“Ah, well! I am glad things were settled before there could be any complications.”
Léon, who was pale, went out of the room without answering her.
Chapter Eleven.
The First Blow.
It was two days after this that Mme. Léon came in from the garden by the outer stone staircase which led to her own room. Although it was only autumn, a chilly wind was blowing, and there was a threat of rain in the air. At the foot of the staircase she met Félicie, coming so much more quickly than usual round a corner that she was breathless.
“Ah, Nathalie,” she cried, with a sudden access of cordiality, “at last! I have been searching everywhere for you.”
“They sent up in a hurry because old Antoine has cut his hand. You wanted me?”
“Yes, indeed. I want you to talk to Léon, and to make him hear reason. Such an opportunity has not offered itself for years, and I am terribly anxious lest—unless we can persuade him that it is not only right and proper, but of the very greatest importance—he should suffer it to slip. If Madame Lemballe steps in before us—and I know she talks of it—it will be disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful! I hope that you will go to him at once, and, above all, impress upon him that it is not a matter to laugh about, and that he must take the precaution of acting without hesitation. Claire has said something to him, but not enough.”