Chapter Eleven.
The First Blow.
It was two days after this that Mme. Léon came in from the garden by the outer stone staircase which led to her own room. Although it was only autumn, a chilly wind was blowing, and there was a threat of rain in the air. At the foot of the staircase she met Félicie, coming so much more quickly than usual round a corner that she was breathless.
“Ah, Nathalie,” she cried, with a sudden access of cordiality, “at last! I have been searching everywhere for you.”
“They sent up in a hurry because old Antoine has cut his hand. You wanted me?”
“Yes, indeed. I want you to talk to Léon, and to make him hear reason. Such an opportunity has not offered itself for years, and I am terribly anxious lest—unless we can persuade him that it is not only right and proper, but of the very greatest importance—he should suffer it to slip. If Madame Lemballe steps in before us—and I know she talks of it—it will be disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful! I hope that you will go to him at once, and, above all, impress upon him that it is not a matter to laugh about, and that he must take the precaution of acting without hesitation. Claire has said something to him, but not enough.”
Such an appeal did not altogether surprise Nathalie, for when Félicie could not reach her brother by means of her mother or sister, she turned to his wife. And she guessed that the excitement in her manner was connected with some project for the parish, or perhaps a new biretta for the curé. She asked, smiling:
“What is it?”
“Why, of course, that he should come here; it is quite astonishing that Léon should not see the necessity of it for himself!” continued Félicie, too eager to offer explanation. “Every one in the neighbourhood knows that Poissy is the proper place, and if an invitation is not sent, no one will believe it possible that we can have shown such neglect; they will only suppose that for some reason or other we were not thought worthy of the honour. Figure to yourself whether such an idea will be agreeable for us! And with the boy and all, and the importance to him, I should certainly have expected you to be the first to urge Léon to take a serious view of the matter.”
“But you have not told me what the matter is!”
Félicie stared.
“Do you mean to say you don’t know!”
“I have not even an idea.”
“Astonishing! Why didn’t you ask! I should have told you the first thing, if I had not gathered from your manner that you knew all about it already. I thought, of course, that every one had heard; only sometimes—excuse me, Nathalie—you do not seem to take in what we all talk about. Exactly what I want you to do is to see that Léon sends an invitation, and it would be better for me to write it, because then I should take care that it was worded properly. You understand!”
“I understand that you wish to write an invitation in Léon’s name; but to whom, to whom! Is it, for example, to the President of the republic?”
Félicie exclaimed, indignantly:
“The President! As if I should ever consent to Léon’s inviting him! We have had a queen at Poissy—”
“Not a very respectable one, was she!” inquired Nathalie, wickedly.
“Nathalie! I believe in your heart you are a radical. It all comes from your reading those dreadful books. And I am sure you will just speak to Léon as if it were a matter of no consequence, instead of pointing out to him seriously how much depends on it.”
She was almost crying, and Mme. Léon hastened to reassure her.
“Well, then,” she said, only half mollified, “there is to be a Home opened in about six weeks’ time at Douay, and our bishop has promised to attend. They will gather from all parts. It will be a magnificent function, and beyond a doubt his Grandeur should be invited to come here for it.”
“Ah,” said Nathalie, thoughtfully, “he is a good man, is he not?”
“A good man!” Félicie repeated, in amazement; “what extraordinary questions you ask! The very fact that he is monseigneur might tell you so much, I should think!”
“But it does not,” said Mme. Léon, in a quiet voice.
“My father did not like the Bishop of N, or the Bishop of X. But this one, our bishop, he said, had always tried to do his duty. I hope Léon may invite him. I should think he ought. Shall I go now and ask him?”
Dearly would Félicie have loved to have expatiated upon the sin of venturing to criticise a bishop, even perhaps of praising him in such measured terms, but her burning desire at the present moment was to insure an invitation being sent in time, and to obtain this she choked down her resentment.
“If you will be so good,” she said, stiffly, and Nathalie, glad of an opportunity of pleasing her sister-in-law, ran lightly up the stone staircase to the balcony which clung to an angle of the house. She pushed open the window, meaning to go in search of her husband, but to her surprise saw him standing in the room with his back towards her, his head bent, and his hand on the table. He did not even turn round as she came in, and she rallied him upon his preoccupation.
“Come back from your thoughts, for I am the bearer of a very important request from Félicie.”
He turned, with an attempt at a laugh, but the laugh was so forced that it frightened her.
“Léon! What is it? Has anything happened Raoul?”
“Happened! Foolish child, what should happen? Raoul is with his grandmother. I came here because—because it was the shortest way to the terrace, and then—well, then, I imagine I fell into a dream.”
