Chapter Twenty Two.
Before the Trial.
When Nathalie, by a strong effort of will, succeeded in calling back her thoughts from following her husband, her eyes fell upon M. Rodoin, who sat respectfully opposite to her in his own carriage. The change in the lawyer’s manner was indeed remarkable. When Léon had consulted him before, in spite of his outward politeness her keen intuition had detected a certain veiled distrust which had annoyed her, while it was too impalpable to be openly noticed. She had been convinced that he disbelieved his client’s story; and twenty times had wished that her husband’s case had been in other hands. She had looked at him with disfavour, taking exception to the coldness of his expression and the eccentricity of his nose, which, starting on a straight line, suddenly towards the end developed an upward turned knob, on which the eye fastened itself to the exclusion of his other features, and which seemed to accentuate the air of incredulity which displeased her. The knob, it need hardly be said, remained, but it had acquired so different an expression that although she read anxiety in the look with which he regarded her, its general tenor was that of unmistakable pity and good-will.
When he saw that she was giving him her attention, he leaned forward and said, abruptly:
“Yes, my dear lady, I congratulate you. Your husband is acting with extreme courage, but you should not be alone.”
“Servants talk,” she said, quietly.
“There are his sisters?”
“Ah, but they were strongly opposed to his coming. So was my father, and you yourself, Monsieur Rodoin, permit me to say, did not suggest it.”
He put up his hand. “Your reproach is quite justified. Honestly, I did not believe that Monsieur de Beaudrillart would ever run so counter to the traditions of his family as to take so sensible a course. No, madame, do not suppose I am speaking offensively. No Beaudrillart would be deficient in courage; but this required another form of courage—one which they would be slow to recognise as such; it surprised me beyond words when your telegram was put into my hands. If it was your doing, madame—”
He bowed respectfully, his knowledge of men recognising in the new lines in Nathalie’s beautiful face what the struggle had cost her; but she scarcely heard his words. She put her head out of the window as they rattled over the stones, trying to catch a last glimpse of the carriage which contained her husband. It was but of sight, and her next question was almost a sob:
“Where do they take him, monsieur?”
“To the Palais de Justice.” And as she shuddered, he added: “You will have ample opportunities of seeing him. Do not fear.”
“To-night?”
“To-morrow, I hope.”
“Meanwhile we must think, we must act for him,” she said, driving back her own anguish. “Who do you suggest for his counsel!”
“Madame, there can be no better than Maître Barraud, and I went to him on receipt of your telegram. He was so touched by the baron’s action that he at last consented. The Procureur de la République is Maître Miron.”
“He is terribly formidable!” cried Nathalie.
“It is impossible to deny it; both are of the first rank, and I own frankly that I do not think there is a sou to choose between them. But I am quite content to have secured my man. One thing is necessary, and I should like you to impress it strongly upon monsieur le baron: that he must be absolutely frank with Maître Barraud, place the matter clearly in his hands, and permit himself no reservations.”
She smiled faintly.
“Reservations are at an end, Monsieur Rodoin.”
“All the better. Our one chance lies in perfect openness. We tell our story as it happened; it is for the jury to judge of the probabilities. Unfortunately, we must bear in mind that it is not always truth which carries the most innocent face. This Lemaire has a lie tucked away somewhere, and he will naturally take more pains with it than with any other part of his case. But if once Maître Barraud gets his finger on it he will have it out.”
“The lie,” said Nathalie, calmly, “says that my husband never repaid the money.”
M. Rodoin waited for the rattle of passing cabs to subside before he replied.
“I do not know.”
She started, flushing crimson. “Monsieur! you do not know!”
“Ah, madame, hear me patiently! I am sure that Monsieur de Beaudrillart repaid it—though I wish to Heaven he had insisted upon proper forms and claimed a receipt—but we must allow that it is quite possible that Monsieur Lemaire never heard of the repayment. He says he was told of the affair by the count; that I take leave to doubt, for it seems to me an extraordinary revengeful act for a dying man, after he had kept silence for six years, to put the reputation of his cousin at the mercy of another. I prefer to believe that Monsieur Lemaire contrived to ferret out some of the facts, and to jump at other conclusions. And I base my opinion a good deal upon what I have found out of the man’s life.”
