Chapter Three.
The Household at Poissy.
The letter which arrived at Poissy came with all the force of a shock to Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters. It was true that they were well aware that an evil menaced, but it appeared inconceivable that it should have arrived. Léon had assured them that something would turn up; he was confident that Paris must offer a means of evading the worst, and, indeed, in all that he had said had temporised, excused himself, and hinted at unforeseen misfortune. M. Georges, indeed, had spoken more plainly to Mlle. Claire, but his words had been indignantly scouted by Mme. de Beaudrillart. Even now, when Léon had taken refuge in a letter which might break the worst in his absence, and spare him the pain of seeing, not reproachful looks, but tears, they refused to face the crash as inevitable. That the De Beaudrillart home should pass from the De Beaudrillarts was absolutely out of the question. That Léon’s extravagance had brought about even threat of such disaster immediately required extenuating words, and a laying of blame on any shoulders except his. Of the three, Claire was the only one who permitted a tinge of bitterness to creep, now and then, into her words.
“My poor boy!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, with tears in her eyes; “if this is hard for us, what must he not have suffered? Of course the affair will arrange itself somehow—Heaven forbid that I should be so faithless as to doubt it!—but the annoyance, the anxiety! Well, it is only another proof, if proof were wanted, of the incompetency of that Monsieur Georges. If Léon had not been so tender-hearted he would have sent him away long ago.”
“I wonder if it would have really made any difference?” remarked Félicie, her eldest daughter, looking up from the altar-linen she was embroidering. She was near-sighted, and had to stoop very much to bring her work within range of her eyes, but she would not be persuaded to wear spectacles.
“We should remember, however, that Monsieur Georges constantly implored Léon to pay a closer attention to his affairs. I must say, I think it is unjust to blame the poor man,” said Claire, sharply.
“Then you must blame your brother, which would be far more unjust,” said her mother, with decision. “For what is an intendant engaged? Until this moment, I have always been under the impression it was that he might look after the estates, and avert the possibility of such a humiliating position as that in which our poor Léon now finds himself.”
“It is certain that Léon must have been terribly extravagant,” persisted Mlle. Claire.
“Oh, extravagant, extravagant!—I dare say. How can you, a woman, with every want provided for, and with absolutely no temptation to spend money—how can you possibly judge of the difficulties of a young man in Paris? A young man, too, such as Léon, impulsive, generous, attractive.” Claire agreed. “Yes, he is very attractive.”
“And very generous,” added Félicie, looking up again, and holding her needle in the air. “When I spoke to him the other day about the pilgrimage, he told me we might count on him for fifty francs. Now Madame de Montbreuil assured me with tears that her husband would give no more than twenty.”
“Ah, and it is that generosity of his of which people take advantage,” said his mother. “If we knew all the truth, which you may be sure he will never permit us to learn, I am certain we should find some kind-hearted action at the bottom of this trouble. He has come to the rescue of a friend, or helped a poor struggling creature, and been dragged in himself, poor fellow! As for the old count, I shall never forgive him. He must have guessed how disagreeable it was to Léon to be forced to apply to him for assistance; and after his indebtedness to your father, the least, the very least he could do, was to have helped him liberally, and to have rejoiced at the opportunity.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart had a white face, an aquiline nose, and pinched lips—the features of a shrewd woman who would hold her own. She had little compassion for shortcomings, and never failed to point them out—perhaps to compensate for her blind adulation of her son. A large photograph of him stood on the table; she took it up, and carried it to the window, gazing at it fondly.
“I suppose it is difficult for such a boy as Léon to avoid spending money in a place with so many temptations as Paris,” Claire remarked, in a low tone. She was like her mother, but her face was more sallow and sharper.
“I don’t like you to speak as if this trouble were poor Léon’s fault,” said Félicie, in her thin, gentle voice.
Claire began to laugh.
“Whose, then? Yours or mine? I have not spent a penny for a month, so I cannot feel that I am responsible; and though you are disposed to be extravagant for the Church—”
“That is only one’s duty.”
“As you like, ma chère. I was going to add that you had no money to give, so that we can hardly lay our ruin at your door. Who is there but Léon?”
“Our mother thinks he has met with some misfortune.”
“Bah!” said Claire, under her breath. “It is no misfortune. I love Léon as well as you love him, but I can see his faults. He is no saint. This is his doing, and his only. He has squandered his money, and in bad ways.”
