Chapter Twenty Three.M. Georges to the Rescue.Nathalie had written a hasty line to her father before leaving Poissy. He received it with an outbreak of temper, such as of late had become frequent with him. He had almost given up going to the café, or frequenting the streets; mostly he sat in his own room, gloomy, unapproachable. His appetite was unaffected, but to Fanchon’s mortification he was indifferent what he ate, and his favourite dish of cold beef en vinaigrette, however carefully prepared, failed to elicit so much as a grunt of satisfaction. His fellow-townsmen found his conduct inexplicable, not a word of Poissy crossing his lips; and as for the photographer’s window, he would have walked a mile to avoid passing it. One or two of his intimates declared that they breathed more freely; but, on the whole, Tours had been proud of his indomitable energy, his weaknesses, his blunt manners, and his great fortune, and regarded his depression with uneasiness.“For at his age, when a man suddenly loses interest in what he most cares about, it is a bad sign,” said Dr Mathorin, taking off his hat, and rubbing his bald head with a large coloured handkerchief. He was walking across the long bridge with M. Georges. “Poor old fellow!”“He has not called you in!”“Not he. But if this talk of making him mayor comes to anything, I’ll go and sound him on the matter, and perhaps get a chance of a word, and of having my head snapped off.”“Quite between ourselves,” remarked M. Georges, cautiously, “I understand that the opposition is led by Leroux.”“Little wasp! Though with such a liver, one ought not to be hard on him, and by all that is yellow, here he comes! Good-day, Monsieur Leroux. Where are you off to?”“Have you seen the paper? Have you heard the news?”“Not we.”“Ah, this explains it all! Now we know why old Bourget has sulked like a bear with a sore head! A fine end for Poissy and its grandeur indeed! Shameful! Absolutely disgraceful!”“Monsieur Leroux,” interrupted M. Georges, gravely, “be good enough to explain yourself.”For the little lawyer was positively dancing with excitement.“Not a son-in-law to be so proud of, and to fling at all our heads, after all!” he cried. “And to have kept it so secret! When I opened the paper, I thought I must be dreaming. Monsieur de Beaudrillart is in prison for stealing.”The doctor ejaculated an amazed oath. M. Georges turned crimson and then white, and made a threatening step towards Leroux. He had never fought with any one in his peaceable life, but at this moment he felt as if he must kill the miserable little slanderer. Leroux hastily stepped back, and with triumphant fingers unfolded the newspaper and pointed to a paragraph.“See for yourselves, then, if you do not believe; it is no invention of mine. There. Read the sentence aloud, Monsieur Georges. ‘Yesterday the Baron de Beaudrillart was arrested in Paris on a charge of stealing the sum of two hundred thousand francs, the property of Monsieur Lemaire, nephew by marriage to the defunct Comte de Cadanet.’ Oh, I know it by heart already. Read, read, doctor. This explains, eh? Was there ever anything so disgraceful? This comes of your barons, your old families, your blue blood! A thief—the owner of Poissy a thief! Why, it disgraces us all, the whole arrondissement!” And M. Leroux spat on the ground to express his sense of personal pollution.Meanwhile, with a heart wrung with distress, M. Georges read the terrible words, and the doctor, spectacles on the point of his nose, devoured them over his shoulder. When he had gone twice through them, M. Georges dropped his hand and the newspaper by his side, and stared at the ground, speechless.“Well, what do you say now?” said Leroux, sidling up. “A pretty black business, isn’t it? A common thief!”“The poor women!” muttered the doctor.“Oh, come, they’ve had their day, and it’s our turn now. This will bring down their starch a bit. And as for old Bourget, with his eternal Poissy this and Poissy that, as if the whole world had been made on purpose to carry Poissy, we sha’n’t be choked with his talk any more. This puts an end to a good deal, for I should like to know why he should be picked out to be mayor, except because he was father-in-law to this fine gentleman at Poissy? Not such a desirable connection now, not one to—Sacrée! help! murder!”For, to his infinite amazement, the little lawyer found himself swung off the pavement by the collar of his coat, and, after a shake which seemed to loosen all the teeth in his head, left staggering in the middle of the road, his newspaper flying after him. So unexpected and so prompt had been the action of M. Georges that the doctor had not had time to interfere, nor, indeed, had he much desire to do so. No one else was very near at the time, and Leroux pulled himself together, vowing vengeance and actions as he sullenly edged away.“Be off,” said M. Georges, calmly, “for if I hear any more of this vile talk you may find yourself with something worse than a shake. Doctor, this news has completely upset me.”“So it appears,” said Dr Mathurin, chuckling. “I should rather say it had led to the upsetting of other people. Monsieur Georges, you are a man of force, but I am afraid you have laid yourself open to an action for assault.”The other waved his hand indifferently.“Let him bring it. My little patrimony can defray the expense, and his malice is a matter of no consequence. But this sad, this terrible affair! My friend, I must go at once to Poissy. If there is anything in which I can serve them, it will be my greatest privilege to be allowed to be useful. I shudder to think of the effect of such a blow upon madame and the poor young ladies. I imagine—but it is not possible for you to imagine—what it must be for those so bound up in Poissy, and in monsieur le baron, when it shocks even us! It is horrible, impossible, villainous! He must be the victim of some cursed plot. I could almost believe that miserable little Leroux had invented and inserted it for the mere purpose of giving pain, had such a thing been possible; but I presume—”“No, no, my friend,” said the doctor, wringing his hand, “the thing did not grow in his brain, and, indeed, there was a whisper yesterday, although I did not repeat it. This explains Monsieur Bourget’s attitude, poor man! A crushing humiliation for him, a very heavy blow for all. And the poor wife! Yes, I think you are right to go there, though it will be a terribly trying visit. Pray present them with my most respectful sympathy.”M. Georges was informed that Mme. de Beaudrillart was receiving no one, but that the young ladies would see him presently, if he would kindly go into the salon. He fancied that the servant admitting him had a frightened air, and glanced at him as if in hopes of his speaking; but he dared not trust himself on so delicate a subject. He waited for some time before the sisters, both dressed in black, came in together.The alteration in Mlle. Claire shocked him. She had aged ten years; her face, bloodless and sallow, had grown sharper, her eyes were tearless, and she carried herself more stiffly upright than ever. Félicie’s grief, on the contrary, was less restrained; her eyes were scarlet, her face swollen with crying, and as she came in at the door she stretched out her hand, and exclaimed in a voice of despair:“Oh, Monsieur Georges, then you at least do not desert us!” He was so touched by this appeal that he hurried forward and bowed low over her hand.“Desert you, mademoiselle, because Monsieur Léon is the victim of a shameful accusation! No one would be capable of such baseness, least of all an old servant of your family. I have hurried here to assure you of my profound sympathy, and to say that no one who knew monsieur le baron could for a moment believe him capable of such an act. It is a miserable calumny which will easily be disproved.”“Ah, that is exactly what I say to my sister,” said Félicie, cheering up. “I assure her that if she only will have faith, thingsmustcome right, and our dear Léon be cleared. Claire, do you hear what Monsieur Georges thinks?”“Monsieur Georges is very good,” said Claire, with quivering voice. “I am sure he has always wished us well. But whether he is cleared or not, the disgrace, the dreadful blot on our family remains, for nothing can remove the fact that a Baron de Beaudrillart has been arrested for—for stealing.” Her voice grew hoarse, and the last words almost choked her. M. Georges, simple soul as he was, knew enough of the world to be startled by such an assertion.“Oh, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, sitting on the edge of his chair, his hat clasped in front of him, “you are not serious! The best and noblest person who ever lived might meet with such a misfortune as has overtaken monsieur le baron, and far from being a blot, it would be no more than an added reason for our respect. If I might—might presume to say so, I think you exaggerate the misfortune.”Félicie expected her sister’s anger to be raised by this unusual plain-speaking, but she only sighed.“Unfortunately, you do not know all; but we are, I assure you, very grateful for your kindness. I believe you are aware that I have always been convinced that you were my brother’s best adviser.”Monsieur Georges felt his face glow. He had suffered a good deal of humiliation from Mme. de Beaudrillart, and had never expected to have his services acknowledged with gratitude by any member of the family. He hesitated, stammered, and broke into an almost incoherent reply, staring hard at his hat.“Oh, mademoiselle—if I could think so! such kindness—impossible to forget!” Then recovering himself, he added, with more self-composure, “You will at least permit me to ask whether there is no way in which I could have the privilege of being of use! Through the kindness of a grandparent I have succeeded to a small inheritance, which places me in an independent position. I only venture to trouble you with this information because it—it might remove any generous scruples from your mind. Nothing, mesdemoiselles,”—he bowed first to one and then to the other—“would gratify me so much as to be permitted to serve you and monsieur le baron. Shall I fly to Paris! Can I take anything off your hands here? Command me. I am absolutely at your disposal.”On Mlle. Claire’s heart, hot and sore, this respectful homage, unchanged by the circumstances which to her had changed the world, fell like the very dew of heaven. If her sister had not been there, she would have offered him her hand to kiss; but as it was, she spoke with a strangely softened voice.“Do not think us ungrateful. Believe me, your kindness will be always remembered. There is nothing to be done at present. Monsieur Rodoin,”—M. Georges bowed—“and Maître Barraud,”—he bowed still lower—“are in charge of the case. I trust they may be successful, but as I have already said, such a blow cannot be wiped out even by an acquittal. It has shattered my mother, so that her state causes us the greatest uneasiness. Will you allow me to offer you some refreshment!”He stood up, held his hat to his chest, and bowed profoundly.“On no account, mademoiselle. I am deeply sensible of your goodness, and with your permission shall venture to walk out another day from Tours, unless—unless, mademoiselle, you would allow me the great happiness of once more occupying my old room—for a few days, I should explain, merely until this unfortunate affair is arranged, and monsieur le baron returns. Under your directions it is possible I could be of some trifling use, and leave you more free to console Madame de Beaudrillart. At all events, I might serve as a companion for Monsieur Raoul.”Claire was looking at him uncertainly, when, to her amazement, before she could speak, Félicie interposed with dignity.“You are very good, monsieur, and we accept your offer gratefully. Yes, Claire, I am Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart, and I take it upon myself in Léon’s absence. Raoul is terribly in the way; only this morning he has cut a whole skein of silk into little bits, and if Monsieur Georges can come to-morrow we will send in for him at twelve o’clock.”M. Georges was frightened, amazed, delighted. Never before had he seen Mlle. Félicie so assert herself, and he could hardly believe that her younger sister would admit the intrusion. But whatever Claire felt, she said nothing in opposition; she even smiled at him for the first time in the interview. “We have no right to ask it,” she said, “but if you will—” If he would! He walked home on air. Such urbanity! Such graciousness! Such appreciation! Without proof, the interview had more than ever convinced him of M. de Beaudrillart’s innocence, and of the fact of a conspiracy against him. So enthusiastic were his feelings that he felt himself capable of rushing upon anything, even death itself, in defence of the honour of Poissy; and when the remembrance of his assault upon Leroux came to him he laughed aloud, and was conscious of a ferocious desire that he had gone to the extreme length of kicking him, or even of dropping him into the river. He wished with all his heart that he might meet M. Bourget, and pour some of his feelings into his ear; but, if he had known it, there was small chance of this encounter, since the ex-builder avoided the road to Poissy as if it were infected with the plague.His gloom had in no degree lightened, and, although he had returned to the café and to his usual routine of action, he remained unsociable and morose. Far from fastening upon unwilling listeners, and obliging them to give ear to his laying down the law upon whatever subject happened to be uppermost in his mind, he offered no sign of acquaintanceship, beyond a surly nod. At the café he sat with his broad back turned to its other frequenters, and on one or two minor points of municipal government, when he was expected to have thundered against the opposition, he had remained mute and apparently uninterested. This change of nature had caused much perplexity among his friends—for, in spite of his feelings and irascibility, M. Bourget had friends—until the riddle was solved by the extraordinary news respecting M. de Beaudrillart. That, it was felt, explained everything, and a very kindly feeling of pity shot up on every side. Nathalie had been universally liked, although such an advancement as hers could not but create jealousy; now that downfall had followed, her charms were frankly acknowledged, and if M. Bourget would have accepted them, condolences would have reached him from every side.But he was not the man to whom condolences were acceptable. On the afternoon of the day in which the startling intelligence had been read in theTours Independent, he marched along the streets, head erect, chain and seals dangling, and stick grasped with a vigour which boded ill for impertinent comments. The account of M. Leroux’s punishment on the bridge had reached him through Fanchon, who rushed into his room to announce that M. Georges had sprung upon the lawyer, thrashed him black and blue, and left him for dead in the middle of the road. M. Bourget had no difficulty in guessing what had been the little lawyer’s offence. He broke into a hoarse laugh, the first he had been heard to utter since his memorable visit to Poissy, and scandalised Fanchon by rubbing his hands, and declaring that it served the little reptile right. He added an ardent wish that he had been there to kick him.“The saints forbid!” cried Fanchon, piously. “You have always quarrels enough of your own on your shoulders without taking up other people’s. And a pretty fanfara Monsieur Leroux will make about this business!”“Hold your tongue, imbecile!” growled her master, still chuckling. “That little Georges is an honest fellow after all!”It is possible that this event it was which took M. Bourget to the café. It was not likely that Leroux would venture to show himself, with the fear of encountering M. Georges before his eyes. Besides, one excitement would balance another; tongues would not wag so persistently on the Poissy topic; at any rate, the ex-builder was resolved that they should not wag in his hearing, and when he sat down at his solitary table, with his stick reposing on a chair by his side, his figure did not present an inviting object of attack. Nevertheless, to the astonishment of the lookers-on, one individual walked deliberately up to the table, drawing a chair after him, and sat down opposite M. Bourget as soon as he had effected an elaborate sweep of his hat. This was M. Georges himself, and certain it is that M. Bourget would have tolerated no other companion. As it was, at the sight of him he broke out again into the grim chuckle which had amazed Fanchon, and which now amazed M. Georges.“While you were about it, you should have given him a ducking,” he grunted. “He would have been the better for it, and it would not have cost you more.”M. Georges opened his eyes.“Oh, it is Leroux you speak of? Yes, I confess I lost my temper, and when that is the case I become terrible. Bah, he is nothing; let him do his worst. But, Monsieur Bourget, what is of consequence is this frightful affair at Poissy—all, of course, either a mistake or a vile conspiracy. The idea that Monsieur de Beaudrillart—Monsieur de Beaudrillart!—should be accused of such an act is simply impossible! I could not credit it until I had been out there.”M. Bourget made no response to this outburst. He frowned, drew in his lips, and stared stolidly at the ground.“Your daughter, too, poor young lady, what she must be enduring! And as for the baron, it is enough to have led him to kill himself.”Still gloomy silence.“Monsieur Bourget, is there nothing you can suggest? You are a man of resource. If there was anything I could assist in carrying out, I cannot tell you what infinite gratification it would be to me.” He stopped, for M. Bourget had risen, struck his stick on the ground, and broken out in a thunderous undertone:“Nothing, monsieur, nothing. I renounce Poissy, the baron, and my daughter. If by lifting my little finger I could save Monsieur de Beaudrillart from prison, I would not lift it, and I request you to be good enough not to mention their names to me again.”
Nathalie had written a hasty line to her father before leaving Poissy. He received it with an outbreak of temper, such as of late had become frequent with him. He had almost given up going to the café, or frequenting the streets; mostly he sat in his own room, gloomy, unapproachable. His appetite was unaffected, but to Fanchon’s mortification he was indifferent what he ate, and his favourite dish of cold beef en vinaigrette, however carefully prepared, failed to elicit so much as a grunt of satisfaction. His fellow-townsmen found his conduct inexplicable, not a word of Poissy crossing his lips; and as for the photographer’s window, he would have walked a mile to avoid passing it. One or two of his intimates declared that they breathed more freely; but, on the whole, Tours had been proud of his indomitable energy, his weaknesses, his blunt manners, and his great fortune, and regarded his depression with uneasiness.
“For at his age, when a man suddenly loses interest in what he most cares about, it is a bad sign,” said Dr Mathorin, taking off his hat, and rubbing his bald head with a large coloured handkerchief. He was walking across the long bridge with M. Georges. “Poor old fellow!”
“He has not called you in!”
“Not he. But if this talk of making him mayor comes to anything, I’ll go and sound him on the matter, and perhaps get a chance of a word, and of having my head snapped off.”
“Quite between ourselves,” remarked M. Georges, cautiously, “I understand that the opposition is led by Leroux.”
“Little wasp! Though with such a liver, one ought not to be hard on him, and by all that is yellow, here he comes! Good-day, Monsieur Leroux. Where are you off to?”
“Have you seen the paper? Have you heard the news?”
“Not we.”
“Ah, this explains it all! Now we know why old Bourget has sulked like a bear with a sore head! A fine end for Poissy and its grandeur indeed! Shameful! Absolutely disgraceful!”
“Monsieur Leroux,” interrupted M. Georges, gravely, “be good enough to explain yourself.”
For the little lawyer was positively dancing with excitement.
“Not a son-in-law to be so proud of, and to fling at all our heads, after all!” he cried. “And to have kept it so secret! When I opened the paper, I thought I must be dreaming. Monsieur de Beaudrillart is in prison for stealing.”
The doctor ejaculated an amazed oath. M. Georges turned crimson and then white, and made a threatening step towards Leroux. He had never fought with any one in his peaceable life, but at this moment he felt as if he must kill the miserable little slanderer. Leroux hastily stepped back, and with triumphant fingers unfolded the newspaper and pointed to a paragraph.
“See for yourselves, then, if you do not believe; it is no invention of mine. There. Read the sentence aloud, Monsieur Georges. ‘Yesterday the Baron de Beaudrillart was arrested in Paris on a charge of stealing the sum of two hundred thousand francs, the property of Monsieur Lemaire, nephew by marriage to the defunct Comte de Cadanet.’ Oh, I know it by heart already. Read, read, doctor. This explains, eh? Was there ever anything so disgraceful? This comes of your barons, your old families, your blue blood! A thief—the owner of Poissy a thief! Why, it disgraces us all, the whole arrondissement!” And M. Leroux spat on the ground to express his sense of personal pollution.
Meanwhile, with a heart wrung with distress, M. Georges read the terrible words, and the doctor, spectacles on the point of his nose, devoured them over his shoulder. When he had gone twice through them, M. Georges dropped his hand and the newspaper by his side, and stared at the ground, speechless.
“Well, what do you say now?” said Leroux, sidling up. “A pretty black business, isn’t it? A common thief!”
“The poor women!” muttered the doctor.
“Oh, come, they’ve had their day, and it’s our turn now. This will bring down their starch a bit. And as for old Bourget, with his eternal Poissy this and Poissy that, as if the whole world had been made on purpose to carry Poissy, we sha’n’t be choked with his talk any more. This puts an end to a good deal, for I should like to know why he should be picked out to be mayor, except because he was father-in-law to this fine gentleman at Poissy? Not such a desirable connection now, not one to—Sacrée! help! murder!”
For, to his infinite amazement, the little lawyer found himself swung off the pavement by the collar of his coat, and, after a shake which seemed to loosen all the teeth in his head, left staggering in the middle of the road, his newspaper flying after him. So unexpected and so prompt had been the action of M. Georges that the doctor had not had time to interfere, nor, indeed, had he much desire to do so. No one else was very near at the time, and Leroux pulled himself together, vowing vengeance and actions as he sullenly edged away.
“Be off,” said M. Georges, calmly, “for if I hear any more of this vile talk you may find yourself with something worse than a shake. Doctor, this news has completely upset me.”
“So it appears,” said Dr Mathurin, chuckling. “I should rather say it had led to the upsetting of other people. Monsieur Georges, you are a man of force, but I am afraid you have laid yourself open to an action for assault.”
The other waved his hand indifferently.
“Let him bring it. My little patrimony can defray the expense, and his malice is a matter of no consequence. But this sad, this terrible affair! My friend, I must go at once to Poissy. If there is anything in which I can serve them, it will be my greatest privilege to be allowed to be useful. I shudder to think of the effect of such a blow upon madame and the poor young ladies. I imagine—but it is not possible for you to imagine—what it must be for those so bound up in Poissy, and in monsieur le baron, when it shocks even us! It is horrible, impossible, villainous! He must be the victim of some cursed plot. I could almost believe that miserable little Leroux had invented and inserted it for the mere purpose of giving pain, had such a thing been possible; but I presume—”
“No, no, my friend,” said the doctor, wringing his hand, “the thing did not grow in his brain, and, indeed, there was a whisper yesterday, although I did not repeat it. This explains Monsieur Bourget’s attitude, poor man! A crushing humiliation for him, a very heavy blow for all. And the poor wife! Yes, I think you are right to go there, though it will be a terribly trying visit. Pray present them with my most respectful sympathy.”
M. Georges was informed that Mme. de Beaudrillart was receiving no one, but that the young ladies would see him presently, if he would kindly go into the salon. He fancied that the servant admitting him had a frightened air, and glanced at him as if in hopes of his speaking; but he dared not trust himself on so delicate a subject. He waited for some time before the sisters, both dressed in black, came in together.
The alteration in Mlle. Claire shocked him. She had aged ten years; her face, bloodless and sallow, had grown sharper, her eyes were tearless, and she carried herself more stiffly upright than ever. Félicie’s grief, on the contrary, was less restrained; her eyes were scarlet, her face swollen with crying, and as she came in at the door she stretched out her hand, and exclaimed in a voice of despair:
“Oh, Monsieur Georges, then you at least do not desert us!” He was so touched by this appeal that he hurried forward and bowed low over her hand.
“Desert you, mademoiselle, because Monsieur Léon is the victim of a shameful accusation! No one would be capable of such baseness, least of all an old servant of your family. I have hurried here to assure you of my profound sympathy, and to say that no one who knew monsieur le baron could for a moment believe him capable of such an act. It is a miserable calumny which will easily be disproved.”
“Ah, that is exactly what I say to my sister,” said Félicie, cheering up. “I assure her that if she only will have faith, thingsmustcome right, and our dear Léon be cleared. Claire, do you hear what Monsieur Georges thinks?”
“Monsieur Georges is very good,” said Claire, with quivering voice. “I am sure he has always wished us well. But whether he is cleared or not, the disgrace, the dreadful blot on our family remains, for nothing can remove the fact that a Baron de Beaudrillart has been arrested for—for stealing.” Her voice grew hoarse, and the last words almost choked her. M. Georges, simple soul as he was, knew enough of the world to be startled by such an assertion.
“Oh, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, sitting on the edge of his chair, his hat clasped in front of him, “you are not serious! The best and noblest person who ever lived might meet with such a misfortune as has overtaken monsieur le baron, and far from being a blot, it would be no more than an added reason for our respect. If I might—might presume to say so, I think you exaggerate the misfortune.”
Félicie expected her sister’s anger to be raised by this unusual plain-speaking, but she only sighed.
“Unfortunately, you do not know all; but we are, I assure you, very grateful for your kindness. I believe you are aware that I have always been convinced that you were my brother’s best adviser.”
Monsieur Georges felt his face glow. He had suffered a good deal of humiliation from Mme. de Beaudrillart, and had never expected to have his services acknowledged with gratitude by any member of the family. He hesitated, stammered, and broke into an almost incoherent reply, staring hard at his hat.
“Oh, mademoiselle—if I could think so! such kindness—impossible to forget!” Then recovering himself, he added, with more self-composure, “You will at least permit me to ask whether there is no way in which I could have the privilege of being of use! Through the kindness of a grandparent I have succeeded to a small inheritance, which places me in an independent position. I only venture to trouble you with this information because it—it might remove any generous scruples from your mind. Nothing, mesdemoiselles,”—he bowed first to one and then to the other—“would gratify me so much as to be permitted to serve you and monsieur le baron. Shall I fly to Paris! Can I take anything off your hands here? Command me. I am absolutely at your disposal.”
On Mlle. Claire’s heart, hot and sore, this respectful homage, unchanged by the circumstances which to her had changed the world, fell like the very dew of heaven. If her sister had not been there, she would have offered him her hand to kiss; but as it was, she spoke with a strangely softened voice.
“Do not think us ungrateful. Believe me, your kindness will be always remembered. There is nothing to be done at present. Monsieur Rodoin,”—M. Georges bowed—“and Maître Barraud,”—he bowed still lower—“are in charge of the case. I trust they may be successful, but as I have already said, such a blow cannot be wiped out even by an acquittal. It has shattered my mother, so that her state causes us the greatest uneasiness. Will you allow me to offer you some refreshment!”
He stood up, held his hat to his chest, and bowed profoundly.
“On no account, mademoiselle. I am deeply sensible of your goodness, and with your permission shall venture to walk out another day from Tours, unless—unless, mademoiselle, you would allow me the great happiness of once more occupying my old room—for a few days, I should explain, merely until this unfortunate affair is arranged, and monsieur le baron returns. Under your directions it is possible I could be of some trifling use, and leave you more free to console Madame de Beaudrillart. At all events, I might serve as a companion for Monsieur Raoul.”
Claire was looking at him uncertainly, when, to her amazement, before she could speak, Félicie interposed with dignity.
“You are very good, monsieur, and we accept your offer gratefully. Yes, Claire, I am Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart, and I take it upon myself in Léon’s absence. Raoul is terribly in the way; only this morning he has cut a whole skein of silk into little bits, and if Monsieur Georges can come to-morrow we will send in for him at twelve o’clock.”
M. Georges was frightened, amazed, delighted. Never before had he seen Mlle. Félicie so assert herself, and he could hardly believe that her younger sister would admit the intrusion. But whatever Claire felt, she said nothing in opposition; she even smiled at him for the first time in the interview. “We have no right to ask it,” she said, “but if you will—” If he would! He walked home on air. Such urbanity! Such graciousness! Such appreciation! Without proof, the interview had more than ever convinced him of M. de Beaudrillart’s innocence, and of the fact of a conspiracy against him. So enthusiastic were his feelings that he felt himself capable of rushing upon anything, even death itself, in defence of the honour of Poissy; and when the remembrance of his assault upon Leroux came to him he laughed aloud, and was conscious of a ferocious desire that he had gone to the extreme length of kicking him, or even of dropping him into the river. He wished with all his heart that he might meet M. Bourget, and pour some of his feelings into his ear; but, if he had known it, there was small chance of this encounter, since the ex-builder avoided the road to Poissy as if it were infected with the plague.
His gloom had in no degree lightened, and, although he had returned to the café and to his usual routine of action, he remained unsociable and morose. Far from fastening upon unwilling listeners, and obliging them to give ear to his laying down the law upon whatever subject happened to be uppermost in his mind, he offered no sign of acquaintanceship, beyond a surly nod. At the café he sat with his broad back turned to its other frequenters, and on one or two minor points of municipal government, when he was expected to have thundered against the opposition, he had remained mute and apparently uninterested. This change of nature had caused much perplexity among his friends—for, in spite of his feelings and irascibility, M. Bourget had friends—until the riddle was solved by the extraordinary news respecting M. de Beaudrillart. That, it was felt, explained everything, and a very kindly feeling of pity shot up on every side. Nathalie had been universally liked, although such an advancement as hers could not but create jealousy; now that downfall had followed, her charms were frankly acknowledged, and if M. Bourget would have accepted them, condolences would have reached him from every side.
