“Mademoiselle,” laughed Cartier, “I am discretion itself. No one shall ever know of it! Has he become a Barbe Bleue, le petit Jean, in my absence?”
Then Margot told him. It was a long story, in spite of which there was a good deal left out of it.
Cartier followed it attentively, twisting his gold-rimmed glasses to and fro, and shaking his foot in a certain vexation of spirit. He did not like to hear of suffering, and it was of suffering Margot told him. Jean’s suffering, of course, his poverty, his heroism, his endurance; it lost nothing from Margot’s lips; only it appeared that she herself had taken no part in it. “And the worst of it is, Monsieur Cartier,” she finished, “that he is so proud; the best men always are, I think! It would be so difficult, you can’t think how difficult, to help him! The artists he used to play for no longer offer him work; perhaps, Monsieur, you may have heard that he displeased Madame de Brances. If she had only known, there was nothing in it at all; but we cannot expect a lady like that to believe——”
“In innocence,” finished Cartier softly. “Indeed, Mademoiselle, you are right; that particular belief does not come easily to those who have lived for long in Paris....”
Margot coloured. “There was no way whatever in which Monsieur Jean was to blame,” she said, “no one, not his own mother, could have blamed him. Nevertheless, it is through his kindness to me that he has suffered. So you see, Monsieur, it is only natural that I should wish to make him some little amends.”
Cartier nodded. “Very natural indeed, Mademoiselle, and quite probable, if you will excuse my saying so, that you have already made them.”
“Madame de Brances has persuaded none of her friends to employ him,” continued Margot, taking no notice of Cartier’s remark.
“She has not persuaded me,” said Cartier simply.
“Oh, Monsieur!” cried Margot.
“There, there,” said Cartier quickly, “no thanks! no thanks, Mademoiselle. You and I, I fancy, are at one in that—we prefer not to be thanked for our little services. I like Monsieur Jean, I think him a musician; as for the de Brances affairs—they are, en général, an intolerable nuisance, and they seem to increase as she gets older. I don’t, however, know of much I can put in Jean’s way at present. The Toriallis want another accompagnateur; he might go there for the moment while I look about. It’s not the kind of thing I care for him to do—but it will keep his head above water. To-morrow I will call and make him the offer, and since he would be sure to refuse money—and you must have been put to some expense...”