Deaf to the tremor in her voice, Maître Barraud shrugged his shoulders, and looked more like a naughty boy than ever.
“No, madame,” he said, “I cannot say that I have got much, and I shall be obliged if you will give me your own account of the case—as shortly as possible,” he added, in alarm.
Nathalie felt no temptation to discursiveness; there was too much pain in the recital. When she had finished, he hastily got up.
“You do not want anything more, I imagine, madame?” he asked, looking at his watch.
“One word, monsieur. If—if you find yourself in want of any assistance—I scarcely know how to express it—you will, I trust, not spare expense—we should wish my husband to have the best, the very best advice and experience—”
“Oh, thanks, madame,” returned M. Barraud carelessly. “I shall have the usual juniors; M. Rodoin will take care of that. You are coming?” he added, severely to his friend.
“I will return, madame, and drive you to the Palais de Justice,” said the lawyer, bowing respectfully over her hand. The next moment she was alone.
“His juniors!” The words sounded like a mockery, and Nathalie gazed despairingly at the door out of which this mannerless boy had betaken himself. The idea that Léon’s interests should be in his hands was so terrible that when M. Rodoin appeared, punctual to his hour, she met him with reproaches.
“But, madame, madame,” cried the amazed lawyer, “you are under some extraordinary misapprehension! Maître Barraud’s reputation is world-wide; France has no greater pleader; we are only too fortunate—owing, I may say, to my friendship with his father—to have secured him!”
“At his age!” exclaimed Nathalie, incredulously. “Monsieur, it is impossible! And he does not give one the idea of a man of power.”