When M. Bourget glanced at last at Mme. de Beaudrillart, he pushed a chair towards her.
“Sit down, for Heaven’s sake, madame,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Here must be some mistake. Who gave you this?”
Insensibly and unintentionally his voice had become that of the accuser. She answered, mechanically:
“My son.”
“Do you think—” he glanced at her again and was silent. Both were silent. They could hear the cooing of the pigeons in the yard; presently a child’s shout of laughter rang out, and their eyes met. M. Bourget said, quickly: “There must be some explanation. Could it have been an accident? Monsieur Léon perhaps carelessly handed you the wrong paper!”
She shook her head; he pushed his question.
“Consider, madame. Such a mistake is not impossible. It was at a time when his thoughts were, perhaps, elsewhere. A young man just married hasn’t got his head so clear for business as on ordinary occasions. Or are you certain this is the envelope he gave you? If you were to search a little further?”
“That is the envelope,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, firmly. “At the same time—”
“Yes, yes!” cried M. Bourget, leaning forward, impatiently.—“I think it not impossible that it was a—a little farce on his part, because I pressed him so much for the receipt. I believe,” she went on, her voice and figure regaining strength, “that Monsieur de Cadanet sent him no receipt, and that he gave this to quiet me.”
“Oh!” groaned M. Bourget. He stood gloomily regarding the safe. “How would it be possible that such a sum could be received without so much as an acknowledgment?”