But he was not the man to whom condolences were acceptable. On the afternoon of the day in which the startling intelligence had been read in theTours Independent, he marched along the streets, head erect, chain and seals dangling, and stick grasped with a vigour which boded ill for impertinent comments. The account of M. Leroux’s punishment on the bridge had reached him through Fanchon, who rushed into his room to announce that M. Georges had sprung upon the lawyer, thrashed him black and blue, and left him for dead in the middle of the road. M. Bourget had no difficulty in guessing what had been the little lawyer’s offence. He broke into a hoarse laugh, the first he had been heard to utter since his memorable visit to Poissy, and scandalised Fanchon by rubbing his hands, and declaring that it served the little reptile right. He added an ardent wish that he had been there to kick him.
“The saints forbid!” cried Fanchon, piously. “You have always quarrels enough of your own on your shoulders without taking up other people’s. And a pretty fanfara Monsieur Leroux will make about this business!”
“Hold your tongue, imbecile!” growled her master, still chuckling. “That little Georges is an honest fellow after all!”
It is possible that this event it was which took M. Bourget to the café. It was not likely that Leroux would venture to show himself, with the fear of encountering M. Georges before his eyes. Besides, one excitement would balance another; tongues would not wag so persistently on the Poissy topic; at any rate, the ex-builder was resolved that they should not wag in his hearing, and when he sat down at his solitary table, with his stick reposing on a chair by his side, his figure did not present an inviting object of attack. Nevertheless, to the astonishment of the lookers-on, one individual walked deliberately up to the table, drawing a chair after him, and sat down opposite M. Bourget as soon as he had effected an elaborate sweep of his hat. This was M. Georges himself, and certain it is that M. Bourget would have tolerated no other companion. As it was, at the sight of him he broke out again into the grim chuckle which had amazed Fanchon, and which now amazed M. Georges.
“While you were about it, you should have given him a ducking,” he grunted. “He would have been the better for it, and it would not have cost you more.”
M. Georges opened his eyes.
“Oh, it is Leroux you speak of? Yes, I confess I lost my temper, and when that is the case I become terrible. Bah, he is nothing; let him do his worst. But, Monsieur Bourget, what is of consequence is this frightful affair at Poissy—all, of course, either a mistake or a vile conspiracy. The idea that Monsieur de Beaudrillart—Monsieur de Beaudrillart!—should be accused of such an act is simply impossible! I could not credit it until I had been out there.”
M. Bourget made no response to this outburst. He frowned, drew in his lips, and stared stolidly at the ground.
“Your daughter, too, poor young lady, what she must be enduring! And as for the baron, it is enough to have led him to kill himself.”
Still gloomy silence.
“Monsieur Bourget, is there nothing you can suggest? You are a man of resource. If there was anything I could assist in carrying out, I cannot tell you what infinite gratification it would be to me.” He stopped, for M. Bourget had risen, struck his stick on the ground, and broken out in a thunderous undertone:
“Nothing, monsieur, nothing. I renounce Poissy, the baron, and my daughter. If by lifting my little finger I could save Monsieur de Beaudrillart from prison, I would not lift it, and I request you to be good enough not to mention their names to me again.”
Chapter Twenty Four.The Growth of an Idea.In spite of M. Bourget’s assumption of indifference, he was secretly tormented by anxiety as to what was going on in Paris. Nathalie wrote to him every day, though seldom more than a few lines. He never answered her letters, but he devoured every word, and hungered for more. It was the same with, the newspapers. He would not have missed a line, notwithstanding the pang their comments, especially those of the radical press, caused him. If his self-consciousness could have permitted it he would have gone to Paris, not to have joined his daughter, but, unknown and in secret, to have haunted the courts, especially after the trial had begun; his restlessness longing to hear the evidence with his own ears, and to listen to the remarks with which he did not doubt all Paris rang. If France had been at this moment in the throes of a revolution, M. Bourget would have expected to find its interest second to that excited by seeing Baron Léon de Beaudrillart, of Poissy, on his trial for theft. But if all France were occupied in watching M. de Beaudrillart, Tours, he was equally persuaded, watched M. Bourget. For him to show himself at the railway station would be immediately to excite curiosity, for before an hour was over it would be known that his indifference had been only simulated, and that he was in his heart as anxious as Leroux represented him.M. Georges, meanwhile, whose faithfulness was only strengthened by what he heard and saw, had gone to Poissy, and, established there, was bravely engaged in fighting the dreary hopelessness which weighed upon the château. His disbelief in anything which could touch the young baron’s honour was so sincere and enthusiastic that, had it been possible, it might have persuaded Claire. As it was, it soothed her. With M. Georges she was less sharp, less angular, more forgiving. He was the only person, except her mother and sister, to whom she would speak, for, strangely enough, the trouble produced the same effect of gloomy reticence in her and in the man with whom she would have vowed she had least in common—M. Bourget. Like him, she shrank from a touch on the wound; like him, she read pitying contempt in the faces she looked at; like him, she exaggerated trifles. But it was impossible to misjudge M. Georges. He was so confident that M. Léon was the victim of some monstrous fraud, so undoubting in his belief that it must, somehow, be cleared up, so unchanged in his respect, so unfailing in his hopefulness, that his talk was incapable of inflicting the smallest wound. Mme. de Beaudrillart he saw but seldom. Once or twice he fancied that she must have had some sort of seizure to account for the great alteration in her person and manner. She was thinner than ever, but no longer upright. Her speech was hesitating, and she looked at Claire before uttering an opinion. From the redness of her eyes it was evident that she wept a good deal, yet at times he fancied that she imagined her son to be in the house or out in the grounds, and that she listened anxiously.As for Félicie, there was no doubt that his confidence had given her courage. Unlike her sister, she was always anxious to talk about her brother, and the prospects of his trial; and M. Georges’s fixed opinion ended in implanting in her the idea that Léon, suffering unjustly, might be regarded as a martyr, and therefore as a credit to the house. If the Abbé Nisard did not share her idea, he took care not to contradict what proved a fervent source of consolation. Félicie returned to her daily tasks, to her embroideries and reparations, and though she cried, her tears were not bitter, and perhaps were caused as often by her sister’s impatience as by Léon’s imprisonment.Raoul attached himself, tyrannically, to M. Georges. The boy felt, without understanding, the cloud on the family; he missed his father, his mother, his lessons, his drives. M. Georges at once undertook his education, to the great relief of the others, for whom Raoul had succeeded in making it almost unendurable. But here, in his new tutor, he found a patience which it was so impossible to tire out that he gave up the task, and, in order to gain a fishing expedition, learned his lessons to perfection.There came a day, however, when all M. Georges’s cheerfulness could not lighten the gloom. Nathalie’s letters had been intended to prepare them; but until the newspaper arrived, full of details, and commenting upon the attitude of the accused, they had tacitly refused to realise that the trial was to begin that very week. As it happened, Félicie had been the first to see it, or it would never have met her eyes, for when Claire came she seized the paper, carried it to her room, and when she had devoured every word, tore it into shreds. M. Georges, to his despair, had not a glimpse of it; but that afternoon, as he was going off with Raoul to the river, he met Mlle. Félicie on her way back from the church, armed with a feather brush, with which she had been dusting the altar ornaments. She greeted him with eagerness.“Oh, Monsieur Georges, you did not see that dreadful newspaper?”“No, mademoiselle, to my great regret, for I gathered that there was something fresh. But no doubt Mademoiselle Claire exercised a wise discretion in not allowing it to lie about. Perhaps—”He lifted his eyebrows interrogatively, and she nodded.“Yes, I can tell you every word, and I long for your opinion.”“Raoul, my friend,” said M. Georges, diplomatically, “old Antoine says there is a superb trout which lies always close under the bridge. Shall we try to ensnare him?”The temptation was irresistible to a born fisherman, although the boy had a feeling that he would like to hear what was to be talked about. He kept M. Georges by his side as long as he could, but at last became absorbed, and Félicie and her companion, standing on the bridge, talked in low tones. He murmured:“Now, permit me to hear.”“They say,” she began, tremulously, “that Léon does not deny it. Oh, monsieur, that cannot be possible, can it?”“I, for one, should not believe it, whatever he said,” announced M. Georges, stoutly.“You would not? You would think there was a mistake?”“Beyond a doubt.”“Ah, what a comfort it is to speak to you!”“Mademoiselle, you are goodness itself,” answered the delighted M. Georges. “But can you recall more particulars?”“Oh, there was a whole column!” cried Félicie, with a shudder. “So far as I could make out, what they said was that they understood that Monsieur de Beaudrillart admitted having taken the money, but said that he immediately informed Monsieur de Cadanet of what he had done, and that he looked upon it as a loan.”“Exactly, exactly!” exclaimed M. Georges, triumphantly. “That is what I thought.”“That he took it!”“As a jest, no doubt, and as a loan. The difference is immense. Immense!” he repeated, opening his arms. “And how noble of Monsieur Léon to admit it!”“Ah,” said Félicie, relieved.M. Georges was here called off by Raoul to superintend an imaginary bite. He returned eagerly to Félicie, whose shortsighted eyes appeared to him quite charming in their pathos.“What you have said has given me the greatest satisfaction,” he said, “because it explains everything so admirably. That there must be an explanation I knew, but one puzzled one’s head with thinking what it could be.”Félicie smiled delightedly. To hear that her explanation was admirable seemed to give her the credit of having offered it, and the many snubs she had received of late from Claire made this appreciation the more valuable.“And no doubt,” pursued her companion, “Monsieur de Beaudrillart either has repaid or was intending to repay all?”“Yes, the paper said that would be his defence—you must excuse me if I do not use the right terms, for I had scarcely time to glance at it.”“Mademoiselle, you are clearness itself.”Her small features took an expression of beatitude, but of beatitude that suffers unjustly. She said:“I do not often complain, but indeed, Monsieur Georges, you cannot fail to see that Claire is so—so determined that one does not dare to oppose her. If I say anything of which she does not approve, there is really such a storm that I prefer to be silent.”“Mademoiselle Claire is suffering acutely, I am sure,” he returned, with a loyal impulse of defence.“We all suffer,” said Félicie, uttering a sound between a gasp and a sob; “but I have always learned that our own sufferings should not either absorb us or render us harsh to others. No one can have felt this affliction more than I, but I try to rouse myself and to draw good out of a terrible dispensation, as the abbé advised. I assure you, monsieur, that I have much, very much, to endure from Claire.”He murmured sympathy.“If it were not for the relief of having you here to talk things over with, I do not think I could bear it at all. Figure to yourself, monsieur, that she prophesies all manner of terrible humiliations for us in the future! She says we can never again hold up our heads, and she has quite made up her mind that no visitors shall be ever admitted. I do not know myself that I could bear to see Mme. Lemballe; she has a small mind, and it is quite possible that she might permit herself to say something disagreeable. And just at present, of course, I am ready to sacrifice myself for our poor dear Léon. But—never! Never! Conceive how terribly doll to be cut off from all society, and to be unable to go to the houses of our friends when I have any church collection on hand. Oh, monsieur, the thought is unendurable. I would rather die!”Into the quiet current of M. Georges’s thoughts at this instant there dashed an idea so wild and unwarrantable that he blushed violently, and was seized with a sudden tremor lest it might be read in his face. Could such a thing be possible? Oh, never, never! He chased it out, and to hide his embarrassment murmured something to the effect that Raoul’s line was caught in the weeds, and hurried to the boy.“Go away,” said Raoul immovably, his whole being concentrated upon the trout as to which M. Georges had so basely deceived him.“I think now it must have been higher up that Antoine meant,” said that gentleman, meekly. Raoul was on his feet in a moment.“Then why did you say he was here?” he demanded, dragging at his tutor’s hand. “Come along. Aunt Félie, you mustn’t come; you keep Monsieur Georges from attending.”On the whole, M. Georges escaped thankfully, his brain in a whirl. Fly from such dangerous fascinations he might, but the presumptuous idea having once found entrance was already battering again at the doors. Refused admittance, it demanded a parley, and set itself at once to prove that it was not preposterous.M. Georges owned with simple vanity that his position had changed for the better since the days when he had been intendant at Poissy. Now he was the owner of a small house, of grounds which to him at least looked spacious, and of a certain solid little sum in rentes. Modest ambition pointed to becoming mayor, and if he even dreamed of being conseiller-général, the thing was not beyond the bounds of possibility. But—Mlle. de Beaudrillart! That, indeed, was preposterous, incredible! He heaved a sigh of renunciation, and flung it from him, only permitting a meek hope to remain that when the real Mme. Georges made her appearance she might have eyes resembling those of Mlle. Félicie. But it was astonishing how persistent this ludicrous idea became! Even when the landing of a small fish had been accomplished, Raoul pale and serious with excitement, his first exclamation, after drawing a deep breath of relief, was: “How I wish you lived here always, Monsieur Georges!” M. Georges became crimson. And somehow or other, at this time, Félicie seemed always to be kept before his consciousness. The flutter of a dress was sure to belong to her, he heard her voice where he had never heard it before, he met her in the grounds, he listened to her praises from the abbé; presently it might be said that, in spite of heroic resistance, her image was enshrined in his heart, although the hope of gaining her had not yet ventured to intrude.What further weakened his powers of resistance was Claire’s kindness. Sometimes he really fancied that she was encouraging his folly. With him her sharpness was softened, and she deferred quite strangely to his advice about the farm, with which Félicie never meddled. She was really capable of managing everything without consultation, and M. Georges was so well aware of this that he would have been more than man not to have been flattered by her evident desire to gain his help and to yield to his opinion. He reflected, however, humbly, that it was probably owing to the absorption of her thoughts as to the trial, and this seemed the more likely since on the morning when the trial was to begin Claire shut herself in her room, and refused to see a soul.Had it not been for M. Georges, the whole household would have been disorganised. Despair had seized it, and if the walls of Poissy had crumbled into ruin, the dismay could hardly have been greater. The maids darted across the court like frightened birds. Jacques, tearful and miserable, came to M. Georges to implore him to let him hear the latest news, and M. Georges thumped his own chest with the effort to impose self-control on his emotions, and begged him to be calm.