“On no account, mademoiselle. I am deeply sensible of your goodness, and with your permission shall venture to walk out another day from Tours, unless—unless, mademoiselle, you would allow me the great happiness of once more occupying my old room—for a few days, I should explain, merely until this unfortunate affair is arranged, and monsieur le baron returns. Under your directions it is possible I could be of some trifling use, and leave you more free to console Madame de Beaudrillart. At all events, I might serve as a companion for Monsieur Raoul.”
Claire was looking at him uncertainly, when, to her amazement, before she could speak, Félicie interposed with dignity.
“You are very good, monsieur, and we accept your offer gratefully. Yes, Claire, I am Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart, and I take it upon myself in Léon’s absence. Raoul is terribly in the way; only this morning he has cut a whole skein of silk into little bits, and if Monsieur Georges can come to-morrow we will send in for him at twelve o’clock.”
M. Georges was frightened, amazed, delighted. Never before had he seen Mlle. Félicie so assert herself, and he could hardly believe that her younger sister would admit the intrusion. But whatever Claire felt, she said nothing in opposition; she even smiled at him for the first time in the interview. “We have no right to ask it,” she said, “but if you will—” If he would! He walked home on air. Such urbanity! Such graciousness! Such appreciation! Without proof, the interview had more than ever convinced him of M. de Beaudrillart’s innocence, and of the fact of a conspiracy against him. So enthusiastic were his feelings that he felt himself capable of rushing upon anything, even death itself, in defence of the honour of Poissy; and when the remembrance of his assault upon Leroux came to him he laughed aloud, and was conscious of a ferocious desire that he had gone to the extreme length of kicking him, or even of dropping him into the river. He wished with all his heart that he might meet M. Bourget, and pour some of his feelings into his ear; but, if he had known it, there was small chance of this encounter, since the ex-builder avoided the road to Poissy as if it were infected with the plague.
His gloom had in no degree lightened, and, although he had returned to the café and to his usual routine of action, he remained unsociable and morose. Far from fastening upon unwilling listeners, and obliging them to give ear to his laying down the law upon whatever subject happened to be uppermost in his mind, he offered no sign of acquaintanceship, beyond a surly nod. At the café he sat with his broad back turned to its other frequenters, and on one or two minor points of municipal government, when he was expected to have thundered against the opposition, he had remained mute and apparently uninterested. This change of nature had caused much perplexity among his friends—for, in spite of his feelings and irascibility, M. Bourget had friends—until the riddle was solved by the extraordinary news respecting M. de Beaudrillart. That, it was felt, explained everything, and a very kindly feeling of pity shot up on every side. Nathalie had been universally liked, although such an advancement as hers could not but create jealousy; now that downfall had followed, her charms were frankly acknowledged, and if M. Bourget would have accepted them, condolences would have reached him from every side.
But he was not the man to whom condolences were acceptable. On the afternoon of the day in which the startling intelligence had been read in the Tours Independent, he marched along the streets, head erect, chain and seals dangling, and stick grasped with a vigour which boded ill for impertinent comments. The account of M. Leroux’s punishment on the bridge had reached him through Fanchon, who rushed into his room to announce that M. Georges had sprung upon the lawyer, thrashed him black and blue, and left him for dead in the middle of the road. M. Bourget had no difficulty in guessing what had been the little lawyer’s offence. He broke into a hoarse laugh, the first he had been heard to utter since his memorable visit to Poissy, and scandalised Fanchon by rubbing his hands, and declaring that it served the little reptile right. He added an ardent wish that he had been there to kick him.
“The saints forbid!” cried Fanchon, piously. “You have always quarrels enough of your own on your shoulders without taking up other people’s. And a pretty fanfara Monsieur Leroux will make about this business!”
“Hold your tongue, imbecile!” growled her master, still chuckling. “That little Georges is an honest fellow after all!”
It is possible that this event it was which took M. Bourget to the café. It was not likely that Leroux would venture to show himself, with the fear of encountering M. Georges before his eyes. Besides, one excitement would balance another; tongues would not wag so persistently on the Poissy topic; at any rate, the ex-builder was resolved that they should not wag in his hearing, and when he sat down at his solitary table, with his stick reposing on a chair by his side, his figure did not present an inviting object of attack. Nevertheless, to the astonishment of the lookers-on, one individual walked deliberately up to the table, drawing a chair after him, and sat down opposite M. Bourget as soon as he had effected an elaborate sweep of his hat. This was M. Georges himself, and certain it is that M. Bourget would have tolerated no other companion. As it was, at the sight of him he broke out again into the grim chuckle which had amazed Fanchon, and which now amazed M. Georges.
“While you were about it, you should have given him a ducking,” he grunted. “He would have been the better for it, and it would not have cost you more.”