“Yes,” the mother moaned. “His honour is lost. But he would escape the dreadful disgrace of punishment.”
“All his life would be one miserable punishment—too heavy, because unjust. If he comes forward now, and tells the troth when it goes against him, has he not a much better chance of being believed when it is in his favour? There is the letter he wrote to Monsieur de Cadanet. May that not still be found among his papers?”
Her heart was throbbing, and, holding him in her clasp, it was almost beyond her powers to speak calmly. Mme. de Beaudrillart’s self-control began to forsake her, and all unconsciously the sight of her son clinging to his wife impelled her into opposition. She cried out:
“But suppose they will not believe! Suppose he is—” She choked at the word “convicted.”
Nathalie felt her husband shiver, and pressed her lips on his hair.
“He will bear it,” she breathed.
“No, no,” cried his mother, starting up, “this is asking too much! You are no judge. You cannot tell what he, what we all, would suffer. Léon, speak! Flight is your only hope. Do not listen to your wife.”
At this appeal he raised himself, and stared vacantly round the room. His eyes lit on Félicie, and a haggard smile crossed his face.
“You had better not weep so much, Félicie; you will have no eyes left for your embroideries.”
She broke into more poignant sobs, and cried out: