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diff --git a/old/61484-0.txt b/old/61484-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7315f11..0000000 --- a/old/61484-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7217 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Nicolette, by Baroness Orczy - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Nicolette - a tale of old Provence - -Author: Baroness Orczy - -Release Date: February 22, 2020 [EBook #61484] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NICOLETTE *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - NICOLETTE - - BARONESS ORCZY - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - By BARONESS ORCZY - - - * * * * * - - NICOLETTE - CASTLES IN THE AIR - THE FIRST SIR PERCY - LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL - FLOWER O’ THE LILY - THE MAN IN GREY - LORD TONY’S WIFE - LEATHERFACE - THE BRONZE EAGLE - A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS - THE LAUGHING CAVALIER - “UNTO CÆSAR” - EL DORADO - MEADOWSWEET - THE NOBLE ROGUE - THE HEART OF A WOMAN - PETTICOAT RULE - - * * * * * - - NEW YORK - - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - NICOLETTE - A TALE OF OLD PROVENCE - - - BY - BARONESS ORCZY - - _Author of “The First Sir Percy,” “Flower o’ the Lily,” “Lord Tony’s - Wife,” “The Scarlet Pimpernel,” etc._ - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - - _Copyright, 1922, - By George H. Doran Company_ - -[Illustration] - - - NICOLETTE. I - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - I FADED SPLENDOUR 9 - - II LE LIVRE DE RAISON 30 - - III THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 56 - - IV THE DESPATCH 86 - - V THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 100 - - VI ORANGE-BLOSSOM 117 - - VII TWILIGHT 145 - - VIII CHRISTMAS EVE 167 - - IX THE TURNING POINT 187 - - X WOMAN TO WOMAN 198 - - XI GREY DAWN 229 - - XII FATHER 238 - - XIII MAN TO MAN 253 - - XIV FATHER AND DAUGHTER 272 - - XV OLD MADAME 289 - - XVI VOICES 309 - - - - - NICOLETTE - - - - - CHAPTER I - FADED SPLENDOUR - - -Midway between Apt and the shores of the Durance, on the southern slope -of Luberon there stands an old château. It had once been the fortified -stronghold of the proud seigneurs de Ventadour, who were direct -descendants of the great troubadour, and claimed kinship with the Comtes -de Provence, but already in the days when Bertrand de Ventadour was a -boy, it had fallen into partial decay. The battlemented towers were in -ruin, the roof in many places had fallen in; only the square block, -containing the old living-rooms, had been kept in a moderate state of -repair. As for the rest, it was a dwelling-place for owls and rooks, the -walls were pitted with crevices caused by crumbling masonry, the -corbellings and battlements had long since broken away, whilst many of -the windows, innocent of glass, stared, like tear-dimmed eyes, way away -down the mountain slope, past the terraced gradients of dwarf olives and -carob trees, to the fertile, green valley below. - -It is, in truth, fair, this land of Provence; but fair with the sad, -subtle beauty of a dream—dream of splendour, of chivalry and daring -deeds, of troubadours and noble ladies; fair with the romance of undying -traditions, of Courts of Love and gallant minstrels, of King René and -lovely Marguerite. Fair because it is sad and silent, like a gentle and -beautiful mother whose children have gone out into the great world to -seek fortunes in richer climes, whilst she has remained alone in the old -nest, waiting with sorrow in her heart and arms ever outstretched in -loving welcome in case they should return; tending and cherishing the -faded splendours of yesterday; and burying with reverence and tears, one -by one, the treasures that once had been her pride, but which the cruel -hand of time had slowly turned to dust. - -And thus it was with the once splendid domaine of the Comtes de -Ventadour. The ancient family, once feudal seigneurs who owed alliance -to none save to the Kings of Anjou, had long since fallen on evil days. -The wild extravagance of five generations of gallant gentlemen had -hopelessly impoverished the last of their line. One acre after another -of the vineyards and lemon groves of old Provence were sold in order to -pay the gambling debts of M. le Comte, or to purchase a new diamond -necklace for Madame, his wife. At the time of which this chronicle is a -faithful record, nothing remained of the extensive family possessions, -but the château perched high up on the side of the mountain and a few -acres of woodland which spread in terraced gradients down as far as the -valley. Oh! those woods, with their overhanging olive trees, and -feathery pines, and clumps of dull-coloured carob and silvery, -sweet-scented rosemary: with their serpentine paths on the edge of which -buttercups and daisies and wild violets grew in such profusion in the -spring, and which in the summer the wild valerian adorned with patches -of purple and crimson: with their scrub and granite boulders, their -mysterious by-ways, their nooks and leafy arbours, wherein it was good -to hide or lie in wait for imaginary foes. Woods that were a heaven for -small tripping feet, a garden of Eden for playing hide-and-seek, a land -of pirates, of captive maidens and robbers, of dark chasms and -crevasses, and of unequal fights between dauntless knights and fierce -dragons. Woods, too, where in the autumn the leaves of the beech and -chestnut turned a daffodil yellow, and those of oak and hazel-nut a -vivid red, and where bunches of crimson berries fell from the mountain -ash and crowds of chattering starlings came to feed on the fruit of the -dwarf olive trees. Woods where tiny lizards could be found lying so -still, so still as the stone of which they seemed to form a part, until -you moved just a trifle nearer, and, with a delicious tremor of fear, -put out your little finger, hoping yet dreading to touch the tiny, lithe -body with its tip, when lo! it would dart away; out of sight even before -you could call Tan-tan to come and have a look. - -Tan-tan had decided that lizards were the baby children of the dragon -which he had slain on the day when Nicolette was a captive maiden, tied -to the big carob tree by means of her stockings securely knotted around -her wee body, and that the patch of crimson hazel-bush close by was a -pool of that same dragon’s blood. Nicolette had spent a very -uncomfortable half-hour that day, because Tan-tan took a very long time -slaying that dragon, a huge tree stump, decayed and covered with fungi -which were the scales upon the brute’s body; he had to slash at the -dragon with his sword, and the dragon had great twisted branches upon -him which were his arms and legs, and these had to be hacked off one by -one. And all the while Nicolette had to weep and to pray for the success -of her gallant deliverer in this unequal fight. And she got very tired -and very hot, and the wind blew her brown curls all over her face, and -they stuck into her mouth and her eyes and round her nose; and Tan-tan -got fiercer and fiercer, and very red and very hot, until Nicolette got -really sorry for the poor dragon, and wept real tears because his body -and legs and arms had been a favourite resting-place of Micheline’s when -Micheline was too tired for play. And now the dragon had no more arms -and legs, and Nicolette wept, and her loose hair stuck to her eyes, and -her stockings were tied so tightly around her that they began to hurt, -whilst a wasp began buzzing round her fat little bare knees. - -“Courage, fair maiden!” Tan-tan exclaimed from time to time, “the hour -of thy deliverance is nigh!” - -But not for all the world would Nicolette have allowed Tan-tan to know -that she had really been crying. And presently when the dragon was duly -slain and the crimson hazel-bush duly testified that he lay in a pool of -blood, the victorious knight cut the bonds which held Nicolette to the -carob tree, and lifting her in his arms, he carried her to his gallant -steed, which was a young pine tree that the mistral had uprooted some -few years ago, and which lay prone upon the ground—the most perfect -charger any knight could possibly wish for. - -What mattered after that, that old Margaï was cross because Nicolette’s -stockings were all in holes? Tan-tan had deigned to say that Nicolette -had a very good idea of play, which enigmatic utterance threw Nicolette -into a veritable heaven of bliss. She did not know what it meant, but -the tiny, podgy hand went seeking Tan-tan’s big, hot one and nestled -there like a bird in its nest, and her large liquid eyes, still wet with -tears, were turned on him with the look of perfect adoration, which was -wont to bring a flush of impatience into his cheek. - -“Thou art stupid, Nicolette,” he would say almost shamefacedly, when -that look came into her eyes, and with a war-whoop, he would dart up the -winding path, bounding over rocks and broken boughs like a young stag, -or swarming up the mountain ash like a squirrel, shutting his manly ears -to the sweet, insidious call of baby lips that called pathetically to -him from below: - -“Tan-tan!” - - -Then, when outside it rained, or the mistral blew across the valley, it -meant delicious wanderings through the interminable halls and corridors -of the old château—more distressed maidens held in durance in -castellated towers, Nicolette and Micheline held captive by cruel, -unseen foes: there were walls to be scaled, prisons to be stormed, hasty -flights along stone passages, discovery of fresh hiding-places, and -always the same intrepid knight, energetic, hot and eager to rescue the -damsels in distress. - -And when the distressed damsels were really too tired to go on being -rescued, there would be those long and lovely halts in the great hall -where past Comtes and Comtesses de Ventadour, vicomtes and demoiselles -looked down with silent scorn from out the mildewed canvases and -tarnished gold frames upon the decayed splendour of their ancient home. -Here, Tan-tan would for the time being renounce his rôle of chivalrous -knight-errant, and would stand thoughtful and absorbed before the -portraits of his dead forbears. These pictures had a strange fascination -for the boy. He never tired of gazing on them and repeating to his two -devoted little listeners the tales which for the most part his -grandmother had told him about these dead and gone ancestors. - -There was Rambaud de Ventadour, the handsome Comte of the days of the -Grand Monarque, who had hied him from his old château in Provence to the -Court of Versailles, where he cut a gallant figure with the best of that -brilliant crowd of courtiers, stars of greater and lesser magnitude that -revolved around the dazzling central sun. There was Madame la Comtesse -Beatrix, the proud beauty whom he took for wife. They were rich in those -days, the seigneurs of Ventadour, and Jaume Deydier, who was Nicolette’s -ancestor, was nothing but a lacquey in their service; he used to take -care of the old château while M. le Comte and Mme. la Comtesse went out -into the gay and giddy world, to Paris, Versailles or Rambouillet. - -’Twas not often the old lands of Provence saw their seigneurs in those -days, not until misfortune overtook them and Geoffroy, Comte de -Ventadour, Tan-tan’s great-grandfather, he whose portrait hung just -above the monumental hearth, returned, a somewhat sobered man, to the -home of his forbears. Here he settled down with his two sons, and here -Tan-tan’s father was born, and Tan-tan himself, and Micheline. But -Nicolette’s father, Jaume Deydier, the descendant of the lacquey, now -owned all the lands that once had belonged to the Comtes de Ventadour, -and he was reputed to be the richest man in Provence, but he never set -foot inside the old château. - -Nicolette did not really mind that her ancestor had been a lacquey. At -six years of age that sort of information leaves one cold; nor did she -quite know what a lacquey was, as there were none in the old homestead, -over on the other side of the valley, where Margaï did the scrubbing, -and the washing and the baking, put Nicolette to bed, and knitted -innumerable pairs of woollen stockings. But she liked to hear about her -ancestor because Tan-tan liked to talk about him, and about those -wonderful times when the Comtes de Ventadour had gilded coaches and rode -out on gaily caparisoned horses, going hawking, or chasing, or fishing -in the Durance, the while old Jaume Deydier, the lacquey, had to stay at -home and clean boots. - -“Whose boots, Tan-tan?” Nicolette would venture to ask, and a look of -deep puzzlement would for a moment put to flight the laughter that dwelt -in her hazel eyes. - -“Thou art stupid, Nicolette,” Tan-tan would reply with a shrug of his -shoulders. “Those of the Comte and Comtesse de Ventadour, of course.” - -“All the day ... would he clean boots?” she insisted, in her halting -little lisp. Then, as Tan-tan simply vouchsafed no reply to this foolish -query, she added with a sigh of mixed emotions: “They must have worn -boots and boots and boots!” - -After which she dismissed the subject of her ancestor from her mind -because Tan-tan had gone on talking about his: about the Comte -Joseph-Alexis, and the Vicomtesse Yolande, the Marquis de Croze (a -collateral), and Damoysella Ysabeau d’Agoult, she who married the Comte -Jeanroy de Ventadour, and was Lady-in-waiting to Mme. de Maintenon, the -uncrowned Queen of France, and about a score or more of others, all -great and gallant gentlemen or beautiful, proud ladies. But above all he -would never weary of talking about the lovely Rixende, who was known -throughout the land as the Lady of the Laurels. They also called her -Riande, for short, because she was always laughing, and was so gay, so -gay, until the day when M. le Comte her husband brought her here to his -old home in Provence, after which she never even smiled again. She hated -the old château, and vowed that such an owl’s nest gave her the megrims: -in truth she was pining for the gaieties of Paris and Versailles, and -even the people here, round about, marvelled why M. le Comte chose to -imprison so gay a bird in this grim and lonely cage, and though he -himself oft visited the Court of Versailles after that, went to Paris -and to Rambouillet, he never again took his fair young wife with him, -and she soon fell into melancholia and died, just like a song-bird in -captivity. - -Tan-tan related all this with bated breath, and his great dark eyes were -fixed with a kind of awed admiration on the picture which, in truth, -portrayed a woman of surpassing beauty. Her hair was of vivid gold, and -nestled in ringlets all around her sweet face, her eyes were as blue as -the gentian that grew on the mountain-side; they looked out of the -canvas with an expression of unbounded gaiety and joy of life, whilst -her lips, which were full and red, were parted in a smile. - -“When I marry,” Tan-tan would declare, and set his arms akimbo in an -attitude of unswerving determination, “I shall choose a wife who will be -the exact image of Rixende, she will be beautiful and merry, and she -will have eyes that are as blue as the sky. Then I shall take her with -me to Paris, where she will put all the ladies of the Court to the -blush. But when she comes back with me to Ventadour, I shall love her -so, and love her so that she will go on smiling and laughing, and never -pine for the courtiers and the balls and the routs, no, not for the -Emperor himself.” - -Nicolette, sitting on the floor, and with her podgy arms encircling her -knees, gazed wide-eyed on the beautiful Rixende who was to be the very -image of Tan-tan’s future wife. She was not thinking about anything in -particular, she just looked and looked, and wondered as one does when -one is six and does not quite understand. Her great wondering eyes were -just beginning to fill with tears, when a harsh voice broke in on -Tan-tan’s eloquence. - -“A perfect programme, by my faith! Bertrand, my child, you may come and -kiss my hand, and then run to your mother and tell her that I will join -her at coffee this afternoon.” - -Bertrand did as he was commanded. The austere grandmother, tall and -proud, and forbidding in a hooped gown, cut after the fashion of three -decades ago, which she had never laid aside for the new-fangled modes of -the mushroom Empire, held out her thin white hand, and the boy -approached and kissed it, and she patted his cheek, and called him a -true Ventadour. - -“While we sit over coffee,” she said, vainly trying to subdue her harsh -voice to tones of gentleness, “I will tell you about your little cousin. -She is called Rixende, after your beautiful ancestress, and when she -grows up, she will be just as lovely as this picture....” - -She paused and raised a lorgnette to her eyes, gazed for a moment on the -picture of the departed Riande, and then allowed her cold, wearied -glance to wander round and down and about until they rested on the -hunched-up little figure of Nicolette. - -“What is that child doing here?” she asked, speaking to Micheline who -stood by, mute and shy, as she always was when her grandmama was nigh. - -It was Bertrand who replied: - -“Nicolette came to ask us to go over to the mas and have coffee there,” -he said, hesitating, blushing, looking foolish, and avoiding Nicolette’s -innocent glance. “Margaï has baked a big, big brioche,” Nicolette chimed -in, in her piping little voice, “and churned some butter—and—and—there’s -cream—heaps and heaps of cream—and——” - -“Go, Bertrand,” the old Comtesse broke in coldly, “and you too, -Micheline, to your mother. I will join you all at coffee directly.” - -Even Bertrand, the favourite, the _enfant gâté_, dared not disobey when -grandmama spoke in that tone of voice. He said: “Yes, grandmama,” quite -meekly, and went out without daring to look again at Nicolette, for of a -surety he knew that her eyes must be full of tears, and he himself was -sorely tempted to cry, because he was so fond, so very fond of Margaï’s -brioches, and of her yellow butter, and lovely jars of cream, whilst in -mother’s room there would only be black bread with the coffee. So he -threw back his head and ran, just ran out of the room; and as Nicolette -had an uncomfortable lump in her wee throat she did not call to Tan-tan -to come back, but sat there on the floor like a little round ball, her -head buried between her knees, her brown curls all tangled and tossed -around her head. Micheline on the other hand made no attempt to disguise -her tears. Grandmama could not very well be more contemptuous and -distant towards her than she always was, for Micheline was plain, and -slightly misshapen, she limped, and her little face always looked -pinched and sickly. Grandmama despised ugliness, she herself was so very -tall and stately, and had been a noted beauty in the days before the -Revolution. But being ugly and of no account had its advantages, because -one could cry when one’s heart was full and pride did not stand in the -way of tears. So when grandmama presently sailed out of the hall, taking -no more notice of Nicolette than if the child had been a bundle of rags, -Micheline knelt down beside her little friend, and hugged and kissed -her. - -“Never mind about to-day, Nicolette,” she said, “run back and tell -Margaï that we will come to-morrow. Grandmama never wants us two days -running, and the brioche won’t be stale.” - -But at six years of age, when a whole life-time is stretched out before -one, every day of waiting seems an eternity, and Nicolette cried and -cried long after Micheline had gone. - -But presently a slight void inside her reminded her of Margaï’s brioche, -and of the jar of cream, and the tears dried off, of themselves; she -picked herself up, and ran out of the hall, along the familiar corridors -where she had so often been a damsel in distress, and out of the postern -gate. She ran down the mountain-side as fast as her short legs would -carry her, down and down into the valley, then up again, bounding like a -young kid, up the winding track to the old house which her much-despised -ancestor had built on the slope above the Lèze when first he laid the -foundations of the fortune which his descendants had consolidated after -him. Up she ran, safe as a bird in its familiar haunts, up the gradients -between the lines of olive trees now laden with fruit, the source of her -father’s wealth. For while the noble Comtes de Ventadour had wasted -their patrimony in luxury and in gambling, the Deydiers, father and son, -had established a trade in oil, and in orange-flower water, both of -which they extracted from the trees on the very land that they had -bought bit by bit from their former seigneurs; and their oil was famed -throughout the country, because one of the Deydiers had invented a -process whereby his oil was sweeter than any other in the whole of -Provence, and was sought after far and wide, and even in distant lands. -But of this Nicolette knew nothing as yet: she did not even know that -she loved the grey-green olive trees, and the terraced gradients down -which she was just able to jump without tumbling, now that she was six -and her legs had grown; she did not know that she loved the old house -with its whitewashed walls, its sky-blue shutters, and multi-coloured -tiled roof, and the crimson rose that climbed up the wall to the very -window sill of her room, and the clumps of orange and lemon trees that -smelt so sweet in the spring when they were laden with blossom, and the -dark ficus trees, and feathery mimosa, and vine-covered arbours. She did -not know that she loved them because her baby-heart had not yet begun to -speak. All that she knew was that Tan-tan was beautiful, and the most -wonderful boy that ever, ever was. There was nothing that Tan-tan could -not do. He could jump on one leg far longer than any other boy in the -country-side. He could throw the bar and the disc much farther even than -Ameyric who was reckoned the finest thrower at the fêtes of Apt. He -could play bows, and shoot with arrows, and to see him wrestle with some -of the boys of the neighbourhood was enough to make one scream with -excitement. - -Nicolette also knew that Tan-tan could make her cry whenever he was -cross or impatient with her, but that it was nice, oh! ever so -nice!—when he condescended to play with her, and carried her about in -his arms, and when, at times, when she had been crying just in play, he -comforted her with a kiss. - - -But that was all long, long, so very long ago. Tan-tan now was a big -boy, and he never slew dragons any more; and when Nicolette through -force of habit called him Tan-tan, there was always somebody to reprove -her; either the old Comtesse of whom she stood in mortal awe, or Pérone -who was grandmama’s maid, and seemed to hold Nicolette in especial -aversion, or the reverend Father Siméon-Luce who came daily from -Manosque to the château in order to give lessons to Bertrand in all -sorts of wonderful subjects. And so Nicolette had to say Bertrand like -everybody else, only when she was quite alone with him, would she still -say Tan-tan, and slide her small hand into his, and look up at him with -wonder and admiration expressed in her luminous eyes. She took to coming -less and less to the château; somehow she preferred to think of Tan-tan -quietly, alone in her cheerful little room, from the windows of which -she could see the top of the big carob tree to which he used to tie her, -when she was a captive maiden and he would be slaying dragons for her -sake. Bertrand was not really Tan-tan when he was at the château, and -Father Siméon-Luce or grandmama were nigh and talked of subjects which -Nicolette did not understand. The happy moments were when he and -Micheline would come over to the mas, and Margaï would bake a lovely -brioche, and they would all sit round the polished table and drink cups -of delicious coffee with whipped cream on the top, and Bertrand’s eyes -would glow, and he would exclaim: “Ah! it is good to be here! I wish I -could stay here always.” An exclamation which threw Nicolette into a -veritable ecstasy of happiness, until Jaume Deydier, her father, who was -usually so kind and gentle with them all, would retort in a voice that -was harsh and almost cruel: - -“You had better express that wish before my lady, your grandmother, my -lad, and see how she will receive it.” - -But there were other happy moments, too. Though Bertrand no longer slew -dragons, he went fishing in the Lèze on his half-holidays, and Nicolette -was allowed to accompany him, and to carry his basket, or hold his rod, -or pick up the fish when they wriggled and flopped about upon the -stones. Micheline seldom came upon these occasions because the way was -rough, and it made her tired to walk quite so far, and at the château no -one knew that Nicolette was with Bertrand when he fished. Father -Siméon-Luce was away on parish work over at Manosque, and grandmama -never walked where it was rough, so Bertrand would call at the mas for -Nicolette, and together the two children would wander up the bank of the -turbulent little mountain stream, till they came to a pool way beyond -Jourdans where fish was abundant, and where a group of boulders, -grass-covered and shaded by feathery pines and grim carobs, made a -palace fit for a fairy-king to dwell in. Here they would pretend that -they were Paul and Virginie cast out on a desert island, dependent on -their own exertions for their very existence. Bertrand had to fish, else -they would have nothing to eat on the morrow. - -All the good things which Margaï’s loving hands had packed for them in -the morning, were really either the result of mysterious foraging -expeditions which Bertrand had undertaken at peril of his life, or of -marvellous ingenuity on the part of Nicolette. Thus the luscious -brioches were in reality crusts of bread which she had succeeded in -baking in the sun, the milk she had really taken from a wild goat -captured and held in duress amongst the mountain fastnesses of the -island, the eggs Bertrand had collected in invisible crags where -sea-fowls had their nests. Oh! it was a lovely game of “Let’s pretend!” -which lasted until the shadows of evening crept over the crest of -Luberon, and Bertrand would cast aside his rod, remembering that the -hour was getting late, and grandmama would be waiting for him. Then they -would return hand in hand, their shoes slung over their shoulders, their -feet paddling in the cold, rippling stream. Way away to the west the -setting sun would light a gorgeous fire in the sky behind Luberon, a -golden fire that presently turned red, and against which the crests and -crags stood out clear-cut and sharp, just as if the world ended there, -and there was nothing behind the mountain-tops. - -In very truth for Nicolette the world did end here; her world! the world -which held the mas that was her home, and to which she would have liked -to have taken Tan-tan, and never let him go again. - - - - - CHAPTER II - LE LIVRE DE RAISON - - -Grandmama sat very stiff and erect at the head of the table; and -Bertrand sat next to her with the big, metal-clasped book still open -before him, and a huge key placed upon the book. Micheline was making -vain endeavours to swallow her tears, and mother sat as usual in her -high-backed chair, her head resting against the cushions; she looked -even paler, more tired than was her wont, her eyes were more swollen and -red, as if she, too, had been crying. - -As Bertrand was going away on the morrow, going to St. Cyr, where he -would learn to become an officer of the King, grandmama had opened the -great brass-bound chest that stood in a corner of the living-room, and -taken out the “Book of Reason,” a book which contained the family -chronicles of the de Ventadours from time immemorial, copies of their -baptism and marriage certificates, their wills, and many other deeds and -archives which had a bearing upon the family history. Such a book—called -“_Livre de Raison_”—exists in every ancient family of Provence; it is -kept in a chest of which the head of the house has the key, and whenever -occasion demands the book is taken out of its resting-place, and the -eldest son reads out loud, to the assembled members of the family, -extracts from it, as his father commands him to do. - -Just for a time, when Bertrand’s father brought a young wife home to the -old château, his old mother—over-reluctantly no doubt—resigned her -position as head of the house, but since his death, which occurred when -Bertrand was a mere baby, and Micheline not yet born, grandmama had -resumed the reins of authority which she had wielded to her own complete -satisfaction ever since she had been widowed. Of a truth, her weak, -backboneless daughter-in-law, with her persistent ill-health and -constant repinings and tears, was not fit to conduct family affairs that -were in such a hopeless tangle as those of the de Ventadours. The young -Comtesse had yielded without a struggle to her mother-in-law’s masterful -assumption of authority; and since that hour it was grandmama who had -ruled the household, superintended the education of her grandchildren, -regulated their future, ordered the few servants about, and kept the -keys of the dower-chests. It was she also who put the traditional “Book -of Reason” to what uses she thought best. Mother acquiesced in -everything, never attempted to argue; it would have been useless, for -grandmama would brook neither argument nor contradiction, and mother was -too ill, too apathetic to attempt a conflict in which of a surety she -would have been defeated. - -And so when grandmama decided that as soon as Bertrand had attained his -seventeenth year he should go to St. Cyr, mother had acquiesced without -a murmur, even though she felt that the boy was too young, too -inexperienced to be thus launched into the world where his isolated -upbringing in far-off old Provence would handicap him in face of his -more sophisticated companions. Only once did she suggest meekly, in her -weak and tired voice, that the life at St. Cyr offered many temptations -to a boy hitherto unaccustomed to freedom, and to the society of -strangers. - -“The cadets have so many days’ leave,” she said, “Bertrand will be in -Paris a great deal.” - -“Bah!” grandmama had retorted with a shrug of her shoulders, “Sybille de -Mont-Pahon is no fool, else she were not my sister. She will look after -Bertrand well enough if only for the sake of Rixende.” - -After which feeble effort mother said nothing more, and in her gentle, -unobtrusive way set to, to get Bertrand’s things in order. Of course she -was bound to admit that it was a mightily good thing for the boy to go -to St. Cyr, where he would receive an education suited to his rank, as -well as learn those airs and graces which since the restoration of King -Louis had once more become the hall-mark that proclaimed a gentleman. It -would also be a mightily good thing for him to spend a year or two in -the house of his great-aunt, Mme. de Mont-Pahon, a lady of immense -wealth, whose niece Rixende would in truth be a suitable wife for -Bertrand in the years to come. But he was still so young, so very young -even for his age, and to put thoughts of a mercenary marriage, or even -of a love-match into the boy’s head seemed to the mother almost a sin. - -But grandmama thought otherwise. - -“It is never too soon,” she declared, “to make a boy understand -something of his future destiny, and of the responsibilities which he -will have to shoulder. Sybille de Mont-Pahon desires the marriage as -much as I do: she speaks of it again in her last letter to me: Rixende’s -father, our younger sister’s child, was one of those abominable traitors -to his King who chose to lick the boots of that Corsican upstart who had -dared to call himself Emperor of the French. Heaven being just, the -renegade has fallen into dire penury and Sybille has cared for his -daughter as if she were her own, but the stain upon her name can be -wiped out only by an alliance with a family such as ours. Bertrand’s -path lies clear before him: win Sybille’s regard and the affection of -Rixende, and the Mont-Pahon millions will help to regild the tarnished -escutcheon of the Ventadours, and drag us all out of this slough of -penury and degradation in which some of our kindred have already gone -under.” - -Thus the day drew nigh when Bertrand would have to go. Everything was -ready for his departure and his box was packed, and Jasmin, the man of -all work, had already taken it across to Jaume Deydier’s; for at six -o’clock on the morrow Deydier’s barouche would be on the road down -below, and it would take Bertrand as far as Pertuis, where he would pick -up the diligence to Avignon and thence to Paris. - -What wonder that mother wept! Bertrand had never been away from home, -and Paris was such a long, such a very long way off! Bertrand who had -never slept elsewhere than in his own little bed, in the room next to -Micheline’s, would have to sleep in strange inns, or on the cushions of -the diligence. The journey would take a week, and he would have so very -little money to spend on small comforts and a good meal now and then. It -was indeed awful to be so poor, that Micheline’s christening cup had to -be sold to provide Bertrand with pocket money on the way. Oh, pray God! -pray God that the boy found favour in the eyes of his rich relative, and -that Rixende should grow up to love him as he deserved to be loved! - -But grandmama did not weep. She was fond of Bertrand in her way, fonder -of him than she was, or had been, of any one else in the world, but in -an entirely unemotional way. She was ambitious for him, chiefly because -in him and through him she foresaw the re-establishment of the family -fortunes. - -Ever since he had come to the age of understanding, she had talked to -him about his name, his family, his ancestors, the traditions and -glories of the past which were recorded in the Book of Reason. And on -this last afternoon which Bertrand would spend at home for many a long -year, she got the book out of the chest, and made him read extracts from -it, from the story of Guilhem de Ventadour who went to the Crusades with -King Louis, down to Bertrand’s great-great-grandfather who was one of -the pall-bearers at the funeral of the Grand Monarque. - -The reading of these extracts from the Book of Reason took on, on this -occasion, the aspect of a solemn rite. Bertrand, who loved his family -history, read on with enthusiasm and fervour, his eyes glowing with -pride, his young voice rolling out the sentences, when the book told of -some marvellous deed of valour perpetrated by one of his forbears, or of -the riches and splendours which were theirs in those days, wherever they -went. Nor did he tire or wish to leave off until grandmama suddenly and -peremptorily bade him close the book. He had come to the page where his -grandfather had taken up the family chronicles, and he had nought but -tales of disappointments, of extravagance and of ever-growing poverty to -record. - -“There, it’s getting late,” grandmama said decisively, “put down the -book, Bertrand, and you may lock it up in the chest, and then give me -back the key.” - -But Bertrand lingered on, the book still open before him, the heavy key -of the chest laid upon its open pages. He was so longing to read about -his grandfather, and about his uncle Raymond, around whose name and -personality there hung some kind of mystery. He thought that since he -was going away on the morrow, the privileges of an _enfant gâté_ might -be accorded him to-night, and his eagerly expressed wish fulfilled. But -the words had scarcely risen to his lips before grandmama said -peremptorily: “Go, Bertrand, do as I tell you.” - -And when grandmama spoke in that tone it was useless to attempt to -disobey. Swallowing his mortification, Bertrand closed the book and, -without another word, he picked up the big key and took the book and -locked it up in the chest that stood in the furthest corner of the room. -He felt cross and disappointed, conscious of a slight put upon him as -the eldest son of the house and the only male representative of the -Ventadours. He was by right the head of the family, and it was not just -that he should be governed by women. Ah! when he came back from St. -Cyr...! - -But here his meditations were interrupted by the sound of his name -spoken by his mother. - -“Bertrand ought to go,” she was saying in her gentle and hesitating way, -“and say good-bye to Nicolette and to Jaume Deydier and thank him for -lending his barouche to-morrow.” - -“I do not see the necessity,” grandmama replied. “He saw Deydier last -Sunday, and methought he would have preferred to spend the rest of his -time with his own sister.” - -“Micheline might go with him,” mother urged, “as far as the mas. She -would enjoy half an hour’s play with Nicolette.” - -“In very truth,” grandmama broke in with marked irritation, “I do not -understand, my good Marcelle, how you can encourage Micheline to -associate with that Deydier child. I vow her manners get worse every -day, and no wonder; the brat is shockingly brought up by that old fool -Margaï, and Jaume Deydier himself has never been more than a peasant.” - -“Nicolette is only a child,” mother had replied with a weary sigh, “and -Micheline will have no one of her own age to speak to, when Bertrand has -gone.” - -“As to that, my dear,” grandmama retorted icily, “you have brought this -early separation on yourself. Bertrand might have remained at home -another couple of years, studying with Father Siméon-Luce, but frankly -this intimacy with the Deydiers frightened me, and hastened my decision -to send him to St. Cyr.” - -“It was a cruel decision, madame,” the Comtesse Marcelle rejoined with -unwonted energy, “Bertrand is young and——” - -“He is seventeen,” the old Comtesse interposed in her hard, trenchant -voice, “an impressionable age. And we do not want a repetition of the -adventure which sent Raymond de Ventadour——” - -“Hush, madame, in Heaven’s name!” her daughter-in-law broke in hastily, -and glanced with quick apprehension in the direction where Bertrand -stood gazing with the eager curiosity of his age, wide-eyed and excited, -upon the old Comtesse, scenting a mystery of life and adventure which -was being withheld from him. - -Grandmama beckoned to him, and made him kneel on the little cushion at -her feet. He had grown into a tall and handsome lad of late, with the -graceful, slim stature of his race, and that wistful expression in the -eyes which is noticeable in most of the portraits of the de Ventadours, -and which gave to his young face an almost tragic look. - -Grandmama with delicate, masterful hand, pushed back the fair unruly -hair from the lad’s forehead and gazed searchingly into his face. He -returned her glance fearlessly, even lovingly, for he was fond, in a -cool kind of way, of his stately grandmother, who was so austere and so -stern to everybody and unbent only for him. - -“I wonder,” she said, and her eyes, which time had not yet dimmed, -appeared to search the boy’s very soul. - -“What at, grandmama?” he asked. - -“If I can trust you, Bertrand.” - -“Trust me?” the boy exclaimed, indignant at the doubt. “I am Comte de -Ventadour,” he went on proudly. “I would sooner die than commit a -dishonourable action....” - -Whereat grandmama laughed;—an unpleasant, grating laugh it was, which -acted like an icy douche upon the boy’s enthusiasm. She turned her gaze -on her daughter-in-law, whose pale face took on a curious ashen hue, -whilst her trembling lips murmured half incoherently: - -“Madame—for pity’s sake——” - -“Ah bah!” the old lady rejoined with a shrug of the shoulders, “the boy -will have to know sooner or later that his father——” - -“Madame——!” the younger woman pleaded once more, but this time there was -just a thought of menace, and less of humility in her tone. - -“There, there!” grandmama rejoined dryly, “calm your fears, my good -Marcelle, I won’t say anything to-day. Bertrand goes to-morrow. We shall -not see him for two years: let him by all means go under the belief that -no de Ventadour has ever committed a dishonourable action.” - -Throughout this short passage of arms between his mother and -grandmother, Bertrand had remained on his knees, his great dark eyes, -with that wistful look of impending tragedy in them, wandering excitedly -from one familiar face to the other. This was not the first time that -his keen ears had caught a hint of some dark mystery that clung around -the memory of the father whom he had never known. Like most children, -however, he would sooner have died than ask a direct question, but this -he knew, that whenever his father’s name was mentioned, his mother wept, -and grandmama’s glance became more stern, more forbidding than its wont. -And, now on the eve of his departure for St. Cyr, he felt that mystery -encompass him, poisoning the joy he had in going away from the gloomy -old château, from old women and girls and senile servitors, out into the -great gay world of Paris, where the romance and adventures of which he -had dreamt ever since he could remember anything, would at last fall to -his lot, with all the good things of this life. He felt that he was old -enough now to know what it was that made his mother so perpetually sad, -that she had become old before her time, sick and weary, an absolute -nonentity in family affairs over which grandmama ruled with a masterful -hand. But now he was too proud to ask. They treated him as a child—very -well! he was going away, and when he returned he would show them who -would henceforth be the master of his family’s destiny. But for the -moment all that he ventured on was a renewed protest: - -“You can trust me in everything, grandmama,” he said. “I am not a -child.” - -Grandmama was still gazing into his face, gazing as if she would read -all the secrets of his young unsophisticated soul: he returned her gaze -with a glance as searching as her own. For a moment they were in perfect -communion these two, the old woman with one foot in the grave, and the -boy on the threshold of life. They understood one another, and each read -in the other’s face, the same pride, the same ambition, and the same -challenge to an adverse fate. For a moment, too, it seemed as if the -grandmother would speak, tell the boy