How could Léon answer this speech? Félicie’s obstinacy was well known in the family. He persisted so far as to ask whether she was prepared to live in a very small way, and probably have no money for pilgrimages—
“Michel has not quite made up his mind that pilgrimages do all the good we suppose,” interrupted Félicie, with the air of a discoverer.
”—And find yourself Madame Georges, instead of Mademoiselle de Beaudrillart?”
“Claire said that no one would recognise us again,” she remarked, in answer; “and though it has all turned out so much better than we expected, I do think that Michel was the only person who really believed in you. Even the abbé was doubtful. I am sure you must be very grateful to Michel always, dear Léon.”
She carried the day. Claire would say nothing. Claire’s misery seemed scarcely lessened. It was as if the very possibility of such a disaster as had threatened had turned her to marble, and that she could not come to life again. She spent her time either with her mother, who was now always in her own room, or wandering about the grounds by herself, especially avoiding Félicie. All that Nathalie could do was to leave books about in the salon, books such as she knew would interest her sister-in-law, and to avoid comment when they disappeared. She hoped by this means to offer a little food to her active mind without giving her the annoyance of feeling herself under an obligation.
Two others who were perfectly happy at the château were Jacques Charpentier and Raoul, and perhaps it was Raoul’s talk which most reconciled his father to Félicie’s marriage. He was never tired of vaunting M. Georges, or of bringing forward the small surprises which had been prepared for this happy moment. Spurred by their motive, he had submitted to learn to read, to print his own name, and to sing a funny little song about a drummer in a shrill childish voice. He was not content until he had dragged his father and mother down to the river, that he might show them how he could throw his line like a grown-up man.
It was a day in late autumn, one of those days which come laden with the sweetness of the past. A ripe golden glow was abroad, shining on the yellow leaves of the poplars, and reaching the hearts of husband and wife as they stood by the river and watched it flowing by strong and swift. There was enough wind to stir the long grasses by its side, always moist and green; to drive a few white clouds softly across the sky, and to give a delicious exhilaration to the light air. Gnats danced in the sun, a distant sound of children’s voices reached the ear, and old Antoine, in his sabots, clattered across the bridge. On this bridge there was a patch of new wood, still out of tone with the old railing and its soft, rich grey, and a few bits of useless stuff which the river had flung on one side on a certain wild night not so very long ago had been turned over by the thrifty villagers, and left as of no value. Antoine was looking forward to a good storm when he would go up to the château and come back unmolested with a fine supply of fuel. He glanced at the two figures as they stood by the water-side, and chuckled. “It’s as easy to hold one’s tongue as to talk,” he muttered, “and pays better.”
For a time the two were silent. Now first had they seen the river since that terrible night, and their hearts were too full for speech. Suddenly Nathalie was in her husband’s arms, strained there passionately. “My dear one!” he whispered, again and again; nothing more, and perhaps it was a good sign that his old flow of words was wanting.
She had closed her eyes in the dizziness of her bliss, and when she opened them again he rained kisses on them, those eyes which held in the brown clearness the fresh healthiness of a mountain stream.
After a time they could speak, both trembling.