Chapter Twenty Four.
The Growth of an Idea.
In spite of M. Bourget’s assumption of indifference, he was secretly tormented by anxiety as to what was going on in Paris. Nathalie wrote to him every day, though seldom more than a few lines. He never answered her letters, but he devoured every word, and hungered for more. It was the same with, the newspapers. He would not have missed a line, notwithstanding the pang their comments, especially those of the radical press, caused him. If his self-consciousness could have permitted it he would have gone to Paris, not to have joined his daughter, but, unknown and in secret, to have haunted the courts, especially after the trial had begun; his restlessness longing to hear the evidence with his own ears, and to listen to the remarks with which he did not doubt all Paris rang. If France had been at this moment in the throes of a revolution, M. Bourget would have expected to find its interest second to that excited by seeing Baron Léon de Beaudrillart, of Poissy, on his trial for theft. But if all France were occupied in watching M. de Beaudrillart, Tours, he was equally persuaded, watched M. Bourget. For him to show himself at the railway station would be immediately to excite curiosity, for before an hour was over it would be known that his indifference had been only simulated, and that he was in his heart as anxious as Leroux represented him.
M. Georges, meanwhile, whose faithfulness was only strengthened by what he heard and saw, had gone to Poissy, and, established there, was bravely engaged in fighting the dreary hopelessness which weighed upon the château. His disbelief in anything which could touch the young baron’s honour was so sincere and enthusiastic that, had it been possible, it might have persuaded Claire. As it was, it soothed her. With M. Georges she was less sharp, less angular, more forgiving. He was the only person, except her mother and sister, to whom she would speak, for, strangely enough, the trouble produced the same effect of gloomy reticence in her and in the man with whom she would have vowed she had least in common—M. Bourget. Like him, she shrank from a touch on the wound; like him, she read pitying contempt in the faces she looked at; like him, she exaggerated trifles. But it was impossible to misjudge M. Georges. He was so confident that M. Léon was the victim of some monstrous fraud, so undoubting in his belief that it must, somehow, be cleared up, so unchanged in his respect, so unfailing in his hopefulness, that his talk was incapable of inflicting the smallest wound. Mme. de Beaudrillart he saw but seldom. Once or twice he fancied that she must have had some sort of seizure to account for the great alteration in her person and manner. She was thinner than ever, but no longer upright. Her speech was hesitating, and she looked at Claire before uttering an opinion. From the redness of her eyes it was evident that she wept a good deal, yet at times he fancied that she imagined her son to be in the house or out in the grounds, and that she listened anxiously.
As for Félicie, there was no doubt that his confidence had given her courage. Unlike her sister, she was always anxious to talk about her brother, and the prospects of his trial; and M. Georges’s fixed opinion ended in implanting in her the idea that Léon, suffering unjustly, might be regarded as a martyr, and therefore as a credit to the house. If the Abbé Nisard did not share her idea, he took care not to contradict what proved a fervent source of consolation. Félicie returned to her daily tasks, to her embroideries and reparations, and though she cried, her tears were not bitter, and perhaps were caused as often by her sister’s impatience as by Léon’s imprisonment.
Raoul attached himself, tyrannically, to M. Georges. The boy felt, without understanding, the cloud on the family; he missed his father, his mother, his lessons, his drives. M. Georges at once undertook his education, to the great relief of the others, for whom Raoul had succeeded in making it almost unendurable. But here, in his new tutor, he found a patience which it was so impossible to tire out that he gave up the task, and, in order to gain a fishing expedition, learned his lessons to perfection.
There came a day, however, when all M. Georges’s cheerfulness could not lighten the gloom. Nathalie’s letters had been intended to prepare them; but until the newspaper arrived, full of details, and commenting upon the attitude of the accused, they had tacitly refused to realise that the trial was to begin that very week. As it happened, Félicie had been the first to see it, or it would never have met her eyes, for when Claire came she seized the paper, carried it to her room, and when she had devoured every word, tore it into shreds. M. Georges, to his despair, had not a glimpse of it; but that afternoon, as he was going off with Raoul to the river, he met Mlle. Félicie on her way back from the church, armed with a feather brush, with which she had been dusting the altar ornaments. She greeted him with eagerness.
“Oh, Monsieur Georges, you did not see that dreadful newspaper?”