“What I fear,” he added, “is Monsieur Raoul’s gaining any idea of what is happening. He has just asked me why every one was crying, and why Rose-Marie called his father ‘poor monsieur le baron’? Jacques, my friend, we men must show these kind souls an example of courage. If I could trust you not to break down I would carry out an idea, and take Monsieur Raoul into Tours to see his grandfather.”“Do, monsieur.”“But, to tell you the truth,” said M. Georges, fidgeting, “I cannot take the coachman, for he will be wanted to support you here, and I—I am not in the habit of driving.”“We will put the quietest of the ponies in the little cart. I feel certain he will take monsieur safely, and Monsieur Bourget—he is so shrewd!—he may have something comforting to send back.”With many perturbations M. Georges carried out his idea. There was no one to ask, for Claire was barricaded in her own room, and Félicie had flown to the church. To tell the truth, the sight of M. Bourget’s bitter misery had so painfully impressed M. Georges that he had dwelt upon it ever since, and longed to break it down; and it was for this that he faced the terrors of the pony. They had many narrow escapes, for when they met anything in the road M. Georges persistently tugged at the left-hand rein; but fortunately the road was wide, and the pony knew much better than his driver. Thanks to his sagacity, they avoided any serious damage, and pulled up at M. Bourget’s door. The door was open, Raoul tumbled anyhow out of the cart, scrambled up the steps, and rushed in upon his grandfather before M. Bourget had time to rouse himself from the gloomy reverie which had seized him after reading his newspaper for at least the tenth time.“Grandpapa, I have caught a fish my very own self! Monsieur Georges didn’t touch it—he didn’t, truly!—and I have brought it in for Fanchon to cook for your dinner!”M. Bourget stood up, grew purple, half turned away, came back, and opened his arms. It was a happy inspiration of M. Georges to remain in the street, although he took advantage of the stoppage to get out of the cart, and stand at the pony’s head. Fanchon bustled forth, beaming.“Well, I declare, if it isn’t Monsieur Georges! Drive round to the hotel, monsieur, and put up the pony, and make haste back.”M. Georges assented, but remarking that it was hardly worth while to get in for such a short distance, proceeded to lead the pony through two streets and a half, to the astonishment of such of his acquaintances as he met. When he got back, he found Raoul, by the aid of some impromptu reins, driving his grandfather round the room and in and out of the chairs, with shouts of delight. He took care to make no remark, and presently M. Bourget sat down by him, wiping his forehead.“As to that other,” he said, significantly, “I haven’t changed, but it is no fault of the boy’s. Leroux intends to summon you.”“Let him!” exclaimed M. Georges, valiantly.“Ay, let him!” chuckled the ex-builder. “And when it comes to the point, it would not surprise me if he thought better of it. You have seen the paper? It is all up with that miserable. The defence is a sham. Run out to Fanchon, my brave, and tell her to cook your fish for my dinner, and see what jam she can find in her cupboard for you. Yes. Monsieur Georges, what do you think now of your fine monsieur!”“That I respect him with all my heart!” cried the other.“Respect? So, ho! And for what?”“For having the courage to speak out, monsieur. Which of us might not have been tempted to deny it altogether?”“And you still believe him when he says he repaid it?”“Implicitly. If you believe him when he acknowledges what tells against him, the least you can do is to take his word for the rest. You doubt the father of your grandson? Fie, Monsieur Bourget, fie!”M. Georges swelled with enthusiasm for his cause. M. Bourget got up and paced up and down the room. He muttered at last:“Whether he did or not, the result is the same. The Poissy honour is gone. Not a scoundrel in Tours but will have his say against it.”“The Poissy honour has weathered worse storms,” said M. Georges, quietly. “What does it matter if a few curs bark? And I believe you are wrong. I believe honest men will respect him for his avowal.”M. Bourget grumbled “Absurd!” under his breath, but said no more. He called Raoul and marched him out to the toy-shop, and when they were just starting for Poissy shook M. Georges’s hand with a warmth which surprised him. Raoul, in the intervals of opening all the parcels with which he was charged, remarked that grandpapa was going to see mamma, perhaps, “and I asked him if he couldn’t take me, but he couldn’t, he said,” he added, extracting a magnificent whip, which he proceeded to smack, to the great disquiet of M. Georges and the pony.M. Georges pulled the wrong rein more than ever, and their escapes were hair-breadth. They ran in and out of ditches, they shaved carts; finally they dashed wildly through the gates of Poissy, and pulled up at the entrance so suddenly that M. Georges was shot forward, and only just saved himself from landing on the pony’s back. But, on the whole, he was satisfied with the result of his expedition, and so was Raoul, who announced that he liked M. Georges’s driving better than anybody’s.The little clatter of arrival sounded unfeeling to poor Claire, who sat nursing her misery in the room adjoining that of Mme. de Beaudrillart. How could any one move, think, speak, at such a time! And yet it was a comfort to feel that M. Georges was again in the house. He was unaltered, though her conviction of the disgrace which hung over them all was so strong that she read change in the look and manner of all the servants. As for friends, she had resolved never again to face them. It seemed to her that the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness would be a change of name, and a flight to some far-away place where no one would recognise her as a Beaudrillart. But to gain this object she was helpless, and the thought of living on at Poissy, pointed at as the sister of a man in prison, was absolutely terrible. More than once that day Félicie, whose room was on the other side, and whose troubles were always comforted by talking about them, had knocked at the door and begged to be admitted, only to hear a sharp “Go away!” in answer. She went to her mother, but Mme. de Beaudrillart’s state bordered on apathy. How much or how little she understood, it was impossible to say. To Félicie, at any rate, it was a real relief to hear M. Georges’s cheery voice. She ran down the stairs to welcome him with a pleasure which in a moment brought back all those wild dreams which he had been trying to forget. In the whirl of his brain he even went so far as to murmur “Dear mademoiselle!” and Félicie merely blushed a little, and cast down her eyes. They saw each other constantly that day and the next, for Claire, silent and rigid, only came down for meals, and retreated immediately to her own room. M. Georges was very good, and most delicately respectful to her; but it was impossible to say much in her presence, and both felt secretly relieved when she had gone. All the customs of the house seemed to be in abeyance. Félicie would never at other times have allowed herself the long conversations which now had the most natural air in the world. She babbled to M. Georges in her small, precise voice of all the little interests which filled her life, while she imagined that her talk was only of Léon; and he listened with the most profound admiration. What could be more estimable than the good works which occupied her morning, noon, and night! What more beautiful than her devotion! She showed him with pride the embroideries and vestments which were under her charge, and he helped her to refold them, as she said, with far more neatness than Rose-Marie. By the time this labour was ended, M. Georges’s presumptuous little idea which at first sight had so alarmed him was enthroned triumphantly in his heart.The third day of the trial had been reached. Nathalie, all day in court, could only scribble disjointed letters, noting as far as possible the principal points, and infinitely pathetic in their anguish and their trust. The newspapers gave minute reports, up to this point occupied by the opening speech for the prosecution and the interrogation of the prisoner. The third day would produce Charles Lemaire’s evidence, and on the morning of that day Félicie, pale and agitated, rushed down the stairs to the small study where M. Georges transacted his business in old days, and which he now again occupied.“Oh, Monsieur Georges, come, I beg of you, come at once! Claire has said something to my mother, and she is most terribly upset. We cannot soothe her.”Poor Mme. de Beaudrillart was, indeed, in a distressing state. The tidings which for some days she had not seemed to realise had suddenly reached her comprehension and produced a painful anguish. She was sitting at the table, her hands clinched and her eyes wide-open, Claire kneeling by her side in terror. The instant she saw M. Georges she cried, in a hoarse voice:“It is not true, monsieur, say it is not true! Oh, Léon, my son, my son!”“Madame,” cried M. Georges, hastening to her side, “it is not true that Monsieur Léon is what they say! There has been a terrible mistake, but it will come right—it must.”She leaned forward, and said in a whisper which he never forgot:“But he took it.”“And repaid it, madame. I would stake my life on it.” Mme. de Beaudrillart pointed out Claire by a gesture:“She says we are disgraced forever—we!” she shuddered. “That we may hide our heads, for no respectable person will have anything to do with us. She would like to go away.”“Oh, mademoiselle!” cried M. Georges, turning on her a look of reproach. “Madame,” he said, standing upright, and stiffening with resolution, “permit me to convince you that it is not so. Mademoiselle Félicie, Mademoiselle Claire, will you allow me a few minutes alone with madame?”Félicie went out demurely, Claire rose up and flung him a questioning glance. He murmured:“Mademoiselle, I venture to think you have perhaps divined. Have I the inestimable encouragement of your approval?”Poor Claire! She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and said, brokenly, “Yes, monsieur, yes!”When they were gone, M. Georges still stood respectfully before Mme. de Beaudrillart.“Madame,” he said, solemnly, “I am aware that what I have to say will sound presumptuous, and I could not have ventured upon it but for your daughter’s fancy that you would all suffer from this misfortune of Monsieur Léon’s. My position has improved; I have a small estate, a yearly income, and perhaps a reasonable hope of advancement. Such as it is, madame, may I dare to lay it at Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart’s feet?”Mme. de Beaudrillart turned her dull eyes upon him. She had lost her sense of wonder.“You wish to marry Claire?”“Oh, no, madame!” cried M. Georges, in alarm. “I speak of Mademoiselle Félicie. At least I would promise her a life’s devotion, and a most earnest endeavour to make up to her for what she would renounce.”“Félicie!” exclaimed her mother. “But she has consecrated her life to good works.”“Believe me, madame, I should rejoice in aiding her.”“I do not know—it is all like a mist in my brain. Claire—what does Claire say?”“She gave me her approval, madame,” returned M. Georges in eager good faith.Mme. de Beaudrillart sighed, and passed her hand across her forehead.“She vowed we were all disgraced. As you say, it may be better for one of them to go away. Félicie and you—it seems strange, but—I think—everything is strange. If Claire agreed, I cannot oppose her, only—oh, monsieur, my poor Léon!”She broke into a fit of incontrollable weeping. M. Georges hurried out to seek for Félicie, but he had only time for a whisper as he seized and kissed her hand.“Grant me an interview presently, mademoiselle. Your mother permits it, and I am the happiest of men!”
In spite of M. Bourget’s assumption of indifference, he was secretly tormented by anxiety as to what was going on in Paris. Nathalie wrote to him every day, though seldom more than a few lines. He never answered her letters, but he devoured every word, and hungered for more. It was the same with, the newspapers. He would not have missed a line, notwithstanding the pang their comments, especially those of the radical press, caused him. If his self-consciousness could have permitted it he would have gone to Paris, not to have joined his daughter, but, unknown and in secret, to have haunted the courts, especially after the trial had begun; his restlessness longing to hear the evidence with his own ears, and to listen to the remarks with which he did not doubt all Paris rang. If France had been at this moment in the throes of a revolution, M. Bourget would have expected to find its interest second to that excited by seeing Baron Léon de Beaudrillart, of Poissy, on his trial for theft. But if all France were occupied in watching M. de Beaudrillart, Tours, he was equally persuaded, watched M. Bourget. For him to show himself at the railway station would be immediately to excite curiosity, for before an hour was over it would be known that his indifference had been only simulated, and that he was in his heart as anxious as Leroux represented him.
M. Georges, meanwhile, whose faithfulness was only strengthened by what he heard and saw, had gone to Poissy, and, established there, was bravely engaged in fighting the dreary hopelessness which weighed upon the château. His disbelief in anything which could touch the young baron’s honour was so sincere and enthusiastic that, had it been possible, it might have persuaded Claire. As it was, it soothed her. With M. Georges she was less sharp, less angular, more forgiving. He was the only person, except her mother and sister, to whom she would speak, for, strangely enough, the trouble produced the same effect of gloomy reticence in her and in the man with whom she would have vowed she had least in common—M. Bourget. Like him, she shrank from a touch on the wound; like him, she read pitying contempt in the faces she looked at; like him, she exaggerated trifles. But it was impossible to misjudge M. Georges. He was so confident that M. Léon was the victim of some monstrous fraud, so undoubting in his belief that it must, somehow, be cleared up, so unchanged in his respect, so unfailing in his hopefulness, that his talk was incapable of inflicting the smallest wound. Mme. de Beaudrillart he saw but seldom. Once or twice he fancied that she must have had some sort of seizure to account for the great alteration in her person and manner. She was thinner than ever, but no longer upright. Her speech was hesitating, and she looked at Claire before uttering an opinion. From the redness of her eyes it was evident that she wept a good deal, yet at times he fancied that she imagined her son to be in the house or out in the grounds, and that she listened anxiously.
As for Félicie, there was no doubt that his confidence had given her courage. Unlike her sister, she was always anxious to talk about her brother, and the prospects of his trial; and M. Georges’s fixed opinion ended in implanting in her the idea that Léon, suffering unjustly, might be regarded as a martyr, and therefore as a credit to the house. If the Abbé Nisard did not share her idea, he took care not to contradict what proved a fervent source of consolation. Félicie returned to her daily tasks, to her embroideries and reparations, and though she cried, her tears were not bitter, and perhaps were caused as often by her sister’s impatience as by Léon’s imprisonment.
Raoul attached himself, tyrannically, to M. Georges. The boy felt, without understanding, the cloud on the family; he missed his father, his mother, his lessons, his drives. M. Georges at once undertook his education, to the great relief of the others, for whom Raoul had succeeded in making it almost unendurable. But here, in his new tutor, he found a patience which it was so impossible to tire out that he gave up the task, and, in order to gain a fishing expedition, learned his lessons to perfection.