“Yes! Pray go on,” said Nathalie, leaning forward, her eyes fixed upon him.
“He is a gambler, extravagant, worthless. His debts amount to a sum which his inheritance from Monsieur de Cadanet will hardly liquidate, and here you have a motive for the action. He is a neglectful husband—said by some to be absolutely unkind. Certainly his wife does not present the appearance of a very happy woman.”
“Might there not be something among Monsieur de Cadanet’s papers?”
“Monsieur Lemaire is executor,” returned the lawyer, significantly. “However, we shall not neglect any possibility.” She fell into a long silence, which he did not attempt to break. Among all the De Beaudrillarts, past and present, who had ever consulted him, he had met with none in whom he felt so deep an interest as in this young baroness. He had liked the honesty of her hazel eyes before, but the divine sympathy he read in them as she looked after her husband appealed more directly to his heart. Not for years had he felt sentiment so near gaining the upper hand.
“Madame,” he exclaimed at last, “surely your father would be an excellent person to have with you! Permit me to telegraph for him.”
She made a sign in the negative.
“It would not do, monsieur. My poor father is bitterly disappointed. He was so proud of my position, of the future of his little grandson, that he cannot forgive us for failing him. It is difficult to explain, and it may seem only laughable to you, but I think he was more Beaudrillart than the De Beaudrillarts. He would reproach my husband, he would think of nothing but the disgrace—no, he must not come.”
“I am wondering—”
“What?”
“You must have had a heavy task among so many opposing forces, madame—I am wondering what you had on your side!”
“My husband’s better self,” she said, turning her eyes on his. “But you may conceive that it was difficult for him to fly in the face of a hundred prejudices.”
“Difficult for you, too,” reflected the lawyer. Aloud he said: “Well, madame, courage. Whatever happens we are on the right road, and it is evident that you know best how to guard the honour of the De Beaudrillarts. But I wish I could persuade you to make my house your home. Madame Rodoin would be only too much gratified.” He uttered his last sentence with a gulp, truth presenting itself in forcible contradiction, and it must be owned that Nathalie’s immediate negative relieved him.
“I pass many hours alone, monsieur,” she said, with a flitting smile, “so do not waste your thoughts on me when there is so much besides to arrange. If you can find me some task I cannot tell you how grateful I should be. Is there any possible point on which I could be of assistance?”
“We shall find something,” declared M. Rodoin, mendaciously.
“And I shall see Maître Barraud?”
They were in the Avenue de l’Opéra; Paris, brilliant, indifferent Paris, spread its gay attractions on either side.
“Oddly enough, there he goes,” said the lawyer. She bent forward eagerly.
“That man? With the face of a boy?”
“Ah, madame, never mind his face. It makes a good mask. But you will certainly see him. He will have an interview with your husband to-morrow, and I will arrange for your own as soon as possible. Here we are in the Rue Neuve Saint Augustin, and here is your hotel. Will you make me one promise?”
“Let me hear.”
“To eat and to sleep.”
“That is two,” she said, trying to smile, “but I will try.”
“Ill, you will only be an added anxiety to Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
“Yes. I shall not be ill. I am stronger than you can conceive. It frightens me, sometimes, to find how much I can bear.”
M. Rodoin saw her ensconced in her rooms at the hotel, and gave his address to the landlord, in case madame wanted anything. He bade her farewell with the words, “We shall triumph!” but his solitary reflections, as he drove towards his own house, were far from cheerful. “Unless some miracle happens, it is a lost case already,” he muttered, “and so Barraud thinks, and chafes. Yet there’s roguery somewhere, I’ll stake my head. If one only knew what proof Lemaire means to bring forward, or what one has to fight against! It matters nothing; we must fight somehow. After she has achieved the miracle of endowing my young baron with a backbone, what other miracles may not follow! And meanwhile—” He plunged his head in his hands and sat revolving, considering, rejecting. He hurried in the evening to Maître Barraud, and brought upon himself the imprecations of his friend, who was just issuing from his door, cigar in hand, on his way to the Opéra.
