“Yes, he took it. There he sinned. But he wrote to Monsieur de Cadanet by that day’s post, and told him what he had done, and promised to repay it—as he did.”
M. Bourget groaned. “And you believe this story! I’ve been thinking, Nathalie, as I came along, and there’s nothing for it but money, money. The amount must be raised, the saints know how! but somehow, and the black business hushed up. It’s the only thing to be done for the boy—for all of us; and the quicker the better. Look here, I must see your husband. I’ll keep my hands off him, if I can, but that letter will have to be written to-day.” He groaned again. “It will leave me a beggar. Oh, the villain, to have brought his good name to this!”
Nathalie’s face was white; but her eyes shone, and she confronted her father bravely.
“And you would drag it in the dust! You would make him own to what he never did! Raoul’s father! Oh, shame, father, shame! I sent for you because I knew you were an honest man, and I believed you would counsel my poor Léon honestly. This is not honesty, and you shall not see him—you shall not disgrace yourself and me.”
He flung angry glances at her.
“Mighty fine!” he said, ironically. “Pray, what better plan have you for keeping him out of prison?”
The light faded from her eyes, she locked her hands tightly one in the other, and was silent. He repeated, tauntingly,—
“Come, now, what?”
Thus cruelly pressed, her lips parted, she gasped rather than spoke the one word: “None.”
M. Bourget was too angry for pity. “Perhaps you would like to put him there?”