She had not seen her husband for several days, but this was not unusual, for he had his rooms in Paris, and only came out to Passy at intervals. She accepted her loveless lot, clinging to the Orphanage, and finding in that consolation for almost all trials. Happily for her her nature was the reverse of sensitive, so that she was able to love him without fretting hopelessly over the poor returns her affection brought back. She felt at this moment a turmoil such as she had never yet experienced, a conflict between conscience and love. Could it be her terrible duty to say the words which must denounce her husband? Impossible. She thrust the thought from her.
Then she determined on a medium course. She would see him, appeal to him. Alas, what influence had she ever had that she could fall back upon it now? Recall past years as she might, not once could she remember anything she had said moving her husband when he had made a resolution, or even making him swerve in a contrary direction. She could imagine his anger becoming deadly. She did not think he would shrink from locking her up, or from almost any violence by which he could prevent her from speaking; but she could not imagine his yielding to what must be his ruin. She cried out with the pain of these gathering thoughts, which seemed to press upon her, stop her breathing, hurt her almost to death. She reproached herself for giving them room, but all the while knew with fear that it was her conscience which held the open door and let them in. When she got home she stumbled up-stairs like a fainting woman, and fell down on the floor, crying out piteously for help for her soul, although she knew that every moment of delay was a sin.
Nathalie drove back to the court, sick with failure. Her strength and will upheld her when there was anything to be done; but when not even that remained, her very limbs seemed paralysed, and she wondered to find other senses still at her command. M. Rodoin’s clerk was looking out for her, and went hastily to fetch his master, who came into a small room which had been set apart for them, and where she tottered towards him with outspread hands and a haggard face.
“I could not move her.”
“She refused?”
“Utterly. But she knew nothing.”
“Well, well, dear madame, do not take it so much to heart. If any one can save your husband it will be Maître Barraud. You will go home now?”
She flung him a look of reproach.
“I am counting the moments until I can be where he will see me,” she said, resolutely.
M. Rodoin moved to the door, and she followed him, impelling herself by sheer determination. Once he looked round and said, half to himself: “Whatever happens, there are many who might envy Monsieur de Beaudrillart!” but she took no notice, and did not even hear him, any more than she saw the curious looks turned towards her as she stood at the door of the court. Her eyes were waiting for her husband’s, and the moment that his glance fell upon her a sudden light irradiated them. Now that she had to strengthen him, she was strong again.