“Always, and forever.” There was not a shadow of hesitation in her voice, and when he put her from him and looked into her eyes, they met his without shrinking. She repeated the word “Always.”“I believe you,” he said, letting his head fall; “but you are different from most women—and most men. I could not have done for you all that you have done for me, or half of it.”She was looking at him with an infinite love, though she knew the truth of what he said. The roots of love did not run deep enough with him; he could not have done it—perhaps never would have force enough to do it. What of that? It is better to give than to receive. When life has gone so far, characters do not change suddenly, even when an earthquake has shaken them. They grow a little stronger, a little weaker; they fall and rise, or, alas, sometimes slip farther down the hill. We see the slips and hear the clatter of falling stones more quickly than we notice the gradual gain, inch by inch, which to clearer eyes than ours means all the difference.And so, though some of her dreams had flown forever, and there were lines written on her face which no coming springs or summers could efface, Nathalie was happy. When Claire had talked of Léon having no soul, she was not far out, for something which he had not shown before had been born in him by the strength of his wife’s love. Life looked different to him; the rose-leaves with which he tried to cover it up had been swept away by the storm, scars were left, ugly chasms, rough stones. But, side by side, hand in hand, walked his wife.The End.
The famous trial was at an end, and talk rapidly subsiding. After Mme. Lemaire’s evidence it was felt that the prosecution fell to the ground, and the jury brought in an acquittal at once. When Léon and Nathalie met they could not speak. The woman in both was uppermost but voiceless until they found themselves alone. He was aged, and there were lines in his face which would never leave it, for although his nature was not deep enough to suffer deeply, its easy lightness had offered no sort of resistance when shaken by despair. Yet it seemed as if something had come to him—perhaps the soul, which was wanting before, or lay undeveloped, waiting for the touch of a great love. Love and suffering. Their union is divine, and divine their mission and their strength.
A warrant was issued for the arrest of Charles Lemaire on the charge of perjury, but he had taken advantage of the warning which at last reached him from his wife to escape—it is believed—to America. For a long time after that testimony to which her conscience forced her she was very ill. She recovered at last, and found consolation in her Orphanage. She would never see Nathalie again, but once Raoul was taken to the Home, and stared amazedly at rows of little white beds, and at a lady in black who looked at him and cried.
Perhaps of the actors in the little drama, M. Bourget, who seemed the most square and solid figure of all, showed the roost change, or shared that feature beyond the others with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He had gone through a collapse. Hopes, opinions, ambitions, affections had tumbled down together in one vast ruin, and although he managed to build some of them up again, the feeling of insecurity which follows an earthquake could not be easily got rid of. Until then he had scarcely believed that there was any possible contingency in which money would not carry the day. Certain it is that he bullies less, and on more than one occasion has been known to abstain from laying down the law. Leroux has never been forgiven, but the person for whom he displays the most sincere respect, and to whose opinions he attaches a quite disproportionate value is M. Georges. Meanwhile, although he has once declined the honour, it is pretty certain that he will be chosen for the next mayor.
As for M. Georges himself, it is the incredible which comes to pass, and his wife—to his own utter amazement—is no other than a Demoiselle De Beaudrillart. Had Mme. de Beaudrillart been herself, it could never have happened, but the poor woman was struck down and shattered by the storm which had shaken the very foundations of Poissy, and all her old landmarks were swept away. And M. Georges had been such a stay, such a support in the hour of trouble! Everybody turned to him. His unfailing helpfulness, his good sense, his courageous loyalty attracted them to the little man. Poor Claire! She had been attracted first of all, and it was hard that having stood up for him when others blamed, she should be obliged to look on and see Félicie chosen. As for Léon, what could he say? It shocked him; but had he not been the cause of what might have proved a really overwhelming disgrace? After all was said and done, the fact remained that he had taken the notes, and there were people who would throw it up at him when they heard his name all his life long. And Nathalie was on M. Georges’s side.
“Dear, if you married me, why should not Félicie marry Monsieur Georges?”