“Plague me more about this confounded Beaudrillart case, and I swear I’ll fling the whole thing up. Man, there’s a time for all things.”
“But, my dear Albert—”
The other waved his cigar.
“Not a word. If you had not unfortunately known me from my cradle, and basely traded upon that privilege, I should never have been saddled with a preposterously hopeless muddle, out of which there is nothing to be got but discomfiture.”
“When you have seen Madame Léon—”
“Madame Léon!” The young man uttered a smothered roar. “Out upon you! It is a few well-applied tears, is it, which has set you to pester your friends?”
“No, mocker! Madame Léon is a woman who acts, and does not weep. But you must see her, if only to give her confidence; for, unluckily, I pointed you out to her as she drove to the hotel to-day, and she took you for a boy.”
Maître Barraud was an excellent fellow, but his weakness was vanity.
“A boy!” he repeated, in a nettled voice. “A boy! I should like her to know—Well, what is all this about? Of course I must see the woman in order to scrape together a few materials upon which to string as many words as there are onions on the stick a Breton carries over his shoulder. And I know what I shall get out of the interview: protestations, and exclamations, and maunderings about false accusations, and an ill-used angel of a husband, and all the lot of it. Peste! a woman at the back of a case is the very devil!”
“Some day, my dear friend, Madame Barraud will have her revenge.”
“Heaven forbid! At any rate, her charming figure has not yet presented itself upon the horizon. Here is the Opéra, and now I presume I shall be left in peace. Take with you my assurance that your client will be condemned to a fine and a year’s imprisonment. He will get off with that because it was six years ago, and our juries, bless them! have a sneaking sympathy for the follies of youth.”
He waved his hand, and ran lightly up the steps, while M. Rodoin proceeded thoughtfully on his way, resisting the impulse to turn into the Rue Neuve Saint Augustin, and learn whether Mme. Léon had obeyed his injunction to dine.
She had forced herself to this, but the sleeping was a different matter. Exhausted as she was by the emotions of the previous night, she flung herself on her bed, hoping to lose the too vivid consciousness with which her mind busied itself round her husband’s cruel position. For an hour she slept. But in that time a storm of wind and rain had risen, and the rattling of the window and the lashing torrent which beat against the outer shutters aroused her with the startled fancy that the fierce gurgle of the river was again in her ears. Alas! the remembrance of where her husband was spending this night was scarcely less painful. She slipped out of bed, and fell on her knees by its side. The tears at which Maître Barraud had mocked, and which she had so long restrained, now broke from her with a violence almost suffocating. She pictured his forlorn misery, the horror of mind which would seize him afresh whenever he realised where and what he was; she imagined she even heard him cursing her for having forced this fate upon him. Other wives of whom she had read had risked everything to save their husbands from prison; she had made it her task to persuade him to yield himself deliberately to its disgrace. A profound pity moved her. She knew that she was stronger than he with his light, butterfly nature. If only she could have sinned and suffered for him! She could think of herself in a cell without shrinking, while to picture him there was agony; and her sobs and prayers redoubled at the sad figure which rose before her eyes.
The tears which exhausted relieved her, but she slept no more. She lay turning in her heart what she could do for Léon, and conscious of her own weakness. She had not yet forgotten her former discontent with M. Rodoin—although she was forced to allow that this time he had presented himself as a different man—and the sight of Maître Barraud had caused her extreme dismay. In his round, chubby face she had seen nothing to inspire confidence; she distrusted the lawyer’s assurances, and the idea of Léon’s fate having been committed to a mere boy added intolerably to her anxiety, and flung more responsibility upon her own shoulders. If, as M. Rodoin appeared to think, the trial would be brought on very shortly, there could scarcely be time to change counsel, but she promised herself to consult the lawyer as to the possibility of engaging another of more experience.
