“She wants me—eh?” Her father’s chin drooped on his chest, but he straightened himself by an effort, and inquired if she were well. M. Georges hesitated.
“To tell you the truth, I am afraid some bad news had reached the family. Nothing was said, but you know how an impression fixes itself upon the mind. Still, I may be mistaken. Mademoiselle Félicie, who is very amiable, appeared much interested in a visit which the bishop is to pay them on Monday. It is astonishing how much she contrives to do for the Church!”
M. Bourget paid no attention to his words, and when they had parted, M. Georges reflected that there had been a good deal of exaggeration in what Leroux and others had told him about the ex-builder’s mania on the subject of Poissy. Instead of descanting on the theme by the hour, as his victims represented, he had been as curt and silent as if the very name of the place were repugnant, and M. Georges, whose honest fealty had all come back that afternoon, made up his mind that jealousy probably lay at the bottom of the reports which had come to his ears. He walked away extremely well satisfied with himself, recalling Mlle. de Beaudrillart’s unusual condescension, and giving himself immense pains to match the coloured calico and despatch it.
On Sunday afternoon M. Bourget, in his Sunday clothes, with a stick. And very conspicuous watch-chain festooned with seals in front, presented himself at the château and demanded his daughter. He was shown to her room, and there had to wait for some time, as Mme. Léon was in the grounds with her husband. When she came at last, she advanced quickly to meet him, but stopped, checked by the gloom in his face.
“You see,” he said, briefly.
She moved forward then; her eyes softened with a divine pity.
“Yes,” she said, quietly.
“And what is he going to do, this rascal of a husband of yours?”
Her face flushed swiftly. “You must not speak of him like that.”
“Why, what else is he? Didn’t he take the money?”