“What bad ways?” asked her sister, with wide-open eyes. “If I were to tell you, you would be shocked.”
“You can’t know!”
“Do I not? Léon is horribly careless, and if you were to see some of the photographs and letters he leaves scattered about his room, you would acknowledge that I know what I am talking about.”
Félicie thrust her fingers into her ears, and a flush rose in her thin cheek.
“Hush, hush, Claire!” she cried. “It is a sin to speak of such things! It is a sin even to listen to you!”
“Oh, I mean to be vielle fille, and privileged,” said Claire, with a laugh. “I could not go about the world with my eyes shut, as you do. Do you really believe it to be rose-coloured?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart crossed the room from the window, where she had been standing.
“What are you talking about, children?” she demanded.
“Claire says such things,” murmured Félicie, resuming her work. “It is shocking!”
“Félicie is a baby,” remarked the younger sister, contemptuously.
“Hush, hush! I have often desired you, Claire, to be more careful in what you repeat before your sister. And I am surprised you can think of anything but this anxiety of poor Léon’s. I have been turning the matter over and over.”
“Have you decided on anything?”
“I will tell you. Of course, what he appears to dread cannot happen. It is impossible to conceive the idea of Poissy passing from the family.”
“Impossible!” Claire repeated the word with emphasis.
“But it is our duty to make all the sacrifices we can. We must economise more strictly.”
“Oh, certainly, mamma,” said Félicie, cheerfully. “If you remember, in the last address which we had from the abbé, he counselled us to cast away superfluous luxuries. And here is our opportunity. It seems quite a coincidence.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart nodded, waiting for her other daughter to speak. Claire lifted her head and glanced round the room.
“I wish the coincidence had not arrived,” she said. “I am ready to do anything that is suggested; but I own I hardly see what we have which can be called superfluous.” Her mother folded her thin white hands in her lap.
“We must do with fewer servants,” she said.
“I suppose so,” Claire assented, doubtfully. “Which will you dismiss? François is the least necessary.”
“To us, but not to Léon. No; I have been reflecting, and I believe we can dispense with Rose-Marie. You are both active, and I, I thank Heaven, not yet infirm, so that between us, with old Nanon and Jacques Charpentier to help, we shall very well be able to manage the house-work.”
“Mamma,” gasped Félicie, with anguish in her voice, “I have just remembered the most terrible thing!”
“What, then?”
“I told you just now that Léon promised me fifty francs for our pilgrimage.”
“Well, he cannot give it,” said Claire, hastily.
“But consider! The money is already consecrated—”
“How!”
“Oh, in his own mind; and they have even told his Grandeur. If he withdraws the offer, will it not be sacrilege?”
“Whatever it may be,” her sister declared, “I am certain you will not see your fifty francs.”
“Oh, Claire, don’t say so! It is the most terrible position! A promise to the Church is as sacred as a vow—it must be kept, at whatever cost; and if Léon withdraws it, I shall never again have a moment’s peace! I am ready to make any sacrifices, but this is too unendurable!”
It was quite true that she was shaken by the mere possibility—far more shaken than she had been by the news the post had brought. She began her lament again, almost in tears: “It would be a sin.”
“If Léon has not the money, how can he give it?” demanded her sister, looking at her with pitying scorn. She accepted the fact that Félicie, being dévote, must be allowed to go certain lengths; but she thought her eagerness childish, and turned to her mother. “What else can we think of? It is so difficult to economise when already we have cut down our expenses to their very lowest.”
“Not quite to their lowest. We must counter-order my winter cloak and your dresses. Write to Tours at once, Claire.”
“Your cloak!” repeated her daughter, depreciatingly. “Is that necessary? You suffer so much from the cold, and the old one is so thin!”
“It cannot be helped.” Mme. de Beaudrillart spoke with sharp impatience. “I am quite aware of what you say; but if Monsieur Georges and the other men have ruined Léon, we must take our share in his suffering.”
“Poor Monsieur Georges! I really believe he did his utmost for the property.”
“Do not talk of what you do not understand,” said her mother, coldly. “What do you know about business matters? You might judge from the results.”
Claire, however, persisted.
“I am certain he was not dishonest.”
“If he was not dishonest, he was a fool, which is as dangerous.”
