“Implicitly. If you believe him when he acknowledges what tells against him, the least you can do is to take his word for the rest. You doubt the father of your grandson? Fie, Monsieur Bourget, fie!”
M. Georges swelled with enthusiasm for his cause. M. Bourget got up and paced up and down the room. He muttered at last:
“Whether he did or not, the result is the same. The Poissy honour is gone. Not a scoundrel in Tours but will have his say against it.”
“The Poissy honour has weathered worse storms,” said M. Georges, quietly. “What does it matter if a few curs bark? And I believe you are wrong. I believe honest men will respect him for his avowal.”
M. Bourget grumbled “Absurd!” under his breath, but said no more. He called Raoul and marched him out to the toy-shop, and when they were just starting for Poissy shook M. Georges’s hand with a warmth which surprised him. Raoul, in the intervals of opening all the parcels with which he was charged, remarked that grandpapa was going to see mamma, perhaps, “and I asked him if he couldn’t take me, but he couldn’t, he said,” he added, extracting a magnificent whip, which he proceeded to smack, to the great disquiet of M. Georges and the pony.
M. Georges pulled the wrong rein more than ever, and their escapes were hair-breadth. They ran in and out of ditches, they shaved carts; finally they dashed wildly through the gates of Poissy, and pulled up at the entrance so suddenly that M. Georges was shot forward, and only just saved himself from landing on the pony’s back. But, on the whole, he was satisfied with the result of his expedition, and so was Raoul, who announced that he liked M. Georges’s driving better than anybody’s.
The little clatter of arrival sounded unfeeling to poor Claire, who sat nursing her misery in the room adjoining that of Mme. de Beaudrillart. How could any one move, think, speak, at such a time! And yet it was a comfort to feel that M. Georges was again in the house. He was unaltered, though her conviction of the disgrace which hung over them all was so strong that she read change in the look and manner of all the servants. As for friends, she had resolved never again to face them. It seemed to her that the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness would be a change of name, and a flight to some far-away place where no one would recognise her as a Beaudrillart. But to gain this object she was helpless, and the thought of living on at Poissy, pointed at as the sister of a man in prison, was absolutely terrible. More than once that day Félicie, whose room was on the other side, and whose troubles were always comforted by talking about them, had knocked at the door and begged to be admitted, only to hear a sharp “Go away!” in answer. She went to her mother, but Mme. de Beaudrillart’s state bordered on apathy. How much or how little she understood, it was impossible to say. To Félicie, at any rate, it was a real relief to hear M. Georges’s cheery voice. She ran down the stairs to welcome him with a pleasure which in a moment brought back all those wild dreams which he had been trying to forget. In the whirl of his brain he even went so far as to murmur “Dear mademoiselle!” and Félicie merely blushed a little, and cast down her eyes. They saw each other constantly that day and the next, for Claire, silent and rigid, only came down for meals, and retreated immediately to her own room. M. Georges was very good, and most delicately respectful to her; but it was impossible to say much in her presence, and both felt secretly relieved when she had gone. All the customs of the house seemed to be in abeyance. Félicie would never at other times have allowed herself the long conversations which now had the most natural air in the world. She babbled to M. Georges in her small, precise voice of all the little interests which filled her life, while she imagined that her talk was only of Léon; and he listened with the most profound admiration. What could be more estimable than the good works which occupied her morning, noon, and night! What more beautiful than her devotion! She showed him with pride the embroideries and vestments which were under her charge, and he helped her to refold them, as she said, with far more neatness than Rose-Marie. By the time this labour was ended, M. Georges’s presumptuous little idea which at first sight had so alarmed him was enthroned triumphantly in his heart.
The third day of the trial had been reached. Nathalie, all day in court, could only scribble disjointed letters, noting as far as possible the principal points, and infinitely pathetic in their anguish and their trust. The newspapers gave minute reports, up to this point occupied by the opening speech for the prosecution and the interrogation of the prisoner. The third day would produce Charles Lemaire’s evidence, and on the morning of that day Félicie, pale and agitated, rushed down the stairs to the small study where M. Georges transacted his business in old days, and which he now again occupied.
“Oh, Monsieur Georges, come, I beg of you, come at once! Claire has said something to my mother, and she is most terribly upset. We cannot soothe her.”
Poor Mme. de Beaudrillart was, indeed, in a distressing state. The tidings which for some days she had not seemed to realise had suddenly reached her comprehension and produced a painful anguish. She was sitting at the table, her hands clinched and her eyes wide-open, Claire kneeling by her side in terror. The instant she saw M. Georges she cried, in a hoarse voice: