And quietly, timidly:
“Has he—has he won?”
It was innocent, so touching that the attendant did not even dream of smiling.
“Unfortunately, no, madame. M. Jansoulet has not won. But why did he stop in that way? If it is true that he never came to Paris, and that another Jansoulet did everything they accuse him of, why did he not say so?”
The old mother, turning pale, leaned on the balustrade of the staircase. She had understood.
Bernard’s brusque interruption on seeing her, the sacrifice he had made to her so simply—that noble glance as of a dying animal, came to her mind, and the shame of the elder, the favourite child, mingled itself with Bernard’s disaster—a double-edged maternal sorrow, which tore her whichever way she turned. Yes, yes, it was on her account he would not speak. But she would not accept such a sacrifice. He must come back at once and explain himself before the deputies.
“My son, where is my son?”
“Below, madame, in his carriage. It was he who sent me to look for you.”
She ran before the attendant, walking quickly, talking aloud, pushing aside out of her way the little black and bearded men who were gesticulating in the passages. After the waiting-hall she crossed a great round antechamber where servants in respectful rows made a living wainscotting to the high, blank wall. From there she could see through the glass doors, the outside railing, the crowd in waiting, and among the other vehicles, the Nabob’s carriage waiting. As she passed, the peasant recognised in one of the groups her enormous neighbour of the gallery, with the pale man in spectacles who had attacked her son, who was receiving all sorts of felicitation for his discourse. At the name of Jansoulet, pronounced among mocking and satisfied sneers, she stopped.
“At any rate,” said a handsome man with a bad feminine face, “he has not proved where our accusations were false.”