“Shall you write to our poor Léon to-day, mamma?” asked Félicie, turning tear-laden eyes towards her.
“Certainly. He will expect it. Dear fellow, I shall tell him that we are ready to make every possible effort, every sacrifice, and implore him not to afflict himself, because there can be no doubt that something will be arranged.”
“But you will not say anything against the pilgrimage?”
“Félicie, you are too foolish with your pilgrimages!” Claire was beginning, impatiently, when Mme. de Beaudrillart stopped her.
“Do not vex your sister. It is very certain that we want all the prayers and the help we can have, and perhaps—” Suddenly she flung up her hands and clasped her head. “Oh, Léon, my poor Léon! To lose Poissy!”
This little action in one hitherto so confident gave her daughters a shock; they seemed for the first time to realise the full force of the disaster hanging over their family, and to comprehend that it was close at hand. Claire stood up right, her face hard and set; Félicie pushed away her embroidery-frame, and broke into sobs. But the next moment Mme. de Beaudrillart’s strong will reasserted itself, and she lifted her head rigidly.
“This is weak,” she said. “Félicie, go on with your work. Claire, send Rose-Marie to my room, and see whether Pierre has called for the letters. Do not on any account allow him to leave without mine.”
All that day the sisters talked together; if without much sympathy, yet with that certain amount which a close tie of relationship must bring in such a crisis. Their mother remained absolutely silent. She took up one thing after another, and laid each down with restless unquiet; more than once walked without apparent purpose to the window, and stood mutely looking out. Poissy had never been fuller of charm. Young spring was at work beautifying the old château; a sweet, clear sunlight fell upon the delicate turret, and flung light shadows along the open stone-work with which it was fretted. Over a doorway was carved the Beaudrillart escutcheon, and a slender tuft of grass waved audaciously from a crevice above. If, as she looked, there was agony in Mme. de Beaudrillart’s heart, she made no sign. Only Claire noticed how tightly her hands were locked together and her lips compressed; but even Claire, whose feelings most resembled hers, dared not touch again upon the subject near all their hearts, although there was more than one question which she longed to have answered. Visitors came, and she received them as usual—even talking undauntedly of certain improvements which her son contemplated making about the château.
“Monsieur de Beaudrillart does not, however, spend much time here?” asked one lady, curiously. Like others in the neighbourhood, she had heard rumours, and her visit was in a great measure due to a desire to know how much was true. “Apparently he finds it dull?”
“I hope we may see more of him in the future,” returned the mother, looking at her without shrinking.
“I am glad of it; he is always so pleasant! What can we do to keep him? I said to my husband that his family should persuade him to marry, for nowadays there are always plenty of girls going about with really fine fortunes; and he need not be particular as to family,” she added, with a laugh. “He, if any one, could afford a roturier for his father-in-law.”
“I agree with you,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, calmly; “but I am afraid that a fortune has no attraction for Léon. He is unlike other young men, for he was born with romantic ideas, and I, for one, cannot wish it to be otherwise.”
“She could hardly have been so cool if all we have heard is true,” said Mme. de la Ferraye to her husband, as they drove away. “She talked of his return, and even of improvements to the estate. I cannot believe the rumour. It is incredible!”
“She is a strong woman; but it is true, for all that.”
“Then what can he do? He is not the man to be chosen for any public appointment.”
“No. He is clever enough, but his education has taught him nothing beyond the classics, and he has no habits of industry.”
Mme. de la Ferraye shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“As I told his mother, he must marry—there is nothing else for it. Let us find him a wife, Gaspard, though, Heaven knows, I pity the poor girl who has that will of iron for a mother-in-law!”
“Or Léon de Beaudrillart for a husband.”
“No, no; now you are too hard, and you will never get me to agree with you. There is something so fascinating and charming about him, that I am convinced he would make his wife very happy.”
“If she were content to keep her eyes shut.”
“Well, she would be. Trust me, Gaspard, Léon’s wife, whoever she was, would believe nothing against him.”
“In that case—”
While the La Ferrayes were taking leave, Mme. de Beaudrillart stood rigidly unbending; but as soon as they were gone she hurriedly left the room.
“Poor mamma!” cried Félicie, her eyes filling with ready tears.
“That woman came from curiosity,” Claire said, pacing up and down indignantly; “she has heard something, and meant to worm it out of us. It is too horrible that Léon’s affairs should be the common gossip of the country!”