There came a day, however, when all M. Georges’s cheerfulness could not lighten the gloom. Nathalie’s letters had been intended to prepare them; but until the newspaper arrived, full of details, and commenting upon the attitude of the accused, they had tacitly refused to realise that the trial was to begin that very week. As it happened, Félicie had been the first to see it, or it would never have met her eyes, for when Claire came she seized the paper, carried it to her room, and when she had devoured every word, tore it into shreds. M. Georges, to his despair, had not a glimpse of it; but that afternoon, as he was going off with Raoul to the river, he met Mlle. Félicie on her way back from the church, armed with a feather brush, with which she had been dusting the altar ornaments. She greeted him with eagerness.
“Oh, Monsieur Georges, you did not see that dreadful newspaper?”
“No, mademoiselle, to my great regret, for I gathered that there was something fresh. But no doubt Mademoiselle Claire exercised a wise discretion in not allowing it to lie about. Perhaps—”
He lifted his eyebrows interrogatively, and she nodded.
“Yes, I can tell you every word, and I long for your opinion.”
“Raoul, my friend,” said M. Georges, diplomatically, “old Antoine says there is a superb trout which lies always close under the bridge. Shall we try to ensnare him?”
The temptation was irresistible to a born fisherman, although the boy had a feeling that he would like to hear what was to be talked about. He kept M. Georges by his side as long as he could, but at last became absorbed, and Félicie and her companion, standing on the bridge, talked in low tones. He murmured:
“Now, permit me to hear.”
“They say,” she began, tremulously, “that Léon does not deny it. Oh, monsieur, that cannot be possible, can it?”
“I, for one, should not believe it, whatever he said,” announced M. Georges, stoutly.
“You would not? You would think there was a mistake?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“Ah, what a comfort it is to speak to you!”
“Mademoiselle, you are goodness itself,” answered the delighted M. Georges. “But can you recall more particulars?”
“Oh, there was a whole column!” cried Félicie, with a shudder. “So far as I could make out, what they said was that they understood that Monsieur de Beaudrillart admitted having taken the money, but said that he immediately informed Monsieur de Cadanet of what he had done, and that he looked upon it as a loan.”
“Exactly, exactly!” exclaimed M. Georges, triumphantly. “That is what I thought.”
“That he took it!”
“As a jest, no doubt, and as a loan. The difference is immense. Immense!” he repeated, opening his arms. “And how noble of Monsieur Léon to admit it!”
“Ah,” said Félicie, relieved.
M. Georges was here called off by Raoul to superintend an imaginary bite. He returned eagerly to Félicie, whose shortsighted eyes appeared to him quite charming in their pathos.
“What you have said has given me the greatest satisfaction,” he said, “because it explains everything so admirably. That there must be an explanation I knew, but one puzzled one’s head with thinking what it could be.”
Félicie smiled delightedly. To hear that her explanation was admirable seemed to give her the credit of having offered it, and the many snubs she had received of late from Claire made this appreciation the more valuable.
“And no doubt,” pursued her companion, “Monsieur de Beaudrillart either has repaid or was intending to repay all?”
“Yes, the paper said that would be his defence—you must excuse me if I do not use the right terms, for I had scarcely time to glance at it.”
“Mademoiselle, you are clearness itself.”
Her small features took an expression of beatitude, but of beatitude that suffers unjustly. She said:
“I do not often complain, but indeed, Monsieur Georges, you cannot fail to see that Claire is so—so determined that one does not dare to oppose her. If I say anything of which she does not approve, there is really such a storm that I prefer to be silent.”
“Mademoiselle Claire is suffering acutely, I am sure,” he returned, with a loyal impulse of defence.
“We all suffer,” said Félicie, uttering a sound between a gasp and a sob; “but I have always learned that our own sufferings should not either absorb us or render us harsh to others. No one can have felt this affliction more than I, but I try to rouse myself and to draw good out of a terrible dispensation, as the abbé advised. I assure you, monsieur, that I have much, very much, to endure from Claire.”
He murmured sympathy.
“If it were not for the relief of having you here to talk things over with, I do not think I could bear it at all. Figure to yourself, monsieur, that she prophesies all manner of terrible humiliations for us in the future! She says we can never again hold up our heads, and she has quite made up her mind that no visitors shall be ever admitted. I do not know myself that I could bear to see Mme. Lemballe; she has a small mind, and it is quite possible that she might permit herself to say something disagreeable. And just at present, of course, I am ready to sacrifice myself for our poor dear Léon. But—never! Never! Conceive how terribly doll to be cut off from all society, and to be unable to go to the houses of our friends when I have any church collection on hand. Oh, monsieur, the thought is unendurable. I would rather die!”
Into the quiet current of M. Georges’s thoughts at this instant there dashed an idea so wild and unwarrantable that he blushed violently, and was seized with a sudden tremor lest it might be read in his face. Could such a thing be possible? Oh, never, never! He chased it out, and to hide his embarrassment murmured something to the effect that Raoul’s line was caught in the weeds, and hurried to the boy.
“Go away,” said Raoul immovably, his whole being concentrated upon the trout as to which M. Georges had so basely deceived him.
“I think now it must have been higher up that Antoine meant,” said that gentleman, meekly. Raoul was on his feet in a moment.
“Then why did you say he was here?” he demanded, dragging at his tutor’s hand. “Come along. Aunt Félie, you mustn’t come; you keep Monsieur Georges from attending.”
On the whole, M. Georges escaped thankfully, his brain in a whirl. Fly from such dangerous fascinations he might, but the presumptuous idea having once found entrance was already battering again at the doors. Refused admittance, it demanded a parley, and set itself at once to prove that it was not preposterous.
M. Georges owned with simple vanity that his position had changed for the better since the days when he had been intendant at Poissy. Now he was the owner of a small house, of grounds which to him at least looked spacious, and of a certain solid little sum in rentes. Modest ambition pointed to becoming mayor, and if he even dreamed of being conseiller-général, the thing was not beyond the bounds of possibility. But—Mlle. de Beaudrillart! That, indeed, was preposterous, incredible! He heaved a sigh of renunciation, and flung it from him, only permitting a meek hope to remain that when the real Mme. Georges made her appearance she might have eyes resembling those of Mlle. Félicie. But it was astonishing how persistent this ludicrous idea became! Even when the landing of a small fish had been accomplished, Raoul pale and serious with excitement, his first exclamation, after drawing a deep breath of relief, was: “How I wish you lived here always, Monsieur Georges!” M. Georges became crimson. And somehow or other, at this time, Félicie seemed always to be kept before his consciousness. The flutter of a dress was sure to belong to her, he heard her voice where he had never heard it before, he met her in the grounds, he listened to her praises from the abbé; presently it might be said that, in spite of heroic resistance, her image was enshrined in his heart, although the hope of gaining her had not yet ventured to intrude.
What further weakened his powers of resistance was Claire’s kindness. Sometimes he really fancied that she was encouraging his folly. With him her sharpness was softened, and she deferred quite strangely to his advice about the farm, with which Félicie never meddled. She was really capable of managing everything without consultation, and M. Georges was so well aware of this that he would have been more than man not to have been flattered by her evident desire to gain his help and to yield to his opinion. He reflected, however, humbly, that it was probably owing to the absorption of her thoughts as to the trial, and this seemed the more likely since on the morning when the trial was to begin Claire shut herself in her room, and refused to see a soul.
Had it not been for M. Georges, the whole household would have been disorganised. Despair had seized it, and if the walls of Poissy had crumbled into ruin, the dismay could hardly have been greater. The maids darted across the court like frightened birds. Jacques, tearful and miserable, came to M. Georges to implore him to let him hear the latest news, and M. Georges thumped his own chest with the effort to impose self-control on his emotions, and begged him to be calm.
“What I fear,” he added, “is Monsieur Raoul’s gaining any idea of what is happening. He has just asked me why every one was crying, and why Rose-Marie called his father ‘poor monsieur le baron’? Jacques, my friend, we men must show these kind souls an example of courage. If I could trust you not to break down I would carry out an idea, and take Monsieur Raoul into Tours to see his grandfather.”
“Do, monsieur.”
“But, to tell you the truth,” said M. Georges, fidgeting, “I cannot take the coachman, for he will be wanted to support you here, and I—I am not in the habit of driving.”
“We will put the quietest of the ponies in the little cart. I feel certain he will take monsieur safely, and Monsieur Bourget—he is so shrewd!—he may have something comforting to send back.”
With many perturbations M. Georges carried out his idea. There was no one to ask, for Claire was barricaded in her own room, and Félicie had flown to the church. To tell the truth, the sight of M. Bourget’s bitter misery had so painfully impressed M. Georges that he had dwelt upon it ever since, and longed to break it down; and it was for this that he faced the terrors of the pony. They had many narrow escapes, for when they met anything in the road M. Georges persistently tugged at the left-hand rein; but fortunately the road was wide, and the pony knew much better than his driver. Thanks to his sagacity, they avoided any serious damage, and pulled up at M. Bourget’s door. The door was open, Raoul tumbled anyhow out of the cart, scrambled up the steps, and rushed in upon his grandfather before M. Bourget had time to rouse himself from the gloomy reverie which had seized him after reading his newspaper for at least the tenth time.
“Grandpapa, I have caught a fish my very own self! Monsieur Georges didn’t touch it—he didn’t, truly!—and I have brought it in for Fanchon to cook for your dinner!”
M. Bourget stood up, grew purple, half turned away, came back, and opened his arms. It was a happy inspiration of M. Georges to remain in the street, although he took advantage of the stoppage to get out of the cart, and stand at the pony’s head. Fanchon bustled forth, beaming.
“Well, I declare, if it isn’t Monsieur Georges! Drive round to the hotel, monsieur, and put up the pony, and make haste back.”
M. Georges assented, but remarking that it was hardly worth while to get in for such a short distance, proceeded to lead the pony through two streets and a half, to the astonishment of such of his acquaintances as he met. When he got back, he found Raoul, by the aid of some impromptu reins, driving his grandfather round the room and in and out of the chairs, with shouts of delight. He took care to make no remark, and presently M. Bourget sat down by him, wiping his forehead.
“As to that other,” he said, significantly, “I haven’t changed, but it is no fault of the boy’s. Leroux intends to summon you.”
“Let him!” exclaimed M. Georges, valiantly.
“Ay, let him!” chuckled the ex-builder. “And when it comes to the point, it would not surprise me if he thought better of it. You have seen the paper? It is all up with that miserable. The defence is a sham. Run out to Fanchon, my brave, and tell her to cook your fish for my dinner, and see what jam she can find in her cupboard for you. Yes. Monsieur Georges, what do you think now of your fine monsieur!”
“That I respect him with all my heart!” cried the other.
“Respect? So, ho! And for what?”
“For having the courage to speak out, monsieur. Which of us might not have been tempted to deny it altogether?”
“And you still believe him when he says he repaid it?”
“Implicitly. If you believe him when he acknowledges what tells against him, the least you can do is to take his word for the rest. You doubt the father of your grandson? Fie, Monsieur Bourget, fie!”
M. Georges swelled with enthusiasm for his cause. M. Bourget got up and paced up and down the room. He muttered at last:
“Whether he did or not, the result is the same. The Poissy honour is gone. Not a scoundrel in Tours but will have his say against it.”
“The Poissy honour has weathered worse storms,” said M. Georges, quietly. “What does it matter if a few curs bark? And I believe you are wrong. I believe honest men will respect him for his avowal.”
M. Bourget grumbled “Absurd!” under his breath, but said no more. He called Raoul and marched him out to the toy-shop, and when they were just starting for Poissy shook M. Georges’s hand with a warmth which surprised him. Raoul, in the intervals of opening all the parcels with which he was charged, remarked that grandpapa was going to see mamma, perhaps, “and I asked him if he couldn’t take me, but he couldn’t, he said,” he added, extracting a magnificent whip, which he proceeded to smack, to the great disquiet of M. Georges and the pony.
M. Georges pulled the wrong rein more than ever, and their escapes were hair-breadth. They ran in and out of ditches, they shaved carts; finally they dashed wildly through the gates of Poissy, and pulled up at the entrance so suddenly that M. Georges was shot forward, and only just saved himself from landing on the pony’s back. But, on the whole, he was satisfied with the result of his expedition, and so was Raoul, who announced that he liked M. Georges’s driving better than anybody’s.
The little clatter of arrival sounded unfeeling to poor Claire, who sat nursing her misery in the room adjoining that of Mme. de Beaudrillart. How could any one move, think, speak, at such a time! And yet it was a comfort to feel that M. Georges was again in the house. He was unaltered, though her conviction of the disgrace which hung over them all was so strong that she read change in the look and manner of all the servants. As for friends, she had resolved never again to face them. It seemed to her that the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness would be a change of name, and a flight to some far-away place where no one would recognise her as a Beaudrillart. But to gain this object she was helpless, and the thought of living on at Poissy, pointed at as the sister of a man in prison, was absolutely terrible. More than once that day Félicie, whose room was on the other side, and whose troubles were always comforted by talking about them, had knocked at the door and begged to be admitted, only to hear a sharp “Go away!” in answer. She went to her mother, but Mme. de Beaudrillart’s state bordered on apathy. How much or how little she understood, it was impossible to say. To Félicie, at any rate, it was a real relief to hear M. Georges’s cheery voice. She ran down the stairs to welcome him with a pleasure which in a moment brought back all those wild dreams which he had been trying to forget. In the whirl of his brain he even went so far as to murmur “Dear mademoiselle!” and Félicie merely blushed a little, and cast down her eyes. They saw each other constantly that day and the next, for Claire, silent and rigid, only came down for meals, and retreated immediately to her own room. M. Georges was very good, and most delicately respectful to her; but it was impossible to say much in her presence, and both felt secretly relieved when she had gone. All the customs of the house seemed to be in abeyance. Félicie would never at other times have allowed herself the long conversations which now had the most natural air in the world. She babbled to M. Georges in her small, precise voice of all the little interests which filled her life, while she imagined that her talk was only of Léon; and he listened with the most profound admiration. What could be more estimable than the good works which occupied her morning, noon, and night! What more beautiful than her devotion! She showed him with pride the embroideries and vestments which were under her charge, and he helped her to refold them, as she said, with far more neatness than Rose-Marie. By the time this labour was ended, M. Georges’s presumptuous little idea which at first sight had so alarmed him was enthroned triumphantly in his heart.