“No, mademoiselle, to my great regret, for I gathered that there was something fresh. But no doubt Mademoiselle Claire exercised a wise discretion in not allowing it to lie about. Perhaps—”
He lifted his eyebrows interrogatively, and she nodded.
“Yes, I can tell you every word, and I long for your opinion.”
“Raoul, my friend,” said M. Georges, diplomatically, “old Antoine says there is a superb trout which lies always close under the bridge. Shall we try to ensnare him?”
The temptation was irresistible to a born fisherman, although the boy had a feeling that he would like to hear what was to be talked about. He kept M. Georges by his side as long as he could, but at last became absorbed, and Félicie and her companion, standing on the bridge, talked in low tones. He murmured:
“Now, permit me to hear.”
“They say,” she began, tremulously, “that Léon does not deny it. Oh, monsieur, that cannot be possible, can it?”
“I, for one, should not believe it, whatever he said,” announced M. Georges, stoutly.
“You would not? You would think there was a mistake?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“Ah, what a comfort it is to speak to you!”
“Mademoiselle, you are goodness itself,” answered the delighted M. Georges. “But can you recall more particulars?”
“Oh, there was a whole column!” cried Félicie, with a shudder. “So far as I could make out, what they said was that they understood that Monsieur de Beaudrillart admitted having taken the money, but said that he immediately informed Monsieur de Cadanet of what he had done, and that he looked upon it as a loan.”
“Exactly, exactly!” exclaimed M. Georges, triumphantly. “That is what I thought.”
“That he took it!”
“As a jest, no doubt, and as a loan. The difference is immense. Immense!” he repeated, opening his arms. “And how noble of Monsieur Léon to admit it!”
“Ah,” said Félicie, relieved.
M. Georges was here called off by Raoul to superintend an imaginary bite. He returned eagerly to Félicie, whose shortsighted eyes appeared to him quite charming in their pathos.
“What you have said has given me the greatest satisfaction,” he said, “because it explains everything so admirably. That there must be an explanation I knew, but one puzzled one’s head with thinking what it could be.”
Félicie smiled delightedly. To hear that her explanation was admirable seemed to give her the credit of having offered it, and the many snubs she had received of late from Claire made this appreciation the more valuable.
“And no doubt,” pursued her companion, “Monsieur de Beaudrillart either has repaid or was intending to repay all?”
“Yes, the paper said that would be his defence—you must excuse me if I do not use the right terms, for I had scarcely time to glance at it.”
“Mademoiselle, you are clearness itself.”
Her small features took an expression of beatitude, but of beatitude that suffers unjustly. She said:
“I do not often complain, but indeed, Monsieur Georges, you cannot fail to see that Claire is so—so determined that one does not dare to oppose her. If I say anything of which she does not approve, there is really such a storm that I prefer to be silent.”
“Mademoiselle Claire is suffering acutely, I am sure,” he returned, with a loyal impulse of defence.
“We all suffer,” said Félicie, uttering a sound between a gasp and a sob; “but I have always learned that our own sufferings should not either absorb us or render us harsh to others. No one can have felt this affliction more than I, but I try to rouse myself and to draw good out of a terrible dispensation, as the abbé advised. I assure you, monsieur, that I have much, very much, to endure from Claire.”
He murmured sympathy.
“If it were not for the relief of having you here to talk things over with, I do not think I could bear it at all. Figure to yourself, monsieur, that she prophesies all manner of terrible humiliations for us in the future! She says we can never again hold up our heads, and she has quite made up her mind that no visitors shall be ever admitted. I do not know myself that I could bear to see Mme. Lemballe; she has a small mind, and it is quite possible that she might permit herself to say something disagreeable. And just at present, of course, I am ready to sacrifice myself for our poor dear Léon. But—never! Never! Conceive how terribly doll to be cut off from all society, and to be unable to go to the houses of our friends when I have any church collection on hand. Oh, monsieur, the thought is unendurable. I would rather die!”
Into the quiet current of M. Georges’s thoughts at this instant there dashed an idea so wild and unwarrantable that he blushed violently, and was seized with a sudden tremor lest it might be read in his face. Could such a thing be possible? Oh, never, never! He chased it out, and to hide his embarrassment murmured something to the effect that Raoul’s line was caught in the weeds, and hurried to the boy.
“Go away,” said Raoul immovably, his whole being concentrated upon the trout as to which M. Georges had so basely deceived him.
“I think now it must have been higher up that Antoine meant,” said that gentleman, meekly. Raoul was on his feet in a moment.
