Chapter Nineteen.
The Bishop’s Visit.
Félicie’s untiring energy had really provided a very pretty welcome for the bishop. She had collected all the children far and near, given them flags and garlands of vine to carry, and grouped them at the entrance of the château. Raoul was there, kept quiet by the fond belief that he was acting as colonel, and, much to his aunt’s distress, steadily persistent in refusing to carry anything except his sword. The sight, with the old grey château behind, and the gayly coloured swarm of little creatures in front, was charming, and so the bishop said to his chaplain as he drove up, and set all the aprons and hats waving. Then Léon with the abbé and two neighbouring vicaires advanced to the door of the carriage to welcome him, and, smiling and blessing his little flock with uplifted hand, monseigneur passed into the house to be received by the ladies of the family.
To Nathalie the prospect of a guest, in a time of such perplexity and trouble, had seemed a terrible ordeal, but Mme. de Beaudrillart thought that to put off the bishop’s visit would be at once to excite surprise in the neighbourhood, and Léon had taken the same view. They had curtailed their intended hospitalities, however, and only some half a dozen of the principal people of the neighbourhood, with the clergy already at the château, were invited to dinner.
Nathalie had once beheld the bishop in the cathedral at Tours, immediately after he was installed, but it was at a distance, and she had only been aware of a large man, who wore his gorgeous vestments with a magnificent air. Now that she saw him close at hand, she was immediately attracted by the strength and charm of his expression, and by a breadth of kindliness which she had not anticipated. He, on his part, was a sympathetic reader of faces, and he had not been five minutes in the house before he had convinced himself that the shadow of sorrow rested upon the family. Mme. de Beaudrillart’s usual rigid dignity was shaken by an emotion which looked like that of fear, and the sadness of sleepless nights hung heavy on Nathalie’s eyes, while Léon was white and nervous, talking hastily and restlessly, and unable to keep still for many consecutive minutes. Félicie was the only one who had forgotten their troubles in delight at the achievement of her purpose, and it must be owned that her respectful colourless chatter bored the bishop frightfully, the more so because he took himself to task for his impatience. He was much more interested in the others with their evident impending trouble, even in Mlle. Claire’s sharp, bitter speeches. Raoul attracted his notice at once, and he praised him warmly to his grandmother, but Mme. de Beaudrillart’s face did not lighten; he even fancied that he had unconsciously touched the wound, whatever it was. With the young wife he had no opportunity of speaking, and, indeed, she had learned silence when strangers were present; he noticed, however, that her eyes rested constantly on her husband, and that when he left the room she immediately slipped out after him. The evening was not gay, though Mme. Lemballe vied with Félicie in devoted homage, and M. and Mme. de la Ferraye did their best in a languishing conversation.
That night a tremendous thunder-storm broke over the province, and torrents of rain fell to the north of Poissy. That only the fringe of the storm reached Poissy, Félicie always ascribed to a miraculous interposition on behalf of her cherished decorations, but the proof of its violence elsewhere was to be found in the swift rising of the river. It ran with wintry force, and from its darkened colour, and the vegetation it brought down, had evidently overflowed its banks higher up, and caused considerable damage. This, however, was the only grave result of the storm at Poissy. There the rain had merely been sufficient to freshen everything, and to give an indescribable brilliancy to the foliage. The great walnut-tree to the left of the château glistened in the morning sun, a fresh little breeze fluttered the poplars, and the lizards stole out again, and darted here and there in the crannies of the old stones.
All Félicie’s dreams were carried out. The bishop officiated at high-mass, the white church was crowded with worshippers—M. Georges among the number—and the procession which conducted him afterwards to the little hospital which was to be opened for the very old people of the neighbourhood was thick with banners, and did credit to her training. Only one terrible disappointment came to her—the bishop, although he did not say much, managing to express his dislike to her paper flowers, and the gewgaws which decked the altar. She could scarcely keep back her tears, for there was no mistaking the few words he uttered, and to her own thinking the effect had been unequalled.
Setting this aside, however, all had gone admirably; there was nothing, she felt sure, in which even Mme. Lemballe could pick a hole. And when they were all back at the château again, she was feverishly anxious for her reward in the shape of a private interview with, and a special blessing from, the bishop, together with instructions as to how the money for the next pilgrimage should be raised. But Claire, who was moodily wandering from room to room, gave her unwelcome intelligence.
“Monseigneur is in the grounds talking to Nathalie, and his carriage is ordered in half an hour.”
“To Nathalie! How has Nathalie got hold of him? What has she to do with him!”
“As much as any of us, I suppose. And it is he who has got hold of her, for he asked to speak to her.”