something at least of the -tragedies which had darkened the last few pages of the family -chronicles; and Bertrand, quite unconsciously, put so much compelling -force into his gaze that the old woman was on the point of yielding. But -once more the mother’s piteous voice pleaded for silence: - -“Madame!” she exclaimed. - -Her voice broke the spell; grandmama rose abruptly to her feet, which -caused Bertrand to tumble backwards off the cushion. By the time he had -picked himself up again, grandmama had gone. - - -Bertrand felt low and dispirited, above all cross with his mother for -interfering. He went out of the room without kissing her. At first he -thought of following grandmama into her room and forcing her to tell him -all that he wanted to know, but pride held him back. He would not be a -suppliant: he would not beg, there where in a very short time he would -command. There could be nothing dishonourable in the history of the de -Ventadours. They were too proud, too noble, for dishonour even to touch -their name. Instinctively Bertrand had wandered down to the great hall -where hung the portraits of those Ventadours who had been so rich and so -great in the past. Bertrand was now going out into the world in order to -rebuild those fortunes which an unjust fate had wrested from him. He -gazed on the portrait of lovely Rixende. She, too, had been rich and -brought a splendid dowry to her lord when she married him. He had proved -ungrateful and she had died of sorrow. Bertrand marvelled if in truth -his cousin Rixende was like her namesake. Anyway she was rich, and he -would love her to his dying day if she consented to be his wife. - -Already he loved her because he had been told that she had hair glossy -and golden like the Rixende of the picture, and great mysterious eyes as -blue as the gentian; and that her lips smiled like those of Rixende had -done, whereupon he marvelled if they would be good to kiss. After which, -by an unexplainable train of thought, he fell to thinking of Nicolette. -She had sent him a message by Micheline yesterday that she would wait -for him all the afternoon, on their island beside the pool. It was now -past four o’clock. The shades of evening were fast gathering in, in the -valley below, and even up here on the heights the ciliated shadows of -carob and olive were beginning to lengthen. It would take an hour to run -as far as the pool; and then it would be almost time to come home again, -for of late Jaume Deydier had insisted that Nicolette must be home -before dark. It was foolish of Nicolette to be waiting for him so far -away. Why could she not be sensible and come across to the château to -say good-bye? The boy was fighting within himself, fighting a battle -wherein tenderness and vanity were on the one side, and a false sense of -pride and manliness on the other. In the end it was perhaps vanity that -won the fight. All day he had been treated as a child that was being -packed up and sent to school: all day he had been talked to, and -admonished, and preached at, first by grandmama, and then by Father -Siméon-Luce; he had been wept over by mother and by Micheline: now -Nicolette neither admonished nor wept. He would not allow her to do the -former and she was too sensible to attempt the latter. She would -probably stand quite still and listen while he told her of his plans for -the future, and all the fine things he would do when he was of age, and -rich, and had married his cousin Rixende. - -Nicolette was sensible, she would soothe his ruffled self-esteem and -restore to him some of that confidence in himself of which he would -stand in sore need during the long and lonely voyage that lay before -him. - -Hardly conscious of his own purpose, Bertrand sauntered down the -mountain-side. It was still hot on this late September afternoon, and -the boy instinctively sought, as he descended, the cool shadows that lay -across the terraced gradients. A pungent scent of rosemary and -eucalyptus was in the air, and from the undergrowth around came the -muffled sound of mysterious, little pattering feet, or call of tiny -beasts to their mates. Bertrand’s head ached, and his hands felt as if -they were on fire. A curious restlessness and dissatisfaction made him -feel out of tune with these woods which he loved more than he knew, with -the blood-red berries of the mountain ash that littered the ground, and -the low bushes of hazel-nut which autumn had painted a vivid crimson. -Now he was down in the valley and up again on the spur behind which -tossed and twirled the clear mountain stream. - -The rough walk was doing him good: his body felt hot but his hands were -cooler and his temples ceased to throb. When he reached the water’s -edge, he sat down on a boulder and took off his boots and his stockings -and slung them over his shoulder, and walked up the bed of the stream -until the waters widened into that broad, silent pool which washed the -shores of his fairy island. Already from afar he had spied Nicolette; -she was watching for him on the grassy slope, clinging with one hand to -the big carob that overhung the pool. She had on a short kirtle of faded -blue linen, and a white apron and shift, the things she always wore when -she was Virginie and he was Paul on their fairy island. She had -obviously been paddling, for she had taken off her shoes and stockings, -and her feet and legs shone like rose-tinted metal in the cool shade of -the trees. Her head was bare and a soft breeze stirred the loose brown -curls about her head, but Bertrand could not see her face, for her head -was bent as if she were gazing intently into the pool. Way up beyond the -valley, the sinking sun had tinged the mountain peaks with gold, and had -already lit the big, big fire in the sky behind Luberon, but here on the -island everything was cool and grey and peaceful, with only the murmur -of the stream over the pebbles to break the great solemn silence of the -woods. - -When Bertrand jumped upon the big boulder, the one from which he was -always wont to fish, Nicolette looked up and smiled. But she did not say -anything, not at first, and Bertrand stood by a little shamefaced and -quite unaccountably bashful. - -“The fish have been shy all the afternoon,” were the first words that -Nicolette said. - -“Did you try and fish?” Bertrand asked. - -Nicolette pointed to a rod and empty basket which lay on the grass close -by. - -“I borrowed those from Ameyric over at La Bastide,” she said. “I wanted -to try my hand at it.” She paused. Then she swallowed; swallowed hard -and resolutely as if there had been a very big lump in her throat. Then -she said quite simply: - -“I shall have to do something on long afternoons when I come here——” - -“But you are going away too,” the boy rejoined, quite angry with himself -because his voice was husky. - -“Not till after the New Year. Then I am going to Avignon.” - -“Avignon?” - -“To school at the Ladies of the Visitation,” she explained, and added -quaintly: “I am very ignorant, you know, Tan-tan.” - -He frowned and she thought that he was cross because she had called him -Tan-tan. - -“By the time you come back,” she said meekly, “I shall be quite used to -calling you M. le Comte.” - -“Don’t be stupid, Nicolette,” was all that Bertrand could think of -saying. - -They were both silent after that, and as Nicolette turned to climb up -the gradient, Bertrand followed her, half reluctantly. He knew she was -going to the hut of Paul et Virginie: the place they were wont to call -their island home. It was just an old, a very old olive tree, with a -huge, hollow trunk, in which they, as children, could easily find -shelter, and in the spring the ground around it was gay with buttercups -and daisies; and bunches of vivid blue gentian and lavender and broom -nestled against the great grey boulders. Here Bertrand and Nicolette had -been in the habit of sitting when they pretended to be Paul et Virginie -cast off on a desert island, and here they would eat the food which -“Paul” had found at peril of his life, and which “Virginie” had cooked -with such marvellous ingenuity. They had been so happy there, so often. -The wood-pigeons would come and pick up the crumbs after they had -finished eating, and now and then, when they sat very, very still, a -hare would dart out from behind a great big boulder, and peep out at -them with large frightened eyes, his long ears sharply silhouetted -against the sun-kissed earth, and at the slightest motion from them, or -wilful clapping of their hands, it would dart away again, leaving -Bertrand morose and fretful because, though he was a big man, he was not -yet allowed to have a gun. - -“When I am a man,” was the burden of his sighing, and Nicolette would -have much ado to bring the smile back into his eyes. - -They had been so happy—so often. The flowers were their friends, the -wild pansy with its quizzical wee face, the daisy with the secrets, -which its petals plucked off one by one, revealed, the lavender which -had to be carried home in huge bunches for Margaï to put in muslin bags. -All but the gentian. Nicolette never liked the gentian, though its -petals were of such a lovely, heavenly blue. But whenever Bertrand spied -one he would pluck it, and stick it into his buttonhole: “The eyes of my -Rixende,” he would say, “will be bluer than this.” Fortunately there was -not much gentian growing on the island of Paul et Virginie. - -They had been so happy here—so often, away from grandmama’s stern gaze -and Father Siméon-Luce’s admonitions, when they had just pretended and -pretended: pretended that the Lèze was the great open sea, on which -never a ship came in sight to take them away from their beloved island, -out into the great world which they had never known. - -But to-day to Bertrand, who was going away on the morrow into that same -great and unknown world, the game of pretence appeared futile and -childish. He was a man now, and could no longer play. Somehow he felt -cross with Nicolette for having put on her “Virginie” dress, and he -pretended that his feet were cold, and proceeded to put on his stockings -and his boots. - -“The big ship has come in sight, Bertrand,” the girl said. “We will -never see our island again.” - -“That is nonsense, Nicolette,” Bertrand rejoined, seemingly deeply -occupied in the putting on of his boots. “We will often come here, very -often, when the trout are plentiful and I am home for the holidays.” - -She shook her head. - -“Margaï,” she said, “overheard Pérone talking to Jasmin the other day, -and Pérone said that Mme. la Comtesse did not wish you to come home for -at least two years.” - -“Well! in two years’ time....” he argued, with a shrug of his shoulders. - -She offered him some lovely buttered brioche, and said it was fish she -had dried by a new process on slabs of heated stone, and she also had -some milk, which she said she had found inside a coconut. - -“The coconut trees are plentiful on the island,” she said, “and the milk -from the nuts is as sweet as if it were sugared.” But Bertrand would not -eat, he said he had already had coffee and cakes in grandmama’s room, -and Nicolette abstractedly started crumbling up the brioche, hoping that -the wood-pigeons would soon come for their meal. She was trying to -recapture the spirit of a past that was no more: the elusive spirit of -that happy world in which she had dwelt alone with Tan-tan. But strive -how she might, she felt that the outer gates of that world were being -closed against her for ever. Suddenly she realised that it was getting -dark, and that she felt a little cold. She squatted on the ground and -put on her shoes and stockings. - -“We shall have to hurry,” she said, “father does not like me to be out -long after dark.” - -Then she jumped to her feet and started climbing quickly up the -stone-built terraces, darting at break-neck speed round and about the -olive trees, and deliberately turning her back on the pool, and the -fairy island which she knew now that she would never, never see again. -Bertrand had some difficulty in following her. Though he felt rather -cross, he also felt vaguely remorseful. Somehow he wished now that he -had not come at all. - -“Nicolette,” he called, “why, you have not said good-bye!” - -And this he said because Nicolette had in truth scurried just like a -young hare, way off to the right, and was now running and leaping down -the gradients till she reached the fence of the mas which was her home. -Here she leaned against the gate. Bertrand, running after her as fast as -he could, could scarce distinguish her in the fast gathering gloom. He -could only vaguely see the gleam of her white shift and apron. She was -leaning against the gate, and a pale gleam of twilight outlined her arm -and hand and the silhouette of her curly head. - -“Nicolette,” he called again, “don’t go in, I must kiss you good-bye.” - -As usual she was obedient to his command, and waited, panting a little -after this madcap run through the woods, till he was near her. - -He took her hand and kissed her on the temple. - -“Good-bye, Nicolette,” he said cheerily, “don’t forget me.” - -“Good-bye, Bertrand,” she murmured under her breath. - -Then she turned quickly: and was through the gate and out of sight -before he could say another word. Ah well! girls were strange beings. So -unreliable. A man never knew, when she smiled, if she was going to frown -the very next minute. - -As to that, Bertrand was glad that Nicolette had not cried, or made a -scene. He was a man now, and really hated the sentimental episodes to -which his dear mother and even Micheline indulged in so generously. Poor -little Nicolette, no doubt her life would be rather dull after this, as -Micheline was not really strong enough for the violent exercise in which -Nicolette revelled with all the ardour of her warm blood and healthy -young body. But no doubt she would like the convent at Avignon, and the -society of rich, elegant girls, for of a truth, as grandmama always -said, her manners had of late become rather rough, under the tutelage of -old Margaï—a mere servant—and of her father, who was no more than a -peasant. The way she ran away from him, Bertrand, just now, without -saying a proper “good-bye,” argued a great want of knowledge on her part -of the amenities of social life. And when he said to her: “Good-bye, -Nicolette, do not forget me!” she should have answered.... - -Ah, bah! What mattered? It was all over now, thank the Lord, the -good-byes and the weepings and the admonitions. The book of life lay -open at last before him. To-morrow he would shake the dust of old -Provence from his feet. To-morrow he would begin to read. Paris! -Rixende! Wealth! The great big world. Oh, God! how weary he was of -penury and of restraint! - - - - - CHAPTER III - THE HONOUR OF THE NAME - - -Bertrand came home for his Easter holidays after he had passed out of -St. Cyr and received his commission in the King’s bodyguard: an honour -which he owed as much to his name as to Madame de Mont-Pahon’s wealth -and influence. He was only granted two weeks’ vacation because political -conditions in Paris were in a greatly disturbed state just then, owing -to the King’s arbitrary and reactionary policy, which caused almost as -much seething discontent as that which precipitated the Revolution nigh -on forty years ago. Louis XVIII in very truth was so unpopular at this -time, and the assassination of his nephew, the Duc de Berry, two years -previously, had so preyed upon his mind that he never stirred out of his -château de Versailles save under a powerful escort of his trusted -bodyguard. - -It was therefore a matter of great importance for Bertrand’s future -career that he should not be too long absent from duty, which at any -moment might put him in the way of earning distinction for himself, and -the personal attention of the King. - -As it happened, when he did come home during the spring of that year -1822, Nicolette was detained in the convent school at Avignon because -she had measles. A very prosy affair, which caused poor little Micheline -many a tear. - -She had been so anxious that her dear little friend should see how -handsome Bertrand had grown, and how splendid he looked in his beautiful -blue uniform all lavishly trimmed with gold lace, and the képi with the -tuft of white feathers in front, which gave him such a martial -appearance. - -In truth, Micheline was so proud of her brother that she would have -liked to take him round the whole neighbourhood and show him to all -those who had known him as a reserved and rather puny lad. She would -above all things have loved to take him across to the mas and let Jaume -Deydier and Margaï see him, for then surely they would write and tell -Nicolette about him. Bertrand acquiesced quite humouredly in the idea -that she should thus take him on a grand tour to be inspected, and plans -were formed to go over to Apt, and see M. le Curé there, and Gastinel -Barnadou, the mayor of the commune, who lived at La Bastide, and whose -son Ameyric was considered the handsomest lad of the country-side, and -the bravest and most skilful too. All the girls were in love with him -because he could run faster, jump higher, and throw the bar and the disc -farther than any man between the Caulon and the Durance, but Micheline -knew that as soon as Huguette or Madeleine or Rigaude set eyes on her -Bertrand they would never look on any other man again. And Bertrand -smiled and listened to Micheline’s plans, and promised that he would go -with her to Jaume Deydier’s or to Apt, or whithersoever she chose to -take him. But the Easter holidays came and went: Father Siméon-Luce came -over from Manosque to celebrate Mass in the chapel of the château, then -he went away again. And after Easter the weather turned cold and wet. It -was raining nearly every day, and for one reason or another it was -difficult to go over to the mas, and the expedition to Apt was an -impossibility because there was no suitable vehicle in the coach-house -of the château, and it was impossible to borrow Jaume Deydier’s barouche -until one had paid him a formal visit. - -And so the time went by and the day was at hand when Bertrand had to -return to Versailles. Instead of going in comfort in Deydier’s barouche -as far as Pertuis, he went with Jasmin in the cart, behind the old horse -that had done work in and about the château for more years than Bertrand -could remember. The smart officer of the King’s bodyguard sat beside the -old man-of-all-work, on a wooden plank, with his feet planted on the box -that contained his gorgeous uniforms, and his one thought while the old -horse trotted leisurely along the rough mountain roads, was how good it -would be to be back at Versailles. Visions of the brilliantly lighted -salons floated tantalisingly before his gaze, of the King and the Queen, -and M. le Comte d’Artois, and all the beautiful ladies of the Court, the -supper and card parties, the Opera and the rides in the Bois. And amidst -all these visions there was one more tantalising, more alluring than the -rest: the vision of his still unknown cousin Rixende. She was coming -from the fashionable convent in Paris, where she had been finishing her -education, in order to spend the next summer holidays with her -great-aunt, Mme. de Mont-Pahon. In his mind he could see her as the real -counterpart of the picture which he had loved ever since he was a boy. -Rixende of the gentian-blue eyes and fair curly locks! His Lady of the -Laurels. Rixende—the heiress to the Mont-Pahons’ millions—who, with her -wealth, her influence and her beauty, would help to restore the glories -of the family of Ventadour, which to his mind was still the finest -family in France. With her money he would restore the old feudal château -in Provence, of which, despite its loneliness and dilapidated -appearance, he was still inordinately proud. - -Once more the halls and corridors would resound with laughter and -merry-making, once more would gallant courtiers whisper words of love in -fair ladies’ ears! He and lovely Rixende would restore the Courts of -Love that had been the glory of old Provence in mediæval days; they -would be patrons of the Arts, and attract to this fair corner of France -all that was greatest among the wits, sweetest among musicians, most -famous in the world of letters. Ah! they were lovely visions that -accompanied Bertrand on his lonely drive through the mountain passes of -his boyhood’s home. For as long as he could, he gazed behind him on the -ruined towers of the old château, grimly silhouetted against the -afternoon sky. Then, when a sharp turn of the road hid the old owl’s -nest from view, he looked before him, where life beckoned to him full of -promises and of coming joys, and where through a haze of fluffy, -cream-coloured clouds, he seemed to see blue-eyed Rixende holding out to -him a golden cornucopia from which fell a constant stream of roses, each -holding a bag full of gold concealed in its breast. - - -It was owing to the war with Spain, and the many conspiracies of the -Carbonari that Bertrand was unable for the next three years to obtain a -sufficient extension of leave to visit his old home. He was now a full -lieutenant in the King’s bodyguard, and Mme. de Mont-Pahon wrote with -keen enthusiasm about his appearance and his character, both of which -had earned her appreciation. - - -“_It is the dream of my declining days_,” she wrote to her sister, the -old Comtesse de Ventadour, “_that Bertrand and Rixende should be united. -Both these children are very dear to me: kinship and affection binds me -equally to both. I am old now, and sick, but my most earnest prayer to -God is to see them happy ere I close my eyes in their last long sleep._” - - -In another letter she wrote: - - -“_Bertrand has won my regard as well as my affection. In this last -affair at Belfort, whither the King’s bodyguard was sent to quell the -conspiracy of those abominable Carbonari, his bravery as well as his -shrewdness were liberally commented on. I only wish he would make more -headway in his courtship of Rixende. Of course the child is young, and -does not understand how serious a thing life is: but Bertrand also is -too serious at times, at others he seems to reserve his enthusiasm for -the card-table or the pleasure of the chase. For his sake, as well as -for that of Rixende, I would not like this marriage, on which I have set -my heart, to be delayed too long._” - - -Later on she became even more urgent: - - -“_The doctors tell me I have not long to live. Ah, well! my dear, I have -had my time, let the two children whom I love have theirs. My fortune -will suffice for a brilliant life for them, I make no doubt: but it must -remain in its entirety. I will not have Bertrand squander it at cards or -in pearl-necklaces for the ladies of the Opera. Therefore hurry on the -marriage on your side, my good Margarita, and I will do my best on -mine._” - - -The old Comtesse, with her sister’s last letter in her hand, hurried to -her daughter-in-law’s room. - -“You see, Marcelle,” she said resolutely, after a hurried and -unsympathetic inquiry as to the younger woman’s health: “You see how it -is. Everything depends on Bertrand. Sybille de Mont-Pahon means to -divide her wealth between him and Rixende, but he will lose all if he -does not exert himself. Oh! if I had been a man!” she exclaimed, and -looked down with an obvious glance of contempt on the two invalids, -mother and daughter, the two puny props of the tottering house of -Ventadour. - -“Bertrand can but lead an honourable life,” the mother argued wearily. -“He is an honourable man, but you could not expect him at his age to -toady to an old woman for the mere sake of her wealth.” - -“Who talks of toadying?” the old woman exclaimed, with an irritable note -in her harsh voice. “You are really stupid, Marcelle.” - -Over five years had gone by since first Bertrand went away from the old -home in Provence, driven as far as Pertuis in Deydier’s barouche, his -pockets empty, and his heart full of longing for that great world into -which he was just entering. Five years and more, and now he was more -than a man; he was the head of the house of Ventadour, one of the most -renowned families in France, who had helped to make history, and whose -lineage could be traced back to the days of Charlemagne, even though, -now—in the nineteenth century—they owned but a few mètres of barren land -around an ancient and dilapidated château. - -Not even grandmama disputed Bertrand’s right at this hour to make use of -the Book of Reason as he thought best, and she had promised him over and -over again of late, by written word, that when next he came to -Ventadour, she would give him the key of the chest that contained the -family archives. To a Provençal, the key to the Book of Reason is a -symbol of his own status as head of the house, and to Bertrand it meant -all that and more, because his pride in his family and lineage, and even -in the old barrack which he called home was the dominating factor in all -his actions, and because he felt that there could be nothing in his -family history that was not worthy and honourable. There had been -secrets kept from him while he was a child, secrets in connection with -his father, and with his great-uncle, Raymond de Ventadour, but Bertrand -was willing to admit that there might have been a reason for this, one -that was good enough to determine the actions of grandmama, who was -usually to be trusted in all affairs that concerned the honour of the -family. - -But somehow things did not occur just as Bertrand had expected. His -arrival at the château was a great event, of course, and from the first -he felt that he was no longer being treated as a boy, and that even his -grandmother spoke to him of family affairs in tones of loving submission -which went straight to his heart, and gave him that consciousness of -importance for which he had been longing ever since he had left -childhood’s days behind him. But close on a fortnight went by before at -last, in deference to his urgent demand, she gave him the key of the -chest that contained the family archives. It was a great moment for -Bertrand. He would not touch the chest while anyone was in the room; his -first delving into those priceless treasures should have no witness save -the unseen spirit that animated him. With an indulgent shrug of her -aristocratic shoulders, grandmama left him to himself, and Bertrand -spent a delicious five minutes, first in turning the key in the -old-fashioned lock of the chest, then lifting out the book, and turning -over its time-stained pages. - -He was on the lookout for records that would throw some light upon the -life and adventures of his uncle Raymond de Ventadour, whose name was -never mentioned by grandmama, save with a sneer. Bertrand was quite sure -that if the Book of Reason had been kept as it should, he would learn -something that would clear up the mystery that hung over that name. He -was above all anxious to find out something definite about his own -father’s death, without having recourse to the cruel task of -interrogating his mother. - -But though the chest contained a number of births, baptismal, marriage -and death certificates, and the book a few records of the political -events of the past fifty years, there was nothing there that would throw -any light upon the secrets that Bertrand long to fathom. Nothing about -Raymond de Ventadour, save his baptismal certificate and a brief record -that he fought under General Moreau in Germany, and subsequently in -Egypt. What happened to him after that, where he went, when he came -back—if he came back at all—and when he died, was not chronicled in this -book wherein every passing event, however futile, if it was in any way -connected with the Ventadours had been recorded for the past five -hundred years. In the same way there was but little said about -Bertrand’s father, there was his marriage certificate to Marcelle de -Cercomans, and that of his death the year of Micheline’s birth. But that -was all. A few trinkets lay at the bottom of the chest, among these a -seal-ring with the arms of the Ventadours engraved thereon, and their -quaint device, “_moun amour e moun noum_.” - -Bertrand loved the device; for his love and for his name, he would in -very truth have sacrificed life itself. He took up the ring and slipped -it on his finger; then he continued to turn over the pages of the old -book, still hoping to extract from it that knowledge he so longed to -possess. - -Half an hour later a soft foot-tread behind him roused him from his -meditations, and two loving arms were creeping round his neck: - -“Are you ready, Bertrand?” Micheline asked. - -“Ready for what?” he retorted. - -“You said you would come over to the mas with me this afternoon.” - -Bertrand frowned, and then with obvious moodiness, he picked up the -family chronicle, and went to lock it up in the big dower-chest. - -“You are coming, Bertrand, are you not?” Micheline insisted with a -little catch in her throat. - -“Not to-day, Micheline,” he replied after awhile. - -“Bertrand!” - -The cry came with such a note of reproach that the frown deepened on his -forehead. - -“Grandmama has such a violent objection to my going,” he said, somewhat -shamefacedly. - -“And you—at your age——” Micheline broke in more bitterly than she had -ever spoken to her brother in her life; “you are going to allow, -grandmama, an old woman, to dictate to you as to where you should go, -and where not?” - -Bertrand at this taunt aimed at his dignity had blushed to the roots of -his hair, and a look of obstinacy suddenly hardened his face, making it -seem quite set and old. - -“There is no question,” he said coldly, “of anybody dictating to me: it -is a question of etiquette and of usage. It was Jaume Deydier’s duty in -the first instance to pay his respects to me.” - -“It is not a question of etiquette or of usage, Bertrand,” the girl -retorted hotly, “but of Nicolette our friend and playmate. I do not know -what keeps Jaume Deydier from setting foot inside the château, but God -knows that he owes us nothing, so why should he come? We on the other -hand owe him countless kindnesses and boundless generosity, which we can -never repay save by kindliness and courtesy. Why! when you were first at -St. Cyr——” - -“Micheline!” - -The word rang out hard and trenchant, as the old Comtesse sailed into -the room. Micheline at once held her tongue, cowed as she always was in -the presence of her autocratic grandmother. - -“What is the discussion about?” grandmama asked coldly. - -“My going to the mas,” Bertrand replied. - -“To pay your respects to Jaume Deydier?” she asked, with a sneer. - -“To see Nicolette,” Micheline broke in boldly. “Bertrand’s oldest -friend.” - -“Quite a nice child,” the old Comtesse owned with ironical graciousness. -“She is at liberty to come and see Bertrand when she likes.” - -“She is too proud——” Micheline hazarded, then broke down suddenly in her -speech, because grandmama had raised her lorgnette, and was staring at -her so disconcertingly that Micheline felt tears of mortification rising -to her eyes. - -“So,” grandmama said with that biting sarcasm which hurt so terribly, -and which she knew so well how to throw into her voice. “So Mademoiselle -Deydier is proud, is she? Too proud to pay her respects to the Comtesse -de Ventadour. Ah, well! let her stay at home then. It is not for a -Ventadour to hold out a hand of reconciliation to one of the Deydiers.” - -“Reconciliation, grandmama?” Bertrand broke in quickly. “Has there been -a quarrel then?” - -For a moment it seemed to Bertrand’s keenly searching eyes as if the old -Comtesse’s usually magnificent composure was slightly ruffled. Certain -it is that a delicate flush rose to her withered cheeks, and her retort -did not come with that trenchant rapidity to which she had accustomed -her family and her household. However, the hesitation—if hesitation -there was—was only momentary: an instant later she had shrugged her -shoulders, elevated her eyebrows with her own inimitably grandiose air, -and riposted coolly: - -“Quarrel? My dear Bertrand? Surely you are joking. How could there be a -quarrel between us and the—er—Deydiers? The old man chooses to hold -himself aloof from the château: but that is right and proper, and no -doubt he knows his place. We cannot have those sort of people -frequenting our house in terms of friendship—especially if your cousin -Rixende should pay us a visit one of these days. Once an intimacy is set -up, it is very difficult to break off again—and surely you would not -wish that oil-dealer’s child to meet your future wife on terms of -equality?” - -“Rixende is not that yet,” Bertrand rejoined almost involuntarily, “and -if she comes here——” - -“She will have to come here,” grandmama said in her most decided tone. -“Sybille de Mont-Pahon wishes it, and it is right and proper that -Rixende should be brought here to pay her respects to me—and to your -mother,” she added as with an after-thought. - -“But——” - -“But what,” she asked, for he seemed to hesitate. - -“Rixende is so fastidious,” Bertrand said moodily. “She has been brought -up in the greatest possible luxury. This old house with its faded -furniture——” - -“This old house with its faded furniture,” grandmama broke in icily, -“has for centuries been the home of the Comtes de Ventadour, a family -whose ancestors claimed kinship with kings. Surely it is good enough to -shelter the daughter of a—of a—what is their name?—a Peyron-Bompar! My -good Bertrand, your objections are both futile and humiliating to us -all. Thank God! we have not sunk so low, that we cannot entertain a -Mademoiselle—er—Peyron-Bompar and her renegade father in a manner -befitting our rank.” - -Grandmama had put on her grandest manner, and further argument was, of -course, useless. Bertrand said nothing more, only stood by, frowning -moodily. Micheline had succeeded in reaching the shelter of the window -recess. From here she could still see Bertrand, could watch every play -of emotion on his telltale face. She felt intensely sorry for him, and -ashamed for him as well as for herself. But above all for him. He was a -man, he should act as a man; whilst she was only a weak, misshapen, ugly -creature with a boundless capacity for suffering, and no more courage -than a cat. Even now she was conscious right through her pity for -Bertrand which dominated every other feeling—of an intense sense of -relief that the tattered curtain hung between her and grandmama, and -concealed her from the irascible old lady’s view. - -She tried to meet Bertrand’s eyes: but he purposely evaded hers. As for -him, he felt vaguely ashamed he knew not exactly of what. He dared not -look at Micheline, fearing to read either reproach or pity in her gaze; -either of which would have galled him. For the first time, too, in his -life, he felt out of tune with the ideals of the old Comtesse, whom he -revered as the embodiment of all the splendours of the Ventadours. Now -his pride was up in arms against her for her assumption of control. -Where was his vaunted manhood? Was he—the head of the house—to be -dictated to by women? Already he was lashing himself up into a state of -rebellion and of fury. Planning a sudden assertion of his own authority, -when his grandmother’s voice, hard and trenchant, acted like a cold -douche upon his heated temper, and sobered him instantly. - -“To revert to the subject of those Deydiers,” she said coldly, “my -sister Mme. de Mont-Pahon has made it a point that all intimacy shall -cease between you and them, before she would allow of Rixende’s -engagement to you.” - -“But why?” Bertrand exclaimed almost involuntarily. “In Heaven’s name, -why?” - -“You could ask her,” grandmama retorted quietly. - -“Mme. de Mont-Pahon must understand that I seek my own friends, how and -where I choose——” - -“Your great-aunt would probably retort that she will then seek her heir -also where and how she chooses—as well as Rixende’s future husband——” - -Then as Bertrand in the excess of his shame and mortification buried his -head in his hands, she went up to him, and placed her wrinkled -aristocratic hand upon his shoulder. - -“There, there,” she said almost gently, “don’t be childish, my dear -Bertrand. Alas! when one is poor, one is always kissing the rod. All you -want now is patience. Once Rixende is your wife, and my obstinate sister -has left her millions to you both, and she and I have gone to join the -great majority, you can please yourself in the matter of your friends.” - -“It is so shameful to be poor,” Bertrand murmured bitterly. - -“Yes, it is,” the old woman assented dryly. “That is the reason why I -wish to drag you out of all this poverty and humiliation. But do not -make the task too hard for me, Bertrand. I am old, and your mother is -feeble. If I were to go you would soon drift down the road of destiny in -the footsteps of your father.” - -“My father?” - -“Your father like you was weak and vacillating. Sunk in the slough of -debt, enmeshed in a network of obligations which he had not the moral -strength to meet, he blew out his brains, when broke the dawn of the -inevitable day of reckoning.” - -“It is false!” Bertrand cried impulsively. - -He had jumped to his feet. - -Clinging with one hand to the edge of the table, he faced the old -Comtesse, his eyes gazing horror-struck upon that stern impassive face, -on which scarce a tremor had passed while she delivered this merciless -judgment on her own son. - -“It is false!” the young man reiterated. - -“It is true, Bertrand,” the old woman rejoined quietly. “The ring which -you now wear, I myself took off his finger, after the pistol dropped -from his lifeless hand.” - -She was on the point of saying something more, when a long-drawn sigh, a -moan, and an ominous thud, stayed the words upon her lips. Bertrand -looked up at once, and the next moment darted across the room. There lay -his mother, half crouching against the door frame to which she had clung -when she felt herself swooning. Bertrand was down on his knees in an -instant, and Micheline came as fast as she could to his side. - -“Quick, Micheline, help me!” Bertrand whispered hurriedly. “She is as -light as a feather. I’ll carry her to her room.” - -The only one who had remained quite unmoved was the old Comtesse. When -she heard the moan, and then the thud, she glanced coolly over her -shoulder, and seeing her daughter-in-law, crouching helpless in the -doorway, she only said dryly: - -“My good Marcelle, why make a fuss? The boy was bound to know——” - -But already Bertrand had lifted the poor feeble body in his arms, and -was carrying his mother along the corridor to her own room. Here he -deposited her on the sofa, on which in truth she spent most of her days, -and here she lay now with her head against the pillows, her face so pale -and drawn that Bertrand felt a great wave of love and sympathy for her -surging in his heart. - -“Poor little mother,” he said tenderly, and knelt by her side, chafing -her cold hands, and gazing anxiously into her face. She opened her eyes, -and looked at him. She seemed not to know at first what had happened. - -“Bertrand!” she murmured, as if astonished to see him there. - -Her astonishment in itself was an involuntary reproach, so very little -of his time did Bertrand spend with his sad-eyed, ailing mother. A sharp -pang of remorse went right through him as he noted, for the first time, -how very aged and worn she had become since last he had been at home. -Tears now were pouring down her cheeks, and he put out his arms, with a -vague longing to draw her aching head to his breast, and let her rest -there, while he would comfort her. She saw the gesture, and the ghost of -a smile lit up her pale, wan face, and in her eyes there came a pathetic -look as of a dog asking to be forgiven. With a sudden strange impulse -she seized his hand, and drew it up to her lips. He snatched it away -ashamed and remorseful, but she recaptured it, and began stroking it -gently, tenderly: and all the while her spare, narrow shoulders shook -with spasms of uncontrolled sobbing, just like a child after it has had -a big, big cry. Then suddenly the smile vanished from her face, the -tender look from her eyes, and an expression of horror crept into them -as they fastened themselves upon his hand. - -“That ring, Bertrand,” she cried hoarsely, “take it off.” - -“My father’s ring?” he asked. “I want to wear it.” - -“No, no, don’t wear it, my dear lamb,” his mother entreated, and moaned -piteously just as if she were in pain. “Your grandmother took it off his -dear, dead hand—oh, she is cruel—cruel—and without mercy ... she took it -off after she——Oh, my boy! my boy! will you ever forgive?” - -His one thought was just to comfort her. Awhile ago, when first his -grandmother had told him, he had felt bitterly sore. His father dying a -shameful death by his own hand! The shame of it was almost intolerable! -And in the brief seconds that elapsed between the terrible revelation -and the moment when he had to expend all his energies in looking after -his mother, had held a veritable inferno of humiliation for him. As in a -swift and sudden vision he saw flitting before him all sorts of little -signs and indications that had puzzled him in the past, but of which he -had ceased to think almost as soon as they had occurred, a look of -embarrassment here, one of pity there, his grandmother’s sneers, his -mother’s entreaties. He saw it all, all of a sudden. People who knew -pitied him—or else they sneered. The bitterness of it had been awful. -But now he forgot all that. With his mother lying there so crushed, so -weak, so helpless, all that was noble and chivalrous in his nature -gained the upper hand over his resentment. - -“It is not for me to forgive, mother dear,” he said, “I am not my -father’s judge.” - -“He was so kind and good,” the poor soul went on with pathetic -eagerness, “so generous. He only borrowed in order to give to others. -People were always sponging on him. He never could say no—to any one—and -of course we had no money to spare, to give away....” - -Bertrand frowned. - -“So,” he said quite quietly, “he—my father—borrowed some? He—he had -debts?” - -“Yes.” - -“Many?” - -“Alas.” - -“He—he did not pay them before he——?” - -Marcelle de Ventadour slowly shook her head. - -“And,” Bertrand asked, “since then? since my father—died, have his debts -been paid?” - -“We could not pay them,” his mother replied in a tone of dull, aching -hopelessness, “we had no money. Your grandmother——” - -“Grandmama,” he broke in, “said though we were poor, we could yet afford -to entertain our relatives as befitted our rank. How can that be if—if -we are still in debt?” - -“Your grandmother is quite right, my dear boy, quite right.” Marcelle de -Ventadour argued with pathetic eagerness; “she knows best. We must do -our utmost—we must all do our very utmost to bring about your marriage -with Rixende de Peyron-Bompar. Your great-aunt has set her heart on it, -she has—she has, I know, made it a condition—your grandmother knows -about it—she and Mme. de Mont-Pahon have talked it over together—Mme. de -Mont-Pahon will make you her legatee on condition that you marry -Rixende.” - -For a moment or two Bertrand said nothing. He had jumped to his feet and -stood at the foot of the couch, with head bent and a deep frown on his -brow. - -“I wish you had not told me that, mother,” he said. - -“Why not?” - -“I love Rixende, and now it will seem as if——” - -“As if what?” - -“As if I wooed her for the sake of Mme. de Mont-Pahon’s money.” - -“That is foolishness, Bertrand,” Mme. de Ventadour said, with more -energy than was habitual to her. “Let us suppose that I said nothing. -And your grandmother may be wrong. Mme. de Mont-Pahon may only wish for -the marriage because of her affection for you and Rixende.” - -“You wish it, too, mother, of course?” Bertrand said. - -The mother drew a deep sigh of longing. - -“Wish it, my dear?” she rejoined. “Wish it? Why, it would turn the hell -of my life into a real heaven!” - -“Even though,” he insisted, “even though until that marriage is -accomplished, we cannot hope to pay off any of my father’s debts, even -though for the next year, at least, we must go on spending more money -and more money, borrow more and more, to keep me idling in Paris and to -throw dust in the eyes of Mme. de Mont-Pahon.” - -“We must do it, Bertrand,” she said earnestly. “Your grandmother says -that we have to think of our name, not of ourselves; that it is the -future that counts, and not the present.” - -“But you, mother, what is your idea about it all?” - -“Oh, I, my dear? I? I count for so little—what does it matter what I -think?” - -“It matters a lot to me.” - -Marcelle de Ventadour sighed again. For a moment it seemed as if she -would make of her son a confidant of all her hopes, her secret longings, -her spiritless repinings; as if she would tell him of what she thought -and what she planned during those hours and days that she spent on her -couch, listless and idle. But the habits of a life-time cannot be shaken -off in a moment, even under the stress of great emotion, and Marcelle -had been too long under the domination of her mother-in-law to venture -on an independent train of thought. - -“My dear lamb,” she said tenderly; “I only pray for your happiness—and I -feel that your grandmother knows best.” - -Bertrand gave a quick, impatient little sigh. - -“What we have to do,” his mother resumed more calmly after a while, “is -to try and wipe away the shame that clings around your father’s memory.” - -“We cannot do that unless we pay what we owe,” he retorted. - -“We cannot do that, Bertrand,” she rejoined earnestly. “We have not the -money. At the time of—of your father’s death the creditors took -everything from us that they could: we were left with nothing—nothing -but this old owl’s nest. It, too, had been heavily mortgaged, but—but -a—but a kind friend paid off the mortgage, then allowed us to stay on -here.” - -“A kind friend,” Bertrand asked. “Who?” - -“I—don’t know,” his mother replied after an imperceptible moment’s -hesitation. “Your grandmother knows about it, she has always kept -control of our money. We must leave it to her. She knows best.” - -Then, as Bertrand relapsed into silence, she insisted more earnestly: - -“You do think that your grandmother knows best, do you not, Bertrand?” - -“Perhaps,” he said with an impatient sigh, and turned away. - -It was then that he caught sight of Micheline—Micheline who, as was her -wont, had withdrawn silently into the nearest window recess, and had sat -there, patient and watchful, until such time as it pleased some one to -take notice of her. - -“Micheline,” Bertrand said, “have you been here all the time?” - -“All the time,” she replied simply. - -“It is getting late,” he remarked, and gazed out of the window to -distant Luberon, behind whose highest peak the sunset had already -lighted his crimson fire. - -“Too late to go over to the mas this afternoon,” he added decisively. - -A look of great joy lit up Micheline’s peaky little face. - -“Then you are coming, Bertrand,” she cried impulsively. - -“Not to-night,” he said, “because it is late. But to-morrow we’ll go -together. I would like to—to thank Jaume Deydier for——” - -“Oh, my dear,” his mother broke in anxiously, “there is nothing for -which you need thank Jaume Deydier. Your grandmother would not wish it.” - -“No one,” Bertrand said emphatically, “may dictate to me on a point of -honour. I know where my duty lies. To-morrow I am going to the mas.” - -Marcelle de Ventadour’s pale face took on an expression of painful -anxiety. - -“If she thought I had said anything,” she murmured. - -Bertrand bent down and kissed her tenderly. - -“Grandmama shall know nothing,” he said reassuringly; “but for once I -must act as I wish, not as she commands. As you said just now, mother -dear, we must not think of ourselves, but of our name, and we must try -to wipe away the shame that clings round my father’s memory.” - -He tried to say this quietly, with as little bitterness as possible, but -in the end his voice broke, and he ran quickly out of the room. