It was a strange farewell when the carriage drove round: Léon kissing his sisters; Félicie clinging to him; Claire white, cold, and impassive as she presented her cheek. At the gates stood Jacques, hat off, sadness on his face. When they had gone a short distance, Léon turned impulsively and looked back. The gardener was in the road, gazing after them; behind him rose a frowning Poissy, for the day was sunless, the stone had lost its mellow tint, and the roof was dark and unbeautiful. Léon shivered.
“Are you cold?” asked Nathalie, anxiously. She was afraid that the night might have left a chill, and wrapped the rug round him.
“I do not think that will warm me,” he said, with a smile which she felt to be piteous.
They had driven a mile before he asked whether she would like to leave word at her father’s. “We have time.”
But Nathalie refused. She did not tell him that she did not dare face the possibility of an outburst from M. Bourget, but she owned that she knew he would disapprove of the course they had taken.
“It seems to me that every one disapproves,” he muttered, restlessly.
Then Nathalie took a resolution.
“I am afraid you will be angry with me,” she said, timidly, “but when the bishop was at Poissy he saw that something was wrong, and spoke to me. I was sure he was to be trusted, and I told him.”
“Ah, you are a woman,” said Léon, who told everything. But he said it with a smile.
“He was very kind, and helped me,” she went on, more freely. “And he—he did not disapprove. I believe he thought it was the most noble act that you could do.”