Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Awakening of a Soul.

The famous trial was at an end, and talk rapidly subsiding. After Mme. Lemaire’s evidence it was felt that the prosecution fell to the ground, and the jury brought in an acquittal at once. When Léon and Nathalie met they could not speak. The woman in both was uppermost but voiceless until they found themselves alone. He was aged, and there were lines in his face which would never leave it, for although his nature was not deep enough to suffer deeply, its easy lightness had offered no sort of resistance when shaken by despair. Yet it seemed as if something had come to him—perhaps the soul, which was wanting before, or lay undeveloped, waiting for the touch of a great love. Love and suffering. Their union is divine, and divine their mission and their strength.

A warrant was issued for the arrest of Charles Lemaire on the charge of perjury, but he had taken advantage of the warning which at last reached him from his wife to escape—it is believed—to America. For a long time after that testimony to which her conscience forced her she was very ill. She recovered at last, and found consolation in her Orphanage. She would never see Nathalie again, but once Raoul was taken to the Home, and stared amazedly at rows of little white beds, and at a lady in black who looked at him and cried.

Perhaps of the actors in the little drama, M. Bourget, who seemed the most square and solid figure of all, showed the roost change, or shared that feature beyond the others with Mme. de Beaudrillart. He had gone through a collapse. Hopes, opinions, ambitions, affections had tumbled down together in one vast ruin, and although he managed to build some of them up again, the feeling of insecurity which follows an earthquake could not be easily got rid of. Until then he had scarcely believed that there was any possible contingency in which money would not carry the day. Certain it is that he bullies less, and on more than one occasion has been known to abstain from laying down the law. Leroux has never been forgiven, but the person for whom he displays the most sincere respect, and to whose opinions he attaches a quite disproportionate value is M. Georges. Meanwhile, although he has once declined the honour, it is pretty certain that he will be chosen for the next mayor.

As for M. Georges himself, it is the incredible which comes to pass, and his wife—to his own utter amazement—is no other than a Demoiselle De Beaudrillart. Had Mme. de Beaudrillart been herself, it could never have happened, but the poor woman was struck down and shattered by the storm which had shaken the very foundations of Poissy, and all her old landmarks were swept away. And M. Georges had been such a stay, such a support in the hour of trouble! Everybody turned to him. His unfailing helpfulness, his good sense, his courageous loyalty attracted them to the little man. Poor Claire! She had been attracted first of all, and it was hard that having stood up for him when others blamed, she should be obliged to look on and see Félicie chosen. As for Léon, what could he say? It shocked him; but had he not been the cause of what might have proved a really overwhelming disgrace? After all was said and done, the fact remained that he had taken the notes, and there were people who would throw it up at him when they heard his name all his life long. And Nathalie was on M. Georges’s side.

“Dear, if you married me, why should not Félicie marry Monsieur Georges?”

It was one of those differences which seem infinite to the person who has to decide, but which cannot be explained to the world. As for Félicie herself, bliss smiled in her face. M. Georges had behaved admirably. After welcoming M. and Mme. Léon, he had sought an interview with Léon, laid himself and his small prospects most humbly at Mlle. Félicie’s feet, and taken himself off at once to Tours. Léon had gone so far as to argue with his sister, and to ask her whether she had fully considered what the change in position meant.

“Oh, it will be delightful!” exclaimed Félicie. “We shall be within reach of Nantes, and every summer we shall take sea-baths, and see something of the world.”

“Of the world!” repeated Léon, petrified. “I thought you dreaded it!”

“As a girl, yes; but with my husband what should I dread?” said Félicie, calmly. “Here it is certainly not gay, and lately, I can assure you, Léon, with poor mamma so crushed, and Claire walking about with a face of stone, and you in prison, if it had not been for Michel I don’t know what one would have done! Is it not delightful that he should have such a beautiful name? Saint Michel’s has always been a special day for me, and I had all the new embroideries ready for it.”

How could Léon answer this speech? Félicie’s obstinacy was well known in the family. He persisted so far as to ask whether she was prepared to live in a very small way, and probably have no money for pilgrimages—

“Michel has not quite made up his mind that pilgrimages do all the good we suppose,” interrupted Félicie, with the air of a discoverer.

”—And find yourself Madame Georges, instead of Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart?”

“Claire said that no one would recognise us again,” she remarked, in answer; “and though it has all turned out so much better than we expected, I do think that Michel was the only person who really believed in you. Even the abbé was doubtful. I am sure you must be very grateful to Michel always, dear Léon.”

She carried the day. Claire would say nothing. Claire’s misery seemed scarcely lessened. It was as if the very possibility of such a disaster as had threatened had turned her to marble, and that she could not come to life again. She spent her time either with her mother, who was now always in her own room, or wandering about the grounds by herself, especially avoiding Félicie. All that Nathalie could do was to leave books about in the salon, books such as she knew would interest her sister-in-law, and to avoid comment when they disappeared. She hoped by this means to offer a little food to her active mind without giving her the annoyance of feeling herself under an obligation.

Two others who were perfectly happy at the château were Jacques Charpentier and Raoul, and perhaps it was Raoul’s talk which most reconciled his father to Félicie’s marriage. He was never tired of vaunting M. Georges, or of bringing forward the small surprises which had been prepared for this happy moment. Spurred by their motive, he had submitted to learn to read, to print his own name, and to sing a funny little song about a drummer in a shrill childish voice. He was not content until he had dragged his father and mother down to the river, that he might show them how he could throw his line like a grown-up man.

