“That is your letter?”
“It is.”
Maître Miron put another question to M. Lemaire.
“When Monsieur de Cadanet presented you with this letter, did he make any allusion to its concluding sentence?”
“Certainly,” replied the witness, coolly. “He said that Monsieur de Beaudrillart had very much exaggerated the services rendered to him by the defunct baron.”
The prisoner burst out with the word “Liar!” and was sharply rebuked for the interruption.
Further examined as to whether he was certain that the money had never been repaid, the witness said that his only knowledge was derived from M. de Cadanet himself, who assured him that he had not received a sou. “If it were otherwise,” he remarked, “receipts would certainly exist, the count being a man of excellent business habits.”
After a few more unimportant questions, it was felt that Lemaire had given his evidence clearly, and, except in two answers, had been very careful in both tone and wording to preserve an appearance of perfect fairness towards the prisoner. The two exceptions were those in which he alluded to the absence of a receipt, and to M. de Cadanet having disclaimed receiving any considerable help from M. de Beaudrillart’s father.
Nathalie looked at Maître Barraud with a yet more sinking heart. The Procureur de la République had appeared to her an ideal counsel—shrewd-faced, energetic, keen. His opponent, with his round, boyish face, his almost indifferent manner, and a certain air of hesitation, which she had not noticed so much before, did not give the impression of being in any way his equal. The questions he suggested appeared to her to be little to the point, and though she carefully kept discouragement from her face, so that Léon, when he glanced at her, might take comfort, she had never felt more discouraged.
With an air of extreme innocence, as of one only seeking for enlightenment, Maître Barraud pursued through the court his inquiries as to Lemaire’s first acquaintance with M. de Beaudrillart. He had seen him play. “You played yourself, of course?”