Chapter Twelve.
Blank!
Only Léon’s power of letting trouble slip from him as readily as water trickles from a duck’s back enabled him to go about the estate as if to-day were the same as yesterday. He had, however, bad moments when he was alone, or when the thought which dogged his footsteps caught him by the throat.
The letter, it need scarcely be said, had come from Charles Lemaire. It was not long, but every word fell like the lash of an avenging fate. During the last illness of M. de Cadanet, he said, it had come to his knowledge that a letter directed to and designed for him had been stopped on its way by M. Léon de Beaudrillart, and the contents—a large sum—abstracted. Reluctance to bring disgrace upon a family with whom he was connected had no doubt caused M. de Cadanet to abstain from taking proceedings; but the writer, not being bound by such considerations, did not consider himself at liberty to condone a felony, added to which he was the person who had been the direct loser. M. de Cadanet was aware of his intentions to commence proceedings. He had, however, implored him to give the Baron Léon one chance of restitution of the two hundred thousand francs, hence this letter. He awaited an answer before taking further steps, and had the honour to remain, etc, etc.
When it reached him, Léon was sitting smoking in a room leading out of the hall, where he was in the habit of transacting business with his tenants, for he had never either reinstated M. Georges or engaged another intendant. He had good business capabilities, and it rather pleased him to exercise them, to M. Bourget’s great satisfaction. He was in particularly good spirits, for with the death of M. de Cadanet the uneasiness which every now and then haunted him had passed away. He had not feared legal proceedings, he had never feared them after the first two or three days, and, if he had, his repayment would have relieved him of all dread. But he had had a fear lest some imprudent word of the old count might have betrayed him, and it was a great relief to him to be no more haunted with this anxiety. He opened his letters with a laughing remark to Jacques Charpentier, who brought them.
The man had put them down, and gone to the window to draw back the muslin curtains. When he returned he started at the grey pallor of his young master’s face. The baron was sitting where he had left him, his elbows on the table, and his eyes fixed with a look which could be only described as that of horror on the letter which he held with shaking hands. Jacques was an old servant, devoted to the Beaudrillarts, and absolutely trustworthy. He said at once:
“Monsieur has had bad news? Shall I call Madame Léon?”
He made a shuddering sign of refusal.
“Can I do anything? Monsieur knows he may depend on me.”
Léon stretched out his hand—even at this moment the little action was full of kindly grace.
“You are a good fellow, Jacques. Say nothing. I have had a blow.”
He sent him away, and sat thinking, trying to collect his senses, and to decide how to meet the attack, so unexpectedly terrible and beyond everything that he could have feared. It had never entered his head that his payment could be disputed; what did it mean? Even if the stroke had come from the old count it would not have been so menacing; but that Charles Lemaire, always, he was certain, his enemy, should be on the track, and should, apparently, be wielding such a terrible weapon, was at first sight overwhelming. Then he had to reflect how much he should tell his mother. The letter itself was too precise, too exact in its revelations for him to venture to show it, he must destroy it; and let it be supposed that in his first indignant rage he had torn it up. He suited the action to the thought, and as he raged at the morsels, wondered he had kept his fingers off them so long. It was almost as if by such action he had succeeded in strangling the monstrous accusation; he flung the last atoms from him with a groan of relief. Here the buoyancy of his nature came to his aid. Such a stroke could not fall; it would not be permitted, it would be a crime against the eternal justice. Its impossibility pacified him, its sinfulness made his own deed look innocent; he stood, the mark, the victim, of calumny, and the dignity of martyrdom soothed him into assurance.
In this more endurable mood he flung away his cigar and went to find his mother. She kept the reins of the house firmly in her own grasp, and had just been looking into the great presses with old Nanon to make sure that no moth was fretting the linen.
“Ah, Léon,” she said, “I wanted to see you. The wood is getting low. And Nanon thinks it would not be a bad plan to get a few Cochins for the poultry-yard. What do you say?”
Her son stood reflecting.
“I don’t believe that you much like Cochins? Still, they are useful, and we need not have too many.”
“Clumsy creatures. But if Nanon has set her old heart on them—Just as you think best, mother; I can’t give my mind to it to-day; other things are too worrying.”
“Has Pichot been making difficulties about his rent! Sometimes I think that if you could get a good intendant, and not an incapable like Monsieur Georges, you might be spared many annoyances.”
Léon flung himself into a chair with a groan, and stretched his legs.
“I can do with them, but this—this is shameful! What do you say to a rascally relation of Monsieur de Cadanet writing to blackmail me about a letter of his which he avows I took?”
He spoke chokingly. It was difficult to put it into words. Mme. de Beaudrillart smiled.
“A little startling, certainly! But in these days it appears one must be prepared for anything. Does he pretend that the letter was worth anything to you?”
“Oh yes, money; a big sum, which he suggests I should hand over.”
“Of course there would be that demand—there always is. I should like to see how he puts it.”
“Ah,” Léon exclaimed, hurriedly, “I tore the letter up. Its insolence enraged me so much!”
“Naturally. Well, I imagine you will not give him the satisfaction of taking any notice of his attempt. It is always better to say nothing about such a matter and simply to ignore it. I believe there are wretches who make a profession of trying to extort money by getting hold of some forgotten trifle, and magnifying it until they manage to frighten weak-spirited persons. Probably your correspondent is one of the tribe.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart had a heap of linen before her; she lifted one piece after another, and laid it on one side, mechanically counting.
“I know the man,” muttered Léon, his eyes on the heap.
“Yes?”
“And I shall answer him.”
“Unwise.”
“I must. The fellow passes for a gentleman. Why, he has inherited a great part of old De Cadanet’s money.”
His mother paused in her task.
“Then he must be under some strange delusion,” she said, gravely, “and I begin to wish you had not destroyed the letter.”
He assured her that he remembered what was in it, and repeated particulars, avoiding mention of the sum.
“It is scarcely credible that any one should have brought such a mad accusation,” she remarked.
Léon allowed the strangeness of the fact.
“But I must answer the scoundrel, and what shall I say?”
“Refer him to your lawyer if he means to go further. There is nothing else to be done. Make him understand that, by persisting, he lays himself open to an action for libel.”
Léon looked at her reflectively. Then he sprang to his feet.
“I believe you are right. It is best to advance a bold front with such fellows, and show them you don’t mean to knock under.”
“Knock under? But that would be impossible!” exclaimed Mme. de. Beaudrillart, astonished.
“Oh, well, I can quite conceive a man so much worried and bothered by the mere threat that he would pay just for peace and quietness.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart flung up her head.
“I cannot,” she said, proudly.
“You are going to have your way, at all events,” said Léon. He had rapidly reviewed the possibilities of choking off Charles with something approaching the price he demanded, and, if he could not have found security thus, would have done it. But he read the man’s malice, and was sure that he would not be satisfied without accomplishing his social ruin as well as obtaining a large sum. His mother’s suggestion was the best. Even though the fact had reached Charles Lemaire’s ears, the burden of proof was quite another matter, and left him many loop-holes. “Yes,” he declared, “I will write.”
“Write here,” advised his mother. She preferred her room to be used, since by that means his wife was effectually excluded. She pushed the materials towards him, and he sat down and wrote hurriedly, she leaning over his shoulder. “Good. But you have scarcely expressed your amazement at his insolence sufficiently.”
“Oh, I’ll put anything you like,” cried Léon, recklessly. He added a few strong words of her dictating: “There! Will that do?”
“It is better.” She waited while he folded and addressed his letter. “Monsieur Charles Lemaire. So that is his name! Now, my son, not a word of this to any one. The smallest hint, creeping out, might do incalculable harm, in spite of its folly.”