The third day of the trial had been reached. Nathalie, all day in court, could only scribble disjointed letters, noting as far as possible the principal points, and infinitely pathetic in their anguish and their trust. The newspapers gave minute reports, up to this point occupied by the opening speech for the prosecution and the interrogation of the prisoner. The third day would produce Charles Lemaire’s evidence, and on the morning of that day Félicie, pale and agitated, rushed down the stairs to the small study where M. Georges transacted his business in old days, and which he now again occupied.
“Oh, Monsieur Georges, come, I beg of you, come at once! Claire has said something to my mother, and she is most terribly upset. We cannot soothe her.”
Poor Mme. de Beaudrillart was, indeed, in a distressing state. The tidings which for some days she had not seemed to realise had suddenly reached her comprehension and produced a painful anguish. She was sitting at the table, her hands clinched and her eyes wide-open, Claire kneeling by her side in terror. The instant she saw M. Georges she cried, in a hoarse voice:
“It is not true, monsieur, say it is not true! Oh, Léon, my son, my son!”
“Madame,” cried M. Georges, hastening to her side, “it is not true that Monsieur Léon is what they say! There has been a terrible mistake, but it will come right—it must.”
She leaned forward, and said in a whisper which he never forgot:
“But he took it.”
“And repaid it, madame. I would stake my life on it.” Mme. de Beaudrillart pointed out Claire by a gesture:
“She says we are disgraced forever—we!” she shuddered. “That we may hide our heads, for no respectable person will have anything to do with us. She would like to go away.”
“Oh, mademoiselle!” cried M. Georges, turning on her a look of reproach. “Madame,” he said, standing upright, and stiffening with resolution, “permit me to convince you that it is not so. Mademoiselle Félicie, Mademoiselle Claire, will you allow me a few minutes alone with madame?”
Félicie went out demurely, Claire rose up and flung him a questioning glance. He murmured:
“Mademoiselle, I venture to think you have perhaps divined. Have I the inestimable encouragement of your approval?”
Poor Claire! She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and said, brokenly, “Yes, monsieur, yes!”
When they were gone, M. Georges still stood respectfully before Mme. de Beaudrillart.
“Madame,” he said, solemnly, “I am aware that what I have to say will sound presumptuous, and I could not have ventured upon it but for your daughter’s fancy that you would all suffer from this misfortune of Monsieur Léon’s. My position has improved; I have a small estate, a yearly income, and perhaps a reasonable hope of advancement. Such as it is, madame, may I dare to lay it at Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart’s feet?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart turned her dull eyes upon him. She had lost her sense of wonder.
“You wish to marry Claire?”
“Oh, no, madame!” cried M. Georges, in alarm. “I speak of Mademoiselle Félicie. At least I would promise her a life’s devotion, and a most earnest endeavour to make up to her for what she would renounce.”
“Félicie!” exclaimed her mother. “But she has consecrated her life to good works.”
“Believe me, madame, I should rejoice in aiding her.”
“I do not know—it is all like a mist in my brain. Claire—what does Claire say?”
“She gave me her approval, madame,” returned M. Georges in eager good faith.
Mme. de Beaudrillart sighed, and passed her hand across her forehead.
“She vowed we were all disgraced. As you say, it may be better for one of them to go away. Félicie and you—it seems strange, but—I think—everything is strange. If Claire agreed, I cannot oppose her, only—oh, monsieur, my poor Léon!”
She broke into a fit of incontrollable weeping. M. Georges hurried out to seek for Félicie, but he had only time for a whisper as he seized and kissed her hand.
“Grant me an interview presently, mademoiselle. Your mother permits it, and I am the happiest of men!”
Chapter Twenty Five.The Trial.(The author has given the cross-examination in the shape best known to English readers, since it is a mere question of form. French counseldoexamine, though they may not directly address the accused, and have to ask the judge to ask, etc, a formality which becomes tedious in report, and which has therefore been omitted.—Code d’Instruction Criminelle, art. 310.)The trial, which was creating so much excitement, not only in Paris, but throughout the length and breadth of France, had reached its third day. The indictment against the prisoner had been powerfully presented; it alluded to distinct evidence of the theft, and to the astonishment of the public who were not already in the secret Maître Barraud had remarked, with an air of indifference, that his side admitted all the facts which had been brought forward. This acknowledgment still further stimulated curiosity, the public imagining that the famous advocate had some counter-evidence in his pocket, since he so readily allowed what appeared damaging to pass unquestioned. As M. Rodoin had foreseen, however, the move was disliked by the prosecution, because they had counted upon the prisoner’s denial, and upon at once proving his falsehood and creating a prejudice against him.Maître Barraud, while still vowing vengeance against M. Rodoin for having dragged him into the affair, was allowing his professional instincts to get the upper hand. The fact of Maître Miron being opposed to him and having a strong case was enough to excite his fighting powers. Moreover, he had become convinced that Léon’s story was true. It was unfortunately weak and unsupported, but he was certain that no attempt was made to deceive him. Added to this he read in Mme. Léon’s eyes that she distrusted his age and his energy, in spite of all M. Rodoin’s assurances, and her want of confidence piqued him. She thought him indifferent, while in reality he was bringing all his wits and his resources to bear upon the case, without, it must be conceded, much hope of success. He had directed the prisoner to be perfectly frank and straightforward in his own replies both to the juge d’instruction and in court.“There lies your one chance.”“And you think that if I had not admitted the fact of exchange, it would have been proved against me?”“Certainly, baron. Since you recalled writing a letter to Monsieur de Cadanet, I can see how Lemaire got upon your track. If you had denied, the letter would have been produced. Now they will keep it back because, as you admit the fact, it would tell in your favour. I shall call for it.”“It was my wife who urged speaking out.”“And she showed her sense. Women’s intuitions are generally to be trusted when they don’t go too far,” said Maître Barraud, carelessly.In spite of his opinion, he expressed extreme impatience when M. Rodoin, on the morning of the third day, asked whether he could give a few minutes to Mme. de Beaudrillart.“Certainly not. I know exactly the sort, of questions I should have to answer: Is the trial going for or against? Have the jury made up their minds? Might she not stand up and bear witness to the perfect probity of her beloved husband? Console Madame de Beaudrillart yourself; the task of defending monsieur is quite as much as I desire to undertake.”“Please yourself, my dear Albert,” said M. Rodoin, quietly. “You know very well that Madame Léon is not the silly woman you pretend. If you will not listen to her, you must listen to me; but the idea was her own. She wondered whether it would be possible for her to make a personal appeal to Madame Lemaire?”“On what ground?” Maître Barraud shot out the words after a moment’s consideration.“All our investigations point to the fact that it is an unhappy marriage, and that Lemaire neglects, if he does not ill-use, his wife.”“Bah! That will only make her stick to him the closer.”“Possibly. But she is, by every account, a woman of strong religious principle. If she knew of a wrong being committed her conscience might lead her—”“To denounce it?” Maître Barraud pushed out his lips, and passed his hand over his chin. “She will not know. That sort of woman, if she has to live with that sort of man, shuts her eyes, and refuses to open them. It is her only chance.”“Possibly, again, if you or I went to her. But another woman?”“If we could hit on her line of sentiment—she is sure to have a sentiment,” murmured the other, reflectively. “But no, no, no. It can’t be done. It would be a confession of weakness. Miron would get hold of it, and we should have a triumphant peroration of the straits to which the other side are driven. I can only reach that scoundrel through the court, but I will make him feel.”“If the wife is in court?”“She will not be. Either she will know nothing, or will keep out of it.”M. Rodoin had to carry back this refusal to Nathalie, for whom his admiration daily strengthened. She was so courageous and so cheerful, so sensible, and so full of resource that instead of hindering the lawyers, her suggestions had more than once proved valuable; and as for poor Léon, the sight of her brave and earnest face, and the smile with which she never failed to meet his eye, gave him his best support in the terrible hours which he spent in the court. It created also, as Maître Barraud was swift to note, an unexpressed and subtle feeling of sympathy with the accused. The fine and noble lines of her face, the breathless interest with which she followed every point as it was mooted, offered evidence as powerful as it was unconscious in his favour. He dared not count upon its being strong enough to weigh against the testimony of facts, but he knew that any point he could succeed in making would be strengthened by its presence.Léon, too, bore himself well. Those who knew him before remarked how greatly he had aged, and his face was colourless. His manner, however, was what it should have been—simple and unexaggerated. Evidently he felt his position profoundly, but he answered the questions addressed to him by the Court with a dignity which to M. Rodoin was unexpected and quite frankly. On the whole, the impression he gave was favourable. But this, again, however desirable, was not worth one grain of actual proof.And for proof M. Rodoin had ransacked Paris in vain. The notes had been sent in a registered packet, but it was too long ago to obtain a record from the post-office. An examination of M. de Cadanet’s papers had been made, naturally without success. One point and one only had been established in Léon’s favour. The banker’s book showed that about the time he claimed to have repaid the debt a sum of one hundred thousand francs had been entered in M. de Cadanet’s account, and the clerk believed remembering that they were mostly notes issued by the provincial bank of Tours. But there had been a change of clerks since; the one who had that impression was then a junior, and could not swear to it. Two had died of influenza.The prisoner himself was first interrogated. He was very white, and his hand grasped the nearest wood-work convulsively; but he answered well, and without hesitation. He acknowledged that M. de Cadanet showed great displeasure towards him, and reproached him even violently for the extravagances with which he showed himself well acquainted. The judge inquired how he considered they had reached his ears, to which he replied that he never doubted they were conveyed by M. Lemaire, as he was, he understood, the only person who constantly saw M. de Cadanet—excepting his lawyer, who had told them in his evidence that he only received instructions from the count, and was never permitted so much as to offer advice. Asked whether he himself had not done his utmost to vilify M. Lemaire to M. de Cadanet, he replied indignantly that he had avoided mentioning him or the places in which he had met him—an answer which was received with a show of incredulity.He had to give a close account of the interview, and the replies were pumped from him; for by this time he was angry, and stood upright, touching nothing. He admitted having gone to ask for help in his difficulties.“You had, in fact, squandered your fortune, and Poissy must inevitably have been sold if money was not forthcoming?”“I have never denied it.”“Had Monsieur de Cadanet given you reason to expect assistance from him?”“None, except that he was under obligations to my father.”“He may not have considered that affording you the means of running into further extravagances was the best means of showing gratitude to the late baron?”The prisoner remained silent.Asked what drew his attention to the cheque, he replied that M. de Cadanet enclosed it before his eyes, and that he believed it to be coming to him until the count informed him that the reports he had received of his conduct had made him resolve against assisting him, and that the money he had prepared would be given to another.“Did he mention the name of this other!”“I remarked that I presumed the other was Monsieur Charles Lemaire.”“Why did you arrive at this conclusion?”“Because I was certain that Monsieur Lemaire was the person through whom the reports had reached him.”“They were, however, correct?”M. de Beaudrillart was again silent.Further questions extracted what had passed in the remainder of the interview and in the street. He was asked if he had ever mentioned the circumstance to any one?“Until this action was threatened, never.”“And then?”“To my wife.”“You must speak louder. How did you account for the change in your circumstances?”“My family believed I had received a loan from Monsieur de Cadanet.”He declared that he had sent, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, and, on his marriage, a further sum of two hundred and three thousand, part of his wife’s dowry. On this point he was closely interrogated by the judge, who professed utter incredulity.“You drew and sent a cheque?”“No. I returned the sum in notes by a registered letter.”“And your wife’s father consented to paying so large a sum in notes without making inquiries as to its destination? That is a most improbable story!”Léon replied that he had explained to his father-in-law that it was in order to pay a debt of honour of which he could give no account. Then came the crucial question.“And you wish the Court to believe that you returned the money without receiving the smallest acknowledgment from Monsieur de Cadanet.”“That is the case.”“You persist in such a ridiculous assertion?”“Yes.”“And mentioned it to no one?”“To my mother.”“She also was content to have no receipt?”“No. She was very uneasy.”“How did you quiet her?”“I am afraid I allowed her to believe I had received one.” The prisoner gave this answer in evident distress, and Maître Barraud clasped his chin with his hand. The fact evidently told against the accused.“You never heard again from Monsieur de Cadanet?”