Not very much interested in this praise, Mr. Battard sketched a vague gesture that was susceptible of various interpretations.
“All this is between you and me,” he said, to recapture his professional secret.
And with his beard carefully displayed against his shirt front, he made his way up to a group of ladies, stepping slowly and majestically, like a peacock preparing himself for a promenade with his mates.
Left alone, the magistrate made no haste to search out another guest to talk with. He still thought admiringly of Mr. Roquevillard, recalling the man’s sorrowful and valiant life since that day in the office when he had been told of Mr. Frasne’s complaint. Even then he had shown himself unselfish and proudly prepared for sacrifices.
“Why am I the only one here,” Mr. Vallerois asked himself, “to appreciate this great force of character? There isn’t a man here can hold a candle to him, yet these gentlemen just now treated him so loftily, as if misfortune had made him small and insignificant. The provinces are vindictive and envious.”
Along these simple lines that were being laid down, he reflected, the drama would be a moving one, very entertaining for the spectators. Young Maurice, appearing disarmed before the jury, betrayed his family, and his father was sacrificing the old estate for a song to save the prodigal son. But if the counsel for the accused had his lips sealed, another voice, more powerful than his, could make itself heard instead. After the prosecutor’s speech for the plaintiff, was it not the duty of the public minister to present the case in his turn? Instead of relying upon “justice,” according to the formula sacred to this sort of business, more private than public, was it not his duty to intervene with some effect and set forth once and for all the luckless preponderating rôle, the unique rôle, of Mrs. Frasne, the only one who had been guilty of any abuse of confidence, even though she could not be condemned for it? What a fine opportunity to serve truth, to render unto each according to his works, to carry a little joy into this so sorely tried household of the Roquevillards.
All these reflections crowded through Mr. Vallerois’s brain, but he himself was disposed of by the circumstances of the thing: a general advocate would occupy the place of the public minister at the assizes, and not he. The case of Maurice Roquevillard did not properly concern him further. Besides, he had been blamed for the unusual measure he had taken with the notary last year, for it had not been kept a secret very long. What was the use of mixing in an affair that did not concern him, from which nothing but unpleasantness could arise? For the sake of peace his sympathy was well enough trained to be content with doing nothing.
Rather than sound the whole depth of his egotism, or pass harsh judgment on it, he hastily rejoined the throng of guests, happy to feel that there were people round him. The presence of our fellow creatures is a comfort to us when we have been tempted to take the measure of our pettiness. That is a kind of temptation which is always reserved for the best of us to yield to.
The movement toward the refreshment tables had now begun, and there was a coming and going through the two drawing-rooms, the ante-chamber and the dining-room, prolonging itself, with frequent delays as the young people found opportunities for flirtation. Some of them, all for dancing, called noisily for the orchestra again. Some of the young girls showed already that they were clever and happy in the tricks and coquetry that land a husband some day. Some of them, though only a few, so far as a cursory glance could tell, did not bother to see whether a man wore an engagement ring or not before they trained their artful batteries on him. The eyes of youth flashed under the chandeliers, as sparkling as the jewels which shone in hair or corsage, on wrists or fingers. Among the men’s black coats the clear bits of colour and mellow outlines of the women’s frocks stood out like water-colours.
In which category did Miss Jeanne Sassenay belong, determinedly making off with Raymond Bercy, the fiancé last year of Miss Roquevillard, while her mother’s vigilant eye followed her with solicitude and some surprise? Her little head was like a Greek statue’s, borne so elegantly and easily above its stone shoulders: was it so scatter-brained it could not even cherish the memory of her abandoned friend? Were her cool blue eyes, with their clear glances, only indifferent and not sincere? Her cheeks glowed with the exercise of dancing, but she was not smiling, she was wrinkling her eyebrows, and shut her lips tight, as if she were making some important decision. It was an air that contrasted quaintly with her pretty, childlike manner.