He listened in silence; there was no need for her to utter warnings as to the seriousness of the affair. Going back to his own room, he walked furiously up and down, anathematising Lemaire with all the abuse he could think of. Then, as he was one of those who imperatively require sympathy, he betook himself to his wife, meaning to do no more than let her know he was in trouble. What happened there in spite of Mme. de Beaudrillart’s warnings gave him very considerable comfort. Nathalie displayed the absolute disbelief which he hoped would be the effect upon the world should this story ever be suffered to ooze out. More than that, he felt that he had made her happy, and he liked other people to be happy, although he might not be disposed to put himself out in order to attain that result. When the next morning came his spirits rose, by fits and starts, however, and depending upon nothing more tangible than the distraction of the moment. Nathalie wondered that such an absurd attack as he had confided to her should have power seriously to vex him, and, happy herself, tried her best to turn his thoughts. Mme. de Beaudrillart thought she showed unfeeling want of comprehension by her unusual gaiety; Claire saw that something was wrong, and snubbed Nathalie; and Félicie was too much taken up with delight at the prospect of the bishop’s visit, and with satisfaction at having certainly stepped in before Mme. Lemballe, to have thought for anything else. Already she had begun to plan extensive decoration by means of paper flowers for the church, and was bent upon driving to Tours to seek materials; in her small set voice one idea pattered after the other, the last being so much like what had gone before as to be scarcely distinguishable.
“I am sure that the nicest effect would be to have real bushes in pots covered with tinsel, and pink roses tied thickly on the twigs, unless—yes, certainly one might have pink for the pots, and tinsel flowers interspersed with streamers; perhaps that would be the best, after all. Nathalie, you never suggest anything; do tell me what you think. At any rate, garlands will be charming. I must begin upon them to-day. And then there are all the banners to be looked over, and the new cope to be finished. I really think that Raoul is big enough to walk in the procession, don’t you, mamma? and that would make it perfectly charming!”
The day, outwardly the same as hundreds which had gone before, had, to Nathalie’s mind, a curious restlessness running through its hours, Léon dreading his own society so much that he would scarcely suffer her to leave his side. She was obliged to commit Raoul altogether to the care of his grandmother, with the result that by the evening he was wildly unmanageable. Once or twice miserable depression seized Léon, which his wife could not understand; for to her it appeared absolutely unreasonable, even while she exerted all her powers to cheer him. Over and over again she repeated the same consolation: who would treat such a letter seriously? But the gladness in her heart that he should seek his consolation from her was so great that she felt no impatience. He said at last:
“After all, I have a great mind to go to Paris myself.”
“Why not?” she returned, cheerfully. “Then you could put an end at once to this absurd folly. A few words would certainly bring him to reason, and you cannot say all you want in a letter.”
“I believe I will!” Léon ejaculated. “But I can’t be left alone. You must come.”
Her heart leaped. To have him to herself!
“Only ask me!” she exclaimed, joyously.
“It mayn’t be so pleasant!”
“The more reason that I should be with you.”
He looked at her irresolutely. Should he tell her? Let free the horrid fear which gripped his heart? No, he could not. To have her think of him as he really was required too great a sacrifice.
“Well, then, you and I will go together.”
She pressed his arm. “When?”
“To-morrow.”
“And Raoul?”
“Oh, Raoul must stay behind. It would displease my mother very much if we took him. As it is—” He broke off and looked at her, and they both laughed. “We will make some excuse. You need not tell her that you know anything about that letter.”
The excuse he made was that his wife had a great desire to go to Paris. “And,” he said, privately to his mother, “I may as well take the opportunity of settling with this Lemaire. The fellow thinks he can bully me.”
“You could do it better alone, in my opinion,” replied Mme. de Beaudrillart, determinedly. “Nathalie ought to be very well content to stay here. At any rate, take my advice, and keep the matter to yourself. Your wife cannot be expected to look at the matter as we do; she would naturally think that money might set matters right—perhaps would want you to appeal to that terrible father. Imagine Monsieur Bourget as your adviser!”
Léon cleared his throat. “She need know nothing,” he said.
Mme. de Beaudrillart was more uneasy than she allowed. Faith in her son could not obliterate the remembrance of past folly. She feared that something, some handle, existed to account for this vile accusation, and she dared not examine too closely into the when and where, lest fear should be confirmed. She came down the next morning with dark rings round heavy eyes to find Léon his old self—gay, careless. No letter had come, and he was able to think with exhilaration of Paris, its stifled charm reasserting itself, and old pleasures beckoning. The picture shone with a brilliancy which swept away clouds, and his wife’s delight at having gained her rightful position helped his cheerfulness. Claire looked at her with indignation, believing the happiness in her eyes to belong only to joy at getting what apparently had been her secret longing, a visit to Paris, and letting sharp words fly to show that she understood this depravity.
“And we are to be trusted with Raoul!” she said.