She was standing in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, her steadfast eyes fastened upon his face. She was no longer frightened, but she was uneasy, though she smiled.
“No, my friend. You came here because it was the shortest way to your wife, and because you have something on your mind which you desire to share with her.”
A change swept over his face, and for an instant, written there, she saw misery, longing, and hunted fear. The next moment they had vanished, and he answered, with his usual lightness:
“Now it is you who dream. Do you not know that I avoid bringing worries to you, who represent my sunshine?”
“If there is any use in sunshine it is to disperse clouds,” she answered, gravely. He looked down, and said, impatiently:
“It is nothing. Merely an impertinent letter which arrived this morning, and annoyed me a good deal; but I have talked it over with my mother, and have written the necessary answer. So now, little fidget, you know everything.”
She hesitated before she answered.
“Do you mean that the annoyance is at an end?”
“How can I tell? I hope so—certainly I hope so,” he said, still hurriedly.
She dropped her hands and turned away, then came back with a heightened colour in her cheeks.
“Léon, I do not think I can bear it any longer.”
“Bear it? Bear what?” There was genuine amazement in his tone.
“Being shut out of so much of your life. Oh, you are good to me, I am not denying that; there is nothing I asked for which I believe you would not try to give me, except this—the one thing for which I hunger. Do you not understand that I am not a child? I am your wife, the mother of your son. You tell me that you love me, yet only treat me as a plaything; when sorrow or anxiety comes you turn to your mother, and I—I, who should be the nearest and the dearest, am not so much as allowed to know what is troubling you. Dear, this should not be. Do you know that when you do this, out of your love—oh yes, out of your love, and wish to spare me—you are putting me to cruel dishonour? Are we not man and wife—one? Your sorrow is my sorrow, your lot is my lot; if there is anything you must suffer, I have the right to claim to suffer with you. Léon, up to this time I have been but half your wife, and what I say is true. I cannot bear it any longer. I claim my right.”
She stood before him, her earnest eyes fixed upon his face, and her voice trembling a little as she spoke. He tried to look at her, but his eyes fell before the frank honesty which he found in hers, and he turned pale. When he spoke, his voice even sounded slightly sullen.
“Nathalie—I give you my word—you don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I know what I am asking for. Let me see the letter which has vexed you.”
“Oh, woman, woman! And after having always assured my mother that you were free from the vice of curiosity!” he said, trying to recover his lightness.
“This is not curiosity,” she replied, quietly.
He broke away, and came back.
“See, here, Nathalie, be reasonable! Remember that all these years we have been very happy—”
And then she interrupted him with her hand raised, with a strange, almost fierce, ring in her voice which he had never heard before.
“I have not.”
He stared at her blankly.
“You have not! Great heavens, what are you saying?”
“I am saying the truth at last—the truth which you have never consented to hear!” she cried, passionately. “Has it been happiness to live here, do you suppose, looked down upon and scorned by your mother and sisters? Because I have held my tongue that you might not have your life marred, too, because I have gone my way silently, do you believe, do you know me so little as to believe, that I have not felt! What sort of position do I hold in this house, this great château of Poissy, of which my father thinks so much! They treat me as an inferior, you as if I were a child.” Her voice changed, trembled again. “I could have borne it all—yes, all, if it had not been for that; but that—that has been almost insupportable. To have no part in your graver life; to be left, when anything fretting came to you, for your mother! I have tried to be just, I have indeed! I think of myself and Raoul. I do not begrudge her her rights, nor wish to shut her out from sharing whatever comes to you; but I—I, too, ought to be admitted, and until you take me as God meant you to take me, your wife for sorrow as well as for joy, your wife, and not only your playfellow, do not talk of me as happy, nor imagine that you can make me so.”
Poor Nathalie! It was the outpouring of her heart. The words rushed swiftly with a force which told how long they had been held back, yet were quite free from any sting of bitterness. There lay, indeed, in the appeal a depth of sad tenderness, to which Léon’s affectionate temper could not be insensible. His easy, shallow nature was as much moved as was possible, and he felt remorse, although he shrank from frank explanation of the reasons which had stood in the way of admitting her to his confidence, for they did not belong to a wish to spare his wife, but to a desire to remain in the position where she had placed him. He had no inclination to step down from his throne. He kissed her, and said, uneasily:
“I believe you are right. Well, where shall I begin! How far am I to go back!”
She made a sweeping movement with her hands. “The past is past. Begin to-day. The letter. I can see that you are really troubled about it, though you only called it impertinent.”
“Well, it is true that it is more—it is threatening.”
“Threatening!” slipping her hand into his arm.
“There is a certain Charles Lemaire, a very disagreeable fellow, whom I detest. Have I ever spoken of him!”
“Never.”
“It appears that he has inherited a good deal of Monsieur de Cadanet’s wealth, to which, as far as I am concerned, he is very welcome, if only—However, the letter is from him.”
She was so anxious to understand, to avoid annoying him by questions, and, as it were, to take advantage of the confidence for which she had pleaded, that, breathing quickly, she only nodded in answer. But she kept her eyes fixed on his face, and he looked away.
“I suppose his head is turned by his good-fortune, or he has got bold of some mare’s-nest or other, for he declares that a letter which was going to him from the old count—years ago—somehow miscarried, and—and he does me the honour to accuse me of having made away with it. Pleasant, isn’t it!”
Her face changed. Its lines unstiffened, and she laughed gayly.
“And this has been troubling you? Oh, Léon!” Something in her absolute faith affected M. de Beaudrillart strangely. His voice shook as he answered:
“In spite of the hard things you have been saying, you would not then credit it of your poor Léon?”
“Take care, monsieur! It shows me that my hard things are well justified, for if you had told me at once, I should have made you see the absurdity of suffering yourself to be annoyed by such an insignificant matter. This Monsieur Charles Lemaire—has he, then, taken leave of his senses?”
“He hates me.”
“Well, he must be at his wits’ end for a way of venting his spite. My friend, you are not seriously vexed? I can only laugh. Pray, does he inform you what was in this fabulous letter?”
Léon hesitated.
“A large cheque.”
“Better and better!” she cried, still laughing. “Robber! Ought I not to be terribly alarmed? How little I have known of your true character! Seriously, Léon, how have you answered this impertinent? Now that you have made me happy by admitting me to your confidence, I am never going to be shut out again. You will find that I must know all.”
His fingers drummed on the table with an uneasiness which in her new contentment she did not realise.
“You don’t show much sympathy with my annoyance.”
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly grave. “But, dear Léon, no one who knew you could treat it as anything but a silly joke. You don’t really expect us to take it seriously!”
Silent at first, he said at last:
“It was not intended for a joke, and I think any man who had such an accusation sprung upon him would naturally be a good deal disgusted.”
“Oh yes,” she said, readily, “disgusted at the folly. I can quite understand your anger at its insolence, but you can’t really fret yourself over what is so obviously absurd.”
He looked at her, and his face lightened. “You are right, you are right, chérie. I need not worry myself over a foolish piece of spite which no one in their senses would believe.”
“Now you are reasonable,” cried his wife, gayly.
“And you,” he retorted, putting his arm round her, and drawing her to the window—“you are yourself again? What did all that talk mean about your not being happy? I assure you I did not know you, you looked so fierce!”
“It meant the truth,” she acknowledged, in a low voice, “but it is going to be different, for from this day I am to share your troubles, and that is all I want I bore it at first, because—well, because I felt you did not know me very well; you might have loved me, yet thought I was foolish and untrustworthy. But, by-and-by, as years rolled on, and you treated me in the same manner, I became miserable, for I thought, ‘If he does not know now, perhaps he will never know,’ and it was a dreadful thing for me to reflect that you did not trust me. I felt it was very hard, and more so because it was so different with me. I trusted you entirely—” He made a sudden start from her side. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, sharply.
“What is it?” she said, distressed. “Do you dislike my telling you all this? But I want you to understand what made me so unhappy, and I assure you it was only the absence of confidence. Now all is going to be so different that I feel as if I should never be unhappy again. As for your sisters—oh, and that reminds me that I came the bearer of a very important message from Félicie.” She made a solemn face.
“Does she want money? Let her have it,” said Léon, very quickly. “I have never begrudged money for the Church or the poor, have I?”
“Never,” returned his wife with surprise. “But this is an invitation to be given. The bishop is coming to open the new Home at Douay, and Félicie longs that you should ask him here. I think she is right, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, certainly ask him.” He spoke with the same almost feverish haste. “When is it? I will write.”
“Make Félicie happy by letting her write in your name. She is dreadfully afraid that you may omit some formality.” She had expected more difficulty, for the young baron was averse to giving ceremonious invitations. The presence of strangers bored him, and he had sometimes almost vexed his mother by his dislike to exercising the hospitality which she considered due to his position. But it was quite true that he never refused and seldom laughed at Félicie’s appeals for money, although Nathalie fancied they must often have seemed to him, as to her, to be rather fanciful than necessary. Now he was so desirous to carry out his sister’s wishes that he begged her to go at once to set her mind at rest.
Félicie was sitting on a projecting step watching a lizard; she jumped up and came towards Nathalie, all her little features astir with anxiety.
