He stood up, uttering a sound like a choked roar. The passion which had rushed uppermost was rage. That such an accusation should be possible, that a man should dare to utter such—such blasphemy against the honour of the De Beaudrillarts was monstrous, a disgrace to the civilised world! It was the insult which inflamed him. M. de Beaudrillart could of course clear himself and punish the slanderer. But what could wipe out insult?
His first impulse was to fling himself into the train and go to Paris, with some unformed notion of shaking the truth out of the infamous accuser. Then he felt as if it were to Poissy that he must hasten. Vague thoughts, vague fears, floated in his brain, kept down by his resolve not to allow them to take shape. His breath came quickly, his chest heaved, he looked vainly round for something or some one on whom he could vent the storm which oppressed him; if Leroux had presented himself, he might have half-killed him, by way of relief. No one was in the house with him except old Fanchon, who was deaf, and occupied in preparing an omelette for his breakfast. Deaf as she was, she heard the door bang, for it shook the house, and running to look out, saw M. Bourget descending the street like a whirlwind.
On another occasion, if anything had taken him to Poissy, his legs would have carried him; but impatience drove him so fiercely that he hailed the first carriage he saw, to the amazement of the driven, who knew M. Bourget well enough to comprehend that such an event was unprecedented.
“To Poissy, monsieur!” he repeated, open-eyed.
“To Poissy, imbecile!” thundered his fare. “Have you, by chance, ever heard of Poissy? Does it perhaps not exist in the neighbourhood, or have I fallen upon a horse with three legs that cannot go beyond the street?”
“The horse can go well enough,” muttered the man, climbing up on his seat. “But heard ever any one of the miserly old bourgeois taking a carriage for his pleasure!”
If he hoped that the rarity of the proceeding would induce M. Bourget to take his drive leisurely he was mistaken. He was stormed at, urged on, and arrived at Poissy almost as hot as his horse, not daring to grumble at the smallness of the pourboire, lest this terrible M. Bourget should have his licence revoked.
The ex-builder flung himself from the carriage, and pushed by Rose-Marie into the hall. Raoul, at work there, rushed at his grandfather with a welcoming shout. For the first time that day M. Bourget spoke gently.
“There, there, my boy, by-and-by, by-and-by. Now I am going to speak to madame your grandmother.”
Already he breathed more freely. The sight of Poissy, standing as solidly and as fair as ever, reassured him. The hideous thing of which he had heard was whipped by scorn into the regions of the impossible. Raoul, fresh, mischievous, enchanting, Raoul alone, flung denial after it. Everything stood as he had seen it last. He went up the staircase half ashamed of the impulse which had brought him. But when Rose-Marie had opened the door, and he saw Mme. de Beaudrillart standing in the centre of the room, upright, rigid, a figure stiffened into stone, the panic seized him again. The door closed behind him, the two stood facing each other. It was she who spoke first.