Nathalie’s face changed a little.
“If you will be so good,” she said. “I hope he will not be naughty.”
“I don’t see why he should be more so than usual; but of course since you persuaded Léon to overlook Jean Charpentier’s untrustworthiness, there is no knowing what he may not do.”
“Raoul has promised that he will not go to the river by himself.”
“Promised! That baby!”
“He will not break his word,” said Nathalie, quietly, and for once Mme. de Beaudrillart nodded approval.
“No. He is a true Beaudrillart,” she said, and Claire stopped sparring, content with this thrust.
When the two had gone, she reflected for some time as to what mystery had carried them off. Her life was emptier than that of Félicie—who, indeed, had a conviction that she was a most busy person—for Claire hated fancy-work, and despised the small fripperies which more than satisfied her sister. She had the appetite of intellect, with nothing to feed it on, and a love of power in a very contracted realm. Her single life left her harder than her mother, and she was more irritable, though this was perhaps owing to a penetrating knowledge of herself. A Frenchwoman in the provinces, with her tastes, and no means of satisfying them, may have a very dull time of it indeed. She meets with little sympathy from her friends, and it is still a reproach to speak of a woman as taking an independent line of her own, though that line may really be absolutely harmless. If Claire could have brought herself to make a companion of her sister-in-law, to borrow her books, or to discuss them with her, life would have had real interests for her; as it was, pride checked her, and she grew more rigid from bringing her will to bear upon petty and indifferent objects—such, for instance, as the thwarting of Nathalie. She detested M. Bourget, in whom she read possibilities of insolent opposition. She could not bring herself to drive in Nathalie’s pony-carriage, although she would have gladly hailed the variety of an hour or two in Tours, and for this reason Félicie went there alone, Mme. de Beaudrillart refusing to allow Raoul to accompany her.
She came back in high spirits, with rolls of pink paper for the roses, and several small pieces of news which she was an adept in picking up, and which were very welcome at the château.
“Monsieur Darville is to be the new magistrate, and he is already engaged to Mademoiselle Silvestre. Imagine, that little creature! And who do you think I saw at the door of Lafon’s shop? Monsieur Georges. He came up to me, and inquired for Léon and for all.”
“He might have contented himself with a bow, I think,” said her mother, displeased.
“Oh, I assure you, mamma, he was quite respectful in his manner. I think he would very much like to see Poissy again.”
“Not improbably. He would find matters in a different train than when he left it.”
Claire put in, “But, after all, Léon has only done what Monsieur George’s always wished him to do. Léon is so changed!”
“And what has changed him! Realising what Monsieur Georges never had the energy to impress upon him. No. He is an incapable, as I have said from the first.”
“And did you see Monsieur Bourget!”
Félicie pursed her lips.
“Yes, there he was, the dreadful man, planted on the pavement and staring! I suppose he was surprised not to see Nathalie, for his eyes opened like round saucers. I told Francis to drive very quickly.”
It was true, as she divined, that M. Bourget was astonished to see the carriage without his daughter. But as the day for her weekly visit had not come round, he was not uneasy until this arrived and passed without tidings of her. Then, indeed, there was a wrangling match between indignation and anxiety. He vowed that she was neglecting him, as a means of keeping off the fretting fear that something had happened to Raoul. The photograph of Poissy, interrogated, looked gloomily suggestive; for the first time in his life he turned away from it angrily. At the café he browbeat the waiters, and sat so silent and sullen that his acquaintances did not venture to approach him, chafing him the more by holding aloof.
The slight cause he had for anxiety made him ashamed to admit it.
At last, one morning a letter from Nathalie gave an added fright, until he caught sight of the postmark Paris, and stared at it in grumbling bewilderment. What on earth had carried them there all of a sudden, and if the boy was gone, how came it that he had not been told? But opening the letter, its first sentences caught his breath away, and left him staring, a pallid image of himself. A rush of blood to the head followed. “What is the girl dreaming about?” Finally a laugh broke out, a hoarse foolish laugh, the sound of which amazed him. Was he mad? It was a more likely explanation than that the letter spoke truth.
But if he were mad, he was sane enough to perceive that he must come back to his senses, and that quickly. He took the letter and read it through, frowning. The same words stared at him. They were not the delusion of madness.