She had not the opportunity for this, however, as soon as she desired; for after waiting in extreme impatience for M. Rodoin’s appearance, and for the permission to see her husband, which she trusted he might bring, he came at about twelve o’clock, and Maître Barraud with him.
The young counsel had, it must be owned, the air of a dog dragged with extreme unwillingness by his chain, or, as it rather appeared to Nathalie, that of a school-boy in the sulks. Although she could never lose the nobility of her expression, the sorrow and sleeplessness through which she had passed had robbed the young wife of much of her beauty, and left her pale, with dark rings round her eyes, and he was obstinately determined not to behold the charm of which M. Rodoin raved. He was enraged with her, too, for her allusion to a sore subject—his boyish appearance—while as this forced itself upon her again, she found it difficult to conceal her dismay. But her first question was as to the interview.
“There is no difficulty,” M. Rodoin assured her. “You can see your husband between two and three. Maître Barraud has just come from him.”
“Oh, monsieur!” She turned to him eagerly. “You have seen him! How is he? How does he look? Has he slept?”
The young man flung a glance at his friend, which said, “Did I not tell you? See what you have brought upon me!” and answered aloud, with a certain brusqueness, “Apparently, madame, monsieur le baron is in his usual health, but my inquiries did not take that direction.”
She coloured.
“Pardon, monsieur; I should have remembered that the situation is not so novel to you as to us. Did—did your other inquiries give you the information you require?”
Deaf to the tremor in her voice, Maître Barraud shrugged his shoulders, and looked more like a naughty boy than ever.
“No, madame,” he said, “I cannot say that I have got much, and I shall be obliged if you will give me your own account of the case—as shortly as possible,” he added, in alarm.
Nathalie felt no temptation to discursiveness; there was too much pain in the recital. When she had finished, he hastily got up.
“You do not want anything more, I imagine, madame?” he asked, looking at his watch.
“One word, monsieur. If—if you find yourself in want of any assistance—I scarcely know how to express it—you will, I trust, not spare expense—we should wish my husband to have the best, the very best advice and experience—”
“Oh, thanks, madame,” returned M. Barraud carelessly. “I shall have the usual juniors; M. Rodoin will take care of that. You are coming?” he added, severely to his friend.
“I will return, madame, and drive you to the Palais de Justice,” said the lawyer, bowing respectfully over her hand. The next moment she was alone.
“His juniors!” The words sounded like a mockery, and Nathalie gazed despairingly at the door out of which this mannerless boy had betaken himself. The idea that Léon’s interests should be in his hands was so terrible that when M. Rodoin appeared, punctual to his hour, she met him with reproaches.
“But, madame, madame,” cried the amazed lawyer, “you are under some extraordinary misapprehension! Maître Barraud’s reputation is world-wide; France has no greater pleader; we are only too fortunate—owing, I may say, to my friendship with his father—to have secured him!”
“At his age!” exclaimed Nathalie, incredulously. “Monsieur, it is impossible! And he does not give one the idea of a man of power.”
“Oh, if that is all, I assure you, madame, that you may console yourself. He has his eccentricities, and one is a dislike to being taken seriously in private. As to his youth, certainly he is young for his position, though older than he looks. But that is only a proof of his amazing talents. No, no, madame, you may be perfectly at your ease as to Maître Barraud. If any one can right this unhappy business, he is the man. Shall we start?”
The poor wife scarcely knew how the interval between leaving the hotel and arriving at the Palais de Justice was passed. She had a confused impression of streets, of walls, of eyes which she felt to be full of curiosity, however much reason assured her that there was nothing in the carriage to attract attention. Like a sleep-walker, she got out of the carriage when it stopped, and followed M. Rodoin along passages and up stairs which to him were long familiar. She noticed nothing; when he stopped, she stopped; when he went on, she followed. Details were lost upon her, and the first thing which seemed to bring back her benumbed senses was the finding herself in her husband’s arms.
That roused her, and she had a momentary rapture before she flung back her head to let her eyes devour his face. It was white, and, in spite of its roundness, haggard, but not more so than when she left him. She had lost the proportion of the past days, and her feeling was that they had been parted for weeks.