“Then why did you say he was here?” he demanded, dragging at his tutor’s hand. “Come along. Aunt Félie, you mustn’t come; you keep Monsieur Georges from attending.”
On the whole, M. Georges escaped thankfully, his brain in a whirl. Fly from such dangerous fascinations he might, but the presumptuous idea having once found entrance was already battering again at the doors. Refused admittance, it demanded a parley, and set itself at once to prove that it was not preposterous.
M. Georges owned with simple vanity that his position had changed for the better since the days when he had been intendant at Poissy. Now he was the owner of a small house, of grounds which to him at least looked spacious, and of a certain solid little sum in rentes. Modest ambition pointed to becoming mayor, and if he even dreamed of being conseiller-général, the thing was not beyond the bounds of possibility. But—Mlle. de Beaudrillart! That, indeed, was preposterous, incredible! He heaved a sigh of renunciation, and flung it from him, only permitting a meek hope to remain that when the real Mme. Georges made her appearance she might have eyes resembling those of Mlle. Félicie. But it was astonishing how persistent this ludicrous idea became! Even when the landing of a small fish had been accomplished, Raoul pale and serious with excitement, his first exclamation, after drawing a deep breath of relief, was: “How I wish you lived here always, Monsieur Georges!” M. Georges became crimson. And somehow or other, at this time, Félicie seemed always to be kept before his consciousness. The flutter of a dress was sure to belong to her, he heard her voice where he had never heard it before, he met her in the grounds, he listened to her praises from the abbé; presently it might be said that, in spite of heroic resistance, her image was enshrined in his heart, although the hope of gaining her had not yet ventured to intrude.
What further weakened his powers of resistance was Claire’s kindness. Sometimes he really fancied that she was encouraging his folly. With him her sharpness was softened, and she deferred quite strangely to his advice about the farm, with which Félicie never meddled. She was really capable of managing everything without consultation, and M. Georges was so well aware of this that he would have been more than man not to have been flattered by her evident desire to gain his help and to yield to his opinion. He reflected, however, humbly, that it was probably owing to the absorption of her thoughts as to the trial, and this seemed the more likely since on the morning when the trial was to begin Claire shut herself in her room, and refused to see a soul.
Had it not been for M. Georges, the whole household would have been disorganised. Despair had seized it, and if the walls of Poissy had crumbled into ruin, the dismay could hardly have been greater. The maids darted across the court like frightened birds. Jacques, tearful and miserable, came to M. Georges to implore him to let him hear the latest news, and M. Georges thumped his own chest with the effort to impose self-control on his emotions, and begged him to be calm.
“What I fear,” he added, “is Monsieur Raoul’s gaining any idea of what is happening. He has just asked me why every one was crying, and why Rose-Marie called his father ‘poor monsieur le baron’? Jacques, my friend, we men must show these kind souls an example of courage. If I could trust you not to break down I would carry out an idea, and take Monsieur Raoul into Tours to see his grandfather.”
“Do, monsieur.”
“But, to tell you the truth,” said M. Georges, fidgeting, “I cannot take the coachman, for he will be wanted to support you here, and I—I am not in the habit of driving.”
“We will put the quietest of the ponies in the little cart. I feel certain he will take monsieur safely, and Monsieur Bourget—he is so shrewd!—he may have something comforting to send back.”
With many perturbations M. Georges carried out his idea. There was no one to ask, for Claire was barricaded in her own room, and Félicie had flown to the church. To tell the truth, the sight of M. Bourget’s bitter misery had so painfully impressed M. Georges that he had dwelt upon it ever since, and longed to break it down; and it was for this that he faced the terrors of the pony. They had many narrow escapes, for when they met anything in the road M. Georges persistently tugged at the left-hand rein; but fortunately the road was wide, and the pony knew much better than his driver. Thanks to his sagacity, they avoided any serious damage, and pulled up at M. Bourget’s door. The door was open, Raoul tumbled anyhow out of the cart, scrambled up the steps, and rushed in upon his grandfather before M. Bourget had time to rouse himself from the gloomy reverie which had seized him after reading his newspaper for at least the tenth time.
“Grandpapa, I have caught a fish my very own self! Monsieur Georges didn’t touch it—he didn’t, truly!—and I have brought it in for Fanchon to cook for your dinner!”
