“That was a lie,” reflected Maître Barraud, quickly. “When he tells a lie his eyebrows twitch slightly.” At this point the court adjourned for an hour, and he hastily scrawled something on a piece of paper, and had it passed to M. Rodoin. The words were, “Madame Lemaire is not in court; let Madame de Beaudrillart go to her at once and alone.”
Chapter Twenty Six.
Amélie.
M. Bourget would have been indignant at hearing that he might not accompany his daughter if the mandate had come from a less person than Maître Barraud. But he had a profound respect for any advocate with whose name he was acquainted, as well as for all the machinery of a great trial, and M. Rodoin took him in hand, and carried him off for the interval, as soon as Nathalie had been placed in M. Rodoin’s carriage and despatched to Passy. She had intended to employ her time during the drive in arranging how best to open the subject with Mme. Lemaire, but, to her dismay, found it impossible to concentrate her thoughts. Whatever effort she made to fasten them upon the coming interview, they flitted back to the crowded court. She saw always her husband’s pale face, the look towards her in which she read so piteous an appeal; she heard the jesting remarks whispered around, the questions and answers to which she listened breathlessly, feeling that they held Léon’s doom; she saw the president, who was slightly deaf, hold his hand to his ear, the clerks taking down the evidence, Charles Lemaire’s broad figure, and the white flower in his button-hole; she heard Maître Barraud’s voice, now listless, then suddenly rising to the tone of a trumpet, a voice of which she was beginning to understand the power. One after another figures surged before her eyes, sounds rang in her ears, and before she had collected her thoughts for her errand she found herself driving to the door of a substantially built house, which stood a little back from the road.
Madame was at home, but did not receive. Nathalie had got hastily out of the carriage, and, afraid to send in her name lest it might bring a refusal, she merely desired the man to say that her business was of the greatest consequence, and was almost immediately admitted to an ugly room, all gilt and brocade, where stood Amélie ready to go out.
At sight of this tall and beautiful woman advancing hastily towards her, Mme. Lemaire showed a little astonishment. She thought it was some one interested in an orphan, for whom she had come to plead the cause; but the visitors who had this end in view generally belonged to a different class. She moved awkwardly forward.
“You desire, madame, to speak to me!”
“To appeal to your goodness,” faltered Nathalie.