It was a day in late autumn, one of those days which come laden with the sweetness of the past. A ripe golden glow was abroad, shining on the yellow leaves of the poplars, and reaching the hearts of husband and wife as they stood by the river and watched it flowing by strong and swift. There was enough wind to stir the long grasses by its side, always moist and green; to drive a few white clouds softly across the sky, and to give a delicious exhilaration to the light air. Gnats danced in the sun, a distant sound of children’s voices reached the ear, and old Antoine, in his sabots, clattered across the bridge. On this bridge there was a patch of new wood, still out of tone with the old railing and its soft, rich grey, and a few bits of useless stuff which the river had flung on one side on a certain wild night not so very long ago had been turned over by the thrifty villagers, and left as of no value. Antoine was looking forward to a good storm when he would go up to the château and come back unmolested with a fine supply of fuel. He glanced at the two figures as they stood by the water-side, and chuckled. “It’s as easy to hold one’s tongue as to talk,” he muttered, “and pays better.”

For a time the two were silent. Now first had they seen the river since that terrible night, and their hearts were too full for speech. Suddenly Nathalie was in her husband’s arms, strained there passionately. “My dear one!” he whispered, again and again; nothing more, and perhaps it was a good sign that his old flow of words was wanting.

She had closed her eyes in the dizziness of her bliss, and when she opened them again he rained kisses on them, those eyes which held in the brown clearness the fresh healthiness of a mountain stream.

After a time they could speak, both trembling.

“You saved me,” he said, “three times over. Here—”

“Don’t talk of that,” she shuddered.

”—Then by making me tell the truth, then by going to that poor woman. Body and soul, three times over.”

He had let her go, and they walked, step by step, through the long green grass. She sighed softly: “I am so happy that I am afraid.”

She felt as if she had reached heaven, and, as she had said, it frightened her until she had breathed a prayer. That calmed her swelling heart, and she could bear to hear him whisper again:

“Three times over.”

“Dear,” she said, “what of that? When one loves—”

“They all loved me. But only your love was strong enough to stand by me.”

She gave a quick, happy laugh.

“We have gained friends,” she said. “Monsieur Rodoin.”

“And Maître Barraud.”

“Not he. He only thought of his case, and of triumphing over Maître Miron. When they were all congratulating you afterwards, do you know what I saw?”

“What?”

Her voice sank. “He yawned.”

Léon’s vanity felt a momentary mortification. Then he laughed.

“Forgive him,” he said. “The situation was not so novel to him as to us.”

They were sitting together by this time, within easy reach of Raoul, on a small, thick bough of a tree which jutted out from the bank. The river ran by, swift and silvery, though Nathalie kept her eyes persistently turned from it; the poplars rustled, above them were fathomless depths of white and blue. The château itself lay behind and out of sight, yet at this moment both were thinking of it; of its grey stones, which somehow seemed to be built into the very lives of the De Beaudrillarts; of those who had fought for it, sinned for it. Not one of them had shielded it to more purpose from dishonour than the young wife who had met so much contempt within its walls, whose picture had been refused a place among the old ancestors.

Nathalie broke the silence.

“Have you read the bishop’s letter!”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, poor Félicie!” Nathalie laughed.

“She does not care. All the vestments are going off to Madame Lemballe to-morrow morning, and she intends to embroider herself an evening dress. But the letter is delightful. So hearty! And he means to come again.”

“He will be more welcome than he was before. Nathalie, dearest,” his voice sank, “Monsieur Georges wants us to have rejoicings—something to mark my home-coming. How can one have a merrymaking over what grew out of misery and weakness? If it had not been for you the weakness would have cost me my life; and as it is, my poor mother is left a wreck. There is nothing to be proud of, though I hope I am thankful. What do you say?”

She clung to him. “Dear love, no! Not merrymaking. One can show one’s thankfulness in some other way.”

“Raoul will be a better man than I have been.”

“Never dearer to those who love him.”

“Even after all you heard in Paris?”

“Always, and forever.” There was not a shadow of hesitation in her voice, and when he put her from him and looked into her eyes, they met his without shrinking. She repeated the word “Always.”

“I believe you,” he said, letting his head fall; “but you are different from most women—and most men. I could not have done for you all that you have done for me, or half of it.”

She was looking at him with an infinite love, though she knew the truth of what he said. The roots of love did not run deep enough with him; he could not have done it—perhaps never would have force enough to do it. What of that? It is better to give than to receive. When life has gone so far, characters do not change suddenly, even when an earthquake has shaken them. They grow a little stronger, a little weaker; they fall and rise, or, alas, sometimes slip farther down the hill. We see the slips and hear the clatter of falling stones more quickly than we notice the gradual gain, inch by inch, which to clearer eyes than ours means all the difference.

And so, though some of her dreams had flown forever, and there were lines written on her face which no coming springs or summers could efface, Nathalie was happy. When Claire had talked of Léon having no soul, she was not far out, for something which he had not shown before had been born in him by the strength of his wife’s love. Life looked different to him; the rose-leaves with which he tried to cover it up had been swept away by the storm, scars were left, ugly chasms, rough stones. But, side by side, hand in hand, walked his wife.

The End.