“How do they treat you?” she whispered, glancing round. “Not so badly.” He tried to speak cheerfully. “Beyond having to put up with a lot of questions intended to make me own myself a rascal, I have not much to complain of. Have you written home!”
“This morning.”
“And so have I; but with the conviction that one’s letters are read, it is not possible to be very effusive.”
“And, oh, Léon, Maître Barraud!”
“What of him?” He spoke quickly, and M. Rodoin, who had kept discreetly in the background, advanced, smiling.
“Madame would be more happy if she could have your assurances, monsieur le baron, that he is really an eminent man. His appearance affronts her.”
“He is so ridiculously young!” persisted Nathalie.
“Oh, he is all right. But I do not think he is hopeful. Who can be?” muttered Léon, running his hands through his hair, and losing his momentary elation. “Now that you have made me give myself away, what is there to say?”
Her only answer was a mute caress, and a cautious cough from M. Rodoin was intended to point out that in prisons, at any rate, walls may have ears. The lawyer remarked, in an undertone:
“If any one can turn this Lemaire inside out and destroy his credit, it will be Albert Barraud.”
“Oh, the scoundrel will have got his story pat.”
“We shall demand to examine Monsieur de Cadanet’s banking accounts,” went on the other. “If there is an entry of two hundred thousand francs about the date of your repayment, it will be to a certain extent a corroboration. Had the count absolutely no confidential servant in the house?”
Léon shook his head. “To my knowledge, none.”
“Madame Lemaire was married at the time?”
Nathalie raised her head from her husband’s shoulder.
“Has he a wife?”
“Poor woman, yes. At any rate, monsieur le baron has drawn the teeth of their principal witness, the concierge who was carrying the letters. If it were only as a matter of expediency,” he went on, addressing Léon, “your admission has, beyond a doubt, weakened their case. Somehow or other they had proof up to a certain point; Maître Barraud was convinced of it. Beyond this they can have none, and the rope lies slack in their hands.”
“Ah, yes, listen, my friend!” cried Nathalie, joyfully.
Léon had made an effort, strange to his nature, to control himself and spare his wife in their interview. He had been inexpressibly touched by the swiftness of rescue she had brought to his aid on that terrible night. He knew that at this moment she was wearing gloves, lest his eyes should be offended by the cuts and scratches on her hands. He had strung himself heroically to the point of concealing his misery, and of letting her suppose that the worst was past. But, as is often the case, he resented a cheerful view on her part, and could not allow her, even for an instant, to lighten the weight of the situation. In a moment he was plunged into black gloom, and assuring her that whatever happened he could never survive the humiliation of the trial. M. Rodoin discreetly withdrew to the farthest limits, and stood regarding a black spot on the wall. He turned a deaf ear as well as a back, but he could not help hearing a confused murmur of pleading words, sighs, groans, and muttered exclamations of misery. The lawyer fidgeted, looked at his watch, and took a sudden resolution. He turned round sharply.
“Monsieur le baron,” he said, brusquely, “permit me to point out that if you kill madame before the trial, there, will be one good head the less on our side. That is all.”
“Monsieur!” cried Nathalie, reproachfully.
“Yes, yes, madame, I am perfectly aware that most women’s hearts are as tough as leather, and yours may be among them, but there are exceptions. It will be awkward if yours should turn out an exception. Monsieur Léon would do well to recollect this, and, also, that the complication is one of his own making.”
The young man straightened himself.
“You hit—hard, Monsieur Rodoin,” he said, breathing heavily.
“Because I never in my life esteemed you half so much as I do now, monsieur,” said the lawyer, in a low voice, “or pitied you less. You committed a wrong act, so have many of us. You have the courage to expiate it, as many of us have not. You will gain the respect of honest men, and you have your wife’s devoted love. Allons, monsieur, whatever happens, you are not so much to be pitied. The time is up; here comes the warder. Madame will never forgive me for what I have had the presumption to say; nevertheless, she and I will go and cogitate over the best line of defence.”