“What is it, Léon?” she cried. “Are you ill? Have you seen any one?”
Evidently it cost him a great effort to recover himself—so great that he could not at first answer. Nathalie had got hold of the hand nearest herself, and held it firmly, as if to give him strength. He drew his breath deeply; she pressed no more questions upon him, but waited. When at last he spoke, it was in as low a tone as if he feared being overheard. “You saw?”
“A carriage—no more.”
“Not the man in it?”
“No. Who was it?” She checked herself. “Don’t tell me if you would rather not.” For the paleness of his face startled her.
“It was Lemaire. He saw us.”
She smiled. “And you let the sight of him disturb you? Dear Léon, I shall begin to think you are ill indeed! He might very well be shocked—not you. Let us turn and drive after him, for you know he persistently refuses an interview, and here is our opportunity.”
She leaned forward to give the order, but her husband caught her arm.
“No, on no account; you might see for yourself, I think, that I am in no condition to meet him on such a subject, and that he would have me at a disadvantage.”
“I believe if you got hold of him you would put an end to all this annoyance; but I suppose, even if you desired it, we should hardly have overtaken the carriage. Was he alone?”