“Oh, well, I can quite conceive a man so much worried and bothered by the mere threat that he would pay just for peace and quietness.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart flung up her head.
“I cannot,” she said, proudly.
“You are going to have your way, at all events,” said Léon. He had rapidly reviewed the possibilities of choking off Charles with something approaching the price he demanded, and, if he could not have found security thus, would have done it. But he read the man’s malice, and was sure that he would not be satisfied without accomplishing his social ruin as well as obtaining a large sum. His mother’s suggestion was the best. Even though the fact had reached Charles Lemaire’s ears, the burden of proof was quite another matter, and left him many loop-holes. “Yes,” he declared, “I will write.”
“Write here,” advised his mother. She preferred her room to be used, since by that means his wife was effectually excluded. She pushed the materials towards him, and he sat down and wrote hurriedly, she leaning over his shoulder. “Good. But you have scarcely expressed your amazement at his insolence sufficiently.”
“Oh, I’ll put anything you like,” cried Léon, recklessly. He added a few strong words of her dictating: “There! Will that do?”
“It is better.” She waited while he folded and addressed his letter. “Monsieur Charles Lemaire. So that is his name! Now, my son, not a word of this to any one. The smallest hint, creeping out, might do incalculable harm, in spite of its folly.”
He listened in silence; there was no need for her to utter warnings as to the seriousness of the affair. Going back to his own room, he walked furiously up and down, anathematising Lemaire with all the abuse he could think of. Then, as he was one of those who imperatively require sympathy, he betook himself to his wife, meaning to do no more than let her know he was in trouble. What happened there in spite of Mme. de Beaudrillart’s warnings gave him very considerable comfort. Nathalie displayed the absolute disbelief which he hoped would be the effect upon the world should this story ever be suffered to ooze out. More than that, he felt that he had made her happy, and he liked other people to be happy, although he might not be disposed to put himself out in order to attain that result. When the next morning came his spirits rose, by fits and starts, however, and depending upon nothing more tangible than the distraction of the moment. Nathalie wondered that such an absurd attack as he had confided to her should have power seriously to vex him, and, happy herself, tried her best to turn his thoughts. Mme. de Beaudrillart thought she showed unfeeling want of comprehension by her unusual gaiety; Claire saw that something was wrong, and snubbed Nathalie; and Félicie was too much taken up with delight at the prospect of the bishop’s visit, and with satisfaction at having certainly stepped in before Mme. Lemballe, to have thought for anything else. Already she had begun to plan extensive decoration by means of paper flowers for the church, and was bent upon driving to Tours to seek materials; in her small set voice one idea pattered after the other, the last being so much like what had gone before as to be scarcely distinguishable.
“I am sure that the nicest effect would be to have real bushes in pots covered with tinsel, and pink roses tied thickly on the twigs, unless—yes, certainly one might have pink for the pots, and tinsel flowers interspersed with streamers; perhaps that would be the best, after all. Nathalie, you never suggest anything; do tell me what you think. At any rate, garlands will be charming. I must begin upon them to-day. And then there are all the banners to be looked over, and the new cope to be finished. I really think that Raoul is big enough to walk in the procession, don’t you, mamma? and that would make it perfectly charming!”
The day, outwardly the same as hundreds which had gone before, had, to Nathalie’s mind, a curious restlessness running through its hours, Léon dreading his own society so much that he would scarcely suffer her to leave his side. She was obliged to commit Raoul altogether to the care of his grandmother, with the result that by the evening he was wildly unmanageable. Once or twice miserable depression seized Léon, which his wife could not understand; for to her it appeared absolutely unreasonable, even while she exerted all her powers to cheer him. Over and over again she repeated the same consolation: who would treat such a letter seriously? But the gladness in her heart that he should seek his consolation from her was so great that she felt no impatience. He said at last: