“Do you wish to kill your mother?” For Mme. de Beaudrillart’s usual pallor had changed to a dull grey, and her eyes were vacant. The sight instantly recalled him; he put his arm round her neck and kissed her.
“Don’t, mother! Don’t look like that!”
She did not utter one word of disbelief, conviction had battered at her heart from the moment when she saw it written in M. Bourget’s eyes, and she did not reproach him; only sobs of helpless misery broke from her as she clung. Claire was different. Her eyes were dry and fierce, her voice bitter.
“Do you mean that you have really done this shameful thing and brought all this disgrace upon us?”
“Hush, Claire, hush!” moaned her mother.
“No, mother, I shall speak; I have a right to speak. He has ruined us all. We can never face the world again. Oh, where can we hide ourselves? What will come next?”
Anger, misery, choked her. She rushed from the room, and paced up and down the picture-gallery, darting lightning reproaches at Léon, at his wife, at herself. Her brain was in a whirl. Félicie, who was on her way down-stairs, trailing pink wreaths behind her, stopped and peeped in at the door, hearing sounds. She would have retired, but that Claire seized her.
“Oh, Claire, gently, gently!” she cried, trying to shelter her precious roses. And then, to her horror, her sister snatched the wreath, tore it into fragments, and stamped on them.
“You will drive me mad, I believe!” she said, in a terrible voice. “Do you care for nothing but this frippery? Will it disturb you at all to hear that it is likely Léon will be arrested—arrested, do you hear?—and tried for stealing two hundred thousand francs? Yes, I am not mad, I am telling you the truth.”
“Léon! But what do you mean? I do not understand,” stammered poor Félicie, pale with dismay.