“Impossible or not, it is a great misfortune,” murmured the ex-builder, in a gloomy tone.
She looked up with sudden fire in her eyes.
“You say so, monsieur, but you have no reason to link the two points together. This disgraceful attempt by Monsieur Lemaire may have nothing whatever to do with the repayment of Monsieur de Cadanet’s loan.”
M. Bourget rubbed his face with his hand, and glanced at her doubtfully.
“No, madame,” he said, at last; “but with its non-payment.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart rose with all the pride she could summon to the support of a trembling heart.
“No one, monsieur, shall insult Monsieur de Beaudrillart in his own house.”
“Do you think I would?” he returned, hurriedly. “You forget, madame, that we are all in one boat. But something there is which has to be unravelled before things can be set right, and if I work I must have materials to go upon. If this money was the repayment of a loan from Monsieur de Cadanet, some sort of acknowledgment must exist. That,”—he pointed to the envelope—“you see what that is.”
“It was my fault,” she said, firmly.
“Perhaps. That is neither here nor there. It is not what you thought it. That makes it the more likely that Monsieur Lemaire’s action has to do with it. But how? I’ve half a mind to go after them to Paris.”