“Yes; the prefet is due there, and two or three others. Madame de la Ferraye made a hundred apologies for not asking you. I forget why it was—no room, I think.”
“I hope you accepted, Léon. It is my turn now to scold you, for I don’t think you are so sociable with your neighbours as you might be. Here you have nothing but women, women! It will do you good to be away from us for a little; indeed, I often wish you would run up to Paris for a few days. You must have many friends there.”
“None, now. And I hate Paris,” said Léon, sharply.
“You puzzle me when you say that,” she returned, looking at him with a smile. “And as for friends, at any rate there must be that old Monsieur de Cadanet, whose name your mother suggested as Raoul’s second. Would it not please him if you were to pay him a visit!”
“Hardly.”
“Well, go to the La Ferrayes, then, and Raoul and I, we will do something to amuse ourselves, perhaps drive to Tours and see my father. Happily, those two love each other.”
To say that M. Bourget loved his grandson was not enough—he adored him. From the first moment when he had gazed, awe-struck, at a small red contorted face, lying in the capacious arms of the nurse, his joy, his pride, his self-satisfaction had been almost beyond control. If his acquaintances had avoided him before, they fled from him now. To know that this true, actual Beaudrillart—not Beaudrillart by grace of marriage, but by birth and actual right, was also his—Bourget’s—grandson, proved sufficient to turn his head, and lead him into extravagant follies. He looked at his daughter with reverence; was she not the mother of this phoenix, this wonder? She was obliged to interfere to prevent him—he, M. Bourget, who called himself to account for every penny he spent—from making perpetual gifts to the nurse, and since she objected to the practice, he indulged himself by presenting his gifts by stealth, so delightful was it to him to sit down before his ledger and make an entry of moneys expended “on behalf of my grandson, the Baron Raoul de Beaudrillart.” As for the photograph of Poissy, words cannot describe the look with which he regarded it. Planted squarely on the pavement, his coarse broad hands clasped behind him, his legs a little apart, his solid head advanced as far as a short neck would allow, he would stand in rapt contemplation, knowing already every line of the windows, every fret of the tracery, but devouring them with his eyes, and utterly indifferent to the smiles and nudges of the passers-by. This worship satisfied him as well as a visit to the actual Poissy. Nathalie, in spite of objections raised at the château against the baby being so constantly taken to the town, was absolutely firm in driving him at least once a week to see his grandfather. Once persuaded of the right of an action, she was tenacious of purpose, and weekly the grey ponies rattled merrily along the narrow street to M. Bourget’s door. This quite contented him, and though, by Léon’s desire, she now and then asked her father whether he would not drive back with her, she was always relieved when he declined. The little slights or sharp speeches to which he was subject there stung her almost beyond endurance, even when he appeared absolutely impervious. Nothing that could be said to herself hurt like these vicarious stings.
Oddly enough, he had grown either more indifferent or less suspicious of neglect on her behalf since the birth of the boy. Before this he had evidently resented the attitude of Mme. de Beaudrillart and her daughters, and at intervals shot out a question at Nathalie which she found it difficult to parry. But now, either he believed her position to be assured, or had concentrated his thoughts upon his grandson, for he asked nothing awkward, and seemed profoundly careless of what was done at Poissy by its older inhabitants. They were, after all, only women, and of little importance compared to Nathalie’s child. It would have surprised them amazingly if they had realised the small account in which their bête noir held them.
The pitched battle of the portrait had, through Léon’s skilful management, ended in a compromise. He became extremely full of the idea, and did not rest until the painter on whom he had fixed his mind came down to Poissy. M. Bourget had his way so far, though it displeased him that his daughter absolutely refused to be painted as he would have had her, resplendent in white satin. She insisted upon an every-day dress, the dress in which she generally walked with Léon, and she had her way, with the result that nothing could have been more charming. Compromise also effected her entrance into the gallery, for, although Mme. de Beaudrillart was as stubborn as M. Bourget, Léon suggested that, in place of hanging, the portrait might lean against the wall, a position less assured, and—his mother satisfied herself—more humble.
But, strangely enough, the boy’s birth, which had reconciled his grandfather to anything anomalous in his daughter’s position, produced a contrary effect upon Nathalie. Before the child arrived she had accepted the contemptuous treatment she received with philosophy, almost with indifference; Léon’s love appeared sufficient to satisfy her, and she treated disagreeables lightly, as something of which she had already counted the cost. Now there was a change. The trivial galled. Mme. de Beaudrillart was jealous of any influence which the young wife might have upon her son, and hitherto she had drawn aside with a smile, and been content to efface herself; but she no longer did this with ease. She resented the necessity. It seemed that she had fallen into the position of a mere plaything; that her husband liked her to walk with him, to laugh with him; that he found her pleasant to look at; but that when a cloud came between him and the sun—such a cloud as flung a shadow on his face now and then without visible reason—it was to his mother that he turned. His wife was strong enough to face facts and to meet them without repining or fretfulness. She never complained to her husband or her father. But she suffered.