M. Bourget stood up, grew purple, half turned away, came back, and opened his arms. It was a happy inspiration of M. Georges to remain in the street, although he took advantage of the stoppage to get out of the cart, and stand at the pony’s head. Fanchon bustled forth, beaming.
“Well, I declare, if it isn’t Monsieur Georges! Drive round to the hotel, monsieur, and put up the pony, and make haste back.”
M. Georges assented, but remarking that it was hardly worth while to get in for such a short distance, proceeded to lead the pony through two streets and a half, to the astonishment of such of his acquaintances as he met. When he got back, he found Raoul, by the aid of some impromptu reins, driving his grandfather round the room and in and out of the chairs, with shouts of delight. He took care to make no remark, and presently M. Bourget sat down by him, wiping his forehead.
“As to that other,” he said, significantly, “I haven’t changed, but it is no fault of the boy’s. Leroux intends to summon you.”
“Let him!” exclaimed M. Georges, valiantly.
“Ay, let him!” chuckled the ex-builder. “And when it comes to the point, it would not surprise me if he thought better of it. You have seen the paper? It is all up with that miserable. The defence is a sham. Run out to Fanchon, my brave, and tell her to cook your fish for my dinner, and see what jam she can find in her cupboard for you. Yes. Monsieur Georges, what do you think now of your fine monsieur!”
“That I respect him with all my heart!” cried the other.
“Respect? So, ho! And for what?”
“For having the courage to speak out, monsieur. Which of us might not have been tempted to deny it altogether?”
“And you still believe him when he says he repaid it?”
“Implicitly. If you believe him when he acknowledges what tells against him, the least you can do is to take his word for the rest. You doubt the father of your grandson? Fie, Monsieur Bourget, fie!”
M. Georges swelled with enthusiasm for his cause. M. Bourget got up and paced up and down the room. He muttered at last:
“Whether he did or not, the result is the same. The Poissy honour is gone. Not a scoundrel in Tours but will have his say against it.”
“The Poissy honour has weathered worse storms,” said M. Georges, quietly. “What does it matter if a few curs bark? And I believe you are wrong. I believe honest men will respect him for his avowal.”
M. Bourget grumbled “Absurd!” under his breath, but said no more. He called Raoul and marched him out to the toy-shop, and when they were just starting for Poissy shook M. Georges’s hand with a warmth which surprised him. Raoul, in the intervals of opening all the parcels with which he was charged, remarked that grandpapa was going to see mamma, perhaps, “and I asked him if he couldn’t take me, but he couldn’t, he said,” he added, extracting a magnificent whip, which he proceeded to smack, to the great disquiet of M. Georges and the pony.
M. Georges pulled the wrong rein more than ever, and their escapes were hair-breadth. They ran in and out of ditches, they shaved carts; finally they dashed wildly through the gates of Poissy, and pulled up at the entrance so suddenly that M. Georges was shot forward, and only just saved himself from landing on the pony’s back. But, on the whole, he was satisfied with the result of his expedition, and so was Raoul, who announced that he liked M. Georges’s driving better than anybody’s.
The little clatter of arrival sounded unfeeling to poor Claire, who sat nursing her misery in the room adjoining that of Mme. de Beaudrillart. How could any one move, think, speak, at such a time! And yet it was a comfort to feel that M. Georges was again in the house. He was unaltered, though her conviction of the disgrace which hung over them all was so strong that she read change in the look and manner of all the servants. As for friends, she had resolved never again to face them. It seemed to her that the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness would be a change of name, and a flight to some far-away place where no one would recognise her as a Beaudrillart. But to gain this object she was helpless, and the thought of living on at Poissy, pointed at as the sister of a man in prison, was absolutely terrible. More than once that day Félicie, whose room was on the other side, and whose troubles were always comforted by talking about them, had knocked at the door and begged to be admitted, only to hear a sharp “Go away!” in answer. She went to her mother, but Mme. de Beaudrillart’s state bordered on apathy. How much or how little she understood, it was impossible to say. To Félicie, at any rate, it was a real relief to hear M. Georges’s cheery voice. She ran down the stairs to welcome him with a pleasure which in a moment brought back all those wild dreams which he had been trying to forget. In the whirl of his brain he even went so far as to murmur “Dear mademoiselle!” and Félicie merely blushed a little, and cast down her eyes. They saw each other constantly that day and the next, for Claire, silent and rigid, only came down for meals, and retreated immediately to her own room. M. Georges was very good, and most delicately respectful to her; but it was impossible to say much in her presence, and both felt secretly relieved when she had gone. All the customs of the house seemed to be in abeyance. Félicie would never at other times have allowed herself the long conversations which now had the most natural air in the world. She babbled to M. Georges in her small, precise voice of all the little interests which filled her life, while she imagined that her talk was only of Léon; and he listened with the most profound admiration. What could be more estimable than the good works which occupied her morning, noon, and night! What more beautiful than her devotion! She showed him with pride the embroideries and vestments which were under her charge, and he helped her to refold them, as she said, with far more neatness than Rose-Marie. By the time this labour was ended, M. Georges’s presumptuous little idea which at first sight had so alarmed him was enthroned triumphantly in his heart.
