“Ah, madame,” said Amélie, with a smile which made her plain face at once attractive, “I am so grieved! It is for some poor little one, is it not, whom you wish to place in our Home! And, alas, we are more than full!”
“No, no!” cried Mme. Léon, “it is much more serious. It is on account of this trial that I come. I am the unhappy wife of Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
The other stared at her without comprehending. “A trial?” she repeated, pushing forward a chair. Nathalie sank into it, and leaned forward earnestly:
“Your husband—you know that your husband has made a terrible charge against my husband!”
“No. I do not know—I do not understand—” returned Mme. Lemaire, speaking with difficulty. “Stop, madame, let me explain. My husband and I do not interest ourselves in the same pursuits. We each follow that which we prefer, leaving the other free. My interest is my Orphanage, and consequently I do not hear much of what goes on in the outside world.”
“And you do not know that all Paris rings with this trial?”
“No,” returned Amélie, flushing. “I do not read the newspapers, and—and I presume the servants have not liked to speak of it.”
Nathalie buried her face in her hands. How could this woman, in everything but name cut off from the world, help her! But the sight of suffering touched Amélie at once.
“I am so sorry for your grief!” she said, simply; “pray tell me if there is anything in which I can assist you.”
Hard task! But Nathalie began: “It has to do with Monsieur de Cadanet,” she faltered. “Some money which he designed for your husband, my husband took—stay, do not judge him too harshly. He was in great straits at the time; he took it, but he told Monsieur de Cadanet at once—the letter exists—and he only took it as a loan. Every penny was repaid, and Monsieur de Cadanet made no sign; but now, now that he is dead, your husband says that the money was never returned, and that your uncle left it to him to prosecute. He is being tried now—my Léon!”