She sighed, and tears gathered in her eyes.
“It is unlucky, father, for I do not think I forget easily enough. And why should I? Léon is kinder than to ask it. Listen. I love him dearly, but I cannot live a life of pretence, for everything in me cries out against it, and they must take me as I am.”
“And it was not a bad bargain,” said M. Bourget, rubbing his hands with complacency. “You may be certain there was a very fair equivalent on either side. Monsieur de Beaudrillart does not complain?”
The young wife began to smile in spite of herself.
“No, no!”
“Good. But, see here, my girl, it is I you have to think of. I mean you to be a Beaudrillart, and a Beaudrillart you must become. Keep your eyes open. You are sharp enough to pick up what is what, and to take your position with the best of them. I’ve heard nonsense enough from Fauvel to-day, so don’t vex me by talking any more.”
“But—”
“No buts,” said M. Bourget, peremptorily. “The subject is finished—arranged; and I shall expect all to go as I desire. Now let me see the picture-gallery.”
The picture-gallery at Poissy is short, though beautifully proportioned to the rest of the house; it is rather a long room consecrated to the past than a gallery at all. It has an exquisite ceiling, and delightful deep windows from which you look over the trees—of no great height—to the rich and smiling country beyond. The room is by no means crowded with portraits, and, except for the interest to their descendants, the pictures are of little value. The last is dated about eighty years ago, and is chiefly noticeable as the likeness of a Baron de Beaudrillart who escaped the horrors of the revolution.
Round this room M. Bourget marched, regarding each painting as thoughtfully as if he were studying for the reputation of a critic. Nathalie did not accompany him. She threw open one of the windows, and leaned out, amusing herself with dropping little pellets of moss upon the turf beneath, where a few pigeons had collected, and were sunning themselves with an air of great enjoyment. Every now and then her father called to her with a question as to the history of one of the portraits, and it displeased him when she was not able to give a full account of the personage’s life and death. It mattered little if she assured him that no more was known in the family; he was always of opinion that such ignorance showed a blamable want of interest. He looked long at the last pictured baron. What he said was: