Mlle. de Beaudrillart, too, was altered. To him, she had been less dignified than to others, finding some sort of expansion in speaking to a man who, with all his indecision, was intelligent and had ideas. To-day she struck him as sharper and more angular; but he had always nursed a respectful admiration for Mlle. de Beaudrillart, who had often protected him from her mother’s criticisms. In the course of their walk round the estate he more than once suggested that he feared he was taking her from other occupations, to which she merely shook her head. Once he made an unfortunate allusion.
“Ah, here is the wall which has been strengthened, of which Monsieur Bourget was telling me the other day. He is a marvellous man, Monsieur Bourget!”
“Oh, do not talk of him!” said Claire, impatiently.
“No?” Little M. Georges glanced at her with nervousness. “Possibly one may admit that occasionally he expresses himself with too much force; but he is solid, and knows what he is speaking about.” He added, conscience demanding the tribute: “And he is devoted to his family.” They were advancing towards the château when he stopped, and said, supplicatingly, “Would mademoiselle permit me to beg for one favour? I have never had the honour of seeing Monsieur Raoul.”
The homage in his tone soothed poor Claire’s wounded spirit. She exclaimed, impulsively:
“Ah, Monsieur Georges, you served my brother very faithfully! I wish he still had such a good friend by his side!”
“You do me too much honour, mademoiselle,” he said, much touched; “the more so, because I have always been painfully aware of my own deficiencies at a critical time, and I have seen for myself to-day that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has done better without me. And I do not doubt that he has an excellent adviser in his wife.”
“In his wife? Oh no; she does not understand the exigencies of the family, and how should she? She looks at everything from a totally different standpoint to ours. But there she is, and Raoul with her.”
They were standing on the small stone balcony which clung to the wall outside Nathalie’s room, feeding the pigeons in the court, and, at Claire’s call, came down the steps and across the sun-smitten court. M. Georges, who had never seen her since her marriage, stared amazedly at this pale, noble-looking woman, with dark circles round her eyes, and the shadow of a great trouble resting upon her. He swept the ground with his hat, as Raoul marched up, put his hand into that of the visitor, and said, with sturdy precision: “How do you do, Monsieur Georges?” Mme. Léon also put out her hand.
“Léon desired me to tell you,” she said, turning to her sister-in-law, “that Félicie has coffee ready, and he hopes that Monsieur Georges will have that or anything else he may prefer.”