“I heard no more of him until I received the announcement of his death.”As the examination ended there was a movement round Nathalie. The Assize Court of the Seine was densely crowded, and the pushing and squeezing caused by the new arrival would have roused any one less deeply interested. Nathalie, however, had eyes only for her husband, and it was not until a square, thick-set figure had forced himself into a seat by her side that she recognised her father. No greeting but a nod passed between them, each being too anxious to hear the next evidence. It was, however, of no great importance, the principal witnesses being André, the concierge, and the doctor, who testified to M. de Cadanet’s clearness of mind throughout his illness.M. Charles Lemaire was next duly called, sworn, and interrogated by the Procureur. People noticed that on his appearance M. de Beaudrillart lifted his head, looked coolly at him, and allowed a smile of contemptuous scorn to pass across his face. On the other hand, Lemaire had the appearance of being quite at his ease. He glanced round the court, bowed to the judge, and turned to the Procureur with an air of extreme readiness. In answer to the interrogations, he replied with perfect smoothness. His evidence, in fact, might be considered irreproachable, saying neither too much nor too little. The six years which had passed had not improved his appearance—for he had grown much stouter, and his face was puffy—but they had taught him to conceal his feelings. He was careful to speak with perfect moderation of the prisoner. Asked whether at the time of the theft he and M. de Beaudrillart were on good terms, he said they had little to say to each other. Further pressed, he allowed that he had seen him lose very considerable sums at play, and it was the common talk in Paris that he had so greatly impoverished himself that Poissy might have to be sold. M. de Cadanet put a great many questions to him on the matter. He had no wish to prejudice him against the young man, and evaded his questions when he could; on the other hand, he did not profess any regard for him, and did not conceal the fact of his extravagance. Asked whether M. de Cadanet had ever expressed his intention of assisting the accused, he replied most emphatically no. He had, on the contrary, spoken of him with great indignation. But of course he could not profess to judge of M. de Cadanet’s private intentions.Did M. de Cadanet inform him of the abstraction of the notes?Never, until just before his death.Desired to relate the circumstances of M. de Cadanet’s disclosure, he gave an account of his illness. It was not until he was apparently in extremis that the count informed him of what had taken place, and advised him to recover his money from M. de Beaudrillart.Here the examination in chief was interrupted by Maître Barraud inquiring through the judge why M. de Cadanet had not brought the action himself. M. Lemaire could not say with certainty, but thought he had abstained owing to a sentiment of affection towards the defunct baron, M. de Beaudrillart’s father. The question was then put why in a matter of so much importance he had not caused M. de Cadanet’s deposition to be formally taken before witnesses. For the first time Lemaire very slightly hesitated. He then said that it had not seemed absolutely necessary, as M. de Cadanet showed him a letter from de Beaudrillart admitting the theft.The Procureur remarked that the theft was admitted by the defence, and at once Maître Barraud demanded the production of the letter.The judge agreed, and meanwhile the examination proceeded.M. de Cadanet, speaking with great difficulty, had informed the witness that he had answered this insolent letter by another, in which he told M. de Beaudrillart that he would hear more of the transaction at a later date.Here the judge again interposed, but it was to ask the prisoner whether he had received this letter.Léon replied that he had, and that the contents were such as had been described, but that he had destroyed it at the time—an answer which created a decidedly unfavourable impression.Lemaire, proceeding, said that M. de Cadanet was a man of few friends, who had lived altogether alone the last years of his life. During his last illness he had no one to care for and nurse him except he Lemaire himself, and his wife, M. de Cadanet’s niece by marriage.In answer to an inquiry whether his wife had heard M. de Cadanet’s statement, he said she had not; the count had wished to speak to him alone.“And this wish you scrupulously carried out?”“Certainly. Monsieur de Cadanet was a man who would be obeyed.”“You are, I think, the principal legatee under the will?”“I am.”“Will you state why you decided upon asking for this prosecution.”“In compliance with Monsieur de Cadanet’s express desire, he said he had often reproached himself with having taken no steps himself, but that age and illness had weakened his energy. It was in order that I might undertake the task that he confided the papers to me.”The examination continued for some time longer on these lines. The effect it produced was decidedly adverse to the accused. It had nearly concluded when the called-for letter arrived, and was read:“Mr 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, and who begs to subscribe himself.“Yours faithfully,—“Léon de Beaudrillart.”As the last word of the letter died away, a movement passed through the court. The judge addressed himself to Léon.“That is your letter?”“It is.”Maître Miron put another question to M. Lemaire.“When Monsieur de Cadanet presented you with this letter, did he make any allusion to its concluding sentence?”“Certainly,” replied the witness, coolly. “He said that Monsieur de Beaudrillart had very much exaggerated the services rendered to him by the defunct baron.”The prisoner burst out with the word “Liar!” and was sharply rebuked for the interruption.Further examined as to whether he was certain that the money had never been repaid, the witness said that his only knowledge was derived from M. de Cadanet himself, who assured him that he had not received a sou. “If it were otherwise,” he remarked, “receipts would certainly exist, the count being a man of excellent business habits.”After a few more unimportant questions, it was felt that Lemaire had given his evidence clearly, and, except in two answers, had been very careful in both tone and wording to preserve an appearance of perfect fairness towards the prisoner. The two exceptions were those in which he alluded to the absence of a receipt, and to M. de Cadanet having disclaimed receiving any considerable help from M. de Beaudrillart’s father.Nathalie looked at Maître Barraud with a yet more sinking heart. The Procureur de la République had appeared to her an ideal counsel—shrewd-faced, energetic, keen. His opponent, with his round, boyish face, his almost indifferent manner, and a certain air of hesitation, which she had not noticed so much before, did not give the impression of being in any way his equal. The questions he suggested appeared to her to be little to the point, and though she carefully kept discouragement from her face, so that Léon, when he glanced at her, might take comfort, she had never felt more discouraged.With an air of extreme innocence, as of one only seeking for enlightenment, Maître Barraud pursued through the court his inquiries as to Lemaire’s first acquaintance with M. de Beaudrillart. He had seen him play. “You played yourself, of course?”Charles shrugged his shoulders. “Occasionally. Why else should I have been there?”“Oh, precisely! Why else!” repeated his questioner, deprecatingly. “And doubtless, Monsieur de Cadanet, as a man of the world, took an interest in your fortune at the tables!” Lemaire, suspecting a trap, replied that they were not in the habit of talking over it.“Ah! Only of Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s!”“Nor of Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s.”“No! I gathered that the fact of his large gambling losses displeased Monsieur de Cadanet!”“Possibly.”“But they were not learned from you!”“Not in the first place. When he asked questions I could only tell the truth.”“Unquestionably. Truth is an inestimable virtue. You were not the first to speak of them. Who, then? The concierge has given evidence that the count received no visitors.”“It is impossible to say. Rumour filters everywhere. Possibly the servants talked.”“We will hear that from them by-and-by. You were naturally anxious to keep on good terms with Monsieur de Cadanet, and that you did so has been amply proved. The only other person in whom he seems to have shown an interest was Monsieur de Beaudrillart!”“I do not know that he took much interest.”“You said he asked many questions on the subject. That looks like it.”“I cannot say. It may have been so.”“It looks like it,” repeated Maître Barraud, equably. “The situation, then, appears to have been that you and the accused both played, and that Monsieur de Cadanet was displeased with him only. Was it owing to the fact that he lost and you won?”Up to this point the questions had dropped out in an almost sleepily courteous tone. The last had the effect of a sharp, sudden, and unexpected thrust. M. Bourget muttered, “That drew blood.” Nathalie listened, breathless. Lemaire answered, sulkily, “I do not know,” and Maître Barraud, after a momentary pause by which he succeeded in emphasising his inquiry, dropped the subject.Lemaire held himself very determinedly on guard after this episode, which he was conscious had told against him, and little was elicited. The counsel passed on to the account of what took place at the time of the count’s death. He made particular inquiries as to who was in the house, and then put another question through the judge.“You were married, I think, at the time of the alleged theft?”“I was.”“But your wife was not much at the house?”“No. Monsieur de Cadanet saw her at intervals, but it was not until his health failed that he liked to have her about him.”“Did she undertake all the nursing?”“When he was seriously ill there was a nurse as well.”“And at the time when he made this—this extraordinary revelation, Madame Lemaire was not in the room?”“Certainly not!” said Lemaire, hastily.“You have told the judge that you thought it unnecessary to have his words taken down as a formal deposition; did it not occur to you it would have been very desirable to have called in witnesses to hear what now rests upon your own unsupported word?”“Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s own letter gave the necessary evidence.”“As to his borrowing the sum—”The judge here interpolated, “It was stealing. It cannot be called borrowing.”“Unauthorised borrowing, monsieur le president, I acknowledge. But if repaid, as we maintain, the jury will not consider it a theft. And the witness, who is the person most interested, can bring no evidence to prove that it was not repaid beyond his own report of what I will venture to call an imaginary conversation!”The Procureur remarked:“The absence of a receipt.”“Well, we will say no more at present on this subject. Monsieur de Cadanet, having kept silence for many years, at a time when most men are anxious to be in charity with their fellow-sinners, carried out, we will suppose, a determined act of revenge against this unfortunate young man. Did he advise or enjoin you to bring this action! Can you repeat what passed?”“Not in exact words. He gave me to understand that he had warned Monsieur de Beaudrillart in the letter which was destroyed that proceedings would be taken.”“And your wife heard nothing!”“Nothing.”“Although she was in constant attendance?”“He only spoke once on the subject.”“Did not even allude to her about this family, which must have been much in his mind?”“No.”“That was a lie,” reflected Maître Barraud, quickly. “When he tells a lie his eyebrows twitch slightly.” At this point the court adjourned for an hour, and he hastily scrawled something on a piece of paper, and had it passed to M. Rodoin. The words were, “Madame Lemaire is not in court; let Madame de Beaudrillart go to her at once and alone.”
(The author has given the cross-examination in the shape best known to English readers, since it is a mere question of form. French counseldoexamine, though they may not directly address the accused, and have to ask the judge to ask, etc, a formality which becomes tedious in report, and which has therefore been omitted.—Code d’Instruction Criminelle, art. 310.)
The trial, which was creating so much excitement, not only in Paris, but throughout the length and breadth of France, had reached its third day. The indictment against the prisoner had been powerfully presented; it alluded to distinct evidence of the theft, and to the astonishment of the public who were not already in the secret Maître Barraud had remarked, with an air of indifference, that his side admitted all the facts which had been brought forward. This acknowledgment still further stimulated curiosity, the public imagining that the famous advocate had some counter-evidence in his pocket, since he so readily allowed what appeared damaging to pass unquestioned. As M. Rodoin had foreseen, however, the move was disliked by the prosecution, because they had counted upon the prisoner’s denial, and upon at once proving his falsehood and creating a prejudice against him.
Maître Barraud, while still vowing vengeance against M. Rodoin for having dragged him into the affair, was allowing his professional instincts to get the upper hand. The fact of Maître Miron being opposed to him and having a strong case was enough to excite his fighting powers. Moreover, he had become convinced that Léon’s story was true. It was unfortunately weak and unsupported, but he was certain that no attempt was made to deceive him. Added to this he read in Mme. Léon’s eyes that she distrusted his age and his energy, in spite of all M. Rodoin’s assurances, and her want of confidence piqued him. She thought him indifferent, while in reality he was bringing all his wits and his resources to bear upon the case, without, it must be conceded, much hope of success. He had directed the prisoner to be perfectly frank and straightforward in his own replies both to the juge d’instruction and in court.
“There lies your one chance.”
“And you think that if I had not admitted the fact of exchange, it would have been proved against me?”
“Certainly, baron. Since you recalled writing a letter to Monsieur de Cadanet, I can see how Lemaire got upon your track. If you had denied, the letter would have been produced. Now they will keep it back because, as you admit the fact, it would tell in your favour. I shall call for it.”
“It was my wife who urged speaking out.”
“And she showed her sense. Women’s intuitions are generally to be trusted when they don’t go too far,” said Maître Barraud, carelessly.
In spite of his opinion, he expressed extreme impatience when M. Rodoin, on the morning of the third day, asked whether he could give a few minutes to Mme. de Beaudrillart.
“Certainly not. I know exactly the sort, of questions I should have to answer: Is the trial going for or against? Have the jury made up their minds? Might she not stand up and bear witness to the perfect probity of her beloved husband? Console Madame de Beaudrillart yourself; the task of defending monsieur is quite as much as I desire to undertake.”
“Please yourself, my dear Albert,” said M. Rodoin, quietly. “You know very well that Madame Léon is not the silly woman you pretend. If you will not listen to her, you must listen to me; but the idea was her own. She wondered whether it would be possible for her to make a personal appeal to Madame Lemaire?”
“On what ground?” Maître Barraud shot out the words after a moment’s consideration.
“All our investigations point to the fact that it is an unhappy marriage, and that Lemaire neglects, if he does not ill-use, his wife.”
“Bah! That will only make her stick to him the closer.”
“Possibly. But she is, by every account, a woman of strong religious principle. If she knew of a wrong being committed her conscience might lead her—”
“To denounce it?” Maître Barraud pushed out his lips, and passed his hand over his chin. “She will not know. That sort of woman, if she has to live with that sort of man, shuts her eyes, and refuses to open them. It is her only chance.”
“Possibly, again, if you or I went to her. But another woman?”
“If we could hit on her line of sentiment—she is sure to have a sentiment,” murmured the other, reflectively. “But no, no, no. It can’t be done. It would be a confession of weakness. Miron would get hold of it, and we should have a triumphant peroration of the straits to which the other side are driven. I can only reach that scoundrel through the court, but I will make him feel.”
“If the wife is in court?”
“She will not be. Either she will know nothing, or will keep out of it.”
M. Rodoin had to carry back this refusal to Nathalie, for whom his admiration daily strengthened. She was so courageous and so cheerful, so sensible, and so full of resource that instead of hindering the lawyers, her suggestions had more than once proved valuable; and as for poor Léon, the sight of her brave and earnest face, and the smile with which she never failed to meet his eye, gave him his best support in the terrible hours which he spent in the court. It created also, as Maître Barraud was swift to note, an unexpressed and subtle feeling of sympathy with the accused. The fine and noble lines of her face, the breathless interest with which she followed every point as it was mooted, offered evidence as powerful as it was unconscious in his favour. He dared not count upon its being strong enough to weigh against the testimony of facts, but he knew that any point he could succeed in making would be strengthened by its presence.
Léon, too, bore himself well. Those who knew him before remarked how greatly he had aged, and his face was colourless. His manner, however, was what it should have been—simple and unexaggerated. Evidently he felt his position profoundly, but he answered the questions addressed to him by the Court with a dignity which to M. Rodoin was unexpected and quite frankly. On the whole, the impression he gave was favourable. But this, again, however desirable, was not worth one grain of actual proof.