It was one of those differences which seem infinite to the person who has to decide, but which cannot be explained to the world. As for Félicie herself, bliss smiled in her face. M. Georges had behaved admirably. After welcoming M. and Mme. Léon, he had sought an interview with Léon, laid himself and his small prospects most humbly at Mlle. Félicie’s feet, and taken himself off at once to Tours. Léon had gone so far as to argue with his sister, and to ask her whether she had fully considered what the change in position meant.
“Oh, it will be delightful!” exclaimed Félicie. “We shall be within reach of Nantes, and every summer we shall take sea-baths, and see something of the world.”
“Of the world!” repeated Léon, petrified. “I thought you dreaded it!”
“As a girl, yes; but with my husband what should I dread?” said Félicie, calmly. “Here it is certainly not gay, and lately, I can assure you, Léon, with poor mamma so crushed, and Claire walking about with a face of stone, and you in prison, if it had not been for Michel I don’t know what one would have done! Is it not delightful that he should have such a beautiful name? Saint Michel’s has always been a special day for me, and I had all the new embroideries ready for it.”
How could Léon answer this speech? Félicie’s obstinacy was well known in the family. He persisted so far as to ask whether she was prepared to live in a very small way, and probably have no money for pilgrimages—
“Michel has not quite made up his mind that pilgrimages do all the good we suppose,” interrupted Félicie, with the air of a discoverer.
”—And find yourself Madame Georges, instead of Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart?”
“Claire said that no one would recognise us again,” she remarked, in answer; “and though it has all turned out so much better than we expected, I do think that Michel was the only person who really believed in you. Even the abbé was doubtful. I am sure you must be very grateful to Michel always, dear Léon.”
She carried the day. Claire would say nothing. Claire’s misery seemed scarcely lessened. It was as if the very possibility of such a disaster as had threatened had turned her to marble, and that she could not come to life again. She spent her time either with her mother, who was now always in her own room, or wandering about the grounds by herself, especially avoiding Félicie. All that Nathalie could do was to leave books about in the salon, books such as she knew would interest her sister-in-law, and to avoid comment when they disappeared. She hoped by this means to offer a little food to her active mind without giving her the annoyance of feeling herself under an obligation.
Two others who were perfectly happy at the château were Jacques Charpentier and Raoul, and perhaps it was Raoul’s talk which most reconciled his father to Félicie’s marriage. He was never tired of vaunting M. Georges, or of bringing forward the small surprises which had been prepared for this happy moment. Spurred by their motive, he had submitted to learn to read, to print his own name, and to sing a funny little song about a drummer in a shrill childish voice. He was not content until he had dragged his father and mother down to the river, that he might show them how he could throw his line like a grown-up man.
It was a day in late autumn, one of those days which come laden with the sweetness of the past. A ripe golden glow was abroad, shining on the yellow leaves of the poplars, and reaching the hearts of husband and wife as they stood by the river and watched it flowing by strong and swift. There was enough wind to stir the long grasses by its side, always moist and green; to drive a few white clouds softly across the sky, and to give a delicious exhilaration to the light air. Gnats danced in the sun, a distant sound of children’s voices reached the ear, and old Antoine, in his sabots, clattered across the bridge. On this bridge there was a patch of new wood, still out of tone with the old railing and its soft, rich grey, and a few bits of useless stuff which the river had flung on one side on a certain wild night not so very long ago had been turned over by the thrifty villagers, and left as of no value. Antoine was looking forward to a good storm when he would go up to the château and come back unmolested with a fine supply of fuel. He glanced at the two figures as they stood by the water-side, and chuckled. “It’s as easy to hold one’s tongue as to talk,” he muttered, “and pays better.”
For a time the two were silent. Now first had they seen the river since that terrible night, and their hearts were too full for speech. Suddenly Nathalie was in her husband’s arms, strained there passionately. “My dear one!” he whispered, again and again; nothing more, and perhaps it was a good sign that his old flow of words was wanting.
