An Interloper

by Frances Mary Peard

Only Léon’s power of letting trouble slip from him as readily as water trickles from a duck’s back enabled him to go about the estate as if to-day were the same as yesterday. He had, however, bad moments when he was alone, or when the thought which dogged his footsteps caught him by the throat.

The letter, it need scarcely be said, had come from Charles Lemaire. It was not long, but every word fell like the lash of an avenging fate. During the last illness of M. de Cadanet, he said, it had come to his knowledge that a letter directed to and designed for him had been stopped on its way by M. Léon de Beaudrillart, and the contents—a large sum—abstracted. Reluctance to bring disgrace upon a family with whom he was connected had no doubt caused M. de Cadanet to abstain from taking proceedings; but the writer, not being bound by such considerations, did not consider himself at liberty to condone a felony, added to which he was the person who had been the direct loser. M. de Cadanet was aware of his intentions to commence proceedings. He had, however, implored him to give the Baron Léon one chance of restitution of the two hundred thousand francs, hence this letter. He awaited an answer before taking further steps, and had the honour to remain, etc, etc.

When it reached him, Léon was sitting smoking in a room leading out of the hall, where he was in the habit of transacting business with his tenants, for he had never either reinstated M. Georges or engaged another intendant. He had good business capabilities, and it rather pleased him to exercise them, to M. Bourget’s great satisfaction. He was in particularly good spirits, for with the death of M. de Cadanet the uneasiness which every now and then haunted him had passed away. He had not feared legal proceedings, he had never feared them after the first two or three days, and, if he had, his repayment would have relieved him of all dread. But he had had a fear lest some imprudent word of the old count might have betrayed him, and it was a great relief to him to be no more haunted with this anxiety. He opened his letters with a laughing remark to Jacques Charpentier, who brought them.

The man had put them down, and gone to the window to draw back the muslin curtains. When he returned he started at the grey pallor of his young master’s face. The baron was sitting where he had left him, his elbows on the table, and his eyes fixed with a look which could be only described as that of horror on the letter which he held with shaking hands. Jacques was an old servant, devoted to the Beaudrillarts, and absolutely trustworthy. He said at once:

“Monsieur has had bad news? Shall I call Madame Léon?”

He made a shuddering sign of refusal.

“Can I do anything? Monsieur knows he may depend on me.”

Léon stretched out his hand—even at this moment the little action was full of kindly grace.

“You are a good fellow, Jacques. Say nothing. I have had a blow.”

He sent him away, and sat thinking, trying to collect his senses, and to decide how to meet the attack, so unexpectedly terrible and beyond everything that he could have feared. It had never entered his head that his payment could be disputed; what did it mean? Even if the stroke had come from the old count it would not have been so menacing; but that Charles Lemaire, always, he was certain, his enemy, should be on the track, and should, apparently, be wielding such a terrible weapon, was at first sight overwhelming. Then he had to reflect how much he should tell his mother. The letter itself was too precise, too exact in its revelations for him to venture to show it, he must destroy it; and let it be supposed that in his first indignant rage he had torn it up. He suited the action to the thought, and as he raged at the morsels, wondered he had kept his fingers off them so long. It was almost as if by such action he had succeeded in strangling the monstrous accusation; he flung the last atoms from him with a groan of relief. Here the buoyancy of his nature came to his aid. Such a stroke could not fall; it would not be permitted, it would be a crime against the eternal justice. Its impossibility pacified him, its sinfulness made his own deed look innocent; he stood, the mark, the victim, of calumny, and the dignity of martyrdom soothed him into assurance.