“I don’t see why he should be more so than usual; but of course since you persuaded Léon to overlook Jean Charpentier’s untrustworthiness, there is no knowing what he may not do.”
“Raoul has promised that he will not go to the river by himself.”
“Promised! That baby!”
“He will not break his word,” said Nathalie, quietly, and for once Mme. de Beaudrillart nodded approval.
“No. He is a true Beaudrillart,” she said, and Claire stopped sparring, content with this thrust.
When the two had gone, she reflected for some time as to what mystery had carried them off. Her life was emptier than that of Félicie—who, indeed, had a conviction that she was a most busy person—for Claire hated fancy-work, and despised the small fripperies which more than satisfied her sister. She had the appetite of intellect, with nothing to feed it on, and a love of power in a very contracted realm. Her single life left her harder than her mother, and she was more irritable, though this was perhaps owing to a penetrating knowledge of herself. A Frenchwoman in the provinces, with her tastes, and no means of satisfying them, may have a very dull time of it indeed. She meets with little sympathy from her friends, and it is still a reproach to speak of a woman as taking an independent line of her own, though that line may really be absolutely harmless. If Claire could have brought herself to make a companion of her sister-in-law, to borrow her books, or to discuss them with her, life would have had real interests for her; as it was, pride checked her, and she grew more rigid from bringing her will to bear upon petty and indifferent objects—such, for instance, as the thwarting of Nathalie. She detested M. Bourget, in whom she read possibilities of insolent opposition. She could not bring herself to drive in Nathalie’s pony-carriage, although she would have gladly hailed the variety of an hour or two in Tours, and for this reason Félicie went there alone, Mme. de Beaudrillart refusing to allow Raoul to accompany her.
She came back in high spirits, with rolls of pink paper for the roses, and several small pieces of news which she was an adept in picking up, and which were very welcome at the château.
“Monsieur Darville is to be the new magistrate, and he is already engaged to Mademoiselle Silvestre. Imagine, that little creature! And who do you think I saw at the door of Lafon’s shop? Monsieur Georges. He came up to me, and inquired for Léon and for all.”
“He might have contented himself with a bow, I think,” said her mother, displeased.
“Oh, I assure you, mamma, he was quite respectful in his manner. I think he would very much like to see Poissy again.”