“Bah! That will only make her stick to him the closer.”
“Possibly. But she is, by every account, a woman of strong religious principle. If she knew of a wrong being committed her conscience might lead her—”
“To denounce it?” Maître Barraud pushed out his lips, and passed his hand over his chin. “She will not know. That sort of woman, if she has to live with that sort of man, shuts her eyes, and refuses to open them. It is her only chance.”
“Possibly, again, if you or I went to her. But another woman?”
“If we could hit on her line of sentiment—she is sure to have a sentiment,” murmured the other, reflectively. “But no, no, no. It can’t be done. It would be a confession of weakness. Miron would get hold of it, and we should have a triumphant peroration of the straits to which the other side are driven. I can only reach that scoundrel through the court, but I will make him feel.”
“If the wife is in court?”
“She will not be. Either she will know nothing, or will keep out of it.”
M. Rodoin had to carry back this refusal to Nathalie, for whom his admiration daily strengthened. She was so courageous and so cheerful, so sensible, and so full of resource that instead of hindering the lawyers, her suggestions had more than once proved valuable; and as for poor Léon, the sight of her brave and earnest face, and the smile with which she never failed to meet his eye, gave him his best support in the terrible hours which he spent in the court. It created also, as Maître Barraud was swift to note, an unexpressed and subtle feeling of sympathy with the accused. The fine and noble lines of her face, the breathless interest with which she followed every point as it was mooted, offered evidence as powerful as it was unconscious in his favour. He dared not count upon its being strong enough to weigh against the testimony of facts, but he knew that any point he could succeed in making would be strengthened by its presence.
Léon, too, bore himself well. Those who knew him before remarked how greatly he had aged, and his face was colourless. His manner, however, was what it should have been—simple and unexaggerated. Evidently he felt his position profoundly, but he answered the questions addressed to him by the Court with a dignity which to M. Rodoin was unexpected and quite frankly. On the whole, the impression he gave was favourable. But this, again, however desirable, was not worth one grain of actual proof.
And for proof M. Rodoin had ransacked Paris in vain. The notes had been sent in a registered packet, but it was too long ago to obtain a record from the post-office. An examination of M. de Cadanet’s papers had been made, naturally without success. One point and one only had been established in Léon’s favour. The banker’s book showed that about the time he claimed to have repaid the debt a sum of one hundred thousand francs had been entered in M. de Cadanet’s account, and the clerk believed remembering that they were mostly notes issued by the provincial bank of Tours. But there had been a change of clerks since; the one who had that impression was then a junior, and could not swear to it. Two had died of influenza.