She had closed her eyes in the dizziness of her bliss, and when she opened them again he rained kisses on them, those eyes which held in the brown clearness the fresh healthiness of a mountain stream.
After a time they could speak, both trembling.
“You saved me,” he said, “three times over. Here—”
“Don’t talk of that,” she shuddered.
”—Then by making me tell the truth, then by going to that poor woman. Body and soul, three times over.”
He had let her go, and they walked, step by step, through the long green grass. She sighed softly: “I am so happy that I am afraid.”
She felt as if she had reached heaven, and, as she had said, it frightened her until she had breathed a prayer. That calmed her swelling heart, and she could bear to hear him whisper again:
“Three times over.”
“Dear,” she said, “what of that? When one loves—”
“They all loved me. But only your love was strong enough to stand by me.”
She gave a quick, happy laugh.
“We have gained friends,” she said. “Monsieur Rodoin.”
“And Maître Barraud.”
“Not he. He only thought of his case, and of triumphing over Maître Miron. When they were all congratulating you afterwards, do you know what I saw?”
“What?”
Her voice sank. “He yawned.”
Léon’s vanity felt a momentary mortification. Then he laughed.
“Forgive him,” he said. “The situation was not so novel to him as to us.”
They were sitting together by this time, within easy reach of Raoul, on a small, thick bough of a tree which jutted out from the bank. The river ran by, swift and silvery, though Nathalie kept her eyes persistently turned from it; the poplars rustled, above them were fathomless depths of white and blue. The château itself lay behind and out of sight, yet at this moment both were thinking of it; of its grey stones, which somehow seemed to be built into the very lives of the De Beaudrillarts; of those who had fought for it, sinned for it. Not one of them had shielded it to more purpose from dishonour than the young wife who had met so much contempt within its walls, whose picture had been refused a place among the old ancestors.
Nathalie broke the silence.
“Have you read the bishop’s letter!”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, poor Félicie!” Nathalie laughed.
“She does not care. All the vestments are going off to Madame Lemballe to-morrow morning, and she intends to embroider herself an evening dress. But the letter is delightful. So hearty! And he means to come again.”
“He will be more welcome than he was before. Nathalie, dearest,” his voice sank, “Monsieur Georges wants us to have rejoicings—something to mark my home-coming. How can one have a merrymaking over what grew out of misery and weakness? If it had not been for you the weakness would have cost me my life; and as it is, my poor mother is left a wreck. There is nothing to be proud of, though I hope I am thankful. What do you say?”
She clung to him. “Dear love, no! Not merrymaking. One can show one’s thankfulness in some other way.”
“Raoul will be a better man than I have been.”
“Never dearer to those who love him.”
“Even after all you heard in Paris?”
“Always, and forever.” There was not a shadow of hesitation in her voice, and when he put her from him and looked into her eyes, they met his without shrinking. She repeated the word “Always.”
“I believe you,” he said, letting his head fall; “but you are different from most women—and most men. I could not have done for you all that you have done for me, or half of it.”
She was looking at him with an infinite love, though she knew the truth of what he said. The roots of love did not run deep enough with him; he could not have done it—perhaps never would have force enough to do it. What of that? It is better to give than to receive. When life has gone so far, characters do not change suddenly, even when an earthquake has shaken them. They grow a little stronger, a little weaker; they fall and rise, or, alas, sometimes slip farther down the hill. We see the slips and hear the clatter of falling stones more quickly than we notice the gradual gain, inch by inch, which to clearer eyes than ours means all the difference.
And so, though some of her dreams had flown forever, and there were lines written on her face which no coming springs or summers could efface, Nathalie was happy. When Claire had talked of Léon having no soul, she was not far out, for something which he had not shown before had been born in him by the strength of his wife’s love. Life looked different to him; the rose-leaves with which he tried to cover it up had been swept away by the storm, scars were left, ugly chasms, rough stones. But, side by side, hand in hand, walked his wife.
The End.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24| |Chapter 25| |Chapter 26| |Chapter 27| |Chapter 28|