M. Georges opened his eyes.
“Oh, it is Leroux you speak of? Yes, I confess I lost my temper, and when that is the case I become terrible. Bah, he is nothing; let him do his worst. But, Monsieur Bourget, what is of consequence is this frightful affair at Poissy—all, of course, either a mistake or a vile conspiracy. The idea that Monsieur de Beaudrillart—Monsieur de Beaudrillart!—should be accused of such an act is simply impossible! I could not credit it until I had been out there.”
M. Bourget made no response to this outburst. He frowned, drew in his lips, and stared stolidly at the ground.
“Your daughter, too, poor young lady, what she must be enduring! And as for the baron, it is enough to have led him to kill himself.”
Still gloomy silence.
“Monsieur Bourget, is there nothing you can suggest? You are a man of resource. If there was anything I could assist in carrying out, I cannot tell you what infinite gratification it would be to me.” He stopped, for M. Bourget had risen, struck his stick on the ground, and broken out in a thunderous undertone:
“Nothing, monsieur, nothing. I renounce Poissy, the baron, and my daughter. If by lifting my little finger I could save Monsieur de Beaudrillart from prison, I would not lift it, and I request you to be good enough not to mention their names to me again.”