“What line he takes—what he has to go upon.”
She looked at him unflinchingly.
“There is no line, as you call it, but the straight one of what happened. Monsieur de Cadanet lent the money to Léon, not very willingly, but after some persuasion. Léon thinks that perhaps when it got to this Lemaire’s ears, it enraged him, because he was so jealous; and that he caught hold of the trifling circumstance—that when Léon was in the street, he met Monsieur de Cadanet’s messenger, and glanced at the letters he carried—to make up his absurd story.”
He raised bloodshot eyes and stared restlessly at her, meeting her own untroubled by a shadow of doubt. Then he bent his head again—
“What does the lawyer say!”
He did not believe one word of the story. Now that his faith was gone, it had sunk utterly, crumbled into dry dust, and he was only possessed with a dull rage against the man who had shattered the dream and delight of his life, and left him a laughing-stock to Leroux and his fellows. She tightened the lock of her hands, recognising his antagonism.
“He urged Léon to take the initiative.”
“Yes, yes; they will get something out of it!” he cried, wrathfully, and then muttered to himself, “Collapse, collapse!” She started to her feet.
“Father, I cannot stay and listen to you! May God forgive you! Oh, my dear Léon, that it should be any one belonging to me that does you this dishonour! Father, one day you will be sorry—bitterly sorry. I think you must be mad—ill! Are you ill? Has anything happened to you! You have been sitting here alone, and letting yourself get confused. Look at me. I am his wife. Do you suppose I could stand and smile if I were not as sure—as sure of him as of my own life!”
Her words fell on his heart as if it had been made of flint, rolling off the surface. He did not feel them. He did not even pity her. He said, brutally: