“My poor boy!” cried Mme. de Beaudrillart, with tears in her eyes; “if this is hard for us, what must he not have suffered? Of course the affair will arrange itself somehow—Heaven forbid that I should be so faithless as to doubt it!—but the annoyance, the anxiety! Well, it is only another proof, if proof were wanted, of the incompetency of that Monsieur Georges. If Léon had not been so tender-hearted he would have sent him away long ago.”
“I wonder if it would have really made any difference?” remarked Félicie, her eldest daughter, looking up from the altar-linen she was embroidering. She was near-sighted, and had to stoop very much to bring her work within range of her eyes, but she would not be persuaded to wear spectacles.
“We should remember, however, that Monsieur Georges constantly implored Léon to pay a closer attention to his affairs. I must say, I think it is unjust to blame the poor man,” said Claire, sharply.
“Then you must blame your brother, which would be far more unjust,” said her mother, with decision. “For what is an intendant engaged? Until this moment, I have always been under the impression it was that he might look after the estates, and avert the possibility of such a humiliating position as that in which our poor Léon now finds himself.”
“It is certain that Léon must have been terribly extravagant,” persisted Mlle. Claire.
“Oh, extravagant, extravagant!—I dare say. How can you, a woman, with every want provided for, and with absolutely no temptation to spend money—how can you possibly judge of the difficulties of a young man in Paris? A young man, too, such as Léon, impulsive, generous, attractive.” Claire agreed. “Yes, he is very attractive.”
“And very generous,” added Félicie, looking up again, and holding her needle in the air. “When I spoke to him the other day about the pilgrimage, he told me we might count on him for fifty francs. Now Madame de Montbreuil assured me with tears that her husband would give no more than twenty.”
“Ah, and it is that generosity of his of which people take advantage,” said his mother. “If we knew all the truth, which you may be sure he will never permit us to learn, I am certain we should find some kind-hearted action at the bottom of this trouble. He has come to the rescue of a friend, or helped a poor struggling creature, and been dragged in himself, poor fellow! As for the old count, I shall never forgive him. He must have guessed how disagreeable it was to Léon to be forced to apply to him for assistance; and after his indebtedness to your father, the least, the very least he could do, was to have helped him liberally, and to have rejoiced at the opportunity.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart had a white face, an aquiline nose, and pinched lips—the features of a shrewd woman who would hold her own. She had little compassion for shortcomings, and never failed to point them out—perhaps to compensate for her blind adulation of her son. A large photograph of him stood on the table; she took it up, and carried it to the window, gazing at it fondly.
“I suppose it is difficult for such a boy as Léon to avoid spending money in a place with so many temptations as Paris,” Claire remarked, in a low tone. She was like her mother, but her face was more sallow and sharper.