“It is not true, monsieur, say it is not true! Oh, Léon, my son, my son!”
“Madame,” cried M. Georges, hastening to her side, “it is not true that Monsieur Léon is what they say! There has been a terrible mistake, but it will come right—it must.”
She leaned forward, and said in a whisper which he never forgot:
“But he took it.”
“And repaid it, madame. I would stake my life on it.” Mme. de Beaudrillart pointed out Claire by a gesture:
“She says we are disgraced forever—we!” she shuddered. “That we may hide our heads, for no respectable person will have anything to do with us. She would like to go away.”
“Oh, mademoiselle!” cried M. Georges, turning on her a look of reproach. “Madame,” he said, standing upright, and stiffening with resolution, “permit me to convince you that it is not so. Mademoiselle Félicie, Mademoiselle Claire, will you allow me a few minutes alone with madame?”
Félicie went out demurely, Claire rose up and flung him a questioning glance. He murmured:
“Mademoiselle, I venture to think you have perhaps divined. Have I the inestimable encouragement of your approval?”
Poor Claire! She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and said, brokenly, “Yes, monsieur, yes!”