Chapter Fifteen.
In Paris.
Meanwhile, with father and mother torn by a hundred miserable fears at home, it may be supposed that, in Paris, the wife’s trouble was greater. Nothing of the sort. Nathalie was worried, because Léon was so evidently uneasy; but not a shadow of doubt had touched her mind, and she was not really unhappy. Never before had she lived alone with her husband, or found herself in an atmosphere free from chilly slights. All that she saw and heard about her interested her. Her intellect, freed from vexing cramps, leaped to its kingdom. Léon looked, listened in wonder. If only Raoul had been there!
And in Léon’s nature there was nothing of the moroseness which is angry because its own wretchedness is not shared. Sometimes, often even, he was miserably depressed, but at such times he really preferred that Nathalie should refuse to see reason for his low spirits, should indeed persist in ignoring them. She treated the whole affair as a malicious attempt to extort money, to which her husband should not yield for a moment.
“Dear Léon, the thing is so ludicrous, so impossible! Tell the man that he may do his worst; or, rather, threaten him with an action for defamation of character. I am sure that would be by far your best plan, and the only means by which you can protect yourself in future. Of course he will not venture even now to take further steps; but the point is that he will always be threatening and pretending to have proof, and by-and-by the thing may really get abroad. If you take no steps to punish him, people will begin to imagine you were afraid, and that there was something in it. I am quite certain that my father, who has excellent common-sense, would advise you to put a summary end to Monsieur Lemaire’s attempts.”
They were driving together up the Champs-Elysées. Léon waited for a few moments before answering.
“That is all very well, but you do not understand.”
It was the argument he used most frequently, and it was not one which offered points for discussion. Nathalie accepted it, as usual, as to detail.
“I dare say I don’t. But I understand the absurdity, and so will every one who hears. The man must really be quite foolish! While he was about it, why did he not design something more probable. A common theft!” She laughed gayly.
He bathed deliciously in her disbelief. It reanimated him.
“I do not really think any one will be found to credit it.”
She exclaimed at the bare notion. Impossible!
He gazed at her admiringly; the noble lines of her face made other women appear insignificant.
“I believe your own taste is right, if a little severe,” he said, at last. “Frills and furbelows would not suit your style.”
“Converted! A triumph!” she cried, merrily. “There is a charming toilette in that carriage, but if I were to wear it I should have the effect of a dancing monkey. But how brilliant it all is! How delightful!” She paused a moment. “The real enchantment is that you and I should be together and alone, and do you know that if it were not that you allow yourself to be vexed, I should be almost grateful to this Monsieur Lemaire for giving me such delightful days.”
He turned his head away, and the grip of his hand on the carriage door tightened.
“Don’t let us talk of the rascal any more!” he cried. “Look, there is the President’s carriage. What a pity Félicie is not here to turn her back! And there is the Marquise de Saurigny, in white and green. She sees you, and you are sure to have a card for her reception. Directly it is known we are in Paris, there will be invitations, although all the world is by the sea. Will you go?”
“If you like.”
“You are not frightened?”
“Why should I be?”
He smiled. The answer pleased him. Against his mother he had always maintained that Nathalie would take her place in the great world without awkwardness or mauvaise honte. For the moment he forgot the sword which hung over him; he enjoyed the exhilaration, the gaiety, the lightness of the air, and his wife smiled to herself to see his spirits rise.
“To think that you should have known none of this, little bourgeoise!” he said, jestingly. “I must take you somewhere to-night. Where shall we go? To the theatre?”
“Charming!”
Then, looking at him, she saw his face suddenly change, whiten. She turned quickly; a victoria had just passed, but she was too late to catch a glimpse of its occupant.
“What is it, Léon?” she cried. “Are you ill? Have you seen any one?”
Evidently it cost him a great effort to recover himself—so great that he could not at first answer. Nathalie had got hold of the hand nearest herself, and held it firmly, as if to give him strength. He drew his breath deeply; she pressed no more questions upon him, but waited. When at last he spoke, it was in as low a tone as if he feared being overheard. “You saw?”
“A carriage—no more.”
“Not the man in it?”
“No. Who was it?” She checked herself. “Don’t tell me if you would rather not.” For the paleness of his face startled her.
“It was Lemaire. He saw us.”
She smiled. “And you let the sight of him disturb you? Dear Léon, I shall begin to think you are ill indeed! He might very well be shocked—not you. Let us turn and drive after him, for you know he persistently refuses an interview, and here is our opportunity.”
She leaned forward to give the order, but her husband caught her arm.
“No, on no account; you might see for yourself, I think, that I am in no condition to meet him on such a subject, and that he would have me at a disadvantage.”