The third day of the trial had been reached. Nathalie, all day in court, could only scribble disjointed letters, noting as far as possible the principal points, and infinitely pathetic in their anguish and their trust. The newspapers gave minute reports, up to this point occupied by the opening speech for the prosecution and the interrogation of the prisoner. The third day would produce Charles Lemaire’s evidence, and on the morning of that day Félicie, pale and agitated, rushed down the stairs to the small study where M. Georges transacted his business in old days, and which he now again occupied.
“Oh, Monsieur Georges, come, I beg of you, come at once! Claire has said something to my mother, and she is most terribly upset. We cannot soothe her.”
Poor Mme. de Beaudrillart was, indeed, in a distressing state. The tidings which for some days she had not seemed to realise had suddenly reached her comprehension and produced a painful anguish. She was sitting at the table, her hands clinched and her eyes wide-open, Claire kneeling by her side in terror. The instant she saw M. Georges she cried, in a hoarse voice:
“It is not true, monsieur, say it is not true! Oh, Léon, my son, my son!”
“Madame,” cried M. Georges, hastening to her side, “it is not true that Monsieur Léon is what they say! There has been a terrible mistake, but it will come right—it must.”
She leaned forward, and said in a whisper which he never forgot:
“But he took it.”
“And repaid it, madame. I would stake my life on it.” Mme. de Beaudrillart pointed out Claire by a gesture:
“She says we are disgraced forever—we!” she shuddered. “That we may hide our heads, for no respectable person will have anything to do with us. She would like to go away.”
“Oh, mademoiselle!” cried M. Georges, turning on her a look of reproach. “Madame,” he said, standing upright, and stiffening with resolution, “permit me to convince you that it is not so. Mademoiselle Félicie, Mademoiselle Claire, will you allow me a few minutes alone with madame?”
Félicie went out demurely, Claire rose up and flung him a questioning glance. He murmured:
“Mademoiselle, I venture to think you have perhaps divined. Have I the inestimable encouragement of your approval?”
Poor Claire! She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and said, brokenly, “Yes, monsieur, yes!”
When they were gone, M. Georges still stood respectfully before Mme. de Beaudrillart.
“Madame,” he said, solemnly, “I am aware that what I have to say will sound presumptuous, and I could not have ventured upon it but for your daughter’s fancy that you would all suffer from this misfortune of Monsieur Léon’s. My position has improved; I have a small estate, a yearly income, and perhaps a reasonable hope of advancement. Such as it is, madame, may I dare to lay it at Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart’s feet?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart turned her dull eyes upon him. She had lost her sense of wonder.
“You wish to marry Claire?”
“Oh, no, madame!” cried M. Georges, in alarm. “I speak of Mademoiselle Félicie. At least I would promise her a life’s devotion, and a most earnest endeavour to make up to her for what she would renounce.”
“Félicie!” exclaimed her mother. “But she has consecrated her life to good works.”
“Believe me, madame, I should rejoice in aiding her.”
“I do not know—it is all like a mist in my brain. Claire—what does Claire say?”
“She gave me her approval, madame,” returned M. Georges in eager good faith.
Mme. de Beaudrillart sighed, and passed her hand across her forehead.
“She vowed we were all disgraced. As you say, it may be better for one of them to go away. Félicie and you—it seems strange, but—I think—everything is strange. If Claire agreed, I cannot oppose her, only—oh, monsieur, my poor Léon!”
She broke into a fit of incontrollable weeping. M. Georges hurried out to seek for Félicie, but he had only time for a whisper as he seized and kissed her hand.
“Grant me an interview presently, mademoiselle. Your mother permits it, and I am the happiest of men!”