He stood up, uttering a sound like a choked roar. The passion which had rushed uppermost was rage. That such an accusation should be possible, that a man should dare to utter such—such blasphemy against the honour of the De Beaudrillarts was monstrous, a disgrace to the civilised world! It was the insult which inflamed him. M. de Beaudrillart could of course clear himself and punish the slanderer. But what could wipe out insult?
His first impulse was to fling himself into the train and go to Paris, with some unformed notion of shaking the truth out of the infamous accuser. Then he felt as if it were to Poissy that he must hasten. Vague thoughts, vague fears, floated in his brain, kept down by his resolve not to allow them to take shape. His breath came quickly, his chest heaved, he looked vainly round for something or some one on whom he could vent the storm which oppressed him; if Leroux had presented himself, he might have half-killed him, by way of relief. No one was in the house with him except old Fanchon, who was deaf, and occupied in preparing an omelette for his breakfast. Deaf as she was, she heard the door bang, for it shook the house, and running to look out, saw M. Bourget descending the street like a whirlwind.
On another occasion, if anything had taken him to Poissy, his legs would have carried him; but impatience drove him so fiercely that he hailed the first carriage he saw, to the amazement of the driven, who knew M. Bourget well enough to comprehend that such an event was unprecedented.
“To Poissy, monsieur!” he repeated, open-eyed.
“To Poissy, imbecile!” thundered his fare. “Have you, by chance, ever heard of Poissy? Does it perhaps not exist in the neighbourhood, or have I fallen upon a horse with three legs that cannot go beyond the street?”
“The horse can go well enough,” muttered the man, climbing up on his seat. “But heard ever any one of the miserly old bourgeois taking a carriage for his pleasure!”
If he hoped that the rarity of the proceeding would induce M. Bourget to take his drive leisurely he was mistaken. He was stormed at, urged on, and arrived at Poissy almost as hot as his horse, not daring to grumble at the smallness of the pourboire, lest this terrible M. Bourget should have his licence revoked.
The ex-builder flung himself from the carriage, and pushed by Rose-Marie into the hall. Raoul, at work there, rushed at his grandfather with a welcoming shout. For the first time that day M. Bourget spoke gently.
“There, there, my boy, by-and-by, by-and-by. Now I am going to speak to madame your grandmother.”
Already he breathed more freely. The sight of Poissy, standing as solidly and as fair as ever, reassured him. The hideous thing of which he had heard was whipped by scorn into the regions of the impossible. Raoul, fresh, mischievous, enchanting, Raoul alone, flung denial after it. Everything stood as he had seen it last. He went up the staircase half ashamed of the impulse which had brought him. But when Rose-Marie had opened the door, and he saw Mme. de Beaudrillart standing in the centre of the room, upright, rigid, a figure stiffened into stone, the panic seized him again. The door closed behind him, the two stood facing each other. It was she who spoke first.
“From your presence here, monsieur, I gather that you have heard from Madame Léon of the—the extraordinary attack which has been made upon my son.”
Even at this moment M. Bourget was impressed by the haughty coolness of her bearing. Not a movement, not a look, showed fear. He said, briefly:
“She wrote to me this morning.”
“Ah, so I imagined. It was natural, though I could have wished the affair had not been mentioned out of our own family.”
M. Bourget’s square figure seemed to gain unusual dignity. He said, respectfully:
“Pardon, madame. You forget that although I have no desire to force the fact upon you, we both belong to the same family. What concerns the husband of my daughter, concerns me. But it appears to me there are more important matters to discuss. I am not sure that I know all the facts. Would it displease you if I repeated what seems clear!”
She motioned him to a seat, and sat down herself abruptly.
“What I make out, then,” said M. Bourget, leaning forward, and fixing his eyes on his own broad hands, “is that some Monsieur Lemaire, of whom I know nothing—” he paused, questioningly, but as she remained silent, went on—“the principal inheritor of the wealth of the defunct count, Monsieur de Cadanet, brings an accusation against Baron Léon of having opened a letter intended for him, Lemaire, by Monsieur de Cadanet, and of having extracted the sum of two hundred thousand francs. That is all I know, madame, and, on the face of it, it appears a most egregious accusation.”
