“Well, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart!” he would say.
“There were some trees which had to be marked for cutting, and he has gone off to see about it,” Nathalie answered, in a low tone. Once her father scrutinised her sharply and unexpectedly.
“He does not tire of you, this fine gentleman, eh?”
“Father!” The blood rushed into her face; she turned upon him in blank amazement, which completely reassured him.
“Ah, all goes well, I see,” he said—“with you, at any rate. And the north wing?”
“That, too,” she answered eagerly. “Léon has done exactly what you told him, and they have put props where you thought it necessary.”
“Ah, your little Monsieur de Beaudrillart, he has good sense, say what they will,” said M. Bourget, gratified. “But I should like to see Fauvel’s work. He can do well enough when he takes pains, and if he knows that I am at his heels; but you can’t trust him altogether, and it would not in the least surprise me if he tried to take in Monsieur de Beaudrillart—not in the least. I shall show him that he has me to reckon with. I tell you what, Nathalie, you’re on the upper shelf now, and I don’t wish to push myself where I’m not wanted—”
She laid her hand on his reproachfully. “Léon and I were not sure you’d like to come out, but if only you would!”
“Ah, you’ve talked about it, have you? Well, I should; because, you see, I can’t bear the notion that what is being done at Poissy shouldn’t be the best. Peste, if you only knew how I lie awake at night and think of that wall! And Fauvel is very well, but they’re all alike, for if you don’t keep both eyes open, and have a third at the back of your head, they’ll scamp their work, and that won’t do for Poissy.”
He went on, autocratically: “I’m not sure that anybody there thinks enough of the place.”