“I believe if you got hold of him you would put an end to all this annoyance; but I suppose, even if you desired it, we should hardly have overtaken the carriage. Was he alone?”
Léon made a sign in the affirmative.
“I wish I had seen him,” mused his wife. “If you see a person you can judge so much better what he is like. And his face, when he caught sight of you, must have been a study.”
“He is a villain!” muttered the young baron, still pale.
“But so foolish a villain! Does he really suppose that any one will believe his story? Dear Léon, I do think you ought to put a stop to it at once, and as the man himself will not see you, send for Monsieur Rodoin, and desire him to take the necessary steps for bringing an action for libel, or for writing threatening letters to extort money, or whatever it is he has made himself subject to. You must feel that he deserves punishment, and you will be worried to death if this sort of annoyance goes on. Come, dear. You know that is Monsieur Rodoin’s own opinion. Be firm, and the silly plot will collapse.”
What burst from Léon was: “All that he says is a lie!”
“Who doubts it! But lies can’t be left to grow unmolested.”
“What proof can he have?”
“None, of course. I suppose he hopes some foolish trumped-up story will do instead; but you can’t pass it by. M. Rodoin said it had gone too far. The man has dared to speak of it.” Her voice dropped.
There was silence. Nathalie looked at him uneasily. She read weakness in the hesitation, and that dislike to facing what was painful which she knew to be part of his character. He said at last:
“It may cost a lot.”
“Let it. We will economise.” She pressed her eyes on his with a force under which he moved fretfully, and added: “For the sake of your family—most of all, for Raoul’s sake—it is impossible to ignore the slander.”
“Very well, very well!” he spoke with petulance; “you don’t understand, but you shall have your way. Only don’t blame me if things go wrong.”
“Do I ever blame you?” she said, tenderly. “And they will not go wrong; how should they? Show a firm front, and you will see how the absurd attempt at extortion will melt away. I wrote to my father this morning, as you advised, in case rumours reached Tours, and I am sure we shall have a letter advising you to be very determined. How angry he will be! I believe he thinks more of the De Beaudrillarts and Poissy than you do.”
Léon began to laugh.
“Perhaps he will go off to Poissy.”
“And we not there to keep the peace! Oh, Léon!”—her face was tragic—“I ought to have thought of that, and to have warned him.”
Léon’s good-humour had come back; he teased his wife, compared her with the other women they met, and told her ridiculous tales. They laughed and chatted so gayly that, more than once, people with sad stories in their lives looked at them enviously, and wished for a little of the same happiness. Then they drove to a restaurant, dined, and afterwards went to the play. Seemingly, the young baron’s anxieties had slipped from his shoulders. Even the next morning, when he sent off a special messenger to request Monsieur Rodoin to come to the hotel, it was done with a jest, and Nathalie looked at him with delight. To her the whole affair had seemed so trivial and impossible that only its strange effect on her husband had given her uneasiness. Now that had passed, and she made no doubt that threat of strong action would oblige M. Lemaire to offer ample reparation.
M. Rodoin arrived with speed—a grave, hatchet-faced man, with hair already slightly grizzled, although his fortieth birthday had only lately been passed. He bowed formally to Mme. Léon, whom he had not yet seen, and whose appearance, after what he had heard of her family, surprised him, and to the baron. Without waiting for him to speak, Léon said, abruptly:
“Well, Monsieur Rodoin, you find me decided. Threaten this Lemaire with as many penalties as you will.”
The lawyer repeated the word—“Threaten.”
“Take steps. Do what is necessary. Let him know that I refuse to pay anything, and that I consider him a scoundrel.” A one-sided smile passed across M. Rodoin’s thin face. “Well, well, monsieur le baron, I don’t wonder at your anger, but—at any rate, he shall be met with an action.”
“And let him hear something strong, since the rascal won’t give me an opportunity of saying it to his own face,” said Léon, lashing himself into rage.
“We will leave the law to do that with better effect,” returned the lawyer, calmly. “Meanwhile, with your permission, I have to ask you a few questions.”
Léon rested his elbows on the table, and, sitting with his back to the light, buried his face in his hands. He might have been trying to recall the past.
“Go on, monsieur,” he said. “But remember that these events took place six years ago, and more.”
“You were in difficulties, monsieur, at the time!”
“As you know very well. Suppose we even allow that I had been abominably extravagant. Worse than you can imagine, Nathalie; but as you insisted upon assisting at this interview, you must prepare for revelations. Poissy was heavily mortgaged, and I was threatened with foreclosure. Wherever I looked, I saw nothing but disaster; and I vow it came upon me all at once, in spite of what Monsieur Georges may say of having tried to tell me. He had a way of telling which would not have affected a fly. Where was I to turn! Naturally to Monsieur de Cadanet.”
