Read Online Cloudless May by Storm Jameson - Free Book Online

it?—would be emptied out of eyes so used as hers? She looks older than she is, Marguerite thought. She took Léonie’s hand; it was unresponsive; she had to draw hers back, foolishly.
    â€œWhat more can we do?” she asked.
    She knew what had been done. Edgar Vayrac’s lawyer had named an examining magistrate, Maître Naquet, as a pliant sensible fellow. Bergeot was on good terms with the Minister: pressed by Léonie, she had coaxed him to write a letter, and in due time the case was given into the sensible old fellow’s hands. After this, Maitre Naquet was reminded delicately of the vices he had enjoyed during his life of careful magistrate and faithful dependent husband. There were too many of these; at his age, if the stories became known, he would look very foolish as the gay seducer. In the examinations nothing surprising emergedexcept that Edgar Vayrac had spent his own money on the organisation. The magistrate—indiscreet, but why not?—let it be known.
    Léonie raised her eyebrows. “My dear, it would be perfectly easy to get the boy released and the case postponed indefinitely. He has plenty of useful friends. The Public Prosecutor himself—I had to see him the other day privately to pay arrears of taxes——”
    â€œArrears of taxes?” Marguerite said blankly.
    â€œDon’t be absurd,” Mme Vayrac said, smiling.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œWell. He had nothing against my boy, he has always believed that he is innocent. Of course he’s innocent. He’s very naughty sometimes and then he does something so delicious you can’t help forgiving him.”
    Does she believe this? Marguerite wondered. When Edgar was ten, living in the country with foster-parents, the woman wrote asking his mother to take him away. Léonie was ill, and Marguerite went down to find out what was wrong: she saw the boy first; he looked at her from clear grey eyes—he was a tall fair child, as handsome as an angel—and said, “I’ve always been good.” She spoke to the foster-mother. “He’s cruel,” the woman said uneasily: she showed the arms of her own child, blackened from wrist to shoulder by Edgar’s pinches. “I won’t keep him, I tell you he’s bad. . . .”
    â€œIf only that devil Mathieu could be silenced,” Mme Vayrac said quietly. “They’re all afraid of the nonsense he might write about it. I believe that if the Prefect sent for him, and told him not to make trouble because Edgar had been released—and explain ...” Her frank smile made her look as though she were lying. “I’ve bribed as many people as I can, it would be no use trying to bribe Mathieu.”
    â€œYou want me to talk to Émile?”
    â€œYes,” Léonie said in a humble voice.
    Marguerite looked away. She was reluctant to mix Émile in Edgar Vayrac’s affair; it could turn out badly. Easy to promise and then do nothing, but—with Léonie—that would be no use.
    Mme Vayrac moved quickly and softly off the couch. She put her arms round her friend, and began in her softest voice, scarcely moving her lips. “You will help me, won’t you? Yes,I know you will. We understand each other. My sweet girl, I love you so much: do you remember the time when we were starving, and I stole for us? Yes, of course you do. You will help, won’t you? It’s absolutely simple. Isn’t it? Yes, yes.”
    Mme de Freppel felt ashamed of her caution.
    â€œI’ll talk to Émile,” she said, putting into her voice all the sincerity she did not feel.

Chapter 7
    Mme De Freppel’s bedroom looked across the unshaven lawn to the Loire. She enjoyed lying in bed, propped up so that she could see the river: at night she had the shutters folded back so that her first glance in the morning rested on it, clear, or doubled by mist, or the surface raised by the reflection on it of the