“Oh!” cried Félicie discomfited. The next moment she exclaimed: “I should not wonder in the least if he has heard of the books she reads. I shall be obliged to see him about the pilgrimage, and I dare say he will tell me.”
Her sister looked at her in displeasure.
“For pity’s sake, do not talk any more about those trifles! Do you never think of what is hanging over us?”
Félicie took refuge in tears.
“How unkind you are, Claire! Of course I think of it a great deal in my prayers. But I believe his Grandeur’s visit will bring a blessing, and this morning Léon seems quite himself again.”
Claire flung back her head. “Sometimes I think,” she said, “that Léon has no soul, though of course you do not understand what I mean.”
“No soul!” Félicie stared amazedly. Claire turned and hurried away.
It was quite true, as Mlle. de Beaudrillart said, that the bishop had asked for young Mme. Léon, and that they were at that moment walking together in the kitchen-garden, between strawberry beds, of which the leaves were turning brown and bronze. More than ever, in the church, had her face, with its strength and sadness, interested him. He felt as if he could not leave that face behind without trying to bring a little comfort; and if there was a pinch of curiosity mixed with his never-failing sympathy, who will blame him? With womanlike tact he went straight to his point.
“My daughter,” he said, “you are in trouble.”
She answered him as directly. “Yes, monseigneur, in great trouble.”
“Can you tell it to me!”
This time she hesitated. “I do not know. It is not my own.”
“No. It is your husband’s. Does it belong to his past or present!”
“Oh, his past, poor Léon!”
“One other question. Are you in doubt?”
“Yes, monseigneur. For I urge him one way and all the others another—even my own father,” she sighed.
“Whatever it is, I am certain she is in the right,” reflected the bishop. Aloud, he said, quietly: “If you like to tell me, you may safely do so.”
She made a swift resolution, and she told him. He listened in amazement to the end.
“Before I speak, will you let me hear what is your own counsel!”
“I want him to meet the charge with the truth,” she said, “and to hide nothing.”
“That is a difficult task for a man in your husband’s position,” said the bishop, walking along the path with his head bent and his hands clasped behind him, wondering.
She sighed. “Very. And they are all against it. They think this Monsieur Lemaire may find it impossible to bring proofs, and they think also that from my birth I am no judge of the terrible indignity there would be if—if—”
She paused and covered her face. The bishop said, very gently—“Yet you are ready to face this ordeal!”
“Oh, I—I! I am no judge. If he were a beggar, it seems to me I should feel the same. But, oh, monseigneur, no wonder he shrinks. For him it is terrible!”
They walked silently. The bishop, who had expected to have to give advice, noticed that she had not asked for it. “My daughter,” he said, “when I invited your confidence, it was because you said you were in doubt. But you do not speak doubtfully.”
She turned to him quickly. “Whenever I put it into words, all doubt flies.”
“So that if I were to say I thought you wrong, you would not change your opinion!”
She was silent. He pressed her. “Tell me.”
“No, monseigneur, I could not,” she said, scarcely audibly.
“Well, then, let me tell you that you are right, splendidly right,” he said, his face brightened by his appreciation. “Do not let any one persuade you to the contrary. For your husband’s soul as well as for his honour, yours is the only saving course, and at whatever cost of suffering—for you will both suffer—hold fast to it. If ever, in any way, I can help you, send for me. I shall remember you in my prayers, and thank God that He has made you braver than most women—yet I ought not to say that, for you women put us to shame.”
If Nathalie were womanlike in courage, she was womanlike in this also: that the moment she had got his approval, she began to doubt.
“There is our boy,” she said. “When I remember him, I am ready to shrink.”
“Will it do him good to have a father who sheltered himself behind a lie? Think only of that. My daughter, I do not fear for you. I believe that God will give you strength to prevail, but I wish I were permitted to help you.”
“Monseigneur, you have helped me. Until now I have been alone, and to know that you are on my side—But I have kept you too long, and here comes Félicie.”
“Ah,” said the bishop, smiling, “and she will have a great deal to say.”
As the carriage with the bishop and his chaplain rolled out of the white gates, a man on horseback passed it, who had the appearance of having ridden hard. Léon, his wife, and his sisters were still standing by the entrance as he clattered up.
“The Baron de Beaudrillart?” he said taking off his hat.
“Here.” Léon stepped forward with a white face.
“Monsieur Rodoin sent me down with this for monsieur,” he said, handing a letter.
He tore it open.
“I think it well to inform you that Monsieur Lemaire intends proceeding to extremes; that he has instructed the Procureur de la République, and that in all probability you will be arrested to-morrow or the next day. I have learned this from a sure source.”