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - THE DESPATCH - - -Micheline was happy once more. For a little while—oh! a very little -while—this afternoon her idol had tottered on the pedestal upon which -she had placed him. The brother whom she worshipped, admired, looked up -to, with all the ardour and enthusiasm of her reserved nature, was -perhaps not quite so perfect as her affection had painted him. He seemed -almost as if he were proud and ungrateful, too proud to renew those -delicious ties of childish friendship which she, Micheline, looked on as -almost sacred. - -But Bertrand did not know that it was in truth Jaume Deydier who, during -those trying years at St. Cyr, had generously paid the debts which the -young cadet had thoughtlessly contracted—dragged as he had been into a -vortex of fashionable life where every one of his comrades was richer -than he. Bertrand, driven to distraction by the pressure of monetary -difficulties, had confessed to Micheline, and Micheline had quite -naturally gone with the sad story to her bosom friend, Nicolette. She -had wept, and Nicolette had wept, and the two girls fell into one -another’s arms and then thought and planned how best Bertrand could be -got out of his difficulties without reference to grandmama. And lo! and -behold, Bertrand presently received five thousand francs from his dear -sister Micheline. They were, she darkly hinted, the proceeds of certain -rigid economies which she had effected in the management of her pin -money. Bertrand accepted both money and explanation without much -compunction, but unfortunately through his own indiscretion, grandmama -got to hear of his debts and of the five thousand francs. It was, of -course, impossible to deceive grandmama for long. Within half an hour -the true secret of Bertrand’s benefactor was wrung out of the unwilling -Micheline. - -That a young Comte de Ventadour should make debts whilst he was at St. -Cyr was a perfectly proper and natural state of things; avarice or -thrift would have been a far greater crime in the eyes of the old -Comtesse, than the borrowing of a few thousands from bourgeois tradesmen -who could well afford it, without much knowledge as to how those -thousands would be repaid. Therefore she never thought of blaming -Bertrand. On the other hand, she was very severe with Micheline, not so -much for having aroused Nicolette’s sympathy on behalf of Bertrand, as -for continuing this friendship with the people at the mas, which -she—grandmama—thought degrading. And there the matter ended. - -Jaume Deydier was passing rich—was the old Comtesse’s argument—he and -his forbears had enriched themselves at the expense of their feudal -lords, grabbing their lands whenever opportunity arose. No doubt the -present owner of those splendid estates which once had belonged to the -Comtes de Ventadour, felt some compunction in knowing that the present -scion of that ancient race was in financial difficulties, and no doubt, -too, that his compunction led to a tardy liberality. It all was -perfectly right and just. Margarita de Ventadour’s own arguments -completely eased her conscience. But she did not enlighten Bertrand. The -boy was hot-headed, he might do something foolish and humiliating. The -money must be accepted as a matter of course: grandmama outwardly must -know nothing about it. Nor Bertrand. - -And so Bertrand was kept in the dark as to this and other matters which -were far more important. - -Even to-day he had been told nothing: he had only guessed. A word from -Micheline about St. Cyr, one from his mother about the kind friend who -had saved the old château from the hands of the creditors had set his -young mind speculating, but that was all. - -There was much of his grandmother’s temperament in Bertrand; much of -that racial pride of family and arrogance of caste, which not even the -horrors of the Revolution had wholly eradicated. But underlying that -pride and arrogance there were in Bertrand de Ventadour some fine -aspirations and impulses of manhood and chivalry, such as the one which -caused him to declare his intention of visiting Jaume Deydier -immediately. - -Micheline was now quite happy: for a little while she had almost thought -the beloved brother vain and ungrateful. Now her heart was already full -of excuses for him. He was coming on the morrow with her to see -Nicolette. It was perhaps a little late to-day. They had their dinner -early at the mas, and it would not do to interrupt them all at their -meal. But to-morrow she and Bertrand would go over in the morning, and -spend a long, happy day in the dear old house, or in the garden under -the shade of the wild vine just as they used to do in the past. - -The evening was a glorious one. It seemed as if summer, in these her -declining days, was donning her most gorgeous garb to dazzle the eyes of -mortals, ere she sank, dying into the arms of autumn. One or two early -frosts had touched the leaves of the mountain ash with gold and the hips -and haws on the wild rose-bushes were of a dazzling crimson. And so good -to eat! - -Micheline who was quite happy now, was picking them in big baskets full -to take over to Margaï, who made such delicious preserves from them. -Overhead the starlings were making a deafening noise; the olives were -plentiful this year and very nearly ripe, and a flock of these -chattering birds had descended upon the woods around the château and -were eating their fill. The evening was drawing in rapidly, in this land -where twilight is always short. Luberon frowning and majestic had long -since hidden the glory of the setting sun, and way out to the east the -moon, looking no more substantial than a small round fluffy cloud, gave -promise of a wonderful night. Looking straight across the valley -Micheline could glimpse the whitewashed walls of the old mas gleaming, -rose-tinted by the afterglow, above the terraced gradients, and through -the curtains of dwarf olive trees. She knew that at a certain window -into which a climbing crimson rose peeped in, blossom-laden, Nicolette -would be sitting at this hour, gazing across the valley to the towers of -the old château where she had spent so many happy days in the past. It -almost seemed to Micheline that despite the distance she could see, in a -framework of tangled roses, Nicolette’s brown curls turned to gold by -the last kiss of the setting sun, and down in the garden the arbour -draped in a mantle of disorderly vine, which flaunted its riotous -colours, its purples and chromes and crimsons, in the midst of the cool -grey-greens of stately pine and feathery mimosa. Anon, scared by the -sudden sharp report of a distant gun, the host of starlings rose with -strident cries and like a thin black cloud spread itself over the -mountain-side, united and disintegrated and united again, then vanished -up the valley. After which all was still. - -Micheline put down her basket and throwing out her frail, flat chest she -breathed into her lungs the perfumed evening air, fragrant with the -scent of lavender and wild thyme: and with a gesture of tenderness and -longing, she spread out her arms, as if she would enfold in a huge -embrace all that was beautiful and loving, and tender in this world -that, hitherto, had held so few joys for her. And while she stood, thus -silent and entranced, there descended upon the wide solitude around the -perfect mysterious hush of evening, that hush which seems most absolute -at this hour when the crackling, tiny twigs on dead branches shiver at -touch of the breeze, and the hum of cockchafers fills the air with its -drowsy buzz. - -Suddenly Micheline’s attention was arrested by strange happenings on the -road, way down below. A horseman had come in sight. When Micheline first -caught sight of him, he was riding at full speed, but presently he -checked his horse and looked about him, after which he deliberately -turned up the rough road which led, winding up the mountain-side, to the -gate of the château. - -The man was dressed in a bottle-green coat which had some gold lace -about it; he wore drab breeches and his boots and coat were powdered -with dust as if he had come a long way. Micheline also noted that he had -a leather wallet slung by a strap around his shoulders. Anon a sharp -turn in the road hid the horseman from view. - -The young girl was conscious of a pleasant thrill of expectation. -Visitors at the old château were a rare occurrence, and the lonely rider -was obviously coming here, as the rough road led nowhere else. Though -she could no longer see him, she could hear the thud of the horse’s -hoofs drawing nearer every moment. - -The main entrance of the château was through a monumental door in the -square tower, contiguous to the wing that held the habitable rooms. This -tower and door being on the other side of the building from where -Micheline was standing, she could not possibly hope to see what would -happen, when presently the visitor would request admittance. This being -a quite unendurable proposition, Micheline, forgetting the hips and -haws, as well as her own dignity, hurried round the château and was just -in time to see Jasmin shuffling across the court-yard and the rider -drawing rein, and turning in the saddle in order to ask him a question -with the air of a man who had never been accustomed to wait. - -Micheline caught the sound of her brother’s name. - -“M. le Comte de Ventadour,” the visitor was saying to Jasmin, -“lieutenant in the first company of His Majesty’s bodyguard.” - -“It is here, monsieur,” Jasmin replied, “but M. le Comte——” - -“M. le Comte de Ventadour,” Micheline broke in eagerly, as the new-comer -himself rapidly jumped out of the saddle, “is within. Would you wish, -monsieur, to speak with him?” - -The man saluted in correct military style. - -“I am,” he said, “the bearer of an urgent despatch to M. le Comte.” - -“Ah?” - -All at once Micheline felt her excitement give way to prosaic anxiety. -An urgent despatch? What could it mean? - -“Give yourself the trouble to enter, monsieur,” she said. - -The big front door was always on the latch (there was nothing to tempt -the foot-pad or the housebreaker in the château de Ventadour) and -Micheline herself pushed it open. The mysterious visitor having -carefully fastened his horse to the iron ring in the outside wall, -followed the young girl into the vast, bare hall. She was beginning to -feel a little frightened. - -“Will you be pleased to walk up, monsieur?” she asked. “Jasmin will go -and call M. le Comte.” - -“By your leave, Mademoiselle,” the messenger replied, “I will wait here -for M. le Comte’s pleasure.” - -There was nothing for it but to send Jasmin upstairs to go and tell -Bertrand; and alas! there was no excuse for Micheline to wait and hear -what the urgent despatch might be about. She certainly felt anxious, as -such a thing had never occurred before. No one at the old owl’s nest -ever received urgent despatches from anywhere. Dragging her lame leg -slowly across the hall, Micheline went, hoping against hope that -Bertrand would be down soon before she had reached the top of the -stairs, so that she could hear the visitor deliver his message. But -Jasmin was slow, or Bertrand difficult to find. However slowly Micheline -moved along, she was across the hall and up the stairs at one end of the -gallery before Bertrand appeared at the other. Jasmin preceded him, -carrying a candle. It was now quite dark, only through the tall oriel -window at the top of the stairs the moon sent a pale, wan ray of light. -Micheline could no longer see the mysterious messenger: the gloom had -swallowed him up completely, but she could hear Bertrand’s footsteps -descending the stone stairs and Jasmin shuffling along in front of him. -She could see the flicker of candlelight on the great bare walls, the -forged iron banister, the tattered matting on the floor, which had long -since replaced the magnificent Aubusson carpet of the past. - -The whole scene had become like a dream. Micheline leaning against the -balustrade of the gallery, strained her ears to listen. She only caught -snatches of what the man was saying because he spoke in whispers. Jasmin -had put the candle down upon the table, and then had shuffled quietly -away. At one time Micheline heard the rustle of paper, at another an -exclamation from Bertrand. In the end Bertrand said formally: - -“And where do you go after this?” - -“Straight back to Avignon, mon lieutenant,” the man replied, “to -report.” - -“You can say I will start in the morning.” - -“At your service, mon lieutenant.” - -A moment or two later Micheline heard the click of the man’s spurs as he -saluted and turned to go, then the ring of his footsteps upon the -flagged floor: finally the opening and closing of the great entrance -door, Bertrand calling to Jasmin, the clink of metal and creaking of -leather, the champing of bit and clang of iron hoofs. The messenger had -gone, and Bertrand was still lingering in the hall. Micheline craned her -neck and saw him standing beside the heavy oak table. The light of the -candle flickered about him, throwing a warm fantastic glow and weird -distorting shadows upon his face, his hands, the paper which he held -between his fingers, and in which he seemed wholly absorbed. After a few -moments which appeared like an eternity to the watching girl, he folded -the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to cross the -hall. Micheline met him at the top of the stairs. - -“What is it, Bertrand?” she asked breathlessly. “I am so anxious.” - -He did not know she was there, and started when he heard her voice. But -at once he took hold of her hand and patted it reassuringly. - -“There is nothing to be anxious about, little sister,” he said, “but I -shall have to leave here to-morrow.” - -“Yes,” she said, “but why?” - -“A message came through by the new aerial telegraph to Avignon. More -troops have left for Spain. All leaves are cancelled. I have to rejoin -my regiment at once.” - -“But,” she exclaimed, “you are not going to the war?” - -“I am afraid not,” he replied with a touch of bitterness. “If the King’s -bodyguard was to be sent to the front it would mean that France was once -more at her last gasp.” - -“There is no fear of that?” - -“None whatever.” - -“Then why should you say that you are afraid that you are not going to -the war?” Micheline asked, and her eyes, the great pathetic eyes of a -hopeless cripple, fastened on the brother’s face a look of yearning -anxiety. The ghostly light of the moon came shyly peeping in through the -tall, open window: it fell full upon his handsome young face, which wore -a perturbed, spiritless look. - -“Well, little sister,” he said dejectedly, “life does not hold such -allurements for me, does it, that I should cling desperately to it?” - -“How can you say that, Bertrand?” the girl retorted. “You love Rixende, -do you not?” - -“With all my soul,” he replied fervently. - -“And she loves you?” - -“I believe so,” he said with a strange unaccountable sigh; “I do firmly -believe,” he added slowly, “that Rixende loves me.” - -“Well then?” - -To this he made no reply, and anon passed his hand across his forehead. - -“You are right, Micheline, I have no right to talk as I do—to feel as I -feel to-night—dispirited and discouraged. All the world smiles to me,” -he added with a sudden outburst of liveliness, which may perhaps not -have rung quite true in the anxious sister’s ears. “I love Rixende, -Rixende loves me; I am going to inherit tante Sybille’s millions, and -dejection is a crime. So now let us go to mother and break the news of -my departure to her. I shall have to leave early in the morning, little -sister. We’ll have to say good-bye to-night.” - -“And not say good-bye to Nicolette after all,” Micheline murmured under -her breath. - -But this Bertrand did not hear. - - - - - CHAPTER V - THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST - - -Mother wept, and grandmama was full of wise saws and grandiose speeches. -So many gallant officers of the King’s Army having gone to Spain, those -of His Majesty’s bodyguard would be all the more conspicuous at Court, -all the more sought after in society. - -“And remember, Bertrand,” was one of the last things she said to him -that night, “when you next come home, Rixende de Peyron-Bompar must pay -us a visit too, with that atrocious father of hers.” - -“But, grandmama——” Bertrand hazarded. - -“Tush, boy! do not start on that humiliating subject again. What do you -take me for? I tell you Rixende shall be entertained in a style that -will not cause you to blush. Besides,” she added with a shrug of her -aristocratic shoulders, “Sybille insists that Rixende shall see her -future home before she will acquiesce in the formal _fiançailles_. So -put a good face on it, my boy, and above all, trust to me. I tell you -that Rixende’s visit here will be a triumph for us all.” - -Grandmama was so sure, so emphatic, above all so dominating, that -Bertrand gratefully followed her lead. After all, he loved his ancestral -home, despite its shortcomings. He was proud of it, too. Think of that -old Peyron-Bompar, who did not even know who his grandfather was, being -brought in contact with traditions that had their origin in Carlovingian -times. That the tapestries on the walls were tattered and faded, the -curtains bleached to a drab, colourless tone, the carpets in holes, the -masonry tumbling to ruins, was but a glorious evidence of the antiquity -of this historic château. Bertrand was proud of it. He longed to show it -to Rixende, and to stand with her in the great ancestral hall, where -hung the portraits of his glorious forbears. Rambaud de Ventadour, the -friend of the Grand Monarque, Guilhem de Ventadour, the follower of St. -Louis, and Rixende, surnamed Riande—because she was always laughing, and -whose beauty had rivalled that of Montespan. - -Even to-night he paid a visit to those beloved portraits. He seemed to -want to steep himself in tradition, and the grandeur and chivalry which -was his richest inheritance. The great hall looked vast and silent in -the gloom, like the graveyard of glorious dead. The darkness was -mysterious, and filled him with a delicious awe: through the tall -windows the moonlight came peeping in, spectral and wan, and Bertrand -would have been neither surprised nor frightened if, lured by that weird -light, the ghosts of his forbears were to step out of the lifeless -canvases and march in solemn procession before him, bidding him remember -that he was one of them, one of the imperishable race of the Ventadours, -and that his chief aim in life must be to restore the name and family to -their former glory. - -Grandmama was quite right when she said that the time had now come when -the individual must cease to count, and everything be done for the -restoration of the family to its former importance. He himself must be -prepared to sacrifice his noblest impulses to the common cause. Thank -God! his heart was not in conflict with his duty. He loved Rixende, the -very woman whom it was his duty to marry, and this urgent call back to -Versailles had been thrice welcome, since it would take him back to his -beloved one’s side, at least one month before he had hoped to return. A -pang of remorse shot through his heart, however, when he thought of the -mas: of Jaume Deydier, who had been a kind friend to his mother in the -hour of her distress, and of Nicolette, the quaint, chubby child, who -was wont to worship him so. Quite unaccountably his memory flew back to -that late afternoon five years ago, when, troubled and perplexed, very -much as he was now, he had suddenly thought of Nicolette, and felt a -strange, indefinable yearning for her, just as he did now. - -And almost unconsciously he found himself presently wandering through -the woods. The evening air was warm and fragrant and so clear, so clear -in the moonlight that every tiny twig and delicate leaf of olive and -mimosa cast a sharp, trenchant shadow as if carved with a knife. - -Poor little Nicolette! She had been a pretty child, and her admiration -for him, Bertrand, had been one of the nicest traits in her character. -He had not seen her since that moment, five years ago, when she stood -leaning against the gate with the riotous vine as a background to her -brown curls, and the lingering twilight defining her arms and the white -shift which she wore. He supposed that she must have grown, and, in -truth, she must have altered a good deal, during her stay at the convent -school in Avignon. No doubt, too, her manners would have improved; she -had been rather tomboyish and very childish in her ideas. Poor little -Nicolette! No doubt she would feel hurt that he had not been over to the -mas, but it had been difficult, very difficult; and he really meant to -go on the morrow with Micheline, if this urgent despatch had not come -for him to return to duty at once. Poor little Nicolette! - -Then all at once he saw her. Absorbed in thought he had wandered on and -on without realising that he had gone so far. And now he found himself -down in the Valley of the Lèze, picking his way on the rough stones left -high and dry during the summer in the river bed. And there in front of -him was the pool with the overhanging carob tree, and beside it stood -Nicolette. He recognised her at once, even though the light of the moon -only touched her head and neck and the white fichu which she wore about -her shoulders. She seemed very different from the child whom he -remembered, for she looked tall and slender, and her brown curls did not -tumble all about her face as they were wont to do; some of them did -still fall over her forehead and ears, and their delicate tendrils -glistened like chestnuts in the mysterious light, but the others were -hidden under the quaint head-dress, the small, round knob of muslin -which she wore over the crown of her head like most Provençal maidens. - -Whether she had expected him or not, Bertrand could not say. At sight of -him she gave a little cry of delight and ran forward to greet him. - -“Bertrand,” she exclaimed, “I knew that you would come.” - -In the olden days, she used, when she saw him, to run to him and throw -her arms round his neck. She also would have said “Tan-tan” in the olden -days. This time, however, she put out her hand, and it also seemed quite -natural for Bertrand to stoop and kiss it, as if she were a lady. She, -however, withdrew her hand very quickly, though not before he had -perceived that it was very soft and very warm, and quivered in his grasp -just like a little bird. - -“How funny to find you here, Nicolette,” he said somewhat lamely. “And -how you have grown,” he added. - -“Yes,” she said, “Margaï thought you would say that when——” - -“I was coming over with Micheline to-morrow,” he broke in quickly. “It -was all arranged.” - -Her face lit up with a wonderful expression of relief and of joy. - -“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I knew—I knew——” - -Bertrand smiled, for she looked so happy. - -“What did you know, Nicolette?” he asked. - -“Margaï said you would not come to see us, because you were too proud, -now that you were an officer of the King’s guard. Time went on, and even -father said——” - -“But you knew better, eh, little one?” - -“I knew,” she said simply, “that you would not turn your back on old -friends.” - -He felt so ashamed of himself that he could not say anything for the -moment. Indeed, he felt foolish, standing here beside this village girl -with that silly peasant’s head-dress on her head, who, nevertheless, had -the power to make him feel mean and ungrateful. She seemed to be waiting -for him to say something, but as he appeared moody and silent, she went -on after a while. - -“Margaï will have to bake a very large _brioche_ to-morrow as a -punishment for having doubted you.” - -“Nicolette,” he rejoined dejectedly, “I cannot come to-morrow.” - -“Then the next day—why! it will be Sunday, and father’s birthday, we -will....” - -He shook his head. He dared not meet her eyes, those great hazel eyes of -hers, which had golden lights in them just like a topaz. He knew that -the expression of joy had gone out of them, and that the tears were -beginning to gather. So he just put his hand in his pocket and drew out -the letter which the soldier-messenger had brought from Avignon. - -“It was all arranged,” he said haltingly, “Micheline and I were coming -over to-morrow. I wanted to see your father and—and thank him, and I -longed to see you, Nicolette, and dear old Margaï—but a messenger came -with this, a couple of hours ago.” - -He held out the paper to her, but she did not take it. - -“It is very dark,” she said simply. “I could not read it. What does it -say?” - -“That by order of His Majesty the King, Lieutenant Comte de Ventadour -must return to duty at once.” - -“Does that mean” she said, “that you must go away?” - -“Early to-morrow morning, alas!” - -She said nothing more for the moment, and with a sigh he slipped the -paper back into his pocket. The situation was uncomfortable, and -Bertrand felt vaguely irritated. His nerves were on edge. Everything -around him was so still that the sudden flutter of a bird in the -branches of the olive tree gave him an uneasy start. Only the murmur of -the Lèze on its narrow rocky bed broke the silence of the valley, and -far away the cooing of a wood-pigeon settling down to rest. Bertrand -would have liked to say something, but the words choked him before they -were uttered. He would have liked to speak lightly of the days of long -ago, of Paul et Virginie, and their desert island. But he could not. -Everything around him seemed to reproach him for his apathy and his -indifference; the carob tree, and the boulder from the top of which he -used to fish, the crest of the old olive tree with the hollow trunk that -was Paul et Virginie’s island home, the voice of the wood-pigeon, and -the soughing of the night breeze through the delicate branches of the -pines. And above all, the scent of rosemary, of wild thyme and sweet -marjoram that filled the air, gave him a sense of something -irretrievable, of something that he, with a callous hand, was wilfully -sweeping away. - -“I am sorry, Bertrand, that you cannot come to the mas,” Nicolette said -after a moment or two, which to Bertrand seemed like an hour, “but duty -is duty. We must hope for better luck next time.” - -Her quick, measured voice broke the spell that seemed to be holding him -down. Bertrand drew a deep sigh of relief. What a comfort that she was -so sensible, poor Nicolette! - -“You understand, don’t you, Nicolette?” he said lamely. - -“Of course I do,” she replied. “Father will be sorry, but he, too, will -understand.” - -“And Margaï?” he asked lightly. - -She smiled. - -“Oh!” she said, “you know what Margaï is, always grumbling and scolding. -Age has not softened her temper, nor hardened her heart.” - -Then they looked at one another. Bertrand murmured “Good old Margaï!” -and laughed, and Nicolette laughed in response. She was quite gay now. -Oh! she was undoubtedly changed! Five years ago she would have cried if -she thought Bertrand was going away and she would not see him for a -time. She would not have made a scene, but she would have cried. Now she -scarcely seemed to mind. Bertrand had been a fool to worry as to what -she would think or do. She began asking him questions quite naturally -about his life at the Court, about the King and the Queen. She even -asked about Mademoiselle de Peyron-Bompar, and vowed she must be even -more beautiful than the lovely Lady of the Laurels. But Bertrand was in -that lover-like state when the name of the loved one seems almost too -sacred to be spoken by another’s lips. So the subject of Rixende was -soon dropped, and Nicolette chatted of other things. - -Bertrand felt that he was losing control over his nerves. He felt an -ever-growing strange irritation against Nicolette. In this elusive -moonlight she seemed less and less like the girl he had known, the podgy -little tom-boy who used to run after him crying for “Tan-tan”; less of a -woman and more of a sprite, a dweller of these woods, whose home was in -the hollow trunks of olive trees, and who bathed at dawn in the mountain -stream, and wound sprigs of mimosa in her hair. Anon, when she -laughingly taunted him about his good fortunes with the lovely ladies of -Versailles, he ordered her sharply to be silent. - -At one time he tried to speak to her about their island, their wonderful -life of make-believe: he tried to lead her back to the carob tree and to -recapture with her for an instant the spirit of the past. But she seemed -to have forgotten all about the island, and deliberately turned to walk -away from it, back along the stony shore of the Lèze, never once -glancing behind her, even when he laughingly declared that a ship had -appeared upon the horizon, and they must hoist up the signal to draw her -lookout man’s attention to their desert island. - - -Bertrand did not walk with her as far as the mas. Nicolette herself -declared that it was too late; father would be abed, and Margaï was sure -to be cross. So they parted down on the road, Bertrand declaring that he -would stand there and watch until he knew that she was safely within. - -“How foolish of you, Bertrand,” she said gaily. “Why should you watch? I -am often out much later than this.” - -“But not with me,” he said. - -“Then what must I do to reassure you?” - -“Put a light in your bedroom window. I would see it from here.” - -“Very well,” she assented with a careless shrug of the shoulders. “Good -night, Bertrand.” - -“Good-bye, Nicolette.” - -He took her hand and drew her to him. He wanted to kiss her just as he -used to do in the past, but with a funny little cry she evaded him, and -before he could detain her, she had darted up the slope, and was -bounding upwards from gradient to gradient like a young antelope on the -mountain-side. - -Bertrand stood quite still watching the glint of her white cap and her -fichu between the olive trees. She seemed indeed a sprite: he could not -see her feet, but her movements were so swift that he was sure they -could not touch the ground, but that she was floating upwards on the -bosom of a cloud. The little white cap from afar looked like a tiny -light on the crown of her head and the ends of her fichu trailed behind -her like wings. Soon she was gone. He could no longer see her. The slope -was steep and the scrub was dense. It had enfolded her and hidden her as -the wood hides its nymphs, and the voice of the mountain stream mocked -him because his eyes were not keen enough to see. Overhead the stars -with myriads of eyes could watch her progress up the heights, whilst he -remained below and could no longer see. But the air remained fragrant -with the odour of dried lavender and sun-kissed herbs, and from the -woods around there came in sweet, lulling waves, wafted to his nostrils, -the scent of rosemary which is for remembrance. - -Bertrand waited awhile. The moon veiled her radiance behind a mantle of -gossamer clouds, which she had tinged with lemon-gold, the sharp, -trenchant shadows of glistening lights gave place to a uniform tone of -silvery-grey. The trees sighed and bowed their crests under a sudden -gust of wind, which came soughing down the valley, and all at once the -air grew chill as if under a breath from an ice-cold mouth. Bertrand -shivered a little and buttoned his coat. He thought that Nicolette must -have reached the mas by now. Perhaps Margaï was keeping her talking -downstairs, or she had forgotten to put her light in her bedroom window. - -Perhaps the trees had grown of late and were obstructing the view, or -perhaps he had made a mistake and from where he stood the windows of the -mas could not be seen. It was so long, so very long ago since he had -been here, he had really forgotten his bearings. - -And with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to walk away. - - -But over at the mas Nicolette had thrown her arms around old Margaï’s -shoulders: - -“Thou wert wrong, Margaï,” she cried, “thou wert wrong. He meant to -come. He wished to come. He had decided to come to-morrow——” - -“Ta, ta, ta,” Margaï broke in crossly, “what is all that nonsense about -now? And why those glistening eyes, I would like to know. Who is it that -had decided to come to-morrow?” - -“Tan-tan, of course!” Nicolette cried, and clapped her hands together, -and her dark eyes glistened, glistened with an expression that of a -surety the old woman could not have defined. - -“Oh! go away with your Tan-tans,” Margaï retorted gruffly. “You know you -must not say that.” - -“I’ll say M. le Comte then, an thou wilt,” the girl retorted, for her -joy was not to be marred by any grumblings or wet blankets. “But he was -coming here, all the same, whatever thou mayest choose to call him.” - -“Was he, indeed?” - -The old woman was not to be mollified quite so easily, and, all the -while that she watched the milk which she had put on the stove to boil -for the child, she went on muttering to herself: - -“Then why doth he not come? Why not, if he meant to?” - -“He has been sent for, Margaï,” Nicolette said with a great air of -importance, “by the King.” - -“As if the King would trouble to send for Tan-tan!” old Margaï riposted -with a shrug of the shoulders. - -Nicolette stood before Margaï, drew her round by the arm, forcing her to -look her straight in the eyes, then she put up her finger and spoke with -a solemn earnestness. - -“The King has sent for M. le Comte de Ventadour, Margaï. Do not dare to -contradict this, because it would be disrespectful to an officer of His -Majesty’s bodyguard. And the proof of what I say, is that Tan-tan has to -start early to-morrow morning for Versailles. If the King had not sent -for him he would have come here to see us in the afternoon, and all that -thou didst say, Margaï, about his being proud and ungrateful is not -true, not true,” she reiterated, stamping her foot resolutely upon the -ground, then proceeding to give Margaï first a good shake, then a kiss, -and finally a hug. “Say now, Margaï, say at once that it is not true.” - -“There now the milk is boiling over,” was Margaï’s only comment upon the -child’s peroration, as she succeeded in freeing herself from Nicolette’s -clinging arms: after which she devoted her attention to the milk. - -And Nicolette ran up to her room, and put her lighted candle in the -window. She was humming to herself all the while: - - “Janeto gardo si moutoun - En fasent soun bas de coutoun.” - -But presently the song died down in her throat, she threw herself down -on her narrow, little bed, and burying her face in the pillow she burst -into tears. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - ORANGE-BLOSSOM - - -And now it is spring once again: a glorious May-day with the sky of an -intense blue, and every invisible atom in the translucent air quivering -in the heat of the noon-day sun. All around the country-side the -harvesting of orange-blossom has begun, and the whole atmosphere is -filled with such fragrance that the workers who carry the great baskets -filled to the brim with ambrosial petals feel the intoxicating perfume -rising to their heads like wine. - -At the mas they are harvesting the big grove to-day, the one that lies -down in the valley, close to the road-side. There are over five hundred -trees, so laden with flowers that, even after heavy thinning down, there -will be a huge crop of fruit at Christmas-time. Through the fragrant -air, the fresh young voices of the gatherers resound, echoing against -the distant hills, chattering, shouting, laughing, oh! laughing all the -time, for they are boys and girls together and all are betrothed to one -another in accordance to old Provençal traditions which decrees that -lads and maidens be tokened from the time when they emerge out of -childhood and the life of labour on a farm begins: so that Meon is best -known as the betrothed of Pétrone or Magdeleine as the fiancée of -Gaucelme. - -Large sheets are spread under the trees, and the boys, on ladders, pick -the flowers and drop them lightly down. It requires a very gentle hand -to be a good picker, because the delicate petals must on no account be -bruised and all around the trees where the girls stand, holding up the -sheet, the air is filled as with myriads of sweet-scented fluttering -snowflakes. - -Jaume Deydier, in addition to his special process for the manufacture of -olive oil, has a secret one for the extraction of neroli, a sweet oil -obtained from orange-blossom, and for distilling orange-flower water, a -specific famed throughout the world for the cure of those attacks of -nerves to which great ladies are subject. Therefore, at the mas, the -fragrant harvest is of great importance. - -And what a feast it is for the eye. Beneath the brilliant canopy above, -a veritable riot of colour, an orgy of movement and of life! There -stands Jaume Deydier himself in blouse and linen trousers, out from -earliest dawn, tablets and pencil in hand, counting and checking the -bags as they are carried from the grove to the road, where a row of -carts is waiting to convey them to the distillery at Pertuis: the horses -are gorgeously decked out with scarlet and blue ribbons plaited into -their manes and tails, the bosses on their harness scintillating like -gold in the sunshine: their drivers with bunches of lilac or -lily-of-the-valley tied to their whips. Then the girls in red or pink or -green kirtles, the tiny muslin caps on their heads embellished with a -sprig of blue gentian or wild geranium that nestles against their curls -or above the heavy plaits that hang like streamers down their backs; and -the lads in grey or blue blouses, with gay kerchiefs tied loosely round -their necks, and through it all from time to time a trenchant note of -deep maroon or purple, a shawl, a kerchief, a piece of embroidery; or -again ’tis M. le Curé’s soutane, a note of sober black, as he moves from -group to group, admonishing, chaffing, bestowing blessings as he goes -by, his well-worn soutane held high above his buckled shoes, his -three-cornered hat pushed back above his streaming forehead. - -“Eh! Mossou le Curé!” comes in a ringing shout from a chorus of young -voices, “this way, Mossou le Curé, this way! bless this tree for us that -it may yield the heaviest crop of the year.” - -For there is a dole on every tree, according to the crop it yields to -deft fingers, and M. le Curé hurries along, raises his wrinkled hand and -murmurs a quick blessing, whilst for a minute or two dark heads and fair -are bent in silent reverence and lips murmur a short prayer, only to -break the next moment into irresponsible laughter again. - -And in the midst of this merry throng Nicolette moves—the fairest, the -merriest of all. She has pinned a white camellia into her cap: it -nestles against her brown curls on the crown of her head, snow-white -with just a splash or two of vivid crimson on the outer petals. Ameyric -Barnadou is in close attendance upon her. He is the most desirable -_parti_ in the neighbourhood for he is the only son of the rich farmer -over at La Bastide, who is also the mayor of the commune, and a well-set -up, handsome lad with bold, dark eyes calculated to bring a quick blush -to any damask cheek. Glances of admiration and approval were freely -bestowed on the young couple: and more than one sigh of longing or -regret followed them as they moved about amongst the trees, for Ameyric -had eyes only for Nicolette. - -Nicolette had in truth grown into a very beautiful woman, with the rich -beauty of the South, the sun-kissed brown hair, and mellow, dark hazel -eyes, with a gleam in them beneath their lashes, as of a golden topaz. -That she was habitually cool and distant with the lads of the -country-side—some said that she was proud—made her all the more -desirable to those who, like Ameyric, made easy conquests where they -chose to woo. So far, certainly Nicolette had not been known to favour -any one, and it was in vain that her girl friends teased her, calling -her: Nicolette, no man’s fiancée. - -To-day with a background of light colour, with the May-day sun above -her, and the scent of orange-blossom in his nostrils, Ameyric Barnadou -felt that life would be for him a poor thing indeed if he could not -share it with Nicolette. But though he found in his simple poetic soul, -words of love that should have melted a heart of stone, exquisite -Nicolette did no more than smile upon him with a gentle kind of pity, -which was exasperating to his pride and fuel to his ardour. - -“Nicolette,” Ameyric pleaded at one time when he had succeeded by dint -of clever strategy in isolating her from the groups of noisy harvesters, -“if you only knew how good it is to love.” - -She was leaning up against a tree, and the leaves and branches cast -trenchant, irregular shadows on her muslin kerchief and the creamy satin -of her shoulders: she was twirling a piece of orange-blossom between her -fingers and now and then she raised it to her cheeks, caressing it and -inhaling its dewy fragrance. - -“Don’t do that, Nicolette!” the lad cried out with a touch of -exasperation. - -She turned great, wondering eyes on him. - -“What am I doing, Ameyric,” she asked, “that irritates you?” - -“Letting that flower kiss your cheek,” he replied, “when I——” - -“Poor Ameyric,” she sighed. - -“Alas! poor Ameyric!” he assented. “You must think that I am made of -stone, Nicolette, or you would not tease me so.” - -“I?” she exclaimed, genuinely astonished: “I tease you? How?” - -But Ameyric had not a great power of expressing himself. Just now he -looked shy, awkward, and mumbled haltingly: - -“By—by being you—yourself—so lovely—so fresh—then kissing that flower. -You must know that it makes me mad!” he added almost roughly. He tried -to capture her hand; but she succeeded in freeing it, and flung the twig -away. - -“Poor Ameyric,” she reiterated with a sigh. - -He had already darted after the flower and, kneeling, he picked it up -and pressed it to his lips. She looked down on his eager, flushed face, -and there crept a soft, almost motherly look in her eyes. - -“If you only knew,” he said moodily, “how it hurts!” - -“Just now you wished me to know how good it was to love,” she riposted -lightly. - -“That is just the trouble, Nicolette,” the lad assented, and rose slowly -to his feet; “it is good but it also hurts; and when the loved one is -unkind, or worse still, indifferent, then it is real hell!” - -Then, as she said nothing, but stood quite still, her little head thrown -back, breathing in the delicious scented air, which had become almost -oppressive in its fragrance, he exclaimed passionately: - -“I love you so, Nicolette!” - -He put out his arms and drew her to him, longing to fasten his lips on -that round white throat, which gleamed like rose-tinted marble. - -“Nicolette,” he pleaded, because she had pushed him away quickly—almost -roughly. “Are you quite sure that you cannot bring yourself to love me?” - -“Quite sure,” she replied firmly. - -“But you cannot go on like this,” he argued, “loving no one. It is not -natural. Every girl has a lad. Look at them how happy they are.” - -Instinctively she turned to look. - -In truth they were a happy crowd these children of Provence. It was the -hour after _déjeuner_, and in groups of half a dozen or more, boys and -girls, men and women squatted upon the ground under the orange trees, -having polished off their bread and cheese, drunk their wine and -revelled in the cakes which Margaï always baked expressly for the -harvesters. There was an hour’s rest before afternoon work began. Every -girl was with her lad. Ameyric was quite right: there they were, -unfettered in their naïve love-making; the boys for the most part were -lying full length on the ground, their hats over their eyes, tired out -after the long morning’s work: the girls squatted beside them, teasing, -chaffing, laughing, yielding to a kiss when a kiss was demanded, on full -red lips or blue-veined, half-closed lids. - -Anon, one or two of the men, skilled in music, picked up their galoubets -whilst others slung their beribboned tambours round their shoulders. -They began to beat time, softly at first, then a little louder, and the -soft-toned galoubets intoned the tender melody of “_Lou Roussignou_” -(“The Nightingale”), one of the sweetest of the national songs of -Provence. And one by one the fresh young voices of men and maids also -rose in song, and soon the mountains gave echo to the sweet, sad tune, -with its quaint burden and its haunting rhythm, and to the clapping of -soft, moist hands, the droning of galoubets and murmur of tambours. - - “Whence come you, oh, fair maiden? - The nightingale that flies, - Your arm with basket laden, - The nightingale that flies, that flies, - Your arm with basket laden, - The nightingale that soon will fly.” - -One young voice after another took up the refrain, and soon the sound -rose and rose higher and ever higher, growing in magnitude and volume -till every mountain crag and every crevasse on distant Luberon seemed to -join in the chorus, and to throw back in numberless echoes the naïve -burden of the song that holds in its music the very heart and soul of -this land of romance and of tears. - -Nicolette listened for awhile, standing still under the orange tree, -with the sun playing upon her hair, drinking in the intoxicating perfume -of orange-blossoms that lulled her mind to dreams of what could never, -never be. But anon she, too, joined in the song, and as her voice had -been trained by a celebrated music-master of Avignon, and was of a -peculiarly pure and rich quality, it rose above the quaint, harsh tones -that came from untutored throats, until one by one these became hushed, -and boys and girls ceased to laugh and to chatter, and listened. - - “What ails thee, maiden fair? - The nightingale that flies! - Whence all these tears and care? - The nightingale that flies, that flies! - Whence all these tear-drops rare? - The nightingale away will fly!” - -sang Nicolette, and the last high note, pure indeed as that of a bird, -lingered on the perfumed air like a long-drawn-out sigh, then softly -died away as if carried to the mountain heights on the wings of the -nightingale that flies. - - “Lou roussignou che volà—volà!” - -A hush had fallen on the merry throng: a happy hush wherein hands sought -hands and curly head leaned on willing breast, and lips sought eyes and -closed them with a kiss. Nicolette was standing under the big orange -tree, her eyes fastened on the slopes of Luberon, where between olive -trees and pines rose the dark cypress trees that marked the grounds of -the old château. When she ceased to sing some of the lads shouted -enthusiastically: “Encore! Encore!” and M. le Curé clapped his hands, -and said she must come over to Pertuis and sing at high Mass on the -Feast of Pentecost. Jaume Deydier was at great pains to explain how -highly the great music-teacher at Avignon thought of Nicolette’s voice; -but Ameyric in the meanwhile had swarmed up the big orange tree. It had -not yet been picked and was laden with blossom. The fragrance from it -was such that it was oppressive, and once Ameyric felt as if he would -swoon and fall off the tree. But this feeling soon passed, and sitting -astride upon a bough, he picked off all the blossoms, gathering them -into his blouse. Then when his blouse was full, he held on to it with -one hand, and with the other started pelting Nicolette with the flowers: -he threw them down in huge handfuls one after the other, and Nicolette -stood there and never moved; she just let the petals fall about her like -snow, until Ameyric suddenly loosened the corner of his blouse, and down -came the blossoms, buds, flowers, petals, leaves, twigs, and Nicolette -had to bend her head lest these struck her in the face. She put up her -arms and started to run, but Ameyric was down on the ground and after -her within a second. And as he was the swiftest runner of the -country-side, he soon overtook her and seized her hand, and went on -running, dragging her after him: a lad jumped to his feet and seized her -other hand and then dragged another girl after him. The next moment -every one had joined in this merry race: young and old, grey heads and -fair heads and bald heads, all holding hands and running, running, for -this was the _Farandoulo_, and the whole band was dragged along by -Ameyric, who was the leader and who had hold of Nicolette’s hand. They -ran and they ran, the long band that grew longer and longer every -moment, as one after another every one joined in: the girls, the boys, -the men, Jaume Deydier, Margaï, and even Mossou le Curé. No one can -refuse to join in the _Farandoulo_. In and out of the orange trees, -round and round and up and down!—follow my leader!—and woe betide him or -her who first gets breathless. The laughter, the shouts were deafening. - -“Keep up, Magdeleine!” - -“Thou’rt breaking my arm, Glayse!” - -“Take care, Mossou le Curé will fall!” - -“Fall! No! and if he does we’ll pick him up again!” - -And so the mad _Farandoulo_ winds its way in the fragrant grove that -borders the dusty road. And down that road coming from Luberon two -riders—a man and a woman—draw rein, and hold their horses in, while they -gaze toward the valley. - -“Now, what in Heaven’s name is happening over there?” a high-pitched -feminine voice asks somewhat querulously. - -“I should not wonder they were dancing a _Farandoulo_!” the man replies. - -“What in the world is that?” - -“The oldest custom in Provence. A national dance——” - -“A dance, _bon Dieu_! I should call it a vulgar brawl!” - -“It is quaint and original, Rixende. Come! It will amuse you to watch.” - -The lady shrugs her pretty shoulders and the riders put their horses to -a gentle trot. Bertrand’s eyes fixed upon that serpentine band of -humanity, still winding its merry way amidst the trees, have taken on an -eager, excited glance. The Provençal blood in his veins leaps in face of -this ancient custom of his native land. Rixende, smothering her ennui, -rides silently by his side. Then suddenly one or two amongst that -riotous throng have perceived the riders: the inborn shyness of the -peasant before his seigneur seems to check the laughter on their lips, -their shyness is communicated to others, and gradually one by one, they -fall away; Mossou le Curé, shamefaced, is the first to let go; he mops -his streaming forehead and watches with some anxiety the approach of the -strange lady in her gorgeous riding habit of crimson velvet, her fair -curls half concealed beneath a coquettish _tricorne_ adorned with a -falling white plume. - -“_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_” he mutters. “I trust they did not perceive me. -M. le Comte and this strange lady: what will they think?” - -“Bah!” Jaume Deydier replies with a somewhat ironic laugh, “’tis not so -many years ago that young Bertrand would have been proud to lead the -_Farandoulo_ himself.” - -“Ah!” the old curé murmurs with a grave shake of his old head, “but he -has changed since then.” - -“Yes,” Deydier assents dryly: “he has changed.” - -The curé would have said something more, but a loud, rather shrill, cry -checks the words on his lips. - -“_Mon Dieu!_ What has happened?” - -Nothing! Only that Ameyric, the leader of the _Farandoulo_, and -Nicolette with him had been about the only ones who had not perceived -the approach of the elegant riders. It is an understood thing that one -by one the band of rioters becomes shorter and shorter, as some fall -out, breathless after awhile, and Ameyric, who was half wild with -excitement to-day, and Nicolette, whose senses were reeling in the -excitement of this wild rush through perfume-laden space went on -running, running, for the longer the _Farandoulo_ can be kept up by the -leaders the greater is the honour that awaits them in the end; and so -they ran, these two, until their mad progress was suddenly arrested by a -loud, shrill cry, followed less than a second later by another terrified -one, and the pawing and clanging of a horse’s hoofs upon the hard stony -road. Ameyric was only just in time to drag Nicolette, with a violent -jerk, away from the spot where she had fallen on her knees right under -the hoofs of a scared and maddened animal. The beautiful rider in -gorgeous velvet habit was vainly trying to pacify her horse, who, -startled by a sudden clash of tambours, was boring and champing and -threatening to rear. Rixende, not a very experienced rider, had further -goaded him by her screams and by her nervous tugging at the bridle: she -did indeed present a piteous spectacle—her elegant hat had slipped down -from her head and hung by its ribbon round her neck, her hair had become -disarranged and her pretty face looked crimson and hot, whilst her small -hands, encased in richly embroidered gloves, clung desperately to the -reins. The untoward incident, however, only lasted a few seconds. -Already one of Deydier’s men had seized the bridle of the fidgety animal -and Bertrand, bending over in his saddle, succeeded not only in quieting -the horse, but also in soothing his loved one’s temper; he helped her to -readjust her hat and to regain her seat, he rearranged the tumbled folds -of her skirt, and saw to her stirrup leather and the comfort of her -small, exquisitely shod feet. - -But Rixende would not allow herself to be coaxed back into good humour. - -“These ignorant louts!” she murmured fretfully, “don’t they know that -their silly din will frighten a highly strung beast?” - -“It was an accident, Rixende,” Bertrand protested: “and here,” he added, -“comes M. le Curé to offer you an apology for his flock.” - -“_Hélas_, mademoiselle,” M. le Curé said, with hands held up in genuine -concern, as he hurried to greet M. le Comte and his fair companion, “we -must humbly beg your pardon for this unfortunate accident. In the heat -and excitement of the dance, I fear me the boys and girls lost their -heads a bit.” - -“Lost their heads, M. le Curé,” Rixende retorted dryly. “I might have -lost my life by what you are pleased to call this unfortunate accident. -Had my horse taken the bit between his teeth....” - -She shrugged her pretty shoulders in order to express all the grim -possibilities that her words had conjured up. - -“Oh! Mademoiselle,” le curé protested benignly, “with M. le Comte by -your side, you were as safe as in your own boudoir; and every lad here -knows how to stay a runaway horse.” - -“Nay!” Mademoiselle rejoined with just a thought of resentment in her -tone, “methinks every one was too much occupied in attending to that -wench yonder, to pay much heed to me.” - -For a moment it seemed as if the old priest would say something more, -but he certainly thought better of it and pressed his lips tightly -together, as if to check the words which perhaps were best left unsaid. -Indeed there appeared to be some truth in Rixende’s complaint, for while -she certainly was the object of Bertrand’s tender solicitude, and the -old curé stood beside her to offer sympathy and apology for the -potential accident, all the boys and girls, the men and women, were -crowding around the group composed of Nicolette, Ameyric, Margaï and -Jaume Deydier. - -Nicolette had not been hurt, thanks to Ameyric’s promptitude, but she -had been in serious danger from the fretful, maddened horse, whom his -rider was powerless to check. She had fallen on her knees and was -bruised and shaken, but already she was laughing quite gaily, and joking -over her father’s anxiety and Margaï’s fussy ways. Margaï was preparing -bandages for the bruised knee and a glass of orange-flower water for her -darling’s nerves, whilst rows of flushed and sympathising faces peered -down anxiously upon the unwilling patient. - -“Eh! Margaï, let me be,” Nicolette cried, and jumped to her feet, to -show that she was in no way hurt. “What a to-do, to be sure. One would -think it was I who nearly fell from a horse.” - -“Women,” muttered Margaï crossly, “who don’t know how to sit a horse -should not be allowed to ride.” - -And rows of wise young heads nodded sagely in assent. - -Rixende, watching this little scene from the road, felt querulous and -irritated. - -“Who,” she asked peremptorily, “was that fool of a girl who threw -herself between my horse’s feet?” - -“It was our little Nicolette,” the curé replied gently. “The child was -running and dancing, and Ameyric dragged her so fast in the _Farandoulo_ -that she lost her footing and fell. She might have been killed,” the old -man added gravely. - -“Fortunately I had my horse in hand,” Rixende riposted dryly. “’Twas I -who might have been killed.” - -But this last doleful remark of hers Bertrand did not hear. He was at -the moment engaged in fastening his horse’s bridle to a convenient tree, -for at sound of Nicolette’s name he had jumped out of the saddle. -Nicolette! Poor little Nicolette hurt! He must know, he must know at -once. Just for the next few seconds he forgot Rixende, yes! forgot her! -and sped across the road and through the orange-grove in the direction -of that distant, agitated group, in the midst of which he feared to find -poor little Nicolette mangled and bleeding. - -Rixende called peremptorily after him. She thought Bertrand indifferent -to the danger which she had run, and indifference was a manlike -condition which she could not tolerate. - -“Bertrand,” she called, “Bertrand, come back.” - -But he did not hear her, which further exasperated her nerves. She -turned to the old curé who was standing by rather uncomfortably, longing -for an excuse to go and see how Nicolette was faring. - -“M. le Curé,” Rixende said tartly, “I pray you tell M. le Comte that my -nerves are on edge, and that I must return home immediately. If he’ll -not accompany me, then must I go alone.” - -“At your service, mademoiselle,” the old priest responded readily -enough, and picked up his soutane ready to follow M. le Comte through -the grove. For the moment he had disappeared, but a few seconds later -the group of harvesters parted and disclosed Bertrand standing beside -Nicolette. - -“Nicolette!” Bertrand had exclaimed as soon as he saw her. He felt -immensely relieved to find that she was not hurt, but at sight of her he -suddenly felt shy and awkward; he who was accustomed to meet the -grandest and most beautiful ladies of the Court at Versailles. - -“Why,” he went on with a nervous little laugh, “how you have grown.” - -Nicolette looked a little pale, which was no wonder, seeing what a -fright she had had: but at sight of Bertrand a deep glow ran right up -her cheeks, and tinged even her round young throat down to her shoulders -under the transparent fichu. The boys and girls who had been crowding -round her fell back respectfully as M. le Comte approached, and even -Ameyric stood aside, only Margaï and Jaume Deydier remained beside -Nicolette. - -“You have grown!” Bertrand reiterated somewhat foolishly. - -“Do you think so, M. le Comte?” Nicolette murmured shyly. - -The fact that she, too, appeared awkward had the effect of dissipating -Bertrand’s nervousness in the instant. - -“Call me Bertrand at once,” he cried gaily, “you naughty child who would -forget her playmate Bertrand, or Tan-tan if you wish, and give me a kiss -at once, or I shall think that you have the habit of turning your back -on your friends.” - -He tried to snatch a kiss, but Nicolette evaded him with a laugh, and at -that very moment Bertrand caught sight of Jaume Deydier, whom he greeted -a little shamefacedly, but with hearty goodwill. After which it was the -turn of Margaï, whom he kissed on both cheeks, despite her grumblings -and mutterings, and of the boys and girls whom he had not seen for over -five years. Amongst them Ameyric. - -“_Eh bien_, Ameyric!” he cried jovially, and held out a cordial hand to -the lad: “are you going to beat me at the bar and the disc now that I am -out of practice! _Mon Dieu_, what bouts we used to have, what? and how -we hated one another in those days!” - -Every one was delighted with M. le Comte. How handsome he was! How gay! -Proud? Why, no one could be more genial, more kindly than he. He shook -hands with all the men, kissed one or two of the prettiest girls and all -the old women on both cheeks: even Margaï ceased to mutter -uncomplimentary remarks about him, and even Jaume Deydier unbent. He -admitted to those who stood near him that M. le Comte had changed -immensely to his own advantage. And Nicolette leaned against the old -orange tree, the doyen of the grove, feeling a little breathless. Her -heart was beating furiously beneath her kerchief, because, no doubt, she -had not yet rested from that wild _Farandoulo_. The glow had not left -her cheeks, and had added a curious brilliance to her eyes. The mad -dancing and running had disarranged her hair, and the brown curls -tumbled about her face just as they used to do of old when she was still -a child: in her small brown hands she twirled a piece of orange-blossom. - -At one moment Bertrand looked round, and their eyes met. In that glance -the whole of his childhood seemed to be mirrored: the woods, the long, -rafted corridors, the mad, glad pranks of boyhood, the climbs up the -mountain-side, the races up the terraced gradients, the slaying of -dragons and rescuing of captive maidens. And all at once he threw back -his head and laughed, just laughed from the sheer joy of these memories -of the past and delight in the present; joy at finding himself here, -amidst the mountains of old Provence, whose summits and crags dissolved -in the brilliant azure overhead, with the perfume of orange-blossom -going to his head like wine. - -And because M. le Comte laughed, one by one the boys and girls joined in -his merriment: they laughed and sang, no longer the sweet sad chaunt of -the “_Roussignou_,” but rather the gay ditties of _La Farandoulo_. - - “La Farandoulo? La faren - Lou cor gai la tèsto flourido - E la faren tant que voudren - En aio! En aio!” - -It was, in truth, most unfortunate that it all happened so: for Rixende -had watched the whole of the scene from the moment when she sent the old -curé peremptorily to order Bertrand to come back to her. But instead of -delivering the message he seemed to have mixed himself up with all those -noisy louts, and to have become a part of that group that stood gaping -around the girl Nicolette. Rixende saw how Bertrand greeted the girl, -how he was soon surrounded by a rowdy, chattering throng, she saw how he -tried to kiss the girls, how he embraced the women, how happy he seemed -amongst all these people: so happy, in fact, that he appeared wholly to -have forgotten her, Rixende. And she was forced to wait till it was his -good pleasure to remember her. No wonder that this spoilt child of -fashionable Versailles lost her temper the while. Her horse was still -restive, his boring tired her: she could not trot off by herself, -chiefly because she would not have cared to ride alone in this strange -and dour country where she was a complete stranger. True! it was selfish -and thoughtless of Bertrand thus to forget her. He was only away from -her side a few minutes—six at most—but these were magnified into half an -hour, and she was really not altogether to blame for greeting him with -black looks, when presently he came back to her, leading that stupid -peasant wench by the hand, and speaking just as if nothing had happened, -and he had done nothing that required forgiveness. - -“This is Nicolette Deydier, my Rixende,” he said quite unconcernedly. -“Though she is so young, she is my oldest friend. I sincerely hope that -you and she——” - -“Mademoiselle Deydier and I,” Rixende broke in tartly, “can make -acquaintance at a more propitious time. But I have been kept too long -for conversation with strangers now. I pray you let us go hence, -Bertrand; the heat, the sun, and all the noise have given me a -headache.” - -At the first petulant words Nicolette had quietly withdrawn her hand -from Bertrand’s grasp. She stood by silent, deeply hurt by the other’s -rudeness, vaguely commiserating with Bertrand for the sorry figure which -he was made to cut. He did his best to pacify his somewhat -vixenish-tempered fiancée, and in his efforts did certainly forget to -make amends to Nicolette, and after a hasty, kindly pressure of her -hand, he paid no further heed to her. - -Only when Rixende, with a vicious cut at her horse with her riding-crop, -gave the signal for departure, did Bertrand send back a farewell smile -to Nicolette. She stood there for a long, long while on the edge of the -road; even while a cloud of white dust hid the two riders from her view, -she gazed out in the direction where they had vanished. - -So this was the lovely Rixende, the woman whom Bertrand had loved even -before he had set eyes on her: the lady of his dreams, whom he was going -to nickname Riande, because she would be always laughing; and he would -love her so much and so tenderly that she would never long for the -gaieties of Paris and Versailles, but be content to live with him in his -fair home of Provence, where the flower of the gentian in the spring and -the dome of heaven above would seem but the mirrors of her blue eyes. - -With a tightening at her heart-strings, Nicolette thought of the dainty -face with its delicate, porcelain-like skin puckered up with lines of -petulance, the gentian-blue eyes with their hard, metallic glitter, and -the tiny mouth with the thin red lips set into a pout. And she sighed, -because she had also noticed at the same time that there was a look of -discontent and weariness in Bertrand’s face when he finally rode away at -the bidding of his imperious queen. - -“Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of God,” Nicolette murmured fervently under her -breath, “pray to our Lord that He may allow Bertrand to be happy.” - -The next moment her father’s voice from the distance roused her from her -dreams: - -“Nicolette! Hey, Nicolette! Don’t stand there dreaming, child!” - -She turned and ran back to the grove; the day was still young, and the -harvesters were at work already. But every one noticed that for the rest -of the afternoon Mademoiselle Nicolette was more silent than was her -wont. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - TWILIGHT - - -The second time that Nicolette saw the lovely Rixende she looked very -different from the shrewish, nervous rider who forgot her manners and -created such an unfavourable impression on the country-side a week ago. - -Nicolette, urged thereto by Micheline, had at last consented to come -over to the château in order to be formally introduced to Bertrand’s -fiancée. - -It was Whit-Sunday, and a glorious afternoon. When Nicolette arrived she -found the entire family assembled on the terrace. A table, spread with a -beautiful lace cloth, was laden with all kinds of delicacies, such as -even Margaï over at the mas could not have known how to bake: _gâteaux_ -and _brioches_, and _babas_, and jars of cream and cups of chocolate. -The old Comtesse sat at the head of the table, her white hair dressed -high above her head in the stately mode of forty years ago, and -embellished with a magnificent jewelled comb. Her dress was of rich, -purple brocade, made after the fashion which prevailed before the -Revolution, with hoops and panniers, and round her neck she wore a -magnificent rope of pearls. There were rings on her fingers set with -gems that sparkled in the sunlight as she raised the silver jug and -poured some chocolate out into a delicate porcelain cup. - -Nicolette could scarce believe her eyes. There was such an air of -splendour about old Madame to-day! - -Micheline, too, looked different. She had discarded the plain, drab -stuff gown she always wore, and had on a prettily made, dainty muslin -frock which made her look younger, less misshapen somehow than usual. -Her mother alone appeared out of key in the highly coloured picture. -Though she, too, had on a silk gown, it was of the same unrelieved black -which she had never discarded since Nicolette could remember anything. -But the chair in which she reclined was covered in rich brocade, and her -poor, tired head rested upon gorgeously embroidered cushions. The centre -of interest in this family group, however, was that delicate figure of -loveliness that reclined in an elegant _bergère_ in the midst of a -veritable cloud of muslin and lace, all adorned with ribbons less blue -than her eyes. With a quick glance, even as she approached, Nicolette -took in every detail of the dainty apparition: from the exquisite head -with its wealth of golden curls, modishly dressed with a high -tortoiseshell comb, down to the tiny feet in transparent silk stockings -and sandal shoes that rested on a cushion of crimson velvet, on the -corner of which Bertrand sat, or rather crouched, with arms folded and -head raised to gaze unhindered on his beloved. - -Micheline was the first to catch sight of her friend. - -“Nicolette,” she cried, and struggled to her feet, “come quick! We are -waiting for you.” - -She ran to Nicolette as fast as her poor lame leg would allow, and -Nicolette, who a moment ago had been assailed with the terrible -temptation to play the coward and to run away, away from this strange -scene, was compelled to come forward to greet the older ladies by -kissing their hands as was customary, and to mix with all these people -who, she vaguely felt, were hostile to her. The Comtesse Marcelle had -given her a friendly kiss. But she felt like an intruder, a dependent -who is tolerated, without being very welcome in the family circle. All -her pride rebelled against the feeling, even though she could not combat -it. It was Bertrand who made her feel so shy. He had risen very slowly -and very deliberately to his feet, and it was with a formal bow and -affected manner that he approached Nicolette and took her hand, then -formally presented her to his fiancée. - -“Mademoiselle Nicolette Deydier,” he said, “our neighbour’s daughter.” - -He did not say “my oldest friend” this time. And Mademoiselle de -Peyron-Bompar tore herself away from the contemplation of a box of -bonbons in order to gaze on Nicolette with languid interest. There was -quite a measure of impertinence in the glance which she bestowed on the -girl’s plain muslin gown, on the priceless fichu of old Mechlin which -she wore round her graceful shoulders and on the string of rare pearls -around her neck. Nicolette felt tongue-tied and was furious with herself -for her awkwardness; she, who was called little chatter-box by her -father and by Margaï, could find nothing to say but “Yes!” or “No!” or -short, prim answers to Rixende’s supercilious queries. - -“Was the harvesting of orange-blossom finished?” - -“Not quite.” - -“What ennui! The smell of the flowers is enough to give one the -migraine. How long would it last?” - -“Another week perhaps.” - -“And does that noisy dance always accompany the harvesting?” - -“Always when the boys and girls are merry.” - -“What ennui! the noise of those abominable tambourines could be heard as -far as the château yesterday. One could not get one’s afternoon siesta.” - -“Have a cup of chocolate, Nicolette!” Micheline suggested by way of a -diversion as the conversation threatened to drop altogether. - -“No, thank you, Micheline!” Nicolette replied, “I had some chocolate -before I came.” - -It was all so awkward, and so very, very unreal. To Nicolette it seemed -as if she were in a dream: the old Comtesse’s jewelled comb, the brocade -chair, the silver on the table, it _could_ not be real. The old château -of Ventadour was the home of old tradition, not of garish modernity, it -lived in a rarefied old-world atmosphere that had rendered it very dear -to Nicolette, and all this rich paraphernalia of good living and fine -clothes threw a mantle of falsehood almost of vulgarity over the place. - -Nicolette found nothing more to say, and Micheline looked hurt and -puzzled that her friend did not enter into the spirit of this beautiful -unreality. She appeared to be racking her brain for something to say: -but no one helped her out. The old Comtesse had not opened her lips -since Nicolette had come upon the scene. Bertrand was too busily engaged -in devouring his beautiful fiancée with his eyes to pay heed to any one -else, and the lovely Rixende was even at this moment smothering a yawn -behind her upraised fan. - -It was the Comtesse Marcelle, anxious and gentle, who relieved the -tension: - -“Micheline,” she said, “why don’t you take Nicolette into the boudoir -and show her——?” Then she smiled and added with a pathetic little air of -gaiety: “you know what?” - -This suggestion delighted Micheline. - -“Of course,” she cried excitedly. “I was forgetting. Come, Nicolette, -and I will show you something that will surprise you.” - -She had assumed a mysterious mien and now led the way into the house. -Nicolette followed her, ready to fall in with anything that would take -her away from here. The two girls went across the terrace together, and -the last words which struck Nicolette’s ears before they went into the -house came from Mademoiselle de Peyron-Bompar. - -“The wench is quite pretty,” she was saying languidly, “in a milkmaid -fashion, of course. You never told me, Bertrand, that you had a rustic -beauty in these parts. She represents your calf-love, I presume.” - -Nicolette actually felt hot tears rising to her eyes, but she succeeded -in swallowing them, whilst Micheline exclaimed with naïve enthusiasm: - -“Isn’t Rixende beautiful? How can you wonder, Nicolette, that Bertrand -loves her so?” - -Fortunately Nicolette was not called upon to make a reply. She had -followed Micheline through the tall French window in the drawing-room -and in very truth she was entirely dumb with surprise. The room was -transformed in a manner which she would not have thought possible. It is -true that she had not been inside the château for many months, but even -so, it seemed as if a fairy godmother had waved her magic wand and -changed the faded curtains into gorgeous brocades, the tattered carpets -into delicate Aubussons, the broken-down chairs with protruding stuffing -into luxurious fauteuils, covered in elegant tapestries. There were -flowers in cut-glass bowls, books laid negligently on the tables; an -open escritoire displayed a silver-mounted inkstand, whilst like a -crowning ornament to this beautifully furnished room, a spinet in inlaid -rosewood case stood in the corner beside the farthest window, with a -pile of music upon it. - -Micheline had come to a halt in the centre of the room watching with -glee the look of utter surprise and bewilderment on her friend’s face, -and when Nicolette stood there, dumb, looking about her as she would on -a dream picture, Micheline clapped her hands with joy. - -“Nicolette,” she cried, “do sing something, then you will know that it -is all real.” - -And Nicolette sat down at the spinet and her fingers wandered for awhile -idly over the keys. Surely it must all be a dream. A spook had gone by -and transformed the dear old château into an ogre’s palace: it had cast -a spell over poor, trusting Micheline, and set up old Madame as a -presiding genius over this new world which was so unlike, so -pathetically unlike the old; whilst through this ogre’s palace there -flitted a naughty, mischief making sprite, with blue eyes and golden -curls, a sprite all adorned with lace and ribbons and exquisite to -behold, who held dainty, jewelled fingers right over Bertrand’s eyes so -that he could no longer see. - -Gradually the dream-mood took stronger and yet stronger hold of -Nicolette’s spirit: and she was hardly conscious of what her fingers -were doing. Instinctively they had wandered and wandered over the keys, -playing a few bars of one melody and then of another, the player’s mind -scarcely following them. But now they settled down to the one air that -is always the dearest of all to every heart in Provence: “lou -Roussignou!” - - “Lou Roussignou che volà, volà!” - -Nicolette’s sweet young voice rose to the accompaniment of the -soft-toned spinet. She sang, hardly knowing that she did so, certainly -not noticing Micheline’s rapt little face of admiration, or that the -tall window was open and allowed the rasping voice of Rixende to -penetrate so far. - -Micheline heard it, and tiptoed as far as the window. Rixende had jumped -to her feet. She stood in the middle of the terrace, with all her laces -and ribbons billowing around her and her hands held up to her ears: - -“Oh! that stupid song!” she cried, “that monotonous, silly refrain gets -on my nerves. Bertrand, take me away where I cannot hear it, or I vow -that I shall scream.” - -Micheline stepped out through the window, from a safe distance she gazed -in utter bewilderment at Rixende whom she had hitherto admired so -whole-heartedly and who at this moment looked like an angry little -vixen. Bertrand, on the other hand, tried to make a joke of the whole -thing. - -“The sooner you accustom your sweet ears to that song,” he said with a -laugh, “the sooner will you become a true Queen of Provence.” - -“But I have no desire to become a Queen of Provence,” Rixende retorted -dryly, “I hate this dull, dreary country——” - -“Rixende!” Bertrand protested, suddenly sobered by an utterance which -appeared to him nothing short of blasphemy. - -“Eh! what,” she retorted tartly, “you do not suppose, my dear Bertrand, -that I find this place very entertaining? Or did you really see me with -your mind’s eye finding delectation in rushing round orange trees in the -company of a lot of perspiring louts?” - -“No,” Bertrand replied gently, “I can only picture you in my mind’s eye -as the exquisite fairy that you are. But I must confess that I also see -you as the Queen ruling over these lands that are the birthright of our -race.” - -“Very prettily said,” Rixende riposted with a sarcastic curl of her red -lips, “you were always a master of florid diction, my dear. But let me -assure you that I much prefer to queen it over a Paris _salon_ than over -a half-empty barrack like this old château.” - -Bertrand threw a rapid, comprehensive glance over the old pile that held -all his family pride, all the glorious traditions of his forbears. There -was majesty even in its ruins: whole chapters of the history of France -had been unfolded within its walls. - -“I find the half-empty barrack beautiful,” he murmured with a quick, -sharp sigh. - -“Of course it is beautiful, Bertrand,” Rixende rejoined, with that quick -transition from petulance to coquetry which seemed one of her chief -characteristics. “It is beautiful to me, because it is dear to you.” - -She clasped her two tiny hands around his arm and turned her -gentian-blue eyes up to him. He looked down at the dainty face, rendered -still more exquisite by the flush which still lingered on her cheeks. -She looked so frail, so fairy-like, such a perfect embodiment of all -that was most delicate, most appealing in womanhood; she was one of -those women who have the secret of rousing every