Amélie had turned very white, and drawn involuntarily back. She said, in a suffocated voice:
“Why do you come to me?”
Nathalie lifted her heavy eyes.
“People say you are a good woman,” she said. “If you know anything, you cannot let an innocent man suffer.”
“And your name is De Beaudrillart, and you live at—”
“At Poissy.”
“Ah!” The exclamation ended sharply, like a cry of anguish. In a moment all came back to her—M. de Cadanet’s veiled interest in Poissy; the evident relenting of his heart; most of all those dying words, accidentally heard, but never really forgotten: “You will remember that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.” And now—She rose up with a shudder. “Madame, you are mistaken. I am incapable of helping you.”
Nathalie rose, too, and stood looking at her. Then she clasped her hands, feeling her last chance slipping.
“Ah, madame, think!” she cried, impulsively. “You nursed Monsieur de Cadanet, you were with him continually—think, I implore you, whether you never heard him speak of my husband, and if you did, whether he did not speak of him indulgently? So much might depend on that! If you do not pity me, pity our little child, our little Raoul!”
“Is that his name?” Mme. Lemaire asked quickly, a sudden yearning in her face.