“I am not aware of having expected the honour of a visit from Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
“I accept the rebuke,” said Léon, smiling frankly. “To tell the truth, you might have seen me oftener if I had been sure of a welcome. But I am afraid I have deserved my disgrace.”
“Of that no one, monsieur, can judge better than yourself.”
“Why monsieur?” said the young man, still smiling. “In old days you spoke to me as Léon; and you do not forget that we are cousins.”
“One does not so easily forget one’s misfortunes.”
“Misfortunes!” repeated Léon, colouring. The next moment he recovered himself sufficiently to say good-humouredly, “Pardon me, but was it always a misfortune, count!”
The old man glanced at him with the first touch of wavering in his face.
“You need not remind me,” he said. “I should not now be listening to you were it not for the remembrance of your father. But you did not come here merely to pay a visit of ceremony to a cantankerous old mummy?”
He emphasised the words bitterly, for, according to M. Charles, this title had been attached to him by Léon. Léon stared and shrugged his shoulders, unconscious of offence, and only anxious to propitiate his terrible relative.
“You are right,” he said, looking down and speaking more hurriedly. “I am here because I am in great difficulties, and because I hoped that—that the remembrance of my father would dispose you to come to the help of his son.”