And for proof M. Rodoin had ransacked Paris in vain. The notes had been sent in a registered packet, but it was too long ago to obtain a record from the post-office. An examination of M. de Cadanet’s papers had been made, naturally without success. One point and one only had been established in Léon’s favour. The banker’s book showed that about the time he claimed to have repaid the debt a sum of one hundred thousand francs had been entered in M. de Cadanet’s account, and the clerk believed remembering that they were mostly notes issued by the provincial bank of Tours. But there had been a change of clerks since; the one who had that impression was then a junior, and could not swear to it. Two had died of influenza.
The prisoner himself was first interrogated. He was very white, and his hand grasped the nearest wood-work convulsively; but he answered well, and without hesitation. He acknowledged that M. de Cadanet showed great displeasure towards him, and reproached him even violently for the extravagances with which he showed himself well acquainted. The judge inquired how he considered they had reached his ears, to which he replied that he never doubted they were conveyed by M. Lemaire, as he was, he understood, the only person who constantly saw M. de Cadanet—excepting his lawyer, who had told them in his evidence that he only received instructions from the count, and was never permitted so much as to offer advice. Asked whether he himself had not done his utmost to vilify M. Lemaire to M. de Cadanet, he replied indignantly that he had avoided mentioning him or the places in which he had met him—an answer which was received with a show of incredulity.
He had to give a close account of the interview, and the replies were pumped from him; for by this time he was angry, and stood upright, touching nothing. He admitted having gone to ask for help in his difficulties.
“You had, in fact, squandered your fortune, and Poissy must inevitably have been sold if money was not forthcoming?”
“I have never denied it.”
“Had Monsieur de Cadanet given you reason to expect assistance from him?”
“None, except that he was under obligations to my father.”
“He may not have considered that affording you the means of running into further extravagances was the best means of showing gratitude to the late baron?”
The prisoner remained silent.
Asked what drew his attention to the cheque, he replied that M. de Cadanet enclosed it before his eyes, and that he believed it to be coming to him until the count informed him that the reports he had received of his conduct had made him resolve against assisting him, and that the money he had prepared would be given to another.
“Did he mention the name of this other!”
“I remarked that I presumed the other was Monsieur Charles Lemaire.”
“Why did you arrive at this conclusion?”
“Because I was certain that Monsieur Lemaire was the person through whom the reports had reached him.”
“They were, however, correct?”
M. de Beaudrillart was again silent.
Further questions extracted what had passed in the remainder of the interview and in the street. He was asked if he had ever mentioned the circumstance to any one?
“Until this action was threatened, never.”
“And then?”
“To my wife.”
“You must speak louder. How did you account for the change in your circumstances?”
“My family believed I had received a loan from Monsieur de Cadanet.”
He declared that he had sent, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, and, on his marriage, a further sum of two hundred and three thousand, part of his wife’s dowry. On this point he was closely interrogated by the judge, who professed utter incredulity.
“You drew and sent a cheque?”
“No. I returned the sum in notes by a registered letter.”
“And your wife’s father consented to paying so large a sum in notes without making inquiries as to its destination? That is a most improbable story!”
Léon replied that he had explained to his father-in-law that it was in order to pay a debt of honour of which he could give no account. Then came the crucial question.
“And you wish the Court to believe that you returned the money without receiving the smallest acknowledgment from Monsieur de Cadanet.”
“That is the case.”
“You persist in such a ridiculous assertion?”
“Yes.”
“And mentioned it to no one?”
“To my mother.”
“She also was content to have no receipt?”
“No. She was very uneasy.”
“How did you quiet her?”
“I am afraid I allowed her to believe I had received one.” The prisoner gave this answer in evident distress, and Maître Barraud clasped his chin with his hand. The fact evidently told against the accused.
“You never heard again from Monsieur de Cadanet?”
“I heard no more of him until I received the announcement of his death.”
As the examination ended there was a movement round Nathalie. The Assize Court of the Seine was densely crowded, and the pushing and squeezing caused by the new arrival would have roused any one less deeply interested. Nathalie, however, had eyes only for her husband, and it was not until a square, thick-set figure had forced himself into a seat by her side that she recognised her father. No greeting but a nod passed between them, each being too anxious to hear the next evidence. It was, however, of no great importance, the principal witnesses being André, the concierge, and the doctor, who testified to M. de Cadanet’s clearness of mind throughout his illness.
M. Charles Lemaire was next duly called, sworn, and interrogated by the Procureur. People noticed that on his appearance M. de Beaudrillart lifted his head, looked coolly at him, and allowed a smile of contemptuous scorn to pass across his face. On the other hand, Lemaire had the appearance of being quite at his ease. He glanced round the court, bowed to the judge, and turned to the Procureur with an air of extreme readiness. In answer to the interrogations, he replied with perfect smoothness. His evidence, in fact, might be considered irreproachable, saying neither too much nor too little. The six years which had passed had not improved his appearance—for he had grown much stouter, and his face was puffy—but they had taught him to conceal his feelings. He was careful to speak with perfect moderation of the prisoner. Asked whether at the time of the theft he and M. de Beaudrillart were on good terms, he said they had little to say to each other. Further pressed, he allowed that he had seen him lose very considerable sums at play, and it was the common talk in Paris that he had so greatly impoverished himself that Poissy might have to be sold. M. de Cadanet put a great many questions to him on the matter. He had no wish to prejudice him against the young man, and evaded his questions when he could; on the other hand, he did not profess any regard for him, and did not conceal the fact of his extravagance. Asked whether M. de Cadanet had ever expressed his intention of assisting the accused, he replied most emphatically no. He had, on the contrary, spoken of him with great indignation. But of course he could not profess to judge of M. de Cadanet’s private intentions.
Did M. de Cadanet inform him of the abstraction of the notes?
Never, until just before his death.
Desired to relate the circumstances of M. de Cadanet’s disclosure, he gave an account of his illness. It was not until he was apparently in extremis that the count informed him of what had taken place, and advised him to recover his money from M. de Beaudrillart.
Here the examination in chief was interrupted by Maître Barraud inquiring through the judge why M. de Cadanet had not brought the action himself. M. Lemaire could not say with certainty, but thought he had abstained owing to a sentiment of affection towards the defunct baron, M. de Beaudrillart’s father. The question was then put why in a matter of so much importance he had not caused M. de Cadanet’s deposition to be formally taken before witnesses. For the first time Lemaire very slightly hesitated. He then said that it had not seemed absolutely necessary, as M. de Cadanet showed him a letter from de Beaudrillart admitting the theft.
The Procureur remarked that the theft was admitted by the defence, and at once Maître Barraud demanded the production of the letter.
The judge agreed, and meanwhile the examination proceeded.
M. de Cadanet, speaking with great difficulty, had informed the witness that he had answered this insolent letter by another, in which he told M. de Beaudrillart that he would hear more of the transaction at a later date.
Here the judge again interposed, but it was to ask the prisoner whether he had received this letter.
Léon replied that he had, and that the contents were such as had been described, but that he had destroyed it at the time—an answer which created a decidedly unfavourable impression.
Lemaire, proceeding, said that M. de Cadanet was a man of few friends, who had lived altogether alone the last years of his life. During his last illness he had no one to care for and nurse him except he Lemaire himself, and his wife, M. de Cadanet’s niece by marriage.
In answer to an inquiry whether his wife had heard M. de Cadanet’s statement, he said she had not; the count had wished to speak to him alone.
“And this wish you scrupulously carried out?”
“Certainly. Monsieur de Cadanet was a man who would be obeyed.”
“You are, I think, the principal legatee under the will?”
“I am.”
“Will you state why you decided upon asking for this prosecution.”
“In compliance with Monsieur de Cadanet’s express desire, he said he had often reproached himself with having taken no steps himself, but that age and illness had weakened his energy. It was in order that I might undertake the task that he confided the papers to me.”
The examination continued for some time longer on these lines. The effect it produced was decidedly adverse to the accused. It had nearly concluded when the called-for letter arrived, and was read:
“Mr 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, and who begs to subscribe himself.“Yours faithfully,—“Léon de Beaudrillart.”
“Mr 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, and who begs to subscribe himself.“Yours faithfully,—“Léon de Beaudrillart.”
As the last word of the letter died away, a movement passed through the court. The judge addressed himself to Léon.
“That is your letter?”
“It is.”
Maître Miron put another question to M. Lemaire.
“When Monsieur de Cadanet presented you with this letter, did he make any allusion to its concluding sentence?”
“Certainly,” replied the witness, coolly. “He said that Monsieur de Beaudrillart had very much exaggerated the services rendered to him by the defunct baron.”
The prisoner burst out with the word “Liar!” and was sharply rebuked for the interruption.
Further examined as to whether he was certain that the money had never been repaid, the witness said that his only knowledge was derived from M. de Cadanet himself, who assured him that he had not received a sou. “If it were otherwise,” he remarked, “receipts would certainly exist, the count being a man of excellent business habits.”
After a few more unimportant questions, it was felt that Lemaire had given his evidence clearly, and, except in two answers, had been very careful in both tone and wording to preserve an appearance of perfect fairness towards the prisoner. The two exceptions were those in which he alluded to the absence of a receipt, and to M. de Cadanet having disclaimed receiving any considerable help from M. de Beaudrillart’s father.
Nathalie looked at Maître Barraud with a yet more sinking heart. The Procureur de la République had appeared to her an ideal counsel—shrewd-faced, energetic, keen. His opponent, with his round, boyish face, his almost indifferent manner, and a certain air of hesitation, which she had not noticed so much before, did not give the impression of being in any way his equal. The questions he suggested appeared to her to be little to the point, and though she carefully kept discouragement from her face, so that Léon, when he glanced at her, might take comfort, she had never felt more discouraged.
With an air of extreme innocence, as of one only seeking for enlightenment, Maître Barraud pursued through the court his inquiries as to Lemaire’s first acquaintance with M. de Beaudrillart. He had seen him play. “You played yourself, of course?”
Charles shrugged his shoulders. “Occasionally. Why else should I have been there?”
“Oh, precisely! Why else!” repeated his questioner, deprecatingly. “And doubtless, Monsieur de Cadanet, as a man of the world, took an interest in your fortune at the tables!” Lemaire, suspecting a trap, replied that they were not in the habit of talking over it.
“Ah! Only of Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s!”
“Nor of Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s.”
“No! I gathered that the fact of his large gambling losses displeased Monsieur de Cadanet!”
“Possibly.”
“But they were not learned from you!”
“Not in the first place. When he asked questions I could only tell the truth.”
“Unquestionably. Truth is an inestimable virtue. You were not the first to speak of them. Who, then? The concierge has given evidence that the count received no visitors.”
“It is impossible to say. Rumour filters everywhere. Possibly the servants talked.”
“We will hear that from them by-and-by. You were naturally anxious to keep on good terms with Monsieur de Cadanet, and that you did so has been amply proved. The only other person in whom he seems to have shown an interest was Monsieur de Beaudrillart!”
“I do not know that he took much interest.”
“You said he asked many questions on the subject. That looks like it.”
“I cannot say. It may have been so.”
“It looks like it,” repeated Maître Barraud, equably. “The situation, then, appears to have been that you and the accused both played, and that Monsieur de Cadanet was displeased with him only. Was it owing to the fact that he lost and you won?”
Up to this point the questions had dropped out in an almost sleepily courteous tone. The last had the effect of a sharp, sudden, and unexpected thrust. M. Bourget muttered, “That drew blood.” Nathalie listened, breathless. Lemaire answered, sulkily, “I do not know,” and Maître Barraud, after a momentary pause by which he succeeded in emphasising his inquiry, dropped the subject.
Lemaire held himself very determinedly on guard after this episode, which he was conscious had told against him, and little was elicited. The counsel passed on to the account of what took place at the time of the count’s death. He made particular inquiries as to who was in the house, and then put another question through the judge.
“You were married, I think, at the time of the alleged theft?”
“I was.”
“But your wife was not much at the house?”
“No. Monsieur de Cadanet saw her at intervals, but it was not until his health failed that he liked to have her about him.”
“Did she undertake all the nursing?”
“When he was seriously ill there was a nurse as well.”
“And at the time when he made this—this extraordinary revelation, Madame Lemaire was not in the room?”
“Certainly not!” said Lemaire, hastily.
“You have told the judge that you thought it unnecessary to have his words taken down as a formal deposition; did it not occur to you it would have been very desirable to have called in witnesses to hear what now rests upon your own unsupported word?”
“Monsieur de Beaudrillart’s own letter gave the necessary evidence.”
“As to his borrowing the sum—”
The judge here interpolated, “It was stealing. It cannot be called borrowing.”
“Unauthorised borrowing, monsieur le president, I acknowledge. But if repaid, as we maintain, the jury will not consider it a theft. And the witness, who is the person most interested, can bring no evidence to prove that it was not repaid beyond his own report of what I will venture to call an imaginary conversation!”
The Procureur remarked:
“The absence of a receipt.”
“Well, we will say no more at present on this subject. Monsieur de Cadanet, having kept silence for many years, at a time when most men are anxious to be in charity with their fellow-sinners, carried out, we will suppose, a determined act of revenge against this unfortunate young man. Did he advise or enjoin you to bring this action! Can you repeat what passed?”
“Not in exact words. He gave me to understand that he had warned Monsieur de Beaudrillart in the letter which was destroyed that proceedings would be taken.”
“And your wife heard nothing!”
“Nothing.”
“Although she was in constant attendance?”
“He only spoke once on the subject.”
“Did not even allude to her about this family, which must have been much in his mind?”
“No.”
“That was a lie,” reflected Maître Barraud, quickly. “When he tells a lie his eyebrows twitch slightly.” At this point the court adjourned for an hour, and he hastily scrawled something on a piece of paper, and had it passed to M. Rodoin. The words were, “Madame Lemaire is not in court; let Madame de Beaudrillart go to her at once and alone.”