“It would not do, monsieur. My poor father is bitterly disappointed. He was so proud of my position, of the future of his little grandson, that he cannot forgive us for failing him. It is difficult to explain, and it may seem only laughable to you, but I think he was more Beaudrillart than the De Beaudrillarts. He would reproach my husband, he would think of nothing but the disgrace—no, he must not come.”
“I am wondering—”
“What?”
“You must have had a heavy task among so many opposing forces, madame—I am wondering what you had on your side!”
“My husband’s better self,” she said, turning her eyes on his. “But you may conceive that it was difficult for him to fly in the face of a hundred prejudices.”
“Difficult for you, too,” reflected the lawyer. Aloud he said: “Well, madame, courage. Whatever happens we are on the right road, and it is evident that you know best how to guard the honour of the De Beaudrillarts. But I wish I could persuade you to make my house your home. Madame Rodoin would be only too much gratified.” He uttered his last sentence with a gulp, truth presenting itself in forcible contradiction, and it must be owned that Nathalie’s immediate negative relieved him.
“I pass many hours alone, monsieur,” she said, with a flitting smile, “so do not waste your thoughts on me when there is so much besides to arrange. If you can find me some task I cannot tell you how grateful I should be. Is there any possible point on which I could be of assistance?”
“We shall find something,” declared M. Rodoin, mendaciously.
“And I shall see Maître Barraud?”
They were in the Avenue de l’Opéra; Paris, brilliant, indifferent Paris, spread its gay attractions on either side.