The lawyer had been noting these facts in his note-book. He looked up here.
“This was in August, 188-, I think, monsieur?”
“Precisely.”
“And Monsieur de Cadanet?”
“After a long argument, I succeeded in obtaining from him the sum of two hundred thousand francs, as a loan.”
“In what form, monsieur le baron?”
“In a cheque.”
“Drawn in your favour?”
“To bearer, I think,” said Léon, slowly. “I believe he expected my visit, and I may add further that I do not think he had made up his mind whether it should go to me or to Charles Lemaire.”
M. Rodoin looked up quickly.
“That is new to me. And the doubt was decided in your favour?”
“Certainly I had the money. Only, you understand, as a loan. And the whole sum, with interest, was repaid within eight months of the date.”
“Have you any acknowledgment?”
“None,” said Léon briefly, “Monsieur de Cadanet was peculiar in his dealings, and perhaps disliked considering it in the light of a business transaction. What is certain is that it was repaid in two sums, one of five hundred, the other of two hundred and three thousand francs.”
“You might have insisted upon having a receipt of some sort, monsieur,” said the lawyer, testily. “There can be no doubt, I imagine, that Monsieur Lemaire’s claim relates to the same sum, and to have proved that it was a loan on Monsieur de Cadanet’s part would have been a sufficient answer. From what I have gathered, he asserts that you waylaid a messenger on his way to the post, and took from him a letter containing this sum, sent to him by Monsieur de Cadanet.”
“In fact, a highway-robbery,” interposed Nathalie, laughing.
“Yes, it proves Monsieur Lemaire to be the possessor of a lively imagination,” remarked M. Rodoin; “but it is an encouragement to fraud when people persist in depriving themselves of their legal safeguards. However, I had better communicate with his lawyer, and it is not impossible that when he finds we are in earnest, and mean to push the matter home, he will grow alarmed and offer to publish an apology.”
“Well, take it, take it!” said the young man, hastily. His wife leaned forward and put her hand on his arm.
“Ought he not to have a lesson, Léon? I am harder than you, I don’t like him to get off so easily.”
“We have not reached it yet,” said M. Rodoin, dryly. “When it comes, we will see. But I think you do well, monsieur le baron, to take the initiative and forestall them. Depend upon it, I will lose no time. Shall you remain in Paris?”
“No,” said Léon, still speaking quickly. “Nathalie, we shall go home to-morrow. You can let me know what has to be done there, Monsieur Rodoin.”
“Certainly, certainly, monsieur. At the same time, there are certain instructions to be given to your counsel—I will try to secure Maître Barraud—and it would be more convenient if you were on the spot.”
“Impossible,” said the young baron, with the smile which disarmed opposition. “I give you to-morrow morning, and if I am wanted I will run up; but what more can I do or say than I have already told you? I know no more. There are the facts, and the law must worry them into shape as it best can.”
“We must find some witnesses.”
“Where? Not a soul knew of the affair, except my mother.”
“That receipt!” said M. Rodoin, mournfully, as he rose. “However, it is they, fortunately, who have to prove their assertions. They will have to bring forward the man from whom they assert you took the letter, monsieur le baron.”
“Oh, I can forewarn you what will be their line on that point,” returned Léon, easily, “and I shall have to confess to an impulse of curiosity. The man was André, Monsieur de Cadanet’s concierge. He overtook me as I left the house, carrying Monsieur de Cadanet’s letters. Here comes the curiosity. Monsieur de Cadanet had talked of a letter which he meant to despatch to Monsieur Lemaire, and of which he told me the contents. I had an absurd desire to know whether it had gone, and asked André to let me look at the letters. I had them in my hand for moment, and returned them.”
“Was the letter there?” asked M. Rodoin, startled.
“Certainly, and three others.”
“And you gave them back?”
“Ask André. He will, I think, acquit me of having retained any,” said Léon, with no change of manner. “But there lies their point.”
“It was unfortunate,” said M. Rodoin, thoughtfully.
“But hardly criminal,” put in Nathalie.
He smiled.
“No, madame. One does not expect to find anything criminal. Well, monsieur le baron, permit me to take my leave. I will see Maître Barraud to-day, and he will probably request an interview with you before you go down to Poissy.”
“Let me wish you good success, and prognosticate victory,” said Nathalie, giving him her hand with a smile.
“I shall work for it, madame, were it only to justify your prophecy,” returned M. Rodoin, bowing low.