And standing with light in one hand, and letters in the other, he allowed M. de Cadanet to watch them slowly consume. As the last scrap vanished, the old man uttered a low “Ah!”
“There!” said Lemaire. “This has been a good day’s work for Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
“You will remember,”—M. de Cadanet’s voice sounded strangely strong—“that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.”
“Hush, hush!” cried the other, glancing round uneasily; “you will fatigue yourself too much. You may be sure I shall always remember.”
“And if ever you meet him, you may say it was for the sake of the child—the boy—Now, go, and send your wife.”
Amélie, who was again at her post in the anteroom, hurried in, and called the nurse. The two women did what they could to restore the fast-ebbing strength, murmuring reproaches at the obstinacy of man. The doctor came and said that it could not be long. Nevertheless, for some days M. de Cadanet lay, and watched the flies on the ceiling, and the sunshine creep from shadow to shadow, and gradually ceased to watch, and lost all consciousness, until, when M. Lemaire came one rooming, he heard that he was gone.
It must be owned that his only feeling was one of relief. The necessary visits to the old man had become a wearisome burden, endured for the sake of gifts, which were generous, and for the prospect of a substantial legacy. A certain part of the property would go to cousins of the count’s, but the sum left to himself was too large to be trifled with; he was in considerable difficulties, and here lay the only road out of it. At the same time, the part of hypocrite, though he could play it with success, was irksome to him, and he raged at the fetters it imposed. He had a capacity for open rebellion, or thought he had, and believed that he would have enjoyed flinging his glove in the face of the world, and defying opinion. Hinderance lay in the fact that the moment never arrived for this more daring attitude, self-interest always clinging to his arm just when he might have hurled the challenge.
But with M. de Cadanet out of the way, he was free from his chief difficulty, and in the first frenzy of his dreams he felt himself sailing on a sea of liberty, restraining cords loosened, golden castles on the horizon before him. He thought of his wife as a humdrum nonentity, easy to shake off. He would give up his house, place her in lodgings, and spend his time as he chose. In the midst of these delightful imaginings he remembered Léon de Beaudrillart.
Those who talk most of liberty are generally the first to find themselves in bonds of their own making; and it did not take long to oblige Lemaire to own, with an oath, that if he affronted respectability, he would be placed at an immediate disadvantage with regard to what he had in his mind. It might have been supposed that as there was now no fear of M. de Cadanet’s money finding its way to Poissy, his rancour would have taken flight—evil does not so readily spread its wings, and he felt that before he could unrestrainedly take his pleasure, he must ruin the man he hated. To do this he must bring into court a specious semblance: remain outwardly respectable, point to an excellent wife, and the trust proved by M. de Cadanet’s legacy—in fact, impress the world with all the solid weight of character added to substantial proof.
He often read the letters, and always with increased assurance. The one point which gave him uneasiness was the absence of the mention of any particular sum. Suppose that Léon chose to say that it was a matter only of some four or five thousand francs, how could the contrary be proved! Here lay the fret; here was the point for a clever counsel to extract an admission; here, unfortunately for Charles, who felt himself injured in consequence, was the necessity to have a very clever counsel, who would be proportionately more expensive, but might be trusted to make his points.