“Yes. Imagine what it will be for him to grow up under a cloud of disgrace! You have no children madame; you do not know what that seems to a mother.”
Nathalie was wrong. This woman, no mother, but to whom God had given a mother’s heart, could realise it, and much more, with an aching strength, which some mothers cannot feel. She had thought so often and strangely of the little boy at Poissy, of whose existence she was barely aware, that now she could hardly prevent herself from crying out that she would save him. But—there was her husband. In spite of his neglect, his unkindness, his scarcely-veiled contempt, she still loved him. Ignorance of his movements, shutting of eyes and ears to what went on in the world, was her defensive armour. She did not wish to hear or see. She had at one time lived in terror lest something might come to her knowledge which would thrust him out of her heart, and it was dread of this which had turned her virtually into a recluse. And here it was at her doors! She beat against it with all her force. Her look hardened, her voice chilled. She said, coldly:
“I am sorry for you, madame, but I cannot help you. Monsieur de Cadanet gave my husband his last directions.” Nathalie stood mute, then turned from her with a look of reproach.
“They were not these, and you know it. A dying man does not wreak such a terrible revenge. You are thrusting a sin upon him which he never committed. I dare not stay longer, but ah, madame, take care, for some day it will come back again, more terrible for you than my poor Léon’s has been for him!”
Mme. Lemaire stood long where she was left, staring at the empty doorway. Once she made a few staggering steps, as if she would follow her visitor, but caught herself back, and again remained motionless. Her conscience was tender, and Nathalie’s words fell on it like the sting of a lash. It had been the scarcely acknowledged effort of her life to prevent it and her love from meeting in opposition, but the day had come, and she could no longer remain blind and deaf. Still, she resisted. This man had sinned—by his own wife’s confession had sinned. Probably he deserved what had come to him. And she had not absolutely understood all that was happening. She resolved to go to the Orphanage, and think no more about Mme. de Beaudrillart. There she had hitherto found peace, and there she might now find forgetfulness.
She was always warmly greeted, this childless woman with the mother’s heart, the children running to her with cries of delight which were the music of her life, one showing a doll, another a cut finger; the sisters came smiling, kind souls with homely faces, who looked on her as their chief benefactress, and poured out their daily chat of all the events which touched their peaceful lives and the lives of these little ones, snatched, some of them, from terrible experiences. One sister walked up and down the babies’ nursery, hushing a wan little fellow to unwilling sleep.
“He has been so fretful all night!” she said, smiling.
“You look quite worn out, sister,” said Mme. Lemaire.
“Ah, madame, but when one remembers that his father died in prison, one’s heart bleeds for the poor little mite,” said the kind nurse, recommencing her hushing. Amélie turned abruptly away.
But in every child that day the little boy at Poissy seemed to appeal to her. Far from forgetting, she found him looking at her, clinging, kissing her. A new orphan had been admitted that morning. She dared not ask his name, so convinced was she that the answer would be Raoul. He haunted her; do what she would, she could not shake him off. She left the Orphanage at last, flying, as she had never flown before, from the innocent children. On her way home she bought a newspaper, and there read a fuller account of the trial than she had gathered from Nathalie.