Poor Nathalie! It was the outpouring of her heart. The words rushed swiftly with a force which told how long they had been held back, yet were quite free from any sting of bitterness. There lay, indeed, in the appeal a depth of sad tenderness, to which Léon’s affectionate temper could not be insensible. His easy, shallow nature was as much moved as was possible, and he felt remorse, although he shrank from frank explanation of the reasons which had stood in the way of admitting her to his confidence, for they did not belong to a wish to spare his wife, but to a desire to remain in the position where she had placed him. He had no inclination to step down from his throne. He kissed her, and said, uneasily:
“I believe you are right. Well, where shall I begin! How far am I to go back!”
She made a sweeping movement with her hands. “The past is past. Begin to-day. The letter. I can see that you are really troubled about it, though you only called it impertinent.”
“Well, it is true that it is more—it is threatening.”
“Threatening!” slipping her hand into his arm.
“There is a certain Charles Lemaire, a very disagreeable fellow, whom I detest. Have I ever spoken of him!”
“Never.”
“It appears that he has inherited a good deal of Monsieur de Cadanet’s wealth, to which, as far as I am concerned, he is very welcome, if only—However, the letter is from him.”
She was so anxious to understand, to avoid annoying him by questions, and, as it were, to take advantage of the confidence for which she had pleaded, that, breathing quickly, she only nodded in answer. But she kept her eyes fixed on his face, and he looked away.
“I suppose his head is turned by his good-fortune, or he has got bold of some mare’s-nest or other, for he declares that a letter which was going to him from the old count—years ago—somehow miscarried, and—and he does me the honour to accuse me of having made away with it. Pleasant, isn’t it!”