On the whole, M. Georges escaped thankfully, his brain in a whirl. Fly from such dangerous fascinations he might, but the presumptuous idea having once found entrance was already battering again at the doors. Refused admittance, it demanded a parley, and set itself at once to prove that it was not preposterous.
M. Georges owned with simple vanity that his position had changed for the better since the days when he had been intendant at Poissy. Now he was the owner of a small house, of grounds which to him at least looked spacious, and of a certain solid little sum in rentes. Modest ambition pointed to becoming mayor, and if he even dreamed of being conseiller-général, the thing was not beyond the bounds of possibility. But—Mlle. de Beaudrillart! That, indeed, was preposterous, incredible! He heaved a sigh of renunciation, and flung it from him, only permitting a meek hope to remain that when the real Mme. Georges made her appearance she might have eyes resembling those of Mlle. Félicie. But it was astonishing how persistent this ludicrous idea became! Even when the landing of a small fish had been accomplished, Raoul pale and serious with excitement, his first exclamation, after drawing a deep breath of relief, was: “How I wish you lived here always, Monsieur Georges!” M. Georges became crimson. And somehow or other, at this time, Félicie seemed always to be kept before his consciousness. The flutter of a dress was sure to belong to her, he heard her voice where he had never heard it before, he met her in the grounds, he listened to her praises from the abbé; presently it might be said that, in spite of heroic resistance, her image was enshrined in his heart, although the hope of gaining her had not yet ventured to intrude.
What further weakened his powers of resistance was Claire’s kindness. Sometimes he really fancied that she was encouraging his folly. With him her sharpness was softened, and she deferred quite strangely to his advice about the farm, with which Félicie never meddled. She was really capable of managing everything without consultation, and M. Georges was so well aware of this that he would have been more than man not to have been flattered by her evident desire to gain his help and to yield to his opinion. He reflected, however, humbly, that it was probably owing to the absorption of her thoughts as to the trial, and this seemed the more likely since on the morning when the trial was to begin Claire shut herself in her room, and refused to see a soul.
Had it not been for M. Georges, the whole household would have been disorganised. Despair had seized it, and if the walls of Poissy had crumbled into ruin, the dismay could hardly have been greater. The maids darted across the court like frightened birds. Jacques, tearful and miserable, came to M. Georges to implore him to let him hear the latest news, and M. Georges thumped his own chest with the effort to impose self-control on his emotions, and begged him to be calm.
“What I fear,” he added, “is Monsieur Raoul’s gaining any idea of what is happening. He has just asked me why every one was crying, and why Rose-Marie called his father ‘poor monsieur le baron’? Jacques, my friend, we men must show these kind souls an example of courage. If I could trust you not to break down I would carry out an idea, and take Monsieur Raoul into Tours to see his grandfather.”
“Do, monsieur.”
“But, to tell you the truth,” said M. Georges, fidgeting, “I cannot take the coachman, for he will be wanted to support you here, and I—I am not in the habit of driving.”
“We will put the quietest of the ponies in the little cart. I feel certain he will take monsieur safely, and Monsieur Bourget—he is so shrewd!—he may have something comforting to send back.”
With many perturbations M. Georges carried out his idea. There was no one to ask, for Claire was barricaded in her own room, and Félicie had flown to the church. To tell the truth, the sight of M. Bourget’s bitter misery had so painfully impressed M. Georges that he had dwelt upon it ever since, and longed to break it down; and it was for this that he faced the terrors of the pony. They had many narrow escapes, for when they met anything in the road M. Georges persistently tugged at the left-hand rein; but fortunately the road was wide, and the pony knew much better than his driver. Thanks to his sagacity, they avoided any serious damage, and pulled up at M. Bourget’s door. The door was open, Raoul tumbled anyhow out of the cart, scrambled up the steps, and rushed in upon his grandfather before M. Bourget had time to rouse himself from the gloomy reverie which had seized him after reading his newspaper for at least the tenth time.
“Grandpapa, I have caught a fish my very own self! Monsieur Georges didn’t touch it—he didn’t, truly!—and I have brought it in for Fanchon to cook for your dinner!”