“Well?” she called out.
“Léon is quite ready,” said Mme. Léon, happily. “Write your letter, and he will copy it, or do anything you like.”
“Thanks!” cried Félicie, clasping her hands rapturously. “You were so long that I trembled.”
“Oh, he did not even hesitate, but there was something else which had to be discussed first.”
“Yes, mamma said he was annoyed about a letter, but I forgot to tell you. Do you know you are a strange person? You look quite happy over monseigneur’s coming.”
“I am happy, very happy,” said Nathalie, smiling at her, “though it has nothing to do with monseigneur. Félicie, I am afraid that poor Henri Leblanc is in a bad way. He looks terribly ill.”
Her sister-in-law’s face stiffened.
“I have a very poor opinion of Henri. The abbé says he can make nothing of him, and his politics are a disgrace to the village.”
“But if he is ill?”
“It may bring him to a better mind.”
“Whatever he is,” cried Nathalie, warmly, “the poor man might certainly have something to help him back to health. Might I not ask for some soup?”
“It would displease my mother very much. You had better not interfere about the people, for naturally you don’t know them as we do, and it is the most worthless who appeal to you. That old Antoine!”
Happily, Félicie’s little narrownesses always ended by amusing her sister-in-law. The idea that a man’s opinions should stand in the way of having his hurts dressed was so comical that she began to laugh; and as for Henri, she made up her mind that her father should get him into the hospital at Tours. She had always money enough, too, for anything on which she had set her heart, for she never spent on herself the allowance that was hers. It was part of the bourgeoise nature, as Mme. de Beaudrillart often remarked, to find it almost impossible to spend money without fear of waste, and without regarding waste as sin. Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters had been economical from the good sense which adapts itself to circumstances, never from actual inclination. Nathalie really had the inclination, and was thrifty by nature. Even her father, personally so as much as any Frenchman of his class, was annoyed with her for not, as he said, adopting notions better suited to the Beaudrillarts, and finding pleasure in spending.
Besides, she was so happy this morning that small vexations could not touch her. There had been a sore struggle in her heart these last years, and aching sadness at which no one had ever guessed. It looked out of her honest eyes sometimes, but there was no one to read it, for even the man who loved her best had not given her the love which is unselfish enough to decipher signs, and it was the blank, hopeless wall which her heart had found in his which had caused her trouble. Now it was surely down. She had planted her first step on its ruins, she saw herself safely intrenched in the citadel within, which the greatness of her own love made her yet think of as a place infinitely more sacred and satisfying than it was.
She went away into the garden to dream of her new bliss by herself. The day was gloomy but quiet, and as she walked the rush of the river over its pebbly shoals came up to her ears. Down below, in the level, the vines hung, all but ready for the vintage, and women in great sabots and white caps clattered across the bridge. Behind, Poissy stood, grey and grave, in its nest of thick foliaged trees. But on Nathalie’s face the light of love was shining, the light of faithful, tender love. There was not a hard line left round her mouth, though, before this, it had seemed as if suffering had begun to grave them. The sweet nobility of her eyes was undisturbed, the youth of her face had reappeared. She cared little enough about the women at the château, strong-willed yet petty, less for the slights which came from them through the household; the kingdom she wanted was her husband’s love, that divine gift which, in spite of imperfection, in spite, alas, often, of the worthlessness of the giver, is the crown of a woman’s life.
Yet, as she walked along in her new happiness, she gauged Léon very fairly. She did not expect him to rise to heroic heights. She knew as well as any one that he was self-pleasing, often morally weak, shirking what was unpleasing to the extent of often shutting his eyes and ears. But she loved him. She had credited him at first with finer qualities; these had dropped from his figure, but she had not loved him less for loss of them. His carelessness had often hurt her, his reserve had nearly broken her heart, and through all her own love had never wavered; it held him, held him up perforce.
She said no more to him about the letter, fearful of frightening away his new-born confidence, and Léon himself seemed to have forgotten it. He displeased his mother by his smiles, his looks, at Nathalie. And when night came, and restless Raoul had been disposed of, husband and wife strolled out together. They went down to the bridge, and stood facing the western sky. The river ran dark under their feet, overhead spread black night, with here and there a faint gleam of stars, and the slender crescent of a new moon. A wind rustled through the low trees, a red light flung itself from a cottage door, and somebody stumbled out and across the bridge.
“Old Antoine,” said Léon, when he had passed.
“Impossible! He had really a bad accident to-day—lost a good deal of blood, and was feverish.”
“And now he has been drinking in honour of the occasion. He it was, I assure you.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Nathalie. She added, with a laugh, “Don’t tell Félicie!”