instinct of protection -and chivalry in a man, and command love and devotion where a more -self-reliant, more powerful personality fails even to attract. A look of -infinite tenderness came into Bertrand’s face as he gazed on the lovely -upturned face, and into those blue eyes wherein a few tears were slowly -gathering. He felt suddenly brutish and coarse beside this ethereal -being, whose finger-tips he was not worthy to touch. He felt that there -was nothing which he could do, no act of worship or of self-abnegation, -that would in any way repay her marvellous condescension in stepping out -of her kingdom amongst the clouds, in order to come down to his level. - -And she, quick to notice the varying moods expressed in his face, felt -that she had gone yet another step in her entire conquest of him. She -gave a little sigh of content, threw him one more ravishing look, then -said lightly: - -“Let us wander away together, Bertrand, shall we? We seem never to have -any time all to ourselves.” - - -Bertrand, wholly subjugated, captured Rixende’s little hand, and drawing -it under his arm, led her away in the direction of the wood. Micheline -continued to gaze after them, a puzzled frown between her brows. Neither -her mother nor her grandmother had joined in the short sparring match -between the two lovers, but Micheline, whom infirmity had rendered -keenly observant, was quick to note the look of anxiety which her mother -cast in the direction where Rixende’s dainty gown was just disappearing -among the trees. - -“That girl will never be happy here——” she murmured as if to herself. - -Old Madame who still sat erect and stiff at the head of the table broke -in sharply: - -“Once she is married to Bertrand,” she said, “Rixende will have to -realise that she represents a great name, and that her little bourgeois -ideas of pleasure and pomp are sadly out of key in this place where her -husband’s ancestors have been the equal of kings.” - -The Comtesse Marcelle sighed drearily. - -“Yes, when she is married—but——” - -“But what,” grandmama queried sharply. - -“I sometimes wonder if that marriage will make for Bertrand’s -happiness.” - -“Bertrand’s happiness,” the old Comtesse echoed with a harsh laugh, -“Hark at the sentimental schoolgirl! My dear Marcelle! to hear you talk, -one would think you had not lived through twenty-five years of grinding -poverty. In Heaven’s name have you not yet realised that the only -possible happiness for Bertrand lies in a brilliant marriage. We have -plunged too deeply into the stream now, we cannot turn back, we must -swim with the tide—or sink—there is no middle-way.” - -“I know, I know,” the younger woman replied meekly. “Debts, more debts! -more debts! O, my God!” she moaned and buried her face in her hands; “as -if they had not wrought enough mischief already. More debts, and if——” - -“And now you talk like a fool,” the old Comtesse broke in tartly. “Would -you have had the girl come here and find that all your carpets were in -rags, your cushions moth-eaten, the family silver turned to lead or -brass? Would you have had her find the Comtesse de Ventadour in a -patched and darned gown, waited on by a lad from the village in sabots -and an unwashed shirt that reeked of manure? Yes,” she went on in that -firm, decisive tone against which no one at the château had ever dared -to make a stand, “yes, I did advise Bertrand to borrow a little more -money, in order that his family should not be shamed before his fiancée. -But you may rest assured, my good Marcelle, that the usurers who lent -him the money would not have done it were they not satisfied that he -would in the very near future be able to meet all his liabilities. You -live shut away from all the civilised world, but every one in Paris -knows that M. le Comte de Ventadour is co-heir with his fiancée, Mlle. -de Peyron-Bompar, to the Mont-Pahon millions. Bertrand had no difficulty -in raising the money, he will have none in repaying it, and Jaume -Deydier is already regretting, I make no doubt, the avarice which -prompted him to refuse to help his seigneurs in their short-lived -difficulty.” - -The Comtesse Marcelle uttered a cry, almost of horror. - -“Deydier!” she exclaimed, “surely, Madame, you did not ask him to——?” - -“I asked him to lend me five thousand louis, until the marriage contract -between Bertrand and Mlle. Peyron-Bompar was signed. I confess that I -did him too much honour, for he refused. Bah! those louts!” grandmama -added with lofty scorn, “they have no idea of honour.” - -The Comtesse Marcelle said nothing more, only a deep flush rose to her -wan cheeks, and to hide it from the scathing eyes of her motherin-law -she buried her face in her hands. Micheline’s heart was torn between the -desire to run and comfort her mother and her fear of grandmama’s wrath -if she did so. Instinctively she looked behind her, and then gave a -gasp. Nicolette was standing in the window embrasure, her hands clasped -in front of her; Micheline could not conjecture how much she had heard -of the conversation that had been carried on on the terrace this past -quarter of an hour. The girl’s face wore a strange expression of -detachment as if her spirit were not here at all; her eyes seemed to be -gazing inwardly, into her own soul. - -“Nicolette,” Micheline exclaimed. - -Nicolette started, as if in truth she were waking from a dream. - -“I was just thinking,” she said quietly, “that it is getting late; I -must be going. Margaï will be anxious.” - -She stepped over the window sill on to the terrace, and threw her arms -round Micheline who was obviously struggling with insistent tears. Then -she went over to the table, where the two ladies were sitting. She -dropped the respectful curtsy which usage demanded from young people -when taking leave of their elders. The Comtesse Marcelle extended a -friendly hand to her, which Nicolette kissed affectionately, but old -Madame only nodded her head with stately aloofness: and Nicolette was -thankful to escape from this atmosphere of artificiality and hostility -which gave her such a cruel ache in her heart. - -Micheline offered to accompany her part of the way home, but in reality -the girl longed to be alone, and she knew that Micheline would -understand. - - -Nicolette wandered slowly down the dusty road. She had purposely avoided -the pretty descent down the terraced gradients through the woods; -somehow she felt as if they too must be changed, as if the malignant -fairy had also waved a cruel wand over the shady olive trees, and the -carob to which captive maidens, long since passed away, were wont to be -tethered whilst gallant knights slew impossible dragons and tinged the -grass with the monster’s blood. Surely, surely, all that had changed -too! Perhaps it had never been. Perhaps childhood had been a dream and -the carob tree was as much a legend as the dragons and the fiery -chargers of old. Nicolette had a big heart-ache, because she was young -and because life had revealed itself to her whilst she was still a -child, showed her all the beauty, the joy, the happiness that it could -bestow if it would; it had drawn aside the curtain which separated earth -from heaven, and then closed them again leaving her on the wrong side, -all alone, shivering, pining, longing, not understanding why God could -be so cruel when the sky was so blue, His world so fair, and she, -Nicolette, possessed of an infinite capacity for love. - -Whilst she had sat at the spinet and sung “lou Roussignou” she had gazed -abstractedly through the open window before her, and seen that exquisite -being, all lace and ribbons and loveliness, wielding little poison-darts -that she flung at Bertrand, hurting him horribly in his pride, in his -love of the old home: and Nicolette, whose pretty head held a fair -amount of shrewd common sense, marvelled what degree of happiness the -future held for those two, who were so obviously unsuited to one -another. Rixende de Peyron-Bompar, petulant, spoilt, pleasure-loving, -and Tan-tan the slayer of dragons, the intrepid Paul of the Paul et -Virginie days on the desert island. Rixende, the butterfly Queen of a -Paris _salon_, and Bertrand, Comte de Ventadour, the descendant of -troubadours, the idealist, the dreamer, the weak vessel filled to the -brim with all that was most lovable, most reprehensible, most sensitive, -most certainly doomed to suffer. - -If only she thought that he would be happy, Nicolette felt that she -could go about with a lighter heart. She had a happy home: a father who -idolised her: she loved this land where she was born, the old mas, the -climbing rose, the vine arbour, the dark cypresses that stood sentinel -beside the outbuildings of the mas. In time, perhaps, loving these -things, she would forget that other, that greater love, that -immeasurably greater love that now threatened to break her heart. - -How beautiful the world was! and how beautiful was Provence! the trees, -the woods, Luberon and its frowning crags, the orange trees that sent -their intoxicating odour through the air. Already the sun had hidden his -splendour behind Luberon, and had lit that big crimson fire behind the -mountain tops that had seemed the end of the world to Nicolette in the -days of old. The silence of evening had fallen on these woods where -bird-song was always scarce. Nicolette walked very slowly: she felt -tired to-night, and she never liked a road when terraced gradients -through rows of olive trees were so much more inviting. The road was a -very much longer way to the mas than the woods. Nicolette paused, -debating what she should do. The crimson fire behind Luberon had paled -to rose and then to lemon-gold, and to right and left the sky was of a -pale turquoise tint, with tiny clouds lingering above the stony peaks of -Luberon, tiny, fluffy grey clouds edged with madder that slowly paled. - -The short twilight spread its grey mantle over the valley and the -mountain-side; the tiny clouds were now of a uniform grey: grey were the -crags and the boulders, the tree-tops and the roof of the distant mas. -Only the dark cypresses stood out like long, inky blotches against that -translucent grey. And from the valley there rose that intoxicating -fragrance of the blossom-laden orange trees. Way down on the road below -a cart rattled by, the harness jingling, the axles groaning, the driver, -with a maiden beside him, singing a song of Provence. For a few minutes -these sounds filled the air with their insistence on life, movement, -toil, their testimony to the wheels of destiny that never cease to -grind. Then all was still again, and the short twilight faded into -evening. - -And as Nicolette deliberately turned from the road into the wood, a -nightingale began to sing. The soft little trills went rolling and -echoing through the woods like a call from heaven itself to partake of -the joy, the beauty, the fulness of the earth and all its loveliness. -And suddenly, as Nicolette worked her way down the terraced gradients, -she spied, standing upon a grass-covered knoll, two forms interlaced: -Bertrand had his arms around Rixende, his face was buried in the wealth -of her golden curls, and she lay quite passive, upon his breast. - -Nicolette dared not move, for fear she should be seen, for fear, too, -that she should break upon this, surely the happiest hour in Tan-tan’s -life. They paid no heed of what went on around them: Bertrand held his -beloved in his arms with an embrace that was both passionate and -yearning, whilst overhead the nightingale trilled its sweet, sad melody. -Nicolette stood quite still, dry-eyed and numb. Awhile ago she had been -sure that if only she could think that Tan-tan was happy, she could go -through life with a lighter heart. Well! she had her wish! there was -happiness, absolute, radiant happiness expressed in that embrace. -Tan-tan was happy, and his loved one lay passive in his arms, whilst the -song of the nightingale spoke unto his soul promises of greater -happiness still. And Nicolette closed her eyes, because the picture -before her seemed to sear her very heart-strings and wrench them out of -her breast. She stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth, because a -desperate cry of pain had risen to her throat. Then, turning suddenly, -she ran and ran down the slope, away, away as far away as she could from -that haunting picture of Tan-tan and his happiness. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - CHRISTMAS EVE - - -It was a very rare thing indeed for discord to hold sway at the mas. -Perfect harmony reigned habitually between Jaume Deydier, his daughter -and the old servant who had loved and cared for her ever since Nicolette -had been a tiny baby, laid in Margaï’s loving arms by the hands of the -dying mother. - -Jaume Deydier was, of course, master in his own house. In Provence, old -traditions still prevail, and the principles of independence and -equality bred by the Revolution had never penetrated into these mountain -fastnesses, where primitive and patriarchal modes of life gave all the -happiness and content that the women of the old country desired. That -Nicolette had been indulged and petted both by her father and her old -nurse, was only natural. The child was pretty, loving, lovable and -motherless; the latter being the greater claim on her father’s -indulgence. As for Margaï, she was Nicolette’s slave, even though she -grumbled and scolded and imagined that she ruled the household and -ordered the servants about at the mas, in exactly the same manner as old -Madame ordered hers over at the château. - -From which it may be gathered that on the whole it was Nicolette who -usually had her way in the house. But for the last two days she had been -going about with a listless, dispirited air, whilst Jaume Deydier did -nothing but frown, and Margaï’s mutterings were as incessant as they -were for the most part unintelligible. - -“I cannot understand you, Mossou Deydier,” she said more than once to -her master, “one would think you wanted to be rid of the child.” - -“Don’t be a fool, Margaï,” was Deydier’s tart response. But Margaï was -not to be silenced quite so readily. She had been fifty years in the -service of the Deydiers, and had—as she oft and picturesquely put -it—turned down Mossou Jaume’s breeches many a time when he sneaked into -her larder and stole the jam she had just boiled, or the honey she had -recently gathered from the hives. Oh, no! she was not going to be -silenced—not like that. - -“If the child loved him,” she went on arguing, “I would not say another -word. But she has told you once and for all that she does not care for -young Barnadou, and does not wish to marry.” - -“Oh!” Jaume Deydier rejoined with a shrug of his wide shoulders, “girls -always say that at first. She is not in love with any one else, I -suppose!” - -“God forbid!” Margaï exclaimed, so hastily that the wooden spoon -wherewith she had been stirring the soup a moment ago fell out of her -hand with a clatter. - -“There, now!” she said tartly, “you quite upset me with your silly talk. -Nicolette in love? With whom, I should like to know?” - -“Well then,” Deydier retorted. - -“Well then what?” - -“Why should she refuse Ameyric? He loves her. He would suit me perfectly -as a son-in-law. What has the child got against him?” - -“But can’t you wait, Mossou Jaume?” Margaï would argue. “Can’t you wait? -Why, the child is not yet nineteen.” - -“My wife was seventeen when I married her,” Deydier retorted. “And I -would like to see Nicolette tokened before the fêtes. I was affianced to -my wife two days before Noël, we had the _gros soupé_ at her parents’ -house on Christmas Eve, and walked together to midnight Mass.” - -“And two years later she was in her coffin,” Margaï muttered. - -“What has that to do with it? Thou’rt a fool, Margaï.” Whereupon Margaï, -feeling that in truth her last remark had been neither logical nor kind, -reverted to her original argument: “One would think you wanted to be rid -of the child, Mossou Jaume.” - -And the whole matter would be gone through all over again from the -beginning, and Jaume Deydier would lose his temper and say harsh things -which he regretted as soon as they had crossed his lips, and Margaï -would continue to argue and to exasperate him, until, luckily, Nicolette -would come into the room and perch on her father’s knee, and smother -further arguments by ruffling up his hair, or putting his necktie -straight, or merely throwing her arms around his neck. - - -This all occurred two days before Christmas. There had been a fall of -snow way up in the mountains, and Luberon wore a white cap upon his -crest. The mistral had come once or twice tearing down the valley, and -in the living-rooms at the mas huge fires of olive and eucalyptus burned -in the hearths. Margaï had been very busy preparing the food for the -_gros soupé_, the traditional banquet of Christmas Eve in old Provence, -and which Jaume Deydier offered every year to forty of his chief -employés. Nicolette now was also versed in the baking and roasting of -the _calènos_, the fruits and cakes which would be distributed to all -the men employed at the farm and to their families: and even Margaï was -forced to admit that the _Poumpo taillado_—the national cake, baked with -sugar and oil—was never so good as when Nicolette mixed it herself. - -Of Ameyric Barnadou there was less and less talk as the festival drew -nigh. Margaï and Nicolette were too busy to argue, and Jaume Deydier sat -by his fireside in somewhat surly silence. He could not understand his -own daughter. _Ah ça!_ what did the child want? What had she to say -against young Barnadou? Every girl had to marry some time, then why not -Nicolette? - -But he said nothing more for a day or two. His pet scheme that the -_fiançailles_ should be celebrated on Christmas Eve had been knocked on -the head by Nicolette’s obstinacy, but Jaume hoped a great deal from the -banquet, the _calignaou_, and above all, from the midnight Mass. -Nicolette was very gentle and very sentimental, and Ameyric so very -passionately in love. The boy would be a fool if he could not make the -festivals, the procession, the flowers, the candles, the incense to be -his helpmates in his wooing. - -On Christmas Eve Jaume Deydier’s guests were assembled in the hall where -the banquet was also laid: the more important overseers and workpeople -of his olive oil and orange-flower water factories were there, some with -their wives and children. - -Jaume Deydier, in the beautiful bottle-green cloth coat which he had -worn at his wedding, and which he wore once every year for the Christmas -festival, his grey hair and his whiskers carefully brushed, his best -paste buckles on his shoes, shook every one cordially by the hand; -beside him Nicolette, in silk kirtle and lace fichu, smiled and chatted, -proud to be the châtelaine of this beautiful home, the queen of this -little kingdom amongst the mountains, the beneficent fairy to whom the -whole country-side looked if help or comfort or material assistance was -required. Around her pressed the men and the women and the children who -had come to the feast. There was old Tiberge, the doyen of the staff -over at Pertuis, whose age had ceased to be recorded, it had become -fabulous: there was Thibaut, the chief overseer, with his young wife who -had her youngest born by the hand. There was Zacharie, the chief clerk, -who was tokened to Violante, the daughter of Laugier the cashier. They -were all a big family together: had seen one another grow up, marry, -have children, and their children had known one another from their -cradles. Jaume Deydier amongst them was like the head of the family, and -no seigneur over at the château had ever been so conscious of his own -dignity. As for Nicolette, she was just the little fairy whom they had -seen growing from a lovely child into an exquisite woman, their -Nicolette, of whom every girl was proud, and with whom every lad was in -love. - -The noise in the hall soon became deafening. They are neither a cold nor -a reserved race, these warm-hearted children of sunny Provence. They -carry their hearts on their sleeves: they talk at the top of their -voices, and when they laugh they shake the old rafters of their mountain -homes with the noise. And Christmas Eve was the day of all days. They -all loved the gifts of the _calènos_, the dried fruits and cakes which -the _patron_ distributed with a lavish hand, and which they took home to -their bairns or to those less fortunate members of their families who -were not partakers of Deydier’s hospitality. But they adored the _Poumpo -taillado_, the sweet, oily cake that no one baked better than demoiselle -Nicolette. And the banquet would begin with _bouillabaisse_ which was -concocted by Margaï from an old recipe that came direct from Marseilles, -and there would be turkeys and geese from Deydier’s splendid farmyard, -and salads and artichokes served with marrow fat. Already the men were -smacking their lips; manners not being over-refined in Provence, where -Nature alone dictates how a man shall behave, without reference to what -his neighbours might think. There was a cheery fire, too, in the -monumental hearth, and the shutters behind the windows being -hermetically closed, the atmosphere presently became steaming and heady -with the smell of good food and the aroma from the huge, long-necked -bottles of good Roussillon wine. - -But every one there knew that, before they could sit down to table, the -solemn rite of the _Calignaou_ must be gone through. As soon as the huge -clock that stood upon the mantelshelf had finished striking six, old -Tiberge, whose first birthday was lost in the nebulæ of time, stepped -out from the little group that encircled him, and took tiny Savinien, -the four-year-old son of the chief overseer, by the hand: December -leading January, Winter coupled with Spring; Jaume Deydier put a full -bumper of red wine in the little fellow’s podgy hand: and together these -two, the aged and the youngster, toddled with uncertain steps out of the -room, followed by the entire party. They made their way to the entrance -door of the house, on the threshold of which a huge log of olive wood -had in the meanwhile been placed. Guided by his mother, little Savinien -now poured some of the wine over the log, whilst, prompted by Nicolette, -his baby lips lisped the traditional words: - - “Alègre, Diou nous alègre - Cachofué ven, tout ben ven - Diou nous fagué la graci de voir l’an qué ven - Se sian pas mai, siguen pas men.”[1] - -Footnote 1: - - Let us be merry! God make us merry! Hidden fires come, all good things - come! May God give us grace to see the coming year. If there be not - more of us, let there not be fewer. - -After which the bumper of wine was handed round and every one drank. -Still guided by his mother, the child then took hold of one end of the -Provençal Yule log, and the old man of the other, and together they -marched back to the dining-hall and solemnly deposited the log in the -hearth, where it promptly began to blaze. - -Thus by this quaint old custom did they celebrate the near advent of the -coming year. The old man and the child, each a symbol—Tiberge of the -past, little Savinien of the future, the fire of the Yule log the warmth -of the sun. Every one clapped their hands, the noise became deafening, -and Jaume Deydier’s stentorian voice, crying: “_A table, les amis!_” -could scarce be heard above the din. After that they all sat at the -table and the business of the banquet began. - -Nicolette alone was silent, smiling, outwardly as merry as any of them; -she sat at the head of her father’s table, and went about her duties as -mistress of the house with that strange sense of unreality that had -haunted her this past year still weighing on her heart. - -In the years of her childhood—the years that were gone—Tan-tan and -Micheline were always allowed to come and spend Christmas Eve at the -mas. Even grandmama, dour, haughty grandmama, realised the necessity of -allowing children to be gay and happy on what is essentially the -children’s festival. So Tan-tan and Micheline used to come, and for -several years it was Tan-tan who used to pour the wine over the log, and -he was so proud because he knew the prescribed ditty by heart, and never -had to be prompted. He spoke them with such an air, that she, Nicolette, -who was little more than a baby then, would gaze on him wide-eyed with -admiration. And one year there had been a great commotion, because old -Métastase, who was said to be one hundred years old, and whose hands -trembled like the leaves of the old aspen tree down by the Lèze, had -dropped the log right in the middle of the floor, and the women had -screamed, and even the men were scared, as it was supposed to be an evil -omen: but Tan-tan was not afraid. He just stood there, and as calm as a -young god commanded Métastase to pick up the log again, and when it was -at last safely deposited upon the hearth, he had glanced round at the -assembled company and remarked coolly: “It is not more difficult than -that!” whereupon every one had laughed, and the incident was forgotten. - -Then another time—— - -But what was the good of thinking about all that? They were gone, those -dear, good times. Tan-tan was no more. He was M. le Comte de Ventadour, -affianced to a beautiful girl whom he loved so passionately, that at -even when he held her in his arms, the nightingale came out of his -retreat amidst the branches of mimosa trees and sang a love song as an -accompaniment to the murmur of her kisses. - - -Soon after eleven o’clock the whole party set out to walk to Manosque -for the midnight Mass at the little church there. Laughing, joking, -singing, the merry troup wound its way along the road that leads up to -the village perched upon the mountain-side, girls and boys with their -arms around each other, older men and women soberly bringing up the -rear. Overhead the canopy of the sky of a luminous indigo was studded -with stars, and way away in the east the waning moon, cool and -mysterious, shed its honey-coloured lustre over mountain peaks and -valley, picked out the winding road with its fairy-light, till it -gleamed lemon-golden like a ribbon against the leafy slopes, and threw -fantastic shadows in the way of the lively throng. Some of them sang as -they went along, for your Provençal has the temperament of the South in -its highest degree, and when he is happy he bursts into song. And -to-night the pale moon was golden, the blue of the sky like a sheet of -sapphire and myriads of stars proclaimed the reign of beauty and of -poesy: the night air was mild, with just a touch in it of snow-cooled -breeze that came from over snow-capped Luberon: it was heavy with the -fragrance of pines and eucalyptus and rosemary which goes to the head -like wine. So men and maids, as they walked, held one another close, and -their lips met in the pauses of their song. - -But Nicolette walked with her girl-friends, those who were not yet -tokened. She was as merry as any of them, she chatted and she laughed, -but she did not join in the song. To-night of all nights was one of -remembrance of past festivals when she was a baby and her father carried -her to midnight Mass, with Tan-tan trotting manfully by his side: -sometimes it would be very cold, the mistral would be blowing across the -valley and Margaï would wind a thick red scarf around her head and -throat. And once, only once—it snowed, and Tan-tan would stop at the -road side and gather up the snow and throw it at the passers-by. - -Memory was insistent. Nicolette would have liked to smother it in -thoughts of the present, in vague hopes of the future, but every turn of -the road, every tree, and every boulder, even the shadows that -lengthened and diminished at her feet as she walked, were arrayed -against forgetfulness. - - -The little church at Manosque (crude in architecture, tawdry in -decoration, ugly if measured by the canons of art and good taste) is -never really unlovely. On days of great festivals it was even beautiful, -filled as it was to overflowing with picturesque people, whose loving -hands had helped to adorn the sacred edifice with all that nature -yielded for the purpose: branches of grey-leaved eucalyptus and tender -twigs of lavender, great leafy masses of stiff carob and feathery mimosa -and delicate branches of red or saffron flowered grevillea, all tied -with gaudy ribbons around the whitewashed pillars or nestling in huge, -untidy bouquets around the painted effigy of the Virgin. In one corner -of the little church, the traditional crêche had been erected: the -manger against a background of leaves and stones, with the figures of -Mary, and the Sacred Infant, of St. Joseph and the Kings. All very naïve -and very crude, but tender and lovable, and romantic as are the people -of this land of sunshine and poesy. - -For midnight Mass, the little building was certainly too small to hold -all the worshippers, so they overflowed into the porch, the organ-loft -and the vestry; and those who found no place inside, remained standing -in the road listening to the singing and the bells. The women in their -gaudy shawls, orange, green, blue, magenta, looked like a parterre of -riotous coloured flowers in the body of the church, while the men in -their best clothes were squeezed against the walls or jammed into the -corners, taking up as little of the room as they could. - -Nicolette knelt beside her father. On entering the church she had seen -Ameyric, who obviously had been in wait for her and offered her the Holy -water as she entered. His eyes had devoured her, and despite his sense -of reverence and the solemnity of the occasion, his hand had closed over -her fingers when she took the Holy water from him. When Father Fournier -began saying Mass, Nicolette bowed her head between her hands and prayed -with all her heart and soul that Ameyric might find another girl who -would be worthy of him and return his love. She prayed too, and prayed -earnestly that Bertrand might continue to be happy with his beloved and -that he should never know a moment’s disappointment or repining. -Nicolette had been taught by Father Fournier that it was part of a -Christian girl’s duty to love every one, even her enemies, and to pray -for them earnestly, for le Bon Dieu would surely know if prayers were -not sincere. So Nicolette forced herself to think kindly of Rixende, to -remember her only as she had last seen her that evening in May, when she -lay quite placid in Bertrand’s arms, with her head upon his breast and -with the nightingale trilling away for dear life over her head. - -So persistently did Nicolette think of this picture that she succeeded -in persuading herself that the thought made her happy, and then she -realised that her face was wet with tears. - -Father Fournier preached a sermon all about humility and obedience and -the example set by the Divine Master, and Nicolette wondered if it was -not perhaps her duty to do as her father wished and to marry Ameyric -Barnadou? Oh! it was difficult, very difficult, and Nicolette thought -how much more simple it would be if le Bon Dieu was in the habit of -telling people exactly what He wished them to do. The feeling of -unreality once more came over her. She sat with eyes closed while Father -Fournier went on talking, talking, and the air grew hotter, more heavy -every moment with the fumes of the incense, the burning candles, the -agitated breath of hundreds of entranced village folk. The noise, the -smell, the rising clouds of incense all became blurred to her eyes, her -ears, her nostrils: only the past remained quite real, as she had lived -it before the awful, awful day when Tan-tan went out of her life, the -past with its dragons, and distressful maidens, and woods redolent with -rosemary and groves of citron-blossoms, the past as she had lived it -with Tan-tan and Micheline, those happy Christmases of old. - -Tan-tan, who was a wilful, fidgety boy, was always good when he came to -midnight Mass. Nicolette with eyes closed and Father Fournier’s voice -droning in her ears, could see him now sitting quite, quite still with -Micheline on one side of him, and her, Nicolette, on the other. And -they, the three children, sat agape while the offertory procession wound -its way through the crowded church. She felt that she was a baby again, -and that her tiny feet could not touch the ground, and her wee hands -kept reaching out to touch Tan-tan’s sleeve or his knee. Ah, that -beautiful, that exciting procession! The children craned their little -necks to see above the heads of the crowd, and Jaume Deydier would take -his little girl in his arms and set her to stand upon his knee, so that -she might see everything; Micheline would stand up with Margaï’s arm -around her to keep her steady, but Tan-tan’s pride would have a long -struggle with his curiosity. He would remain seated just like a grown -man and pretend that he could see quite well; and this pretence he would -keep up for a long while, although Nicolette would exclaim from time to -time in that loud hoarse whisper peculiar to children: - -“Tan-tan, stand on your chair! It is lovely!” - -Then at last Tan-tan would give in and stand up on his chair, after -which Nicolette felt that she could set to and enjoy the procession too. -First the band of musicians with beribboned tambours, bagpipes and -clarinets: then a group of young men, goatherds from Luberon or -Vaucluse, carrying huge baskets of fruits and live pigeons: after which -a miniature cart entirely covered with leafy branches of olive and -cypress with lighted candles set all along its sides, and drawn by a -lamb, whose snow-white fleece was adorned with tiny bunches of coloured -ribbons; behind this cart a group of girls wearing the _Garbalin_, a -tall conical head-dress adorned with tiny russet apples and miniature -oranges: finally a band of singers, singing the Christmas hymns. - -The children would get so excited at sight of the lamb and the little -cart, that their elders had much ado to keep them from clapping their -hands or shouting with glee, which would have been most unseemly in the -sacred building. - -Then, when the procession was over, they would scramble back into their -seats and endure the rest of the Mass as best they could. Nicolette saw -it all through the smoke of incense, the flaring candles and the thick, -heady air. That was reality! not the dreary present with Tan-tan gone -out of Nicolette’s life, and a beautiful stranger with golden hair and -gentian-blue eyes shouting petulantly at him or feigning love which she -was too selfish to feel. That surely could not be reality: the Bon Dieu -was too good to treat Tan-tan so. - -And as if to make the past more real still, the sound of fife and -bagpipe and tambour struck suddenly upon Nicolette’s ear. She looked up -and there was the procession just starting to go round the church, the -baskets with the live pigeons, the little cart, the white lamb with its -fleece all tied up with ribbons: the same procession which Nicolette had -watched from the point of vantage of her father’s knee sixteen years -ago, and had watched every year since—at first by Tan-tan’s side, then -with him gone, and the whole world a dreary blank to her. - -Was this then what life really meant? The same things over and over -again, year after year, till one grew old, till one grew not to care? -Did life mean loneliness and watching the happiness of others, while -one’s own heart was so full that it nearly broke? Then, if that was the -case, why not do as father wished and marry Ameyric? - - - - - CHAPTER IX - THE TURNING POINT - - -The first inkling that Nicolette had of the happenings at the château -was on Christmas Day itself after High Mass. When she came out of church -with her father some of the people had already got hold of the news: -those who had arrived late had heard of it as they came along, and with -that agitation which comes into even, monotonous lives whenever the -unexpected occurs, groups of village folk stood about outside the -church, and instead of the usual chaff and banter, every one talked only -of the one thing: the events at the château. - -“What? You have not heard?” - -“No, what is it?” - -“A death in the family.” - -“Holy Virgin, who?” - -“The old Comtesse? She is very old!” - -“The Comtesse Marcelle? She is always sick!” - -“No one knows.” - -Nicolette, vaguely frightened, questioned those who seemed to know best. -_Mais, voilà!_ no one knew anything definite, although one or two -averred that they had seen a man on horseback go up to the château, soon -after dawn. This detail did not calm Nicolette’s fears. On the contrary. -If the sad news had come from a distance ... from Paris, for example.... -Oh! it was unthinkable! But already she had made up her mind. After -midday dinner she would go and see Micheline. It was but a short walk to -the château, and surely father could spare her for an hour or two. - -Jaume Deydier was obdurate at first. What had Nicolette to do with the -château? Their affairs were no concern of hers. He himself never set -foot inside that old owl’s nest, and he had hoped that by now Nicolette -had had enough of those proud, ungrateful folk. If they had trouble at -the mas, would some one from the château come over to see what was -amiss? But Nicolette held on to her idea. If Micheline was in trouble -she would have no one to comfort her. Even father could not object to -her friendship with Micheline, dear, misshapen, gentle Micheline!