Her lips formed the word, “Disgraceful.”
“But you can, perhaps, madame, give me further information. On what ground does he base his charge? Were there any money dealings between this Lemaire and Monsieur Léon?”
“I am certain there were none.”
In spite of herself she was thankful to have this man, with his shrewd business habits, his straightforward common-sense, by her side. She felt his strength a support.
“And between Monsieur de Cadanet and the baron?”
“Ah, that is different.” She hesitated, keeping her eyes fixed on M. Bourget; then went on: “You had better know all. You are probably aware that, owing to the incompetence of his intendant, Poissy became very seriously involved?”
“People said, madame, that Monsieur Léon had squandered his estates,” replied M. Bourget, speaking brusquely for the first time; “but that is neither here nor there. I am aware that at one time the mortgages were very heavy—very heavy indeed; and that Monsieur Léon contrived by degrees to pay them off. To do so required money.”
“Certainly,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, coldly, “he could not work miracles. The money came from Monsieur de Cadanet, who was under a debt of gratitude to my husband.”
M. Bourget hardly heard these last words. “How much?” he said, quickly.
“Two hundred thousand francs.”
He stared at her, and brought his hand down heavily on the table.
“The same sum!”
“A coincidence.”
“More than improbable,” said M. Bourget, shaking his head obstinately. “Depend upon it, this has to do with that loan of Monsieur de Cadanet’s. It was a loan?”
“Of course.”
“And repaid by my money,” was on M. Bourget’s lips. Something, however, withheld him, although he would have said it in all simplicity, and without thought of anything offensive. “Repaid on his marriage,” he substituted. “I knew there was something of the sort. Depend upon it this rascal has got hold of the transaction, and is bent upon making capital out of it. I wish I had Monsieur Léon here, to put one or two question.”
“I believe, monsieur, I am perfectly acquainted with his affairs.”
M. Bourget darted an ironical look at her, but refrained from expression of incredulity.
“Do you, at any rate, know, madame, whether Baron Léon was in Paris or at Poissy when he received this assistance from the defunct Monsieur de Cadanet?”
“In Paris.”
“And had he, at that time, any communication with Monsieur Lemaire!”
“I am aware of none.”
“No quarrel? Were they on friendly terms!”
“No. For my son thought ill of him, and once said that if Monsieur de Cadanet knew his real character it would be a bad day for Monsieur Lemaire; but that was all.”
“You do not think he tried to open Monsieur de Cadanet’s eyes.”
“Never,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, drawing herself up. “Do you imagine he would have stooped to the position of tale-bearer?”
“I should have,” said M. Bourget, frankly. “And it would have been decidedly advantageous. However, depend upon it, madame, this accusation has something to do with Monsieur de Cadanet’s loan. As for the theft from the letter, that is absurd. My theory is that Lemaire is perhaps executor—at all events, that by some means or other he has become possessed of papers which have suggested the attempt to coerce the baron. I hope Monsieur Léon will beware of yielding. Fortunately, Nathalie is there, and has a clear head for business.”
“My son is not likely to require support,” said his mother, still haughtily. M. Bourget did not hear her; he was considering, chin on chest.
“He has learned, somehow, that the money was lent to Monsieur Léon, and perhaps he means to deny that it was ever repaid. You will pardon me, madame, if I remark that in your class there are apparently strange reticences and scruples in business matters. I once offended Monsieur Léon, in what probably had to do with this very loan, by asking whether he held any note or agreement which I could look at. Two hundred thousand francs is a large sum to have been paid without so much as a receipt!”
Mme. de Beaudrillart stood up with a smile.
“We are not so foolish as you suppose us, Monsieur Bourget. My son had a receipt, and I can show it to you.”
“In that case—” M. Bourget rubbed his hands exultantly—“I am convinced this will be of the greatest importance. Can you put your hand on it easily, madame?”
She answered by unlocking a cupboard. His face fell. A cupboard for papers of value! But when he saw an iron safe fitting into the recess, his wounded instincts recovered themselves. He could hardly restrain himself from looking over her shoulder.
“You know the paper, madame?” he cried, eagerly.
“I placed it here myself.”
She extracted an envelope from a bundle of receipts, tore it open, and unfolded a paper.
It was a blank sheet.