“And you endured such insolence!” cried M. Leroux, bounding on his chair.
“Endured? I can tell you that I admired it. I did not let her see it, it is true, for one must keep such people in their places; but, after all, she is right, for a De Beaudrillart may marry where he pleases.” And M. Bourget, radiant with delight, brought his hand heavily down on the table, and leaned forward to give his words more effect: “He marries my daughter.”
It was the crowning point of his life. No other moment in his career—and he had had his triumphs—had caused him such unmitigated satisfaction. Tours rang with the news, the very walls seemed to whisper it in his ears as he walked along the narrow streets, and he never failed to pass by the photographer’s, and to fling a glance of recognition at Poissy—Poissy, with its delicate grace, its exquisite lines—as who should say, “Tiens, ma belle, thou and I are no longer strangers; we belong to each other.”
With M. Bourget in this amiable mood, all went smoothly.
Léon, who was well aware of the accepted opinion of his father-in-law and his rigid economies, was amazed by the liberality of his proposals. He had expected carpings, opposition, cutting down, and he found, to his astonishment, that M. Bourget’s principal care was that the estate should pass unencumbered to Nathalie’s children. One day he said, frankly:
“See here, Monsieur de Beaudrillart,”—he never called his future son-in-law by any other name—“I am perfectly aware that you have committed innumerable follies, and that it has even been touch and go whether you could keep Poissy. At one time, unless rumour lies even more than is usual with her, I might have got possession of it myself. But that, I at once admit, would not have suited me. Poissy without the De Beaudrillarts would be like a body without a soul; you two have to keep together, if you are to hold your position in the world; and now that Nathalie is to become one of you, it is my business to see that you do keep together. You comprehend! For what is past I care nothing; I put no inquiries, it is over. It is what is to come which is my affair. There must be no more follies, no more extravagances. My part of the bargain is to see that when you start you stand on your legs. Well and good. I accept it. I will give my daughter a sum which should be sufficient to set you free from every entanglement—for hampered you must be, and heavily—and enable you with care to regain your proper position; and I tell you, without hesitation, that I do this because I have always resolved that Nathalie should marry above her station. What will you? It is perhaps a folly, a weakness, but—it pleases me. I wish to see her where I have no inclination to be myself, and, like other things in this world, what we want we must pay for. There, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, you have the situation, and my motive.”
Léon had listened to this harangue with an inscrutable face. When M. Bourget paused—rather scant of breath—he looked up and said, pleasantly:
“Mine is simpler. I love Nathalie.”