“Claire,” faltered her sister.
“Well?”
“Do you—do you think it even possible that we might have to—to leave Poissy?”
“Monsieur Georges feared it long ago. But I cannot believe it,” said Claire, clinching her hands. “Poissy without a Beaudrillart! No—it will not be permitted!”
“Heaven will not interfere if Léon fails in his promises to the Church,” sobbed Félicie. With her the family will, not so openly apparent, took refuge in a gentle obstinacy, which was perhaps more irritating. “I believe these misfortunes are sent as a chastisement for my having listened to you, and not left the world when Père Roget spoke to me about it. I am certain that I had a vocation, and then what might I not have gained for Léon! I wonder where we shall live? In Tours? Imagine losing the Abbé Nisard as one’s director!”
“Oh, be quiet, Félicie, or you will drive me mad! How can you think, how can you talk, of these horrible possibilities? Something must be done. If only I were a man!”
“Why?” asked her sister, opening her eyes.
“Because I would work, fight, starve!”
She walked swiftly up and down the room like some caged creature.
“Léon is a man, and it doesn’t seem that he can do anything.”
“No, but I would!” cried Claire, flinging back her head. “If I could only be out in the world, you would see that I should not allow myself to be beaten!”
Félicie shuddered.
“That terrible world. I give constant thanks that I am not forced into it. It is wicked of you, Claire, even to wish to be there; for what would become of you in all its temptations?”
“I should get through them somehow, like other people, I suppose,” said the younger sister, recklessly. “You and I are different, Félicie. I do not profess to be devote. All your good little fripperies would weary me—oh, weary me to death! I could not ask permission from the abbé as to every book I read, almost as to every word I spoke, nor, though there is time enough on one’s hands, Heaven knows, spend it in collecting money from the peasants, or in working banners. I should hate a convent, unless—perhaps—I were Mother Superior.”
“Yes, we are different,” Félicie placidly agreed. “I am happy to be directed.”
Claire looked at her with a short laugh.
“And yet, my dear, you like your own way, and generally get it.”
Félicie took no notice of the criticism, merely remarking, with a sigh:
“Without Rose-Marie we shall have a great deal to do, and I only hope my other duties will not suffer. I shall draw up a little paper and arrange my time. Poor Rose-Marie! What a grief for her!”
“For her! A servant! Do you understand what lies before us—us Beaudrillarts?”
Claire’s tone was tense and sharp. Félicie sighed again and cried a little, taking care not to drop a tear upon her work. She had charge of the ecclesiastical vestments of the parish, and was almost as proud of them as of the Beaudrillart blood.
The next day all was joy at Poissy. Léon wrote briefly, merely saying that he had managed to raise the full sum of money by a loan. He would thus be able to consolidate his debts, and have one creditor in place of many.
“It is true,”—this was what he wrote—“that the loan must be repaid, but for this purpose look forward, dear mother, to a change in all my habits. I am going to renounce wandering, and to spend my time at Poissy, cease to play the fool, farm, economise, reform—Heaven knows what admirable paths do not stretch themselves before me! You will make them so charming that I shall not regret Paris, and I shall be so changed that you will forget your troublesome son, and fall in love with a new, a whitewashed, Léon, at whom, if only the past is merciful, no one will dare fling a stone.”
“Ah, my dear one!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, passionately kissing the letter.
“Tell Félicie I mean to redeem my promise, and she shall have a hundred francs instead of fifty for her do—” If he had been going to write dolls, he scratched out the irreverent word and substituted “decorations. I return to-morrow, or so I hope; but, come what may, rejoice, dear mother, that Poissy is spared to us.”
If there were one or two slightly enigmatical expressions in his letter, the mother did not notice them; nor even to her daughters did she show outward signs of exultation. She announced the change to them by saying, calmly:
“It is as I expected: Léon has arranged matters; but we must still economise strictly.”
Félicie went about with clasped hands and a radiant face, enchanted with her hundred francs. Claire’s features seemed to have grown a little sharper, and her voice more haughty, that was all; and so the cloud rolled off.
Léon came home. He looked ill; but, then, as Mme. de Beaudrillart said, he had been sadly harassed. She was a little disappointed that he did not communicate more particulars of the interview with M. de Cadanet, for on this point, although he generally talked very freely, he was reticent.
After all, as she told herself, what did it matter?