No one else had a thought to spare for anything except the vintage. There had been a threat of the fine weather breaking up, but the fear had passed, and the vines with their gnarled and twisted stems and transparent leaves, through which the sun struck golden, were gradually stripped, and the grapes carried off to the presses. There was a great deal of jollity and some drunkenness. All the talk was of the yield and condition of the vines. Bacchus reigned supreme.
Félicie, meanwhile, was in a bubble of small excitement, preparing for the bishop’s visit. Bushels of pink roses were stored in one of the deep cupboards in the old walls; ribbons were knotted, banners arranged for the procession, little framed coloured prints prepared; the cottas of the boys trimmed with fresh lace, the vestments all carefully shaken out and looked over for moth, the bishop’s room provided with a prie-dieu and crucifix. Nothing was wanting except the last stitches to the abbé’s new cope, at which Félicie was toiling from morning till night. Claire mocked at the abundance of detail, but was half envious of her preoccupation. Mme. de Beaudrillart encouraged it, perhaps with a feverish hope that so much piety might avert threatened disaster, and Nathalie was impatient that Félicie had no thought for any other subject. She was growing uneasy because no letter came from M. Rodoin. The tone of his last communication had not seemed to her satisfactory. He had said that, so far, the other side had made no sign, and he was evidently uneasy that their confidence appeared unshaken. If it was an attempt to extort money, a bold front and a threat set in action would have probably been enough to make them retreat. The lawyer begged M. de Beaudrillart to search his papers yet more carefully, on the chance of finding some mention of the loan in a letter from M. de Cadanet.
“But I have no letters from Monsieur de Cadanet!” cried Léon, pettishly tossing the letter to his wife.
He had got into the habit now of turning to her in perplexity, and more than once it had even crossed his mind whether it would not be the better plan to tell her exactly what had happened, and let her clear wits help him if difficulties thickened. But, as yet, the satisfaction of her entire belief in him being greater than his need, he clung to it and to silence.
She suggested that he should go to Paris, and see M. Rodoin.
“There is nothing more to say, and it is delightful here just now. No. Let them arrange it among themselves.”
Her strong convictions in the matter acquiesced in this, and then one morning he came to her, ghastly, an open letter in his hand, despair in his face.
“Rodoin throws it up!” he cried, flinging the letter on the table, and dropping into a chair.
“Léon!”
“Read for yourself. Don’t ask me to explain. Read, read!” He thrust his hands through his hair, and stared haggardly at the floor.