—and -then there was the Comtesse Marcelle! If the old Comtesse spoke to -either of them at all, it would only be to say unkind things! Oh! it was -terrible to think of those three women at the château, faced with -trouble, and with no one to speak to but one another. And until -recently—the last two years, in fact—Nicolette had always gone over to -the château on Christmas afternoon to offer Christmas greetings and -_calènos_ from the mas, in the shape of oranges, lemons, tangerines, and -a beautiful _Poumpo taillado_, baked by herself. And now when Micheline -was perhaps in trouble, and she, Nicolette, pining to know what the -trouble was oh! father could not be so cruel as to stop her going. - -No doubt Deydier would have remained obdurate, but just at that moment -he happened to catch sight of Ameyric. The lad was standing close by, an -eager expression on his face, and—if such an imputation could be laid at -the door of so sober a man as Jaume Deydier—one might almost say that an -imp of mischief seized hold of him and whispered advice which he was -prompt to take. - -“Well, boy!” he called over to Ameyric; “what do you say? Will you call -for Nicolette after dinner, and walk with her to the château?” - -“Aye! and escort her back,” Ameyric replied eagerly, “if Mademoiselle -Deydier will allow.” - -After which the father gave the required permission, mightily satisfied -with his own diplomacy. He had always believed in Christmas festivals -for bringing lads and maidens together, and he himself had been tokened -on Christmas Eve. - -Ameyric shook him warmly by the hand: “Thank you, Mossou Deydier,” he -murmured. - -“Well, boy,” Deydier retorted in a whisper, “it should be to-day with -you, or I fear me it will be never.” - - -Whenever she thought over the sequence of events which had their -beginning on that Christmas morning, Nicolette always looked upon that -climb up to the château as a blank. She could not even have told you if -it was cold or warm. She wore her beautiful orange-coloured shawl with -the embroidery and deep fringe, and she had on shoes that were -thoroughly comfortable for the long tramp up the road. She knew that -Ameyric helped her to carry the baskets that contained the fruits and -cakes; she also knew that at times he talked a great deal, and that at -others there were long silences between them. She knew that she was -very, very sorry for Ameyric, because love that is not reciprocated is -the most cruel pain that can befall any man. She also tried to remember -what Father Fournier had said in his sermon at midnight Mass, and her -own firm resolution not to hate her enemies, and to submit her selfish -will to the wishes of her father. - -Now and again friends overtook them and walked with them a little way, -or others coming from Pertuis met them and exchanged greetings. - -The roads between the villages round about here are always busy at -Christmas time with people coming and going to and fro, from church, or -one another’s houses, and Ameyric, who grumbled when a chattering crowd -came to disturb his _tête-à-tête_ with Nicolette, had to own that, but -for the roads being so busy, he would not perhaps have been allowed to -walk at this hour with Nicolette. - -And people who saw them that afternoon spread the news abroad. - -“Ameyric Barnadou,” they said, “will be tokened before the New Year to -Nicolette Deydier.” - -Father Siméon-Luce was just leaving the château when Nicolette arrived -there with Ameyric. Jasmin was at the door, and the old priest said -something to him, and then put on his hat. Ameyric was waiting in the -court-yard, and Nicolette, with a basket on each arm, had gone up to the -main entrance door alone. She curtsied to the priest, who nodded to her -in an absent-minded manner. - -“Very sad, very sad,” he murmured abstractedly, “but only to be -expected.” Then he seemed to become aware of Nicolette’s identity, and -added kindly: - -“You have come to see Mademoiselle Micheline, my child? Ah! a very sad -Christmas for them all.” - -But somehow Nicolette felt that these were conventional words, and that -if there had been real sorrow at the château, Father Siméon-Luce would -have looked more sympathetic. Somewhat reassured already, Nicolette -waited till the old priest had gone across the court-yard, then she -slipped in through the great door and spoke to Jasmin: - -“Who is it, Jasmin?” she asked excitedly. - -“Madame de Mont-Pahon,” the old man replied, and Nicolette was conscious -of an immense feeling of relief. She had not realised herself until this -moment how desperately anxious she had been. - -“She died, it seems, the night before last, in Paris,” Jasmin went on -glibly, “but how the news came here early this morning, I do not pretend -to know, Mam’zelle Nicolette,” he added in an awed whisper, “it must be -through the devil’s agency.” - -Jasmin had never even tried to fathom the mysteries of the new aerial -telegraph which of late had been extended as far as Avignon, and which -brought news from Paris quicker than a man could ride from Pertuis. The -devil, in truth, had something to do with that, and Jasmin very much -hoped that Father Siméon-Luce had taken the opportunity of exorcising -those powers of darkness whilst he ate his Christmas dinner with the -family. - -“Can I see Mademoiselle Micheline?” Nicolette broke in impatiently on -the old man’s mutterings. - -“Yes, yes, mam’zelle! Mademoiselle Micheline must be somewhere about the -house. But mam’zelle must excuse me—we—we—are busy in the kitchen——” - -“Yes, yes, go, Jasmin! I’ll find my way.” - -It was now late in the afternoon, and twilight was drawing rapidly in; -while Jasmin shuffled off in one direction Nicolette made her way -through the vestibule. It was very dark, for candles were terribly dear -these days, but Nicolette knew every flagstone, every piece of furniture -in the familiar old place, and she made her way cautiously toward the -great hall, where hung the portraits. A buzz of conversation came from -there. Then and only then did Nicolette realise what a foolish thing she -had done. How would she dare thrust herself in the midst of the family -circle at a moment like this? She had taken to living of late so much in -the past that she had not realised how unwelcome she was at the château: -but now she remembered: she remembered the last time she had been here, -and how the old Comtesse had not even spoken to her, whilst Bertrand’s -fiancée had made cutting remarks about her. She looked down ruefully on -her baskets, feeling that her cakes would no more be appreciated than -herself. A furious desire seized her to turn back and to run away: but -she would leave the _calènos_ with Jasmin, for she would be ashamed to -own to her father what a coward she had been. Already she had made a -movement to go, when a name spoken over there in the portrait gallery -fell on her ear. - -“Bertrand.” - -Instinctively Nicolette paused: there was magic in the name: she could -not go whilst its echo lingered in the old hall. - -“It need make no difference to Bertrand’s plans,” the old Comtesse was -saying in that hard, decisive tone which seemed to dispose of the -destinies of her whole family. - -Hers was the only voice that penetrated as far as the vestibule where -Nicolette had remained standing; the soft, wearied tones of the Comtesse -Marcelle, and the uncertain ones of Micheline did not reach the -listener’s ears. - -“No. Perhaps not for the New Year,” the old Comtesse said presently in -response to a remark from one of the others; “but soon, you may be sure. -The will will be read directly after the funeral, and there is no reason -why Bertrand should not be here a week later.” - -Again there was a pause, during which all that Nicolette heard was a -weary sigh. Then Madame’s harsh voice was raised again. - -“You are a fool, my good Marcelle! What should go wrong, I should like -to know?...” - -Then once more a pause and presently a loud, hard laugh. - -“Pardi! but I should not have credited you with such a talent for -raising bogeys, my dear. Have I not told you, over and over again, that -I had Sybille de Mont-Pahon’s definite promise that the two young people -shall be co-heirs of her fortune? Instead of lamenting there, you should -rejoice. Sybille has died most opportunely, for now Bertrand can pay his -debts even before his marriage, and the young couple can make a start -without a cloud upon the horizon of their lives!” - -At this point Nicolette felt that she had no right to listen further. -She deposited her two baskets upon the table in the vestibule, and -tiptoed back to the door. Even as she did so she heard old Madame’s -unpleasant voice raised once more. - -“You should thank me on your knees,” she said tartly, “for all I have -done. Debts, you call them? and dare to upbraid me for having contracted -them? Let me tell you this: Rixende de Peyron-Bompar would never have -tolerated this old barrack at all, had she seen it as it was. The stuffs -which I bought, the carpets, the liveries for those loutish servants -were so much capital invested to secure the Mont-Pahon millions. What -did they amount to? Five thousand louis at most! and we have secured -five millions and Bertrand’s happiness.” - -And Nicolette, as she finally ran out of the house, heard a murmur, like -a sigh of longing: - -“God grant it!” - -But she was not quite sure whether the sound came from the old picture -hall, or was just the echo of the wish that had risen from her heart. - -Outside she met Ameyric, and he escorted her home. He spoke again of his -love, and she was no longer impatient to hear him talk. She was -intensely sorry for him. If he had the same pain in his heart that she -had, then he was immensely to be pitied: and if it lay in her power to -make one man happy, then surely it was her duty to do so. - -But she would make no definite promise. - -“Let us wait until the spring,” she said, in answer to an earnest appeal -from him for a quick decision. - -“Orange-blossom time?” he asked. - -“Perhaps,” she replied. - -And with this half-promise he had perforce to be satisfied. - - - - - CHAPTER X - WOMAN TO WOMAN - - -It was fourteen days after the New Year. Snow had fallen, and the -mistral had blown for forty-eight hours unmercifully down the valley. -News from Paris had been scanty, but such as they were, they were -reassuring. A courier had come over all the way from Paris on New Year’s -eve, with a letter from Bertrand, giving a few details of the proposed -arrangements for Madame de Mont-Pahon’s funeral, which was to take place -on the feast of the Holy Innocents. The letter had been written on the -day following her death, which had come as a great shock to everybody, -even though she had been constantly ailing of late. Directly after the -funeral, he, Bertrand, would set off for home in the company of M. de -Peyron-Bompar, Rixende’s father, who desired to talk over the new -arrangements that would have to be made for his daughter’s marriage. The -wedding would of course have to be postponed for a few months, but there -was no reason why it should not take place before the end of the summer, -and as Rixende no longer had a home now in Paris, the ceremonies could -well taken place in Bertrand’s old home. - -This last suggestion sent old Madame into a veritable frenzy of -management. The marriage of the last of the de Ventadours should be -solemnised with a splendour worthy of the most noble traditions of his -house. Closeted all day with Pérone, her confidential maid, the old -Comtesse planned and arranged: day after day couriers arrived from -Avignon, from Lyons and from Marseilles, with samples and designs and -suggestions for decorations, for banquets, for entertainments on a -brilliant scale. - -A whole fortnight went by in this whirl, old Madame having apparently -eschewed all idea of mourning for her dead sister. There were -consultations with Father Siméon-Luce too, the Bishop of Avignon must -come over to perform the religious ceremony in the private chapel of the -château: fresh altar-frontals and vestments must be ordered at Arles for -the great occasion. - -Old Madame’s mood was electrical: Micheline quickly succumbed to it. She -was young, and despite her physical infirmities, she was woman enough to -thrill at thoughts of a wedding, of pretty clothes, bridal bouquets and -banquets. And she loved Rixende! the dainty fairy-like creature who, -according to grandmama’s unerring judgment, would resuscitate all the -past splendours of the old château and make it resound once more with -song and laughter. - -Even the Comtesse Marcelle was not wholly proof against the atmosphere -of excitement. Meetings were held in her room, and more than once she -actually gave her opinion on the future choice of a dress for Micheline, -or of a special dish for the wedding banquet. - -Bertrand was expected three days after the New Year. Grandmama had -decided that if he and M. de Peyron-Bompar started on the 29th, the day -after the funeral, and they were not delayed anywhere owing to the -weather conditions, they need not be longer than five days on the way. -Whereupon she set to, and ordered Jasmin to recruit a few lads from La -Bastide or Manosque, and to clean out the coach-house and the stables, -and to lay in a provision of straw and forage, as M. le Comte de -Ventadour would be arriving in a few days in his calèche with four -horses and postilions. - -Nor were her spirits affected by Bertrand’s non-arrival. The weather -accounted for everything. The roads were blocked. If there had been a -fall of snow here in the south, there must have been positive avalanches -up in the north. And while the Comtesse Marcelle with her usual want of -spirit began to droop once more after those few days of factitious -well-being, old Madame’s energies went on increasing, her activities -never abated. She found in Micheline a willing, eager help, and a pale -semblance of sympathy sprang up between the young cripple and the -stately old grandmother over their feverish plans for Bertrand’s -wedding. - -The tenth day after the New Year, the Comtesse Marcelle once more took -to her couch. She had a serious fainting fit in the morning brought on -by excitement when a carriage was heard to rattle along the road. When -the sound died away and she realised that the carriage had not brought -Bertrand, she slid down to the floor like a poor bundle of rags and was -subsequently found, lying unconscious on the doorstep of her own room, -where she had been standing waiting to clasp Bertrand in her arms. - -Grandmama scolded her, tried to revive her spirits by discussing the -decorations of Rixende’s proposed boudoir, but Marcelle had sunk back -into her habitual listlessness and grandmama’s grandiloquent plans only -seemed to exacerbate her nerves. She fell from one fainting fit into -another, the presence of Pérone was hateful to her, Micheline was -willing but clumsy. The next day found her in a state of fever, -wide-eyed, her cheeks of an ashen colour, her thin hands perpetually -twitching, and a look of pathetic expectancy in her sunken, wearied -face. In the end, though grandmama protested and brought forth the whole -artillery of her sarcasm to bear against the project, Micheline walked -over to the mas and begged Nicolette to come over and help her look -after mother, who once or twice, when she moaned with the pain in her -head, had expressed the desire to have the girl beside her. Of course -Jaume Deydier protested, but as usual Nicolette had her way, and the -next day found her installed as sick-nurse in the room of the Comtesse -Marcelle. She only went home to sleep. It was decided that if the next -two days saw no real improvement in the patient’s condition, a messenger -should be sent over to Pertuis to fetch a physician. For the moment she -certainly appeared more calm, and seemed content that Nicolette should -wait on her. - -But on the fourteenth day, even old Madame appeared to be restless. All -day she kept repeating to any one who happened to be nigh—to Micheline, -to Pérone, to Jasmin—that the weather was accountable for Bertrand’s -delay, that he and M. de Peyron-Bompar would surely be here before -nightfall, and that, whatever else happened, supper must be kept ready -for the two travellers and it must be good and hot. - -It was then four o’clock. The _volets_ all along the façade of the -château had been closed, and the curtains closed in all the rooms. The -old Comtesse, impatient at her daughter-in-law’s wan, reproachful looks, -and irritated by Nicolette’s presence in the invalid’s room, had avoided -it all day and kept to her own apartments, where Pérone, obsequious and -sympathetic, was always ready to listen to her latest schemes and plans. -Later on in the afternoon Micheline had been summoned to take coffee in -grandmama’s room, and as mother seemed inclined to sleep and Nicolette -had promised not to go away till Micheline returned, the latter went -readily enough. The question of Micheline’s own dress for the wedding -was to be the subject of debate, and Micheline, having kissed her -mother, and made Nicolette swear to come and tell her the moment the -dear patient woke, ran over to grandmama’s room. - -Nicolette rearranged the pillows round Marcelle’s aching head, then she -sat down by the table, and took up her needlework. After awhile it -certainly seemed as if the invalid slept. The house was very still. In -the hearth a log of olive wood crackled cheerfully. Suddenly Nicolette -looked up from her work. She encountered Marcelle de Ventadour’s eyes -fixed upon her. They looked large, dark, eager. Nicolette felt that her -own heart was beating furiously, and a wave of heat rushed to her -cheeks. She had heard a sound, coming from the court-yard below—a -commotion—the tramp of a horse’s hoofs on the flagstones—she was sure of -that—then the clanking of metal—a shout—Bertrand’s voice—no doubt of -that—— - -Marcelle had raised herself on her couch: a world of expectancy in her -eyes. Nicolette threw down her work, and in an instant was out of the -room and running along the gallery to the top of the stairs. Here she -paused for a moment, paralysed with excitement: the next she heard the -clang of the bolts being pulled open, the rattling of the chain, and -Jasmin’s cry of astonishment: - -“M. le Comte!” - -For the space of two seconds Nicolette hesitated between her longing to -run down the stairs so as to be first to wish Tan-tan a happy New Year, -and the wish to go back to the Comtesse Marcelle and see that the happy -shock did not bring on an attack of fainting. The latter impulse -prevailed. She turned and ran back along the gallery. But Marcelle de -Ventadour had forestalled her. She stood on the threshold of her room, -under the lintel. She had a candle in her hand and seemed hardly able to -stand. In the flickering light, her features looked pinched and her face -haggard: her hair was dishevelled and her eyes seemed preternaturally -large. Nicolette ran to her, and was just in time to clasp the tottering -form in her strong, steady arms. - -“It is all right, madame,” she cried excitedly, her eyes full with tears -of joy, “all right, it is Bertrand!” - -“Bertrand,” the mother murmured feebly, and then reiterated, babbling -like a child: “It is all right, it is Bertrand!” - -Bertrand came slowly across the vestibule, then more slowly still up the -stairs. The two women could not see him for the moment: they just heard -his slow and heavy footstep coming nearer and nearer. The well of the -staircase was in gloom, only lit by an oil lamp that hung high up from -the ceiling, and after a moment or two Bertrand came round the bend of -the stairs and they saw the top of his head sunk between his shoulders. -His shadow projected by the flickering lamp-light looked grotesque -against the wall, all hunched-up, like that of an old man. - -Nicolette murmured: “I’ll run and tell Micheline and Mme. la Comtesse!” -but suddenly Marcelle drew her back, back into the room. The girl felt -scared: all her pleasure in Bertrand’s coming had vanished. Somehow she -wished that she had not seen him—that it was all a dream and that -Bertrand was not really there. Marcelle had put the candle down on the -table in the centre of the room. Her face looked very white, but her -hands were quite steady; she turned up the lamp and blew out the candle -and set it on one side, then she drew a chair close to the hearth, but -she herself remained standing, only steadied herself with both her hands -against the chair, and stared at the open doorway. All the while -Nicolette knew that she must not run out and meet Bertrand, that she -must not call to him to hurry. His mother wished that he should come -into her room, and tell her—tell her what? Nicolette did not know. - -Now Bertrand was coming along the corridor. He paused one moment at the -door: then he came in. He was in riding breeches and boots, and the -collar of his coat was turned up to his ears: he held his riding whip in -his gloved hand, but he had thrown down his hat, and his hair appeared -moist and dishevelled. On the smooth blue cloth of his coat, myriads of -tiny drops of moisture glistened like so many diamonds. - -“It is snowing a little,” were the first words that he said. “I am sorry -I am so wet.” - -“Bertrand,” the mother cried in an agony of entreaty, “what is it?” - -He stood quite still for a moment or two, and looked at her as if he -thought her crazy for asking such a question. Then he came farther into -the room, threw his whip down on the table and pulled off his gloves: -but still he said nothing. His mother and Nicolette watched him; but -Marcelle did not ask again. She just waited. Presently he sat down on -the chair by the hearth, rested his elbows on his knees and held his -hands to the blaze. Nicolette from where she stood could only see his -face in profile: it looked cold and pinched and his eyes stared into the -fire. - -“It is all over, mother,” he said at last, “that is all.” - -Marcelle de Ventadour went up to her son, and put her thin hand on his -shoulder. - -“You mean——?” she murmured. - -“Mme. de Mont-Pahon,” he went on in a perfectly quiet, matter-of-fact -tone of voice, “has left the whole of her fortune to her great-niece -Rixende absolutely. Two hours after the reading of the will, M. de -Peyron-Bompar came to me and told me in no measured language that having -heard in what a slough of debt I and my family were wallowing, he would -not allow his daughter’s fortune to be dissipated in vain efforts to -drag us out of that mire. He ended by declaring that all idea of my -marrying Rixende must at once be given up.” - -Here his voice shook a little, and with a quick, impatient gesture he -passed his hand across his brows. Marcelle de Ventadour said nothing for -the moment. Her hand was still on his shoulder. Nicolette, who watched -her closely, saw not the faintest sign of physical weakness in her -quiet, silent attitude. Then as Bertrand was silent too, she asked after -awhile: - -“Did you speak to Rixende?” - -“Did I speak to Rixende?” he retorted, and a hard, unnatural laugh broke -from his parched, choking throat. “My God! until I spoke with her I had -no idea how much humiliation a man could endure, and survive the shame -of it.” - -He buried his face in his hands and a great sob shook his bent -shoulders. Marcelle de Ventadour stared wide-eyed into the fire, and -Nicolette, watching Tan-tan’s grief, felt that Mother Earth could not -hold greater misery for any child of hers than that which she endured at -this moment. - -“Rixende did not love you, Bertrand,” the mother murmured dully, “she -never loved you.” - -“She must have hated me,” Bertrand rejoined quietly, “and now she -despises me too. You should have heard her laugh, mother, when I spoke -to her of our life here together in the old château——” - -His voice broke. Of course he could not bear to speak of it: and -Nicolette had to stand by, seemingly indifferent, whilst she saw great -tears force themselves into his eyes. She longed to put her arms round -him, to draw his head against her cheek, to smooth his hair and kiss the -tears away. Her heart was full with words of comfort, of hope, of love -which, if only she dared, she would have given half her life to utter. -But she was the stranger, the intruder even, at this hour. Except for -the fact that she was genuinely afraid Marcelle de Ventadour might -collapse at any moment, she would have slipped away unseen. Marcelle for -the moment seemed to find in her son’s grief, a measure of strength such -as she had not known whilst she was happy. She had led such an isolated, -self-centred life that she was too shy now to be demonstrative, and it -was pathetic to watch the effort which she made to try and speak the -words of comfort which obviously hovered on her lips; but nevertheless -she stood by him, with her hand on his shoulder, and something of the -magnetism of her love for him must have touched his senses, for -presently he seized hold of her hand and pressed it against his lips. - -The clock above the hearth ticked loudly with a nerve-racking monotony. -The minutes sped on while Bertrand and his mother stared into the fire, -both their minds a blank—grief having erased every other thought from -their brain. Nicolette hardly dared to move. So far it seemed that -Bertrand had remained entirely unaware of her presence, and in her heart -she prayed that he might not see her, lest he felt his humiliation and -his misery more completely if he thought that she had witnessed it. - -After awhile the Comtesse Marcelle said: - -“You must be hungry, Bertrand, we’ll let grandmama know you’re here. She -has ordered supper to be ready for you, as soon as you came.” - -Bertrand appeared to wake as if out of a dream. - -“Did you speak, mother?” he asked. - -“You must be hungry, dear.” - -“Yes—yes!” he murmured vaguely. “Perhaps I am. It was a long ride from -Pertuis—the roads are bad——” - -“Grandmama has ordered——” - -But quickly Bertrand seized his mother’s hands again. “Don’t tell -grandmama yet,” he said hoarsely. “I—I could not—not yet....” - -“But you must be hungry, dear,” the mother insisted, “and grandmama will -have to know,” she added gently. “And there is Micheline!” - -“Yes, I know,” he retorted. “I am a fool—but—— Let us wait a little, -shall we?” - -Again he kissed his mother’s hands, but he never once looked up into her -face. Once when the light from the lamp struck full upon him, Nicolette -saw how much older he had grown, and that there was a look in his eyes -as if he was looking into the future, and saw something there that was -tragic and inevitable! - -That look frightened her. But what could she do? Some one ought to be -warned and Bertrand should not be allowed to remain alone—not for one -moment. Did the mother realise this? Was this the reason why she -remained standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder, as if to -warn him or to protect? - -Five minutes went by, perhaps ten! For Nicolette it was an eternity. -Then suddenly grandmama’s voice was heard from way down the gallery, -obviously speaking to Jasmin: - -“Why was I not told at once?” - -After which there was a pause, and then footsteps along the corridor: -Micheline’s halting dot and carry one, grandmama’s stately gait. - -“I can’t,” Bertrand said and jumped to his feet. “You tell her, mother.” - -“Yes, yes, my dear,” Marcelle rejoined soothingly, quite gently as if -she were speaking to a sick child. - -“Let me get away somewhere,” he went on, “where she can’t see me—not -just yet—I can’t——” - -It was Nicolette who ran to the door which gave on Marcelle’s bedroom, -and threw it open. - -“That’s it, my dear,” Marcelle said, and taking Bertrand’s hand she led -him towards the door. “Nicolette is quite right—go into my bedroom—I’ll -explain to grandmama.” - -“Nicolette?” Bertrand murmured and turned his eyes on her, as if -suddenly made aware of her presence. A dark flush spread all over his -face. “I didn’t know she was here.” - -The two women exchanged glances. They understood one another. It meant -looking after Bertrand, and, if possible, keeping old Madame from him -for a little while. - -Bertrand followed Nicolette into his mother’s room. He did not speak to -her again, but sank into a chair as if he were mortally tired. She went -to a cupboard where a few provisions were always kept for Marcelle de -Ventadour, in case she required them in the night: a bottle of wine and -some cake. Nicolette put these on the table with a glass and poured out -the wine. - -“Drink it, Bertrand,” she whispered, “it will please your mother.” - -Later she went back to the boudoir. Old Madame was standing in the -middle of the room, and as Nicolette entered she was saying tartly: - -“But why was I not told?” - -“I was just on the point of sending Nicolette to you, Madame——” Marcelle -de Ventadour said timidly. Her voice was shaking, her face flushed and -she wandered about the room, restlessly fingering the draperies. -Whereupon the old Comtesse raised her lorgnette and stared at Nicolette. - -“Ah!” she said coldly, “Mademoiselle Deydier has not yet gone?” - -“She was just going, Madame,” the younger woman rejoined, “when——” - -“Then you have not yet seen Bertrand?” grandmama broke in. - -“No,” Marcelle replied, stammering and flushing, “that is——” - -“What do you mean by ‘No, ... that is, ...’?” old Madame retorted -sharply. “Ah ça, my good Marcelle, what is all this mystery? Where is my -grandson?” - -“He was here a moment ago, he——” - -“And where is M. de Peyron-Bompar?” - -“He did not come. He is in Paris—that is—I think so——” - -“M. de Peyron-Bompar not here? But——” - -Suddenly she paused: and Nicolette who watched her, saw that the last -vestige of colour left her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment or -two, and her eyes narrowed, narrowed till they were mere slits. The -Comtesse Marcelle stood by the table, steadying herself against it with -her hand: but that hand was shaking visibly. Old Madame walked slowly, -deliberately across the room until she came to within two steps of her -daughter-in-law: then she said very quietly: - -“What has happened to Bertrand?” - -Marcelle de Ventadour gave a forced little laugh. - -“Why, nothing, Madame,” she said. “What should have happened?” - -“You are a fool, Marcelle,” grandmama went on with slow deliberation. -“Your face and your hands have betrayed you. Tell me what has happened -to Bertrand.” - -“Nothing,” Marcelle replied, “nothing!” But her voice broke in a sob, -she sank into a chair and hid her face in her hands. - -“If you don’t tell me, I will think the worst,” old Madame continued -quietly. “Jasmin has seen him. He is in the house. But he dare not face -me. Why not?” - -But Marcelle was at the end of her tether. Now she could do no more than -moan and cry. - -“His marriage with Rixende de Peyron-Bompar is broken off. Speak,” the -old woman added, and with her claw-like hand seized her daughter-in-law -by the shoulder, “fool, can’t you speak? _Nom de Dieu_, I’ll have to -know presently.” - -Her grip was so strong that involuntarily, Marcelle gave a cry of pain. -This was more than Nicolette could stand: even her timidity gave way -before her instinct of protection, of standing up for this poor, -tortured, weak woman whom she loved because she was the mother of -Tan-tan and suffered now almost as much as he did. She ran to Marcelle -and put her arms round her, shielding her against further attack from -the masterful, old woman. - -“Mme. la Comtesse is overwrought,” she said firmly, “or she would have -said at once what has happened. M. le Comte has come home alone. Mme. de -Mont-Pahon has left the whole of her fortune to Mlle. Rixende -absolutely, and so she, and M. de Peyron-Bompar have broken off the -marriage, and,” she added boldly, “we are all thanking God that he has -saved M. le Comte from those awful harpies!” - -Old Madame had listened in perfect silence while Nicolette spoke: and -indeed the girl herself could not help but pay a quick and grudging -tribute of admiration to this old woman, who faithful to the traditions -of her aristocratic forbears, received this staggering blow without -flinching and without betraying for one instant what she felt. There was -absolute silence in the room after that: only the clock continued its -dreary and monotonous ticking. The Comtesse Marcelle lay back on her -couch with eyes closed and a look almost of relief on her wan face, now -that the dread moment had come and gone. Micheline had, as usual, taken -refuge in the window embrasure and Nicolette knelt beside Marcelle, -softly chafing her hands. Grandmama was still standing beside the table, -lorgnette in hand, erect and unmoved. - -“Bertrand,” she said after awhile, “is in there, I suppose.” And with -her lorgnette she pointed to the bedroom door, which Nicolette had -carefully closed when she entered, drawing the heavy portière before it, -so as to prevent the sound of voices from penetrating through. Nicolette -hoped that Bertrand had heard nothing of what had gone on in the -boudoir, and now when grandmama pointed toward the door, she -instinctively rose to her feet as if making ready to stand between this -irascible old woman and the grief-stricken man. But old Madame only -shrugged her shoulders and looked down with unconcealed contempt on her -daughter-in-law. - -“I ought to have guessed,” she said dryly, “What a fool you are, my good -Marcelle!” - -Then she paused a moment and added slowly as if what she wished to say -caused her a painful effort. - -“I suppose Bertrand said nothing about money?” - -Marcelle de Ventadour opened her eyes and murmured vaguely: - -“Money?” - -“Pardi!” grandmama retorted impatiently, “the question of money will -loom largely in this affair presently, I imagine. There are Bertrand’s -debts——” - -Again she shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference, as if that -matter was unworthy of her consideration. - -“I suppose that his creditors, when they heard that the marriage was -broken off, flocked around him like vultures.—Did he not speak of that?” - -Slowly Marcelle raised herself from her couch. Her eyes circled with -deep purple rims looked large and glowing, as they remained fixed upon -her mother-in-law. - -“No,” she said tonelessly, “Bertrand is too broken-hearted at present to -think of money.” - -“He will have to mend his heart then,” grandmama rejoined dryly, “those -sharks will be after him soon.” - -Marcelle threw back her head, and for a moment looked almost defiant: - -“The debts which he contracted, he did at your bidding, Madame,” she -said. - -“Of course he did, my good Marcelle,” old Madame retorted coldly, “but -the creditors will want paying all the same. If the marriage had come -about, this would have been easy enough, as I told you at the time. -Bertrand was a fool not to have known how to win that jade’s -affections.” - -A cry of indignation rose to the mother’s throat. - -“Oh!” - -“Eh, what?” Madame riposted unmoved. “Young men have before now -succeeded in gaining a woman’s love, even when she sat on a mountain of -money-bags and he had not even one to fasten to his saddle-bow. It -should have been easier for Bertrand with his physique and his -accomplishments to win a woman’s love than it will be for him to pay his -debts.” - -“You know very well,” Marcelle cried, “that he cannot do that.” - -“That is why we shall have to think of something,” grandmama retorted, -and at that moment went deliberately towards the door. Her hand was -already on the portière and Nicolette stood by undecided what she should -do, when suddenly Marcelle sprang forward more like a wild animal, -defending its young, than an ailing, timid woman: she interposed her -slim, shrunken form between the door and the old woman, and whispered -hoarsely, but commandingly: - -“What do you want with Bertrand?” - -Old Madame, taken aback, raised her aristocratic eyebrows: she looked -her daughter-in-law ironically up and down, then, as was her wont, she -shrugged her shoulders and tried to push her aside. - -“My dear Marcelle,” she said icily, “have you taken leave of your -senses?” - -“No,” Marcelle replied, in a voice which she was endeavouring to keep -steady. “I only want to know what you are going to say to Bertrand.” - -“That will depend on what he tells me,” grandmama went on coldly. “You -do not suppose, I presume, that the future can be discussed without my -having a say in it?” - -“Certainly not,” the younger woman rejoined, “seeing that the present is -entirely of your making.” - -“Then I pray you let me go to Bertrand. I wish to speak with him.” - -“We’ll call him. And you shall speak with him in my presence.” - -Now she spoke quite firmly: her face was very pale and her eyes -certainly had a wild look in them. With a mechanical gesture she pushed -the unruly strands of her hair from her moist forehead. Old Madame gazed -at her for a moment or two in silence, then she broke into harsh, -ironical laughter. - -“_Ah ça, ma mie!_” she said, “Will you tell me, I pray, what is the -exact meaning of this melodramatic scene?” - -“I have already told you,” Marcelle replied more calmly, “if you wish to -speak with Bertrand, we’ll call him, and you shall speak with him here.” - -“Bertrand and I understand one another. We prefer to talk together, when -we are alone.” - -“The matter that concerns him concerns us all equally. You may speak -with him if you wish—but only in my presence.” - -“But, _nom de Dieu_!” old Madame exclaimed, “will you tell me by what -right you propose to stand between me and my grandson?” - -“By the right which you gave me, Madame,” Marcelle replied with slow -deliberation, “when you stood between your son and me.” - -“Marcelle!” the old woman cried, and her harsh voice for the first time -had in it a quiver of latent passion. - -“The evil which you wrought that night,” Marcelle went on slowly, “shall -not find its echo now. I was really a fool then. Such monsters as you -had never been within my ken.” - -“Silence, you idiot!” old Madame broke in, throwing into her tone and -into her attitude all the authority which she knew so well how to exert. -But Marcelle would not be silenced. She was just one of those weak, -down-trodden creatures who, when roused, are as formidable in their -wrath as they are obstinate in their purpose. She spoke now as if for -the past twenty years she had been longing for this relief and the words -tumbled out of her mouth like an avalanche falls down the side of a -mountain. - -“An idiot!” she exclaimed. “Yes, you are right there, Madame! A dolt and -a fool! but, thank God, sufficiently sane to-night to prevent your -staining your hands with my son’s blood, as you did with that of his -father. Had I not been a fool, should I not have guessed your purpose -that night?—then, too, you wished to speak with your son alone—then too -you wished to discuss the future after you had dragged him down with you -into a morass of debts and obligations which he could not meet. To -satisfy your lust for pomp, and for show, you made him spend and borrow, -and then when the day of reckoning came——” - -“Silence, Marcelle!” - -“When the day of reckoning came,” Marcelle reiterated coldly, “you, his -mother, placed before him the only alternative that your damnable pride -would allow—a pistol which you, yourself, put into his hand.” - -“My son preferred death to dishonour,” old Madame put in boldly. - -“At his mother’s command,” the other retorted. “Oh! you thought I did -not know, you thought I did not guess. But—you remember—it was -midsummer—the window was open—I was down in the garden—I heard your -voice: ‘My son, there is only one way open for a de Ventadour!’ I ran -into the house, I ran up the stairs—you remember?—I was on the threshold -when rang the pistol shot which at your bidding had ended his dear -life.” - -“What I did then is between me and my conscience——” - -“Perhaps,” Marcelle replied, “but for what you do now, you will answer -to me. I suffered once—I will not suffer again——” - -Again with that same wild gesture she pushed her hair away from her -forehead. Nicolette thought that she was on the point of swooning, but -her excitement gave her strength: she pulled herself together, drew the -portière aside, opened the door, and went through into the other room. - -Grandmama appeared for a moment undecided: that her pride had received a -severe shaking, there could be no doubt: for once she had been routed in -a wordy combat with the woman whom she affected to despise. But she was -too arrogant, too dictatorial to argue, where she had failed to command. -Perhaps she knew that her influence over Bertrand would not be -diminished by his mother’s interference. She was not ashamed of that -dark page in the past history: her notions of honour, and of what was -due to the family name were not likely to be modified by the ravings of -a sick imbecile. She was fond of Bertrand and proud of him, but if the -cataclysm which she dreaded did eventually come about, she would still -far sooner see him dead than dishonoured. A debtor’s prison was no -longer an impossibility for a de Ventadour; the principles of equality -born of that infamous Revolution, and fostered by that abominable -Corsican upstart had not been altogether eliminated from the laws of -France with the restoration of her Bourbon kings. Everything nowadays -was possible, even, it seems, the revolt of weak members of a family -against its acknowledged head. - -Marcelle had gone through into the next room without caring whether her -mother-in-law followed her or not. Just as she entered she was heard to -call her son’s name, tenderly, and as if in astonishment. Old Madame -then took a step forward and peeped through the door. Then she threw -back her head and laughed. - -“What an anti-climax, eh, my good Marcelle,” she said with cool sarcasm. -“See what a fool you were to make such a scene. While you spouted -heroics at me about pistols and suicide, the boy was comfortably asleep. -When he wakes,” she added lightly, “send him to me, and you may chaperon -him if you like. I do not see a tragedy in this sleeping prince.” - -With that she went: and Nicolette ran into the next room. The Comtesse -Marcelle was on the verge of a collapse. Nicolette contrived to undress -her and put her to bed. Bertrand did not stir. He had drunk a couple of -glasses of wine and eaten some of the cake, then apparently his head had -fallen forward over his arms, and leaning right across the table he had -fallen asleep. The sound of voices had not roused him. He was so tired, -so tired! Nicolette, while she looked after Marcelle, was longing to -undo Bertrand’s heavy boots, and place a cushion for his head, and make -him lean back in his chair. This was such an uncomfortable, lonely -house, lonely for every one except old Madame, who had Pérone to look -after her. Marcelle and poor little Micheline looked after themselves, -and Bertrand only had old Jasmin. During Mlle. de Peyron-Bompar’s visit -last May, some extra servants had been got in to make a show. They had -been put into smart liveries for the time being, but had since gone away -again. It was all a very dreary homecoming for Tan-tan, and Nicolette, -who longed to look after his creature comforts, was forced to go away -before she could do anything for him. - -Marcelle de Ventadour kissed and thanked her. She assured her that she -felt well and strong. Pérone, though dour and repellent, would come and -see to her presently, and Micheline slept in a room close by. Between -them they would look after Bertrand when he woke from this long sleep. -The supper ordered for two was still there. Jasmin would see to it that -Bertrand had all that he wanted. - -A little reassured, Nicolette went away at last, promising to come again -the next day. Micheline accompanied her as far as the main door: the -girl had said absolutely nothing during the long and painful scene which -had put before her so grim a picture of the past: she was so -self-centred, so reserved, that not even to Nicolette did she reveal -what she had felt: only she clung more closely than even before to the -friend whom she loved: and when the two girls finally said “good night” -to one another they remained for a long time clasped in one another’s -arms. - -“Bertrand will be all right now,” Nicolette whispered in the end, “I -don’t think old Madame will want to see him, and he is so tired that he -will not even think. But do not leave him too much alone, Micheline. -Promise!” - -And Micheline promised. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - GREY DAWN - - -Strange that it should all have happened in the grey dawn of a cold -winter’s morning. Nicolette, when she came home afterwards and thought -it all out, marvelled whether the grey sky, the muffled cadence of the -trees, the mysterious pallidity of the woods were a portent of the -future. And yet if it had to be done all over again, she would not have -acted differently, and minute by minute, hour by hour, it seemed as if -destiny had guided her—or God’s hand, perhaps! Oh, surely it was God’s -hand. - -She rose early because she had passed a restless, miserable night, also -her head ached and she longed for fresh air. It was still dark, but -Margaï was astir, and a bright fire was blazing in the kitchen when -Nicolette came down. She was not hungry, but to please Margaï she drank -some warm milk and ate the home-made bread, and when the cold morning -light first peeped in through the open window, she set out for a walk. - -She went down the terraced gradients into the valley, and turned to -wander up the river bank, keeping her shawl closely wrapped around her -shoulders, as it was very cold. The Lèze, swelled by the early winter’s -rains, tossed and tumbled in its bed with fretful turbulence. The snow -lay deep in untidy little heaps in all sorts of unexpected nooks and -crannies, but the smooth surfaces of the boulders were shiny with dewy -frost and the blades of the rough grass were heavy with moisture. - -The air was very still, and slowly the silvery dawn crept up behind the -canopy of clouds, and transformed it into a neutral tinted veil that -hung loosely over the irregular heights of Luberon and concealed the -light that lay beyond. One by one the terraced slopes emerged from the -pall of night, and the moist blades of grass turned to strings of tiny -diamonds. A pallid argent hue lay over mountain and valley, and every -leaf of every tree became a looking-glass that mirrored the colourless -opalescence of the sky. - - -When Nicolette started out for this early morning walk she had no -thought of meeting Bertrand. Indeed she had no thought of anything -beyond a desire to be alone, and to still the restlessness which had -kept her awake all night. Anon she reached the pool and the great -boulder that marked the boundary of Paul et Virginie’s island, and she -came to a halt beside the carob tree on the spot hallowed by all the -cherished memories of the past. - -And suddenly she saw Bertrand. - -He too had wandered along the valley by the bank of the stream, and -Nicolette felt that it was her intense longing for him that had brought -him hither to this land of yore. - -How it all came about she could not have told you. Bertrand looked as if -he had not slept: his eyes were ringed with purple, he was hatless, and -his hair clung dishevelled and moist against his forehead. Nicolette led -the way to the old olive tree, and there they stood together for awhile, -and she made him tell her all about himself. At first it seemed as if it -hurt him to speak at all, but gradually his reserve appeared to fall -away from him: he talked more and more freely! he spoke of his love for -Rixende, how it had sprung into being at first sight of her: he spoke of -the growth of his love through days of ardour and nights of longing, -when, blind to all save the beauty of her, he would have laid down his -life to hold her in his arms. He also spoke of that awful day of -humiliation and of misery when he dragged himself on his knees at her -feet like an abject beggar imploring one crumb of pity, and saw his love -spurned, his ideal shattered, and his father’s shame flung into his face -like a soiled rag. - -What he had been unable to say to his mother he appeared to speak of -with real relief to Nicolette. He seemed like a man groaning under a -heavy load, who is gradually being eased of his burden. He owned that -for hours after that terrible day he had been a prey to black despair: -it was only the thought of his father’s disgrace and of his mother’s -grief that kept him from the contemplation of suicide. But his career -was ended: soon those harpies, who were counting on his wealthy marriage -to exact their pound of flesh from him, would fall on him like a cloud -of locusts, and to the sorrow in his heart would be added the dishonour -of his name. His happiness had fled on the wings of disappointment and -disillusion. - -“The Rixende whom I loved,” he said, “never existed. She was just a -creation of my own brain, born of a dream. The woman who jeered at me -because I loved her and had nothing to offer her but my love, was a -stranger whom I had never known.” - -Was it at that precise moment that the thought took shape in her mind, -or had it always been there? Always? When she used to run after him and -thrust her baby hand into his palm? Or when she gazed up-stream, -pretending that the Lèze was the limitless ocean, on which never a ship -appeared to take her and Tan-tan away from their island of bliss? All -the dreams of her girlhood came floating, like pale, ghostlike visions, -before Nicolette’s mind; dreams when she wandered hand in hand with -Tan-tan up the valley and the birds around her sang a chorus: “He loves -thee, passionately!” Dreams when he was gay and happy, and they would -laugh together and sing till the mountain peaks gave echo to their joy! -Dreams when, wearied or sad, he would pillow his head on her breast, and -allow her to stroke his hair, and to whisper soft words of comfort, or -sing to him his favourite songs. - -Those dream visions had long since receded into forgetfulness, dispelled -by the masterful hand of a beautiful woman with gentian-blue eyes and a -heart of stone. Was this the hour to recall them from never-never land? -to let them float once more before her mind? and was this the hour to -lend an ear to the sweet insidious voice that whispered: “Why not?” even -on this cold winter’s morning, when a pall of grey monotone lay over -earth and sky, when the winter wind soughed drearily through the trees, -and every bird-song was stilled? - -Is there a close time for love? Perhaps. But there is none for that -sweet and gentle pity which is the handmaid of the compelling Master of -the Universe. The sky might be grey, the flowers dead and the birds -still, but Nicolette’s heart whispered to her that Tan-tan was in pain; -he had been hurt in his love, in his pride, in that which he held dearer -than everything in life: the honour of his name. And she, Nicolette, had -it in her power to shield him, his honour and his pride, whilst in her -heart there was such an infinity of love, that the wounds which he had -endured would be healed by its magical power. - -How it came about she knew not. He had spoken and he was tired: shame -and sorrow had brought tears to his eyes. Then all of a sudden she put -out her arms and drew his head down upon her breast. Like a mother -crooning over her sick baby, she soothed and comforted him: and words of -love poured out from her heart as nectar from an hallowed vessel, and in -her eyes there glowed a light of such perfect love and such sublime -surrender, that he, dazed at first, not understanding, could but listen -in silence, and let this marvellous ray of hope slowly filtrate through -the darkness of his despair. - -“Nicolette,” he cried the moment he could realise what it was she was -saying, “do you really love me enough to——” - -But she quickly put her hand over his mouth. - -“Ask me no question, Tan-tan,” she said. “I have always loved you, -neither more nor less—just loved you always—and now that you are in -trouble and really need me, how can you ask if I love you enough?” - -“Your father will never permit it, Nicolette,” he said soberly after a -while. - -“He will permit it,” she rejoined simply, “because now I should die if -anything were to part us.” - -“If only I could be worthy of your love, little one,” he murmured -ruefully. - -“Hush, my dear,” she whispered in reply. “In love no one is either -worthy or unworthy. If you love me, then you have given me such a -priceless treasure that I should not even envy the angels up in heaven.” - -“If I love you, sweetheart!” he sighed, and a sharp pang of remorse shot -through his heart. - -But she was content even with this semblance of love. Never of late, in -her happiest dreams, had she thought it possible that she and Tan-tan -would ever really belong to one another. Oh! she had no illusions as to -the present: the image of that blue-eyed little fiend had not been -wholly eradicated from his heart, but so long as she had him she would -love him so much, so much, that in time he would forget everything save -her who made him happy. - -They talked for awhile of the future: she would not see that in his -heart he was ashamed—ashamed of her generosity and of his own weakness -for accepting it. But she had found the right words, and he had been in -such black despair that this glorious future which she held out before -him was like a vision of paradise, and he was young and human, and did -not turn his back on his own happiness. Then, as time was getting on, -they remembered that there was a world besides themselves: a world to -which they would now have to return and which they would have to face. -It was no use restarting a game of “Let’s pretend!” on their desert -island. A ship had come in sight on the limitless ocean, and they must -make ready to go back. - -Hand in hand they wandered down the valley. It was just like one of -those pictures of which Nicolette had dreamed. She and Tan-tan alone -together, the Lèze murmuring at their feet, the soughing of the trees -making sweet melody as they walked. Way up in the sky a thin shaft of -brilliant light had rent the opalescent veil and tinged the heights of -Luberon with gold. The warm sun of Provence would have its way. It tore -at that drab grey veil, tore and tore, until the rent grew wider and the -firmament over which he reigned was translucent and blue. The leaves on -the trees mirrored the azure of the sky, the mountain stream gurgled and -whispered with a sound like human laughter, and from a leafy grove of -winter oak a pair of pigeons rose and flew away over the valley, and -disappeared in the nebulous ether beyond. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - FATHER - - -There was the natural longing to keep one’s happiness to oneself just -for a little while, and Nicolette decided that it would be better for -Bertrand to wait awhile before coming over to the mas, until she herself -had had an opportunity of speaking with her father. For the moment she -felt that she was walking on clouds, and that it would be difficult to -descend to earth sufficiently to deceive both father and Margaï. Nor did -she deceive either of them. - -“What is the matter with the child?” Jaume Deydier said after midday -dinner, when Nicolette ran out of the room singing and laughing in -response to nothing at all. - -And Margaï shrugged her shoulders. She could not think. Deydier -suggested that perhaps Ameyric.... Eh, what? Girls did not know their -own hearts until a man came along and opened the little gate with his -golden key. Margaï shrugged her shoulders again: this time out of -contempt for a man’s mentality. It was not Ameyric of a surety who had -the power to make Nicolette sing and laugh as she had not done for many -a month, or to bring that glow into her cheeks and the golden light into -her eyes. No, no, it was not Ameyric! - -Then as the afternoon wore on and the shades of evening came creeping -round the corners of the cosy room, Jaume Deydier sat in his chair -beside the hearth in which great, hard olive logs blazed cheerfully. He -was in a soft and gentle mood. And Nicolette told him all that had -happened ... to Bertrand and to her. - -Jaume Deydier heard the story of Mme. de Mont-Pahon’s will, and of -Rixende’s cruelty, with a certain grim satisfaction. He was sorry for -the Comtesse Marcelle—very sorry—but the blow would fall most heavily on -old Madame, and for once she would see all her schemes tumbling about -her ears like a house of cards. - -Then Nicolette knelt down beside him and told him everything. Her walk -this morning, her meeting with Bertrand: her avowal of love and offer of -marriage. - -“It came from me, father dear,” she said softly, “Bertrand would never -have dared.” - -Deydier had not put in one word while his daughter spoke. He did not -even look at her, only stared into the fire. When she had finished he -said quietly: - -“And now, little one, all that you can do is to forget all about this -morning’s walk and what has passed between you and M. le Comte de -Ventadour!” - -“Father!” - -“Understand me, my dear once and for all,” Deydier went on quite -unmoved; “never with my consent will you marry one of that brood.” - -Nicolette was silent for a moment or two. She had expected opposition, -of course. She knew her father and his dearly-loved scheme that she -should marry young Barnadou: she also knew that deep down in his heart -there was a bitter grudge against old Madame. What this grudge was she -did not know, but she had complete faith in her father’s love, and in -any case she would be fighting for her happiness. So she put her arms -around him and leaned her head against his shoulder, in that cajoling -manner which she had always found irresistible. - -“Father,” she whispered, “you are speaking about my happiness.” - -“Yes,” he said with a dull sigh of weariness, “I am.” - -“Of my life, perhaps.” - -“Nicolette,” the father cried, with a world of anxiety, of reproach, of -horror in his tone. - -But Nicolette knelt straight before him now, sitting on her heels, her -hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed quite determinedly on his face. - -“I love Bertrand, father,” she said simply, “and he loves me.” - -“My child——” - -“He loves me,” Nicolette reiterated with firm conviction. “A woman is -never mistaken over that, you know.” - -“A woman perhaps, my dear,” the father retorted gently, and passed a -hand that shook a little over her hair: “but you are such a child, my -little Nicolette. You have never been away from our mountains and our -skies, where God’s world is pure and simple. What do you know of evil?” - -“There is no evil in Bertrand’s love for me,” she protested. - -“Bah! there is evil in all the de Ventadours. They are all tainted with -the mania for show and for wealth. And now that they are bankrupt in -pocket as well as in honour, they hope to regild their stained -escutcheon with your money——” - -“That is false!” Nicolette broke in vehemently, “no one at the château -knows that Bertrand and I love one another. A few hours ago he did not -know that I cared for him.” - -“A few hours ago he knew that his father’s fate was at his door. He is -up to his eyes in debt; nothing can save even the roof over his head; -his mother, his sister and that old harpy his grandmother have nothing -ahead of them but beggary. Then suddenly you come to him with sweet -words prompted by your dear kind heart, and that man, tottering on the -brink of an awful precipice, sees a prop that will save him from -stumbling headlong down. The Deydier money, he says to himself, why not -indeed? True I shall have to stoop and marry the daughter of a vulgar -peasant, but I can’t have the money without the wife, and so I’ll take -her, and when I have got her, I can return to my fine friends in Paris, -to the Court of Versailles and all the gaieties, and she poor fool can -stay at home and nurse my mother or attend to the whims of old Madame; -and if she frets and repines and eats out her heart with loneliness down -at my old owl’s nest in Provence, well then I shall be rid of her all -the sooner....” - -“Father!” Nicolette cried with sudden passionate intensity which she -made no attempt to check. “What wrong has Bertrand done to you that you -should be willing to sacrifice my happiness to your revenge?” - -A harsh laugh came from Jaume Deydier’s choking throat. - -“Revenge?” he exclaimed. And then again: “Revenge?” - -“Yes, revenge!” Nicolette went on with glowing eyes and flaming cheeks. -“Oh, I know! I know! There is a dark page somewhere in our family -history connected with the château, and because of that—because of -that——” - -Her voice broke in a sob. She was crouching beside the hearth at her -father’s feet, and for a moment he looked down at her as if entirely -taken aback by her passionate protest. Life had always gone on so -smoothly at the mas, that Jaume Deydier had until now never realised -that the motherless baby whom he had carried about in his arms had -become a woman with a heart, and a mind and passions of her own. It had -never struck him that his daughter—little Nicolette with the bright eyes -and the merry laugh, the child that toddled after him, obedient and -loving—would one day wish to frame her destiny apart from him, apart -from her old home. - -A child! A child! He had always thought of her as a child—then as a -growing girl who would marry Ameyric Barnadou one day, and in due course -present her husband with a fine boy or two and perhaps a baby girl that -would be the grandfather’s joy! - -But this girl!—this woman with the flaming eyes in which glowed passion, -reproach, an indomitable will; this woman whose voice, whose glance -expressed the lust of a fight for her love and her happiness!—was this -his Nicolette? - -Ah! here was a problem, the like of which had never confronted Jaume -Deydier’s even existence before now. How he would deal with it he did -not yet know. He was a silent man and not fond of talking, and, after -her passionate outburst, Nicolette, too, had lapsed into silence. She -still crouched beside her father’s chair, squatting on her heels, and -gazing into the fire. Deydier stroked her soft brown hair with a tender -hand. He loved the child more than anything in the whole world. To her -happiness he would have sacrificed everything including his life, but in -his own mind he was absolutely convinced that Bertrand de Ventadour had -only sought her for her money, and that nothing but sorrow would come of -this unequal marriage—if the marriage was allowed to take place, which, -please God, it never would whilst he, Deydier, was alive.... But as he -himself was a man whose mind worked with great deliberation, he thought -that time and quietude would act more potently than words on Nicolette’s -present mood. He was quite sure that at any rate nothing would be gained -at this moment by further talk. She was too overwrought, too recently -under the influence of Bertrand to listen to reason now. Time would -show. Time would tell. Time and Nicolette’s own sound sense and pride. -So Deydier sat on in his arm-chair, and said nothing, and presently he -asked his girl to get him his pipe, which she did. She lighted it for -him, and as she stood there so close to him with the lighted tinder in -her hand, he saw that her eyes were dry, and that the glow had died out -of her cheeks. He pulled at his pipe in a moody, abstracted way, and -fell to meditating—as he so often did—on the past. There was a tragedy -in his life connected with those Ventadours. He had never spoken of it -to any one since the day of his marriage, not even to old Margaï, who -knew all about it, and he had sworn to himself at one time that he would -never tell Nicolette. - -But now—— - -So deeply had he sunk in meditation that he did not notice that -Nicolette presently went out of the room. - - -Margaï brought in the lamp an hour later. - -“I did not want to disturb you,” she said as she set it on the table, -“but it is getting late now.” - -“Well?” she went on after awhile, seeing that Deydier made no comment, -that his pipe had gone out, and that he was staring moodily into the -fire. Even now he gave her no reply, although she rattled the silver on -the sideboard so as to attract his attention. Finally, she knelt down in -front of the hearth and made a terrific clatter with the fire-irons. -Even then, Jaume Deydier only said: “Well?” too. - -“Has the child told you anything?” Margaï went on tartly. She had never -been kept out of family councils before and had spent the last hour in -anticipation of being called into the parlour. - -“Why, what should she tell me?” Deydier retorted with exasperating -slowness. - -“_Tiens!_ that she is in love with Bertrand de Ventadour, and wants to -marry him.” - -Deydier gave a startled jump as if a pistol shot had rung in his ear, -and his pipe fell with a clatter to the ground. - -“Nicolette in love with Bertrand,” he cried with well-feigned -astonishment. “Whoever told thee such nonsense?” - -“No one,” the old woman replied dryly. “I guessed.” - -Then as Deydier relapsed into moody silence, she added irritably: - -“Don’t deny it, Mossou Deydier. The child told you.” - -“I don’t deny it,” he replied gravely. - -“And what did you say?” - -“That never while I live would she marry a de Ventadour.” - -“Hm!” was the only comment made on this by Margaï. And after awhile she -added: - -“And where is the child now?” - -“I thought,” Deydier replied, “that she was in the kitchen with thee.” - -“I have not seen her these two hours past.” - -“She is not in her room?” - -“No!” - -“Then, maybe, she is in the garden.” - -“Maybe. It is a fine night.” - -There the matter dropped for the moment. It was not an unusual thing for -Nicolette to run out into the garden at all hours of the day or evening, -and to stay out late, and Deydier was not surprised that the child -should have wished to be let in peace for awhile. Margaï went back to -her kitchen to see about supper, and Deydier lighted a second pipe: a -very unusual thing for him to do. At seven o’clock Margaï put her head -in through the door. - -“The child is not in yet,” she said laconically, “and she is not in the -garden. I have been round to see.” - -“Didst call for her, Margaï?” Deydier asked. - -“Aye! I called once or twice. Then I stood at the gate thinking I would -see her go up the road. She should be in by now. It has started to -rain.” - -Deydier jumped to his feet. - -“Raining,” he exclaimed, “and the child out at this hour? Why didst not -come sooner, Margaï, and tell me?” - -“She is often out later than this,” was Margaï’s reply. “But she usually -comes in when it rains.” - -“Did she take a cloak with her when she went?” - -“She has her shawl. Maybe,” the old woman added after a slight pause, -“she went to meet him somewhere.” - -To this suggestion Deydier made no reply, but it seemed to Margaï that -he muttered an oath between his teeth, which was a very unusual thing -for Mossou Jaume to do. Without saying another word, however, he stalked -out of the parlour, and presently Margaï heard his heavy footstep -crossing the corridor and the vestibule, then the opening and the -closing of the front door. - -She shook her head dolefully while she began to lay the cloth for -supper. - - -Jaume Deydier had thrown his coat across his shoulders, thrust his cap -on his head and picked up a stout stick and a storm lanthorn, then he -went down into the valley. It was raining now, a cold, unpleasant rain -mixed with snow, and the _tramontane_ blew mercilessly from way over -Vaucluse. Deydier muttered a real oath this time, and turned up the road -in the direction of the château. It was very dark and the rain beat all -around his shoulders: but when he thought of Bertrand de Ventadour, he -gripped his stick more tightly, and he ceased to be conscious of the wet -or the cold. - -He had reached the sharp bend in the road where the stony bridle-path, -springing at a right angle, led up to the gates of the château, and he -was on the point of turning up the path when he heard his name called -close behind him: - -“Hey, Mossou Deydier! Is that you?” - -He turned and found himself face to face with Pérone, old Madame’s -confidential maid—a person whom he could not abide. - -“Are you going up to the château, Mossou Deydier?” the woman went on -with an ugly note of obsequiousness in her harsh voice. - -“Yes,” Deydier replied curtly, and would have gone on, on his way, but -Pérone suddenly took hold of him by the coat. - -“Mossou Deydier,” she said pitiably, “it would be only kind to a poor -old woman, if you would let her walk with you. It is so lonely and so -dark. I have come all the way from Manosque. I waited there for awhile, -thinking the rain would give over. It was quite fine when I left home -directly after dinner.” - -Deydier let her talk on. He could not bear the woman, but he was man -enough not to let her struggle on in the dark behind him, whilst he had -his lanthorn to guide his own footsteps up the uneven road; and so they -walked on side by side for a minute or two, until Pérone said suddenly: - -“I hope Mademoiselle Nicolette has reached home by now. I told her——” - -“You saw Mademoiselle Nicolette?” Deydier broke in harshly, “where?” - -“Just above La Bastide, Mossou Deydier,” the woman replied. “You know -where she and Mossou le Comte used to fish when they were children. It -was raining hard already and I told her——” - -But Deydier was in no mood to listen further. Without any ceremony, or -word of excuse, he turned on his heel and strode rapidly down the road, -swinging his lanthorn and gripping his stick, leaving Pérone to go or -come, or stand still as she pleased. - -Moodiness and wrath had suddenly given place to a sickening feeling of -anxiety. The rain beat straight into his face as he turned his steps up -the valley, keeping close to the river bank, but he did not feel either -the wind or the rain: in the dim circle of light which the lanthorn -threw before him he seemed to see his little Nicolette, grief-stricken, -distraught, beside that pool that would murmur insidious, poisoned -words, promises of peace and forgetfulness. And at sight of this -spectral vision a cry like that of a wounded beast came from the -father’s overburdened heart. - -“Not again, my God!” he exclaimed, “not again! I could not bear it! -Faith in Thee would go, and I should blaspheme!” - - -He saw her just as he had pictured her, crouching against the large -boulder that sheltered her somewhat against the wind and rain. Just -above her head the heavy branches of an old carob tree swayed under the -breath of the _tramontane_: at her feet the waters of the Lèze, widening -at this point into a pool, lapped the edge of her skirt and of the shawl -which had slipped from her shoulders. - -She was not entirely conscious, and the wet on her cheeks did not wholly -come from the rain. Jaume Deydier was a big, strong man, he was also a -silent one. After one exclamation of heart-broken grief and of horror, -he had gathered his little girl in his arms, wrapped his own coat round -her, and, holding on to the lanthorn at the same time, he set out for -home. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - MAN TO MAN - - -Jaume Deydier did not say anything to Nicolette that evening. After he -had deposited her on her bed and handed her over to Margaï he knew that -the child would be well and safe. Sleep and Margaï’s household remedies -would help the child’s robust constitution to put up a good fight. - -And Nicolette lay all the evening, and half the night, wide-eyed and -silent between the sheets; quite quiescent and obedient whenever Margaï -brought her something warm to drink. But she would not eat, and when -early the next morning Margaï brought her some warm milk, she looked as -if she had not slept. She had a little fever during the night, but by -the morning this had gone, only her face looked white and pinched, and -her eyes looked preternaturally large with great dark rings around them. - -Later on in the morning her father came and stood for a second or two -silently beside her bed. Her eyes were closed when he came, but -presently, as if drawn by the magnetism of his tender gaze, the heavy -lids slowly opened, and she looked at him. She looked so pale and so -small in the big bed, and there was such a look of sorrow around her -drooping mouth, that Deydier’s heart ached almost to the point of -breaking, and great tears gathered in his eyes and rolled slowly down -his rough cheeks. - -The child drew a long sigh of tenderness, almost of pity, and put out -her arms. He gathered her to his breast, pillowing the dear head against -his heart, while he could scarcely control the heavy sobs that shook his -powerful shoulders, or stay the tears that wetted her curls. - -“My Nicolette!” he murmured somewhat incoherently. “My little Nicolette, -thou’lt not do it, my little girl, not that—not that—I could not bear -it.” - -Then he laid her down again upon the pillows, and kissed away the tears -upon her cheeks. - -“Father,” she murmured, and fondled his hand which she had captured, -“you must try and forgive me, I was stupid and thoughtless. I ought to -have explained better. But I was unhappy, very unhappy. Then I don’t -know how it all happened—I did not look where I was going, I suppose—and -I stumbled and fell—it was stupid of me,” she reiterated with loving -humility; “but I forgot the time, the weather—everything—I was so -unhappy——” - -“So unhappy that you forgot your poor old father,” he said, trying to -smile, “whose only treasure you are in this world.” - -“No, dear,” she replied earnestly. “I did not forget you. On the -contrary, I thought and thought about you, and wondered how you could be -so unkind.” - -He gave a quick, weary sigh. - -“We won’t speak about that now, my child,” he said gently, “all you have -to do is to get well.” - -“I am well, dear,” she rejoined, and as he tried to withdraw his hand -she grasped it closer and held it tightly against her bosom: - -“When Bertrand comes,” she entreated, “will you see him?” - -But he only shook his head, whereupon she let go his hand and turned her -face away. And he went dejectedly out of the room. - - -Bertrand came over to the mas in the early part of the forenoon. Vague -hints dropped by Pérone had already alarmed him, and he spent a -miserable evening and a sleepless night marvelling what had happened. - -As soon as he returned from the marvellous walk which had changed the -whole course of his existence, he had told his mother and Micheline -first, then grandmama, what had happened. Marcelle de Ventadour, who, -during the past four and twenty hours had been in a state of -prostration, due partly to sorrow and anxiety for her son, and partly to -the reaction following on excitement, felt very much like one who has -been at death’s door and finds himself unaccountably alive again. She -was fond of Nicolette in a gentle, unemotional way: she knew that -Deydier was very rich and his daughter his sole heiress, and she had -none of those violent caste prejudices which swayed old Madame’s entire -life; moreover, she had never been able to endure Rixende’s petulant -tempers and supercilious ways. All these facts conduced to make her -contented, almost happy, in this new turn of events. - -Not so old Madame! Bertrand’s news at first appeared to her unworthy of -consideration: the boy, she argued, partly to herself, partly to him, -had been inveigled at a moment when he was too weak and too wretched to -defend himself, by a designing minx who had a coronet and a fine social -position in her mind’s eye. The matter was not worth talking about. It -just would not be: that was all. When she found that not only did -Bertrand mean to go through with this preposterous marriage, but that he -defended Nicolette and sang her praises with passionate warmth, she fell -from contempt into amazement and thence into wrath. - -It should not be! It was preposterous! Impossible! A Comte de Ventadour -marry the descendant of a lacquey! the daughter of a peasant! It should -not be! not whilst she was alive. Thank God, she still had a few -influential friends in Paris, she would petition the King to forbid the -marriage. - -“You would not dare——” Bertrand protested vehemently. - -But old Madame only laughed. - -“Dare?” she said tartly. “Of course I should dare. I have dared more -than that before now, let me tell you, in order to save the honour of -the Ventadours. That marriage can _not_ be,” she went on determinedly, -“and if you are too foolish or too blind to perceive the disgrace of -such a _mésalliance_, then I will apply to the King. And you know as -well as I do that His Majesty has before now intervened on the side of -the family when such questions have been on the tapis, and that no -officer of the King’s bodyguard may marry without the consent of his -sovereign.” - -This Bertrand knew. That archaic law was one of those petty tyrannies in -which the heart of a Bourbon delighted, and was one of the first in -connection with his army that Louis XVIII replaced upon the statute book -of his reconquered country. - -Bertrand tried to argue with old Madame, and sharp words flew between -these two, who usually were so entirely at one in their thoughts and -their ideals. But he felt that he had been like a drowning man, and the -loving, gentle hand that had been held out to him at the hour of his -greatest peril had become very dear. Perhaps it would be too much to say -that Bertrand loved Nicolette now as passionately as he had loved -Rixende in the past, or that the image of one woman had wholly -obliterated that of the other: but he was immensely grateful to her, and -whenever his memory dwelt on the thought of that sweet, trusting young -body clinging to him, of those soft, delicate hands fondling his hair, -of that crooning voice murmuring sweet words of love and surrender, he -felt a warmth within his heart, a longing for Nicolette, different, yes! -sweeter than anything he had experienced for Rixende. - -“When you find yourself face to face with the alternative of giving up -your career or that peasant wench, you’ll not hesitate, I presume; you, -a Comte de Ventadour!” - -These were old Madame’s parting words, when, wearied with an argument -that tended nowhere, Bertrand finally kissed her hand and bade her good -night. - -“Come, come,” she added more gently, “confess that you have been weak -and foolish. You loved Rixende de Peyron-Bompar until a week ago. You -cannot have fallen out of love and in again in so short a time. Have no -fear, my dear Bertrand, an officer in the King’s bodyguard, a young man -as accomplished as yourself and with a name like yours, has never yet -failed to make a brilliant marriage. There are as good fish in the sea -as ever come out of it. A little patience, and I’ll warrant that within -three months you’ll be thanking Heaven on your knees that Rixende de -Peyron-Bompar was such a fool, for you will be leading to the altar a -far richer heiress than she.” - -But Bertrand now was too tired to say more. He just kissed his -grandmother’s hand, and with a sigh and a weary smile, said -enigmatically: - -“Perhaps!” - -Then he went out of the room. - - -Jaume Deydier met Bertrand de Ventadour on the threshold of the mas. - -“Enter, Monsieur le Comte,” he said curtly. - -Bertrand followed him into the parlour, and took the chair that Deydier -offered him beside the hearth. He inquired anxiously after Nicolette, -and the old man told him briefly all that had happened. - -“And it were best, Monsieur le Comte,” he concluded abruptly, “if you -went back to Paris after this. It is not fair to the child.” - -“Not fair to Nicolette!” Bertrand exclaimed. “Then she has told you?” - -“Yes, she told me,” he rejoined coldly, “that you and your family have -thought of a way of paying your debts.” - -An angry flush rose to Bertrand’s forehead. “Monsieur Deydier!” he -protested, and jumped to his feet. - -“Eh! what?” the father retorted loudly. “What else had you in mind, -when, fresh from the smart which one woman dealt you, you sought another -whose wealth would satisfy the creditors who were snapping like dogs at -your heels?” - -“I swear that this is false! I love Nicolette——” - -“Bah! you loved Rixende a week ago——” - -“I love Nicolette,” he reiterated firmly, “and she loves me.” - -“Nicolette is a child who has mistaken pity for love, as many wenches -do. You were her friend, her playmate; she saw you floundering in a -morass of debt and disgrace, and instinctively she put out her hand to -save you. She will get over that love. I’ll see to it that she forgets -you.” - -“I don’t think you will be able to do that, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand -put in more quietly. “Nicolette is as true as steel.” - -“Pity you did not find that out sooner, before you ran after that vixen -who has thrown you over.” - -“Better men than I have gone blindly past their happiness. Not many have -had the luck to turn back.” - -“Too late, M. le Comte,” Deydier riposted coldly. “I told Nicolette -yesterday that never, with my consent, will she be your wife.” - -“You will kill her, Monsieur Deydier.” - -“Not I. She is proud and soon she will understand.” - -“We love one another, Nicolette will understand nothing save that I love -her. You may forbid the marriage,” Bertrand went on vehemently, “but you -cannot forbid Nicolette to love me. We love one another; we’ll belong to -one another, whatever you may do or say.” - -“Whatever Madame, your grandmother, may say?” retorted Deydier with a -sneer. Then as Bertrand made no reply to that taunt, he added more -kindly: - -“Come, my dear Bertrand, look on the affair as a man. I have known you -ever since you were in your cradle: would I speak to you like this if I -had not the happiness of my child to defend?” - -Bertrand drew a quick, impatient sigh. - -“That is where you are wrong, Monsieur Deydier,” he said, “Nicolette’s -happiness is bound up in me.” - -“As your mother’s was bound up in your father, what?” Deydier retorted -hotly. “She too was a loving, trusting girl once: she too was rich; and -when her fortune was sunk into the bottomless morass of family debts, -your father went out of the world leaving her to starve or not according -as her friends were generous or her creditors rapacious. Look at her -now, M. le Comte, and tell me if any father could find it in his heart -to see his child go the way of the Comtesse Marcelle?” - -“You are hard, Monsieur Deydier.” - -“You would find me harder still if you brought Nicolette to -unhappiness.” - -“I love her——” - -“You never thought of her until your creditors were at your heels and -you saw no other way before you to satisfy them, save a rich marriage.” - -“It is false!” - -“False is it?” Deydier riposted roughly, “How else do you hope to -satisfy your creditors, M. le Comte de Ventadour? If you married -Nicolette without a dowry how would you satisfy them? How would you -live? how would you support your wife and your coming family? - -“These may be sordid questions, ugly to face beside the fine sounding -assertions and protestations of selfless love. But I am not an -aristocrat. I am a peasant and speak as I think. And I ask you this one -more question, M. le Comte: in exchange for all the love, the security, -the wealth, which a marriage with my daughter would bring you, what have -_you_ to offer her? An ancient name? It is tarnished. A château? ’Tis in -ruins. Position? ’Tis one of shame. Nay! M. le Comte go and offer these -treasures elsewhere. My daughter is too good for you.” - -“You are both cruel and hard, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand protested, -with a cry of indignation that came straight from the heart. “On my -honour the thought of Nicolette’s fortune never once entered my mind.” - -To this Deydier made no reply. A look of determination, stronger even -than before, made his face look hard and almost repellent. He pressed -his lips tightly together, his eyes narrowed till they appeared like -mere slits beneath his bushy brows; he buried his hands in the pockets -of his breeches and paced up and down the room, seeming with each step -to strengthen his resolve. Then he came to a sudden halt in front of -Bertrand, the hardness partly vanished from his face, and he placed a -hand, the touch of which was not altogether unkind, on the young man’s -shoulder. - -“Suppose, my dear Bertrand,” he said slowly, “suppose I were to take you -at your word. On your honour you have assured me that Nicolette’s -fortune never once entered your head. Very well! Go back now and tell -Madame your grandmother that you love my daughter, that your life’s -happiness is bound up in hers and hers in yours, but that I am not in a -position to give her a dowry. I am reputed rich, but I have no capital -to dispose of and I have certain engagements which I must fulfil before -I can afford the luxury of paying your debts. I may give Nicolette a few -hundred louis a year, pin money, but that is all. One moment, I pray -you,” Deydier added, seeing that hot words of protest had already risen -to Bertrand’s lips. “I am not giving you a supposition. I am telling you -a fact. If you love Nicolette sufficiently to lead a life of usefulness -and simplicity with her, here in her old home, you shall have her. Let -old Madame come and ask me for my daughter’s hand, on your behalf, you -shall have her: but my money, no!” - -For a long while after that there was silence between the two men. Jaume -Deydier had once more resumed his fateful pacing up and down the room. -There was a grim, set smile upon his face, but every time his eyes -rested on Bertrand, a sullen fire seemed to blaze within them. - -A pall of despair had descended once more on Bertrand, all the darker, -all the more suffocating for the brief ray of hope that lightened it -yesterday. In his heart, he knew that the old man was right. When he had -set out this morning to speak with Deydier, he had done so under the -firm belief that Nicolette’s fortune expressed in so many words by her -father would soon dispel grandmama’s objection to her lowly birth. He -hoped that he would return from that interview bringing with him such -dazzling financial prospects that old Madame herself would urge and -approve of the marriage. Like all those who are very young, he was so -convinced of the justice and importance of his cause, that it never -entered his mind that his advocacy of it would result in failure. - -Failure and humiliation! - -He, a Comte de Ventadour, had asked for the hand of a peasant wench and -it had been refused. Only now did he realise quite how low his family -had sunk, that in the eyes of this descendant of lacqueys, his name was -worth less than nothing. - -Failure, humiliation and sorrow! Sorrow because the briefest searching -of his heart had at once revealed the fact that he was _not_ prepared to -take Nicolette without her fortune, that he was certainly _not_ prepared -to give up his career in order to live the life of usefulness at the -mas, which Jaume Deydier dangled before him. Oh! he had no illusion on -these points. Yesterday when old Madame threatened him with an appeal to -the King, there was still the hope that in view of such hopeless -financial difficulties as beset him, His Majesty might consent to a -_mésalliance_ with the wealthy daughter of a worthy manufacturer of -Provence. But what Deydier demanded to-day meant that he would have to -resign his commission and become an unpaid overseer on a farm, that he -would have to renounce his career, his friends, every prospect of ever -rising again to the position which his family had once occupied. - -Poor little Nicolette! He loved her, yes! but not enough for that. To -renounce anything for her sake had not formed a part of his affection. -And love without sacrifice—what is it but the pale, sickly ghost of the -exacting Master of us all? - -Poor little Nicolette! he sighed, and right through the silence of the -dull winter’s morning there came, faintly echoing, another sigh which -was just like a sob. - -Both the men swung round simultaneously and gazed upon the doorway. -Nicolette stood there under the lintel. Unable to lie still in bed, -while her life’s happiness was held in the balance, she had dressed -herself and softly crept downstairs. - -“Nicolette!” Bertrand exclaimed. And at sight of her all the tenderness -of past years, the ideal love of Paul for Virginie surged up in his -heart like a great wave of warmth and of pity. “When did you come down?” -She came forward into the room, treading softly like a little mouse, her -face pale and her lips slightly quivering. - -“A moment or two ago,” she replied simply. - -“Then you heard—” he asked involuntarily. - -“I heard,” she said slowly. “I heard your silence.” - -Bertrand raised his two hands and hid his face in them. Never in his -life had he felt so ashamed. Deydier went to his daughter’s side: he -wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her for this humiliation, -which he had been the means of putting upon her, but she turned away -from her father and came near to Bertrand. She seized both his wrists -with her tiny hands, and dragged them away from his face. - -“Look at me, Bertrand,” she said gently. And when his eyes, shamed and -passionately imploring met hers, she went on quietly. - -“Listen, Bertrand, when yesterday, on our dear island, I confessed to -you that I had loved you—all my life—I did it without any thought, any -hope that you loved me in return—You could not love me yet—I myself -should despise you if you could so easily forget one love for -another—but I did it with the firm belief that in time you would learn -to love me——” - -“Nicolette!” Bertrand cried, and her sweetsounding name was choked in a -sob. - -“Listen, my dear,” she continued firmly. “Nothing that has passed -between my father and you can alter that belief—I love you and I shall -love you all my life—I know that it is foolish to suppose that your -family would come here and humbly beg me to be your wife—it would also -be mad folly to ask you to give up your career in order to bury yourself -here out of the world with me. That is not my idea of love: that was not -in my thoughts yesterday when I confessed my love to you.” - -“Nicolette!” - -This time it was her father who protested, but she paid no heed to him. -She was standing beside Bertrand and she was pleading for her love. - -“Nay, father dear,” she said resolutely, “you have had your say. Now you -must let me have mine. Listen, Tan-tan, what I confessed to you -yesterday, that I still confess now. I have loved you always. I love you -still. If you will take me now from whatever motive, I am content, for I -know that in time you will love me too. Until then I can wait. But if -father makes it impossible for you to take me, then we will part, but -without bitterness, for I shall understand. And father will understand, -too, that without you, I cannot live. I have lain against your breast, -my dear, your lips have clung to mine; if they tear me away from you, -they will tear my heart out of my body now.” - -At one time while she spoke her voice had broken, but in the end it was -quite steady, only the tears ran steadily down her cheeks. Bertrand -looked at her with a sort of hungry longing. He could not speak. Any -word would have choked him. What he felt was intense humiliation, and, -towards her, worship. When she had finished and still stood there before -him, with hands clasped and the great tears rolling down her cheeks, he -sank slowly on his knees. He seized both her little hands and pressed -them against his aching forehead, his eyes, his lips: then with a -passionate sob that he tried vainly to suppress, he went quickly out of -the room. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - FATHER AND DAUGHTER - - -For a few seconds after Bertrand had gone, Nicolette remained standing -where she was, quite still, dry-eyed now, and with lips set; she seemed -for the moment not to have realised that he was no longer there. Then -presently, when his footsteps ceased to resound through the house, when -the front door fell to with a bang, and the gate gave a creak as it -turned on its hinges, she seemed to return to consciousness, the -consciousness of absolute silence. Not a sound now broke the stillness -of the house. Jaume Deydier had sunk into a chair and was staring -unseeing, into the fire; Margaï and the serving wenches were far away in -the kitchen. Only the old clock ticked on with dreary monotony, and the -flame from the hard olive wood burned with a dull sound like a -long-drawn-out sigh. - -Then suddenly Nicolette turned and ran towards the door. But her father -was too quick for her: he jumped to his feet and stood between her and -the door. - -“Where are you going, Nicolette?” he asked. - -“What is that to you?” she retorted defiantly. - -Just like some dumb animal that has received a death blow Deydier -uttered a hoarse cry; he staggered up against the door, and had to cling -to it as if he were about to fall. For a second or two he stared at her -almost doubting his own sanity. This then was his little Nicolette, the -baby girl who had lain in his arms, whose first toddling steps he had -guided, for whom he had lain awake o’ nights, schemed, worked, lived? -The motherless child who had never missed a mother because he had been -everything to her, had done twice as much for her as any mother could -have done? This, his little Nicolette who stabbed at his heart with that -sublime selfishness of love that rides rough-shod over every obstacle, -every affection, every duty, and in order to gain its own heaven, hurls -every other fond heart into hell? - -Deydier was no longer a young man. He had married late in life, and -strenuous work had hastened one or two of the unpleasant symptoms of old -age. The last two days had brought with them such a surfeit of emotions, -such agonising sensations, that this final sorrow seemed beyond his -physical powers of endurance. Clinging to the door, he felt himself -turning giddy and faint; once or twice he drew his arm across and across -his forehead on which stood beads of cold perspiration. Then a shadow -passed before his eyes, the walls of the room appeared to be closing in -around him, hemming him in. Everything became dark, black as night; he -put out his arms, and the next moment would have measured his length on -the floor. It all occurred in less than two seconds. At his first cry -all the obstinacy, the defiance in Nicolette’s heart, melted in face of -her father’s grief—her father whom she loved better than anything in the -world. When he staggered forward she caught him. She was as strong as a -young sapling, and fear and love gave her additional strength. A chair -was close by, she was able to drag him into it, to prop him up against -the cushions, to fondle him until she saw his dear eyes open, and fasten -themselves hungrily upon her. She would then have broken down -completely, great sobs were choking her, but she would not cry, not now -when he was ill and weak, and it was her privilege to minister to him. -She found a glass and a bottle of old cognac, and made him swallow that. - -But when he had drunk the cognac, and had obviously recovered, when he -drew her forcibly on his knee crying: - -“My little Nicolette, my dear, dear little Nicolette,” and pressed her -head against his breast, till she could hardly breathe, when she felt -hot, heavy tears falling against her forehead, then she could not hold -back those sobs any longer, and just lay on his breast, crying, crying, -while he soothed her with his big, fond hand, murmuring with infinite -tenderness: - -“There, there, my little Nicolette! Don’t—don’t cry—I ought to have told -you before. You were a grown girl, and I did not realise it—or I should -have told you before——” - -“Told me what, father?” she contrived to whisper through her sobs. - -“You would have understood,” he went on gently. “It was wrong of me to -think that you would just obey your old father, without understanding. -Love is a giant,” he added with a sigh, “he cannot be coerced, I ought -to have known.” - -He paused a moment, and stared out straight before him. Nicolette slid -out of his arms on to the floor; her hand was resting on his knee, and -she laid her cheek against it. He drew a deep breath, and then went on: - -“Your mother was just like you, my dear, I loved her with as great a -love as man ever gave to a woman. But she did not care for me—not -then.—Did she ever care, I wonder—God alone knows that.” - -He sighed again, and Nicolette not daring to speak, feeling that she -stood upon the threshold of a secret orchard, that time and death had -rendered sacred, waited in silence until he should continue. - -“Just like you, my dear,” Deydier resumed slowly after awhile, “she had -given her heart to one of those Ventadours. Ah! I don’t say that he was -unworthy. God forbid! Like young Bertrand he was handsome and gallant, -full I dare say of enthusiasm and idealism. And she——! Ah, my dear, if -you had only known her! She was like a flower! like an exquisite, -delicate snowdrop, with hair fairer than yours, and large grey eyes that -conquered a man’s heart with one look. All the lads of our country-side -were in love with her. Margaridette was her name, but they all called -her Ridette; as for me I was already a middle-aged man when that -precious bud opened into a perfect blossom. I was rich, and I worshipped -her, but I had nothing else to offer. She used to smile when I spoke to -her of my love, and softly murmur, sighing: ‘Poor Jaume.’ - -“But somehow I never gave up hope, I felt that love, as strong as mine, -must conquer in the end. How this would come about I had not troubled to -think, I was not likely to become younger or handsomer as time went on, -was I?” - -Once more he paused; memories were crowding around him fast. His eyes -stared into the smouldering embers of the hearth, seeing visions of past -things that had long ceased to be. - -“Then one evening, my dear, something was revealed to me. Shall I ever -forget that night, soft as a dream, warm as a downy bed; and spring was -in the air—spring that sent the blood coursing through one’s veins, and -beating against one’s temples with a delicious sense of longing and of -languor. It was Candlemas, and I had been to church at Pertuis where -Monseigneur the Bishop of Aix had celebrated Mass. I remember I had -walked over with Margaï because she had never seen a real bishop -celebrating. We had some beautiful tall green candles which I had bought -in Marseilles, they were nearly two metres high, and very thick, and of -course these were blessed by Monseigneur. The air was so marvellously -still, and we both walked so carefully with our candles, that their -lights never went out the whole of the way back from Pertuis. Your -grandmother was alive then, and my cousin Violante was staying at the -mas with her two children, so when Margaï and I arrived home with our -beautiful green candles alight, my mother started the round of the house -with them, and we all after her, Violante, the children, Margaï and the -servants, and she marked every door and every window of the mas with a -cross, as is traditional in our beautiful country, so as to preserve us -all against God’s thunder and lightning. And still the candles were -burning; neither the draught nor the rush up and down the stairs had -blown out the lights. And they were so tall and thick, that I stuck them -up on spikes which I had got ready for the purpose, and they went on -burning all through dinner and the whole of the long afternoon. And -Margaï would have it that candles blessed by a bishop were more potent -as harbingers of good fortune than those on which only the hand of a -_curé_ had lain. So when the sun had gone down, and the air was full of -the scent of spring, of young earth, and growing grass and budding -flowers, I took one of the candles and went down into the valley. I -wanted to give it to Margaridette so that all the blessings of God of -which that burning candle was the symbol, should descend upon her head. - -“I went down into the valley, and walked on the shores of the Lèze. The -candle burned clear and bright, the flame hardly flickered for the air -was so still. Then suddenly I spied, coming towards me, two young forms -that seemed as one, so closely did they cling to one another. Young -Raymond de Ventadour, it was, and he had his arm around your dear -mother’s waist, and her pretty head rested against his shoulder. They -did not see me, for they were so completely absorbed in one another; and -I remained quite still, crouching behind a carob tree, lest I should -disturb them in their happiness. But when they had gone by I saw that a -breath of wind, or perhaps the lips of an angel, had blown my candle -out. - -“Well, my dear, after that,” Deydier went on in a firmer and more even -voice, “I was convinced in my mind that all was well with Margaridette. -True, Raymond de Ventadour belonged to an ancient and aristocratic race, -but the Revolution was recent then, and we all held on to those ideals -of equality and fraternity for which we had suffered so terribly. -Margaridette’s father had been a ship-builder in Marseilles; he had -retired at the outbreak of the Revolution and bought a house and a -little piece of land on the other side of La Bastide. We all looked upon -him as something of an “_aristo_,” and to me it seemed the most natural -thing in the world that the two young people, being in love with one -another, should eventually get married, especially as Raymond de -Ventadour was a younger son. But though I was a middle-aged man, turned -forty then, I had it seems not sufficient experience of life to realise -to what depths of infamy man or woman can sink, when their ruling -passion is at stake. I had not yet learned to know Madame la Comtesse -Margarita de Ventadour, the Italian mother of Bertrand’s father, and of -young Raymond. - -“You know her, my dear, but have you eyes sharp enough to probe the -abyss of cruelty that lies in that woman’s soul? Her arrogance, her -pride of race, her worship of grandeur have made her a fiend—no longer -human—just a monster of falsehood and of malice. Well do I remember the -day when first the news reached my ears that young M. Raymond was -affianced to Mademoiselle Marcelle de Cercamons. There,” he added -quickly, and for the first time turning his gaze on the girl kneeling at -his feet, “your dear hand is trembling on mine. You have begun to guess -something of the awful tragedy which wrecked two young lives at the -bidding of that cruel vixen. Yes, that was the news that was all over -the villages that summer. M. Raymond was marrying Mademoiselle Marcelle -de Cercamons. He was fighting under General Moreau in Germany, but he -was coming home early in the autumn to get married. There was no doubt -in anyone’s mind about it, as the news was originally brought by Pérone, -Mme. la Comtesse’s own confidential maid. She spoke—to Margaï amongst -others—about the preparations for the wedding, the beauty of Marcelle de -Cercamons, the love M. Raymond had for his beautiful fiancée. The lady -was passing rich, and the wedding would take place at her ancestral home -in Normandy; all this that spawn of Satan, the woman Pérone, told -everyone with a wealth of detail that deceived us all. Then one day she -descended like a hideous black crow on Margaridette with a letter -purporting to be from M. Raymond, in which he demanded that the poor -child should return him the ring that he had given her in token of his -faith. The next day the Comtesse left the château, accompanied by -Pérone. She was going to Normandy for the wedding of her son.” - -“It was all false?” Nicolette murmured under her breath, awed by this -tale of a tragedy that she felt was also the story of her destiny. - -“All false, my dear,” Deydier replied, and the fire of a fierce -resentment glowed in his deep-set eyes. “It was M. le Comte de -Ventadour, Madame’s eldest son, who was marrying Mademoiselle de -Cercamons. He, too, was away. He was in Paris, leading the life of -dissipation which one has learned to associate with his family. M. -Raymond was in Germany fighting under Moreau, and writing letters full -of glowing ardour to his beloved. But mark the fulness of that woman’s -infamy. Before her son left for the war, he had confessed to his mother -his love for Margaridette, and the Comtesse, whose cruelty is only -equalled by her cunning, appeared to acquiesce in this idyll, nay! to -bestow on it her motherly blessing. And do you know why she did that, my -dear? So as to gain the two young people’s confidence and cause them to -send all their letters to one another through her hands. How should a -boy mistrust his own mother? especially after she has blessed him and -his love; and Raymond was little more than a boy. - -“Madame la Comtesse withheld all his letters from Margaridette, and all -Margaridette’s letters from him. After awhile, Margaridette thought -herself forgotten, and when the news came that her lover had been false -to her, and was about to wed another, how could she help but believe it? - -“From such depths of falsehood to the mere forging of a letter and a -signature asking for the return of the ring, was but a step in this path -of iniquity. Poor Margaridette fell into the execrable trap laid for her -by those cunning hands, she fell into it like a bird, and in it received -her death wound. It was the day of the wedding at Cercamons in -Normandy—Pérone, you see, had not spared us a single detail—and I, -vaguely agitated, vaguely terrified of something I could not define, -could not rest at home. All morning, all afternoon, I tried to kill that -agitation by hard work, but the evening came and my very blood was on -fire. I felt stifled in the house. My mother, I could see, was anxious -about me; her kind eyes fell sadly on me from time to time, while she -sat knitting in this very chair by the hearth. It was late autumn, and -the day had been grey and mild, but for some hours past heavy clouds had -gathered over Luberon and spread themselves above the valley. Toward -eight o’clock the rain came down; soon it turned into a downpour. The -water beat against the shutters, the cypress trees by the gate bowed and -sighed under the wind. Presently I noticed that my mother had, as was -her wont, fallen asleep over her knitting. I seized the opportunity and -stole out of the room, and out of the house. Something seemed to be -driving me along, just as it did last night, my dear, when I found that -you had gone——” - -His rough hand closed on Nicolette’s, and he lifted her back upon his -knees, and put his arms round her with an almost savage gesture of -possession. - -“I went down into the valley,” he went on sombrely, “and along the river -bank. The rain beat into my face, and all around me the olive and the -carob trees were moaning and groaning under the lash of the wind. I had -a storm lanthorn with me—for in truth I do believe that God Himself sent -me out into the valley that night—and this, I swung before me as I -walked through the darkness and the gale. Something drew me on. -Something! - -“And there, where the mountain stream widens into a shallow pool, and -where a great carob tree overshadows the waters, I saw Margaridette -crouching beside a boulder, just as I saw you, my little girl, last -night. Her hair was wet like yours was, her shawl had slipped from her -shoulders and was soaked in the stream; her dear arms were thrown over -the wet stone, and her face was buried in her hands. I gathered her up -in my arms. I wrapped my coat around her shoulders, and I carried her to -the mas, just as I carried you....” - -He said no more, and with his arms still held tightly around his child, -he once more stared into the fire. And Nicolette lay in his arms, quite -still, quite still. Presently he spoke again, but she scarcely heard him -now: only a few phrases spoken with more passionate intensity than the -rest reached her dulled senses: “She acquiesced—just like a child who -was too sick to argue—her father urged it because he thought that -Margaridette’s name had been unpleasantly coupled with that of M. -Raymond—and then he liked me, and I was rich—and so we were married—and -I loved my Margaridette so ardently that in time, I think, she cared for -me a little, too—Then you were born, my Nicolette—and she died——” - -Nicolette felt as if her very soul were numb within her; her heart felt -as if it were dead. - -So then this was the end? Oh! she no longer had any illusions, no longer -any hope. What could she do in face of THIS? Her father’s grief! that -awful tragedy which he had recalled had as effectually killed every hope -as not even death could have done. - -This, then, was the end? Tan-tan would in very truth go out of her life -after this. She could never see him again. Never. She could never hope -to make him understand how utterly, utterly impossible it would be for -her to deal her father another blow. It would be a death blow! And dealt -by her? No, it could not, could not be. Vaguely she asked—thinking of -Bertrand—what ultimately became of Raymond de Ventadour. - -“He came back from the wars,” Deydier explained, “three months after I -had laid your mother in her grave. We, in the meanwhile, had heard of -the cruel deceit practised upon her by old Madame, we had seen M. le -Comte de Ventadour bring home his bride: and it is the fondest tribute -that I can offer to my Margaridette’s undying memory, that never once -did she make me feel that I had won her through that woman’s infamous -trick. Raymond de Ventadour had naturally been led to believe that -Margaridette had been false to him: when he came home his first visit -was to me. I think he meant to kill me. Never have I seen a man in such -a passion of despair. But, standing in the room where she died and where -you were born, I told him the whole truth just as I knew it: and I don’t -know which of us two suffered the most at that hour: he or I.” - -“And after that?” Nicolette murmured. - -“He went away. Some said that he fought in Egypt, and there was killed -in action. But no one ever knew: not even his mother. All we did know -was that Raymond de Ventadour never came back!” - -He never came back! - -And Nicolette, lying in her father’s arms, took to envying her mother -who rested so peacefully in the little churchyard way up at La Bastide. -As for her, even her life was not her own. It belonged to this -grief-stricken man who held her so closely in his arms that she knew she -could never go. It belonged to him, and would have to go on, and on, in -dreary, or cheerful monotony, while the snows on Luberon melted year -after year, and, year after year, the wild thyme and rosemary came into -bloom, and the flowers on the orange trees blossomed and withered again. - -Year after year! - -And Bertrand would never come back! - - - - - CHAPTER XV - OLD MADAME - - -When old Madame heard from Bertrand that he had asked Nicolette Deydier -to be his wife, and that Jaume had rejected his suit with contempt, she -was hotly indignant. - -“The insolence of that rabble passes belief!” she said, and refused even -to discuss the subject with Bertrand. - -“You do not suppose, I imagine,” she went on haughtily, “that I should -go curtsying to that lout and humbly beg for his wench’s hand in -marriage for my grandson.” - -But her pride, though it had received many a blow these last few days, -was not altogether laid in the dust. It was not even humbled. To the -Comtesse Marcelle she said with the utmost confidence: - -“You were always a coward and a fool, my dear: and imbued with the -Christian spirit of holding out your left cheek when your right one had -been smitten. But you surely know me well enough to understand that I am -not going to do the same in our present difficulty. Fate has dealt us an -unpleasant blow, I admit, through the hand of that vixen, my sister -Sybille. You notice that I have refrained from having Masses said for -the repose of her soul, and if the _bon Dieu_ thinks as I do on the -subject, Sybille is having a very uncomfortable time in Purgatory just -now. Be that as it may, her spirit shall not have the satisfaction of -seeing how hard her body could hit, and in a very few days—two weeks at -most—you will see how little I have bent to adverse fate, and how -quickly I have turned the tide of our misfortune into one of -prosperity.” - -She would say no more just then, only hinted vaguely at Court influence, -which she was neither too old nor too poor to wield. The difficulty was -to extract a promise from Bertrand not to do anything rash, until -certain letters which she expected from Paris should arrive. Bertrand, -indeed, was in such a state of misery that he felt very like a wounded -animal that only desires to hide itself away in some hole and corner, -there to bleed to death in peace. When Jaume Deydier had delivered his -inflexible ultimatum to him, and he had realised that the exquisite -Paradise which Nicolette’s love and self-sacrifice had revealed was -indeed closed against him for ever, something in him had seemed to snap: -it was his pride, his joy in life, his self-confidence. He had felt so -poor, beside her, so poor in spirit, in love, in selflessness, that -humiliation had descended on him like a pall, which had in it something -of the embrace, the inevitable embrace of death. - -He had gone home like a sleepwalker, and had felt like a sleepwalker -ever since: neither his sister’s sympathy, nor old Madame’s taunts and -arrogance affected him in the least. The cords of life were so -attenuated that he felt they would snap at any moment. This was his only -consolation: a broken spirit, which might lead to the breaking of the -cords of life. Without Nicolette what was life worth now? - -Love had come, but it had come too late. Too late he had come to -understand that whilst he gazed, intoxicated and dazzled, upon a showy, -artificial flower, an exquisite and fragrant bud had bloomed all the -while close to his hand. Like so many young creatures on this earth, he -believed that God had especially created him for love and happiness, -that the Almighty Hand had for the time being so ordained the world and -society that love and happiness would inevitably fall to his lot. -Nevertheless, when those two priceless blessings were actually within -his reach, he had thoughtlessly and wantonly turned away from them and -rushed after a mirage which had proved as cruel as it was elusive. - -And now it was too late! - -Like a wanderer on the face of the earth, he would henceforth be for -ever seeking that which he had lost. - -Only one thing held him now: held him to his home in old Provence, to -the old owl’s nest and the ruined walls of his ancestral château: that -was his mother. The Comtesse Marcelle, broken down in health and spirit, -had such a weak hold on life that Bertrand felt that at any rate here -was one little thing in the world that he could do to earn a semblance -of peace and content for his soul. He could stay beside his mother and -comfort her with his presence. He could allay the fears which she had -for him and which seemed to drain the very fountain of life in her. So -he remained beside her, spending his days beside her couch, reading to -her, reassuring her as to his own state of mind. And when he went about -the room, or turned toward the door, her anxious eyes would follow his -every movement, as if at the back of her mind there was always the awful -fear that the terrible tragedy which had darkened her life once and made -of her the heart-broken widow that she was, would be re-enacted again, -and she be left in uttermost loneliness and despair. - -His mother, of course! - -But as for Nicolette, and all that Nicolette stood for now: love, -happiness, peace, content, it was too late! - -Much, much too late! - - -He never argued with old Madame about her schemes and plans. He was much -too tired to argue, and all his time belonged to his mother. She had so -little time of her own left, whilst he had a kind of grotesque -consciousness that grandmama would go on and on in this world, planning, -scheming, writing letters, and making debts. - -Oh! those awful debts! But for them Bertrand would have looked forward -with perfect content to following his mother, when she went to her rest. - -But there were the debts and the disgrace! - -The last of the de Ventadours seeking in death a refuge from shame, and -leaving an everlasting blot upon his name! The debts and the disgrace! - -He did once try to speak of it to old Madame, but she only laughed. - -The debts would be paid—in full—in full! As for the disgrace, how dare -Bertrand mention such a word in connection with the de Ventadours. And -Bertrand did not dare speak of his father just then. Besides, what had -been the use? - -The debts and the disgrace; and the shame! That awful day in the -magnificent apartment in Paris, when he knelt to Rixende and begged her, -begged her not to throw him over! That awful, awful day! And her laugh! -It would ring in his ears until the crack of doom. When he told her he -could not live without her, she laughed: when he vaguely hinted at a -bullet through his head, she had warned him not to make a mess on the -carpet. Oh! the shame of that! And old Madame did not seem to -understand! The word “disgrace” or “shame” was not to be used in -connection with the de Ventadours, and when he, Bertrand, thought of -that day in Paris, and of the debts, and—and other things, he ground his -teeth, and could have beaten his head against the wall in an agony of -shame. - -How right Jaume Deydier had been! How right! What was he, Comte de -Ventadour, but a defaulting debtor, a ne’er-do-well, sunk into a -quagmire of improbity and beating the air with upstretched hands till -they grasped a safety-pole held out to him by the weak, trusting arms of -a young girl? - -How right Jaume Deydier had been to turn on him and confound him with -his final act of cowardice. What had he to offer? Debts, a name -disgraced, a heart spurned by another! How right, how right! But, God in -heaven, the shame of it! - -And grandmama would not understand. Deydier would give his ears, she -said, to have a Comte de Ventadour for a son-in-law: he only demurred, -made difficulties and demands in order to dictate his own terms with -regard to Nicolette’s dowry. That was old Madame’s explanation of the -scene which had well-nigh killed Bertrand with shame. Pretence, she -declared, mere pretence on Deydier’s part. - -“Keep away from the mas, my son,” she said coolly to Bertrand one day, -“keep away from it for a week, and we’ll have Deydier sending his wench -to the château on some pretext or another, just to throw her in your way -again.” - -“But, thank God,” she added a moment or two later, “that we have not yet -sunk so low as to be driven into bestowing the name of Ventadour on a -peasant wench for the sake of her money-bags.” - -Not yet sunk so low? Ye gods! Could man sink lower than he, Bertrand, -had sunk? Could man feel more shamed than he had done when Nicolette -stood beside him and said: “Take me, take all! I’ll not even ask for -love in return.” - - -There was no question that the Comtesse Marcelle was sinking. Vitality -in her was at its lowest ebb. Bertrand hardly ever left her side. Her -only joy appeared to be in his presence, and that of Micheline. When her -two children were near her she always seemed to revive a little, and -when Bertrand made pathetic efforts to entertain her by telling her -tales of gay life in Paris, she even tried to smile. - -Old Madame spared her the infliction of her presence. She never entered -the sick room; and Pérone only came two or three times a day to do what -was necessary for the invalid. - -Then one day a mounted courier arrived from Avignon. He brought a letter -for old Madame. - -It was in the late afternoon. The old owl’s nest was wrapped in gloom, -for though the Aubussons and the tapestries, the silver and the spinet -had been bought with borrowed money or else on credit, the funds had run -low, and candles and oil were very dear. - -Marcelle de Ventadour lay on her couch with her children beside her, and -only the flickering fire-light to illumine the room. Bertrand for the -first time had broached the magic word “America.” Many had gone to that -far-off land of late, and made fortunes there. Why should not he tempt -destiny too? He had sworn to his mother that he would never again think -of suicide. The word “America” had made her tremble, but it was not so -terrible as death. - -And on this dull winter’s afternoon, with the fire-light making quaint, -fantastic patterns on the whitewashed ceiling, they had for the first -time talked seriously of America. - -“But promise me, Bertrand,” mother had entreated, “that you will not -think of it, until I’ve gone.” - -And Micheline had said nothing: she had not even wondered what would -become of her, when mother had gone and Bertrand sailed for America. - -They all heard the noise attendant on the arrival of the courier: the -tramping of the horse’s hoofs in the court-yard, the rattle of chains, -the banging of doors, and old Madame’s voice harsh and excited. Then her -quick step along the corridor, the rustle of her gown. Instinctively the -three of them drew closer to one another—like trapped animals when the -enemy is nigh. - -Old Madame came in with arms outstretched, and an open letter in her -hand. - -“Come to my arms, Bertrand,” she said, with a dramatic gesture. “The -last of the Ventadours can look every man in the face now.” - -She was striving to hide her excitement, her obvious relief behind a -theatrical and showy attitude. She went up to the little group around -the invalid’s couch, and stood over them like a masterful, presiding -deity. And all the while she flourished the letter which she held. - -“A light, Bertrand, for mercy’s sake!” she went on impatiently. “Name of -a name, all our lives are transformed by this letter! Did I not tell you -all along that I would turn the tide of our misfortune into one of -prosperity? Well! I’ve done it. I’ve done it more completely, more -wonderfully than I ever dared to hope! And you all sit here like -automatons whilst the entire current of our destiny has been diverted to -golden channels!” - -She talked rather wildly, somewhat incoherently; altogether she appeared -different to her usual haughty, unimpassioned self. Bertrand rose -obediently and lit the lamp, and placed a chair for old Madame beside -the table. - -She sat down and without another word to the others, she became absorbed -in rereading the letter, the paper made a slight crackling sound while -she read, as her hands were trembling a little. The Comtesse Marcelle, -silent as usual, kept her eyes fixed on the stately figure of the family -autocrat with the pathetic gaze of an unloved dog seeking to propitiate -an irascible master. Micheline clung to her mother’s hand, silent and -subdued by this atmosphere of unreality which grandmama’s theatrical -gestures and speech had evoked. Bertrand alone appeared disinterested. -He stood beside the hearth and stared moodily into the fire as if the -whole affair, whatever it was, did not concern him. - -Grandmama read the letter through twice from beginning to end. Then she -folded it up carefully, laid it on the table, and clasped her hands over -it. - -“There is no mistake,” she said more quietly, “no ambiguity.” - -She looked at them all as if expecting to be questioned. The news was so -wonderful! She was bubbling over with it, and they sat there like -automatons! - -“Bertrand,” she half implored, half commanded. - -“Yes, grandmama,” he responded dully. - -“You say nothing,” she urged with a febrile beating together of her -hands, “you ask no questions. And this letter—_mon Dieu_, this letter—it -means life to you—to us all!” - -“Is it from the King, Madame?” the Comtesse Marcelle asked, still with -that look on her face of a poor dog trying to propitiate his master. She -was so afraid that grandmama would become angry if Bertrand remained -silent—and there were the habits of a life-time—the fear of grandmama if -she should become angry. - -“The letter is from M. le Marquis de Montaudon,” old Madame condescended -to explain. “He writes to me in answer to an appeal which I made to him -on behalf of Bertrand.” - -Bertrand tried to rouse himself from his apathy. The habits of a -life-time ruled him too—the respect always accorded grandmama when she -spoke. - -“M. de Montaudon,” he said, speaking with an effort, “is treasurer to -the King.” - -“And a valued friend of His Majesty,” old Madame rejoined. “You must -have met him in Paris.” - -“No, never,” Bertrand replied. “De Montaudon is a real misanthrope where -society is concerned. He leads the life of a hermit wrapped up in -bank-notes, so ’tis said, and juggling all day with figures.” - -“A brilliant man,” grandmama assented. “He has saved the financial -situation of France and of his King. He is a man who deals in millions, -and thinks in millions as others do in dozens. He and I were great -friends once,” she went on with a quick, impatient sigh, “many, many -years ago—in the happy days before the Revolution—my husband took me up -to Paris one year when I was sick with nostalgia and ennui, and he -feared that I would die of both complaints in this old owl’s nest. Then -it was that I met de Montaudon—le beau Montaudon as he was called—and he -fell in love with me. He had the blood of the South in his veins, for -his mother was a Sicilian, and he loved me as only children of the South -can love—ardently, immutably. - -“My husband’s jealousy, then the turmoil of the Revolution, and finally -Montaudon’s emigration to England, whence he only returned six years -ago, kept us apart all this while. A whole life-time lies between the -miseries of to-day and those happy, golden days in Paris. Since then my -life has been one ceaseless, tireless struggle to rebuild the fortunes -of this family to which I had been fool enough to link my destiny. Forty -years I have worked and toiled and fought—beaten again and again—struck -down by Fate and the cowardice of those who should have been my -fellow-workers and my support—but vanquished never—I have fought and -struggled—and had I died during the struggle I should have died fighting -and unconquered. Forty years!” she went on with ever-growing excitement, -whilst with a characteristic gesture of determination and energy she -beat upon the letter before her with her fists, “but I have won at last! -Montaudon has not forgotten. His letter here is in answer to mine. I -asked him for the sake of old times to extend his patronage to my -grandson, to befriend him, to help him in his career! And see his -reply!” - -She took up the letter once more, unfolded it, smoothed it out with -loving, quivering hands. She put up her lorgnette to read: obviously her -eyes were dim, filled with tears of excitement and of joy. - -“This is how he begins,” she began slowly, striving in vain to steady -her voice. - - - BEAUTIFUL AND UNFORGETTABLE FRIEND, - -“_Send your grandson to me! I will provide for him, because he belongs -to you, and because in his eyes I shall mayhap find a look which will -help me to recapture a memory or so out of the past. Send the boy -without delay. I really need a help in my work, and there is a young and -beautiful lady who is very dear to me; for whom I would gladly find a -well-born and handsome husband. Your grandson appears to be the very man -for that attractive office: thus he will have a brilliant career before -him as my protégé and an exquisitely sentimental one as the husband of -one of the loveliest women in this city where beautiful women abound. -See! how right you were to make appeal to my memory. I never -forget...._” - - -This was no more than one half of the letter, but old Madame read no -more. She glanced round in triumph on the three faces that were turned -so eagerly towards her. But nobody spoke. Marcelle was silent, but her -eyes were glowing as if new life had been infused into her blood. -Micheline was silent because, young as she was, she had had in life such -vast experience of golden schemes that had always gone agley! and -Bertrand was silent because his very soul was in travail with hope and -fear, with anxiety and a wild, mad, bewildering excitement which almost -choked him. - -Grandmama talked on for awhile: she planned and she arranged and gazed -into a future so golden that she and Marcelle and Micheline were dazzled -by it all. Bertrand alone remained obstinately silent: neither old -Madame’s impatience, nor his mother’s joy dragged him out of his -moodiness. In vain did grandmama expatiate on M. de Montaudon’s wealth -and influence, or on the array of beautiful and rich heiresses whose -amorous advances to Bertrand would make the faithless Rixende green with -envy, in vain did his mother murmur with pathetic entreaty: - -“Are you not happy, Bertrand?” - -He remained absorbed, buried in thoughts, thoughts that he was for the -moment wholly incapable of co-ordinating. It seemed to him as if -hundreds of thousands of voices were shrieking in his ear: hundreds of -thousands that were high-pitched and harsh like the voice of old Madame; -they shrieked and they screamed, and they roared, and the words that -they uttered all came in a jumble, incoherent and deafening: a medley of -words through which he only distinguished a few from time to time: - -“Treasurer to the King!” some of the voices shrieked. - -“All debts paid in full—in full!” others screamed. - -“Wealth—an heiress—a brilliant -marriage—Rixende—envy—hatred—chance—career—money—money—money—wealth—a -rich heiress—money—money—no debts——” - -They shrieked and they shrieked, and he could no longer hear grandmama’s -arguments, nor his mother’s gentle appeal. They shrieked so loudly that -his head buzzed and his temples throbbed: because all the while he was -straining every nerve to listen to something which was inaudible, which -was drowned in that awful uproar. - - -After awhile the noise was stilled. Old Madame ceased to speak. The -Comtesse Marcelle, wearied out by so much excitement, lay back with eyes -closed against the pillows. Micheline was bathing her forehead with -vinegar. Bertrand woke as from a dream. He gazed about him like a -sleepwalker brought back to consciousness, and found old Madame’s -slightly mocking gaze fixed upon him. She shrugged her shoulders. - -“You are bewildered, my dear,” she said not unkindly. “I am not -surprised. It will take you some time to realise the extent of your good -fortune.” - -She carefully folded the letter up again, and patted it with both her -hands like a precious, precious treasure. - -“What a future, Bertrand,” she exclaimed suddenly. “What a future! In my -wildest dreams I had never hoped for this!” - -She looked at him quizzically, then smiled again. - -“Were I in your shoes, my dear, I should be equally bewildered. Take my -advice and go quietly to your room and think it all over. To-morrow we -will plan the immediate future. Eh?” - -“Yes, to-morrow!” Bertrand assented mechanically. - -“You will have to start for Paris very soon,” she went on earnestly. - -“Very soon,” Bertrand assented again. - -“Well! think over it, my dear,” old Madame concluded; she rose and made -for the door; “I’ll say good night now, Marcelle,” she said coolly. “I -am tired too, and will sup in my room, then go early to bed. Come and -kiss me, Micheline!” she added. - -The girl obeyed; old Madame’s hand was now on the handle of the door. - -“Are you too dazed,” she said with a not unkind touch of irony and -turning to Bertrand, “to bid me good night, my dear?” - -He came across to her, took her hand and kissed it. - -“Good night, grandmama,” he murmured. - -Smiling she held up the letter. - -“The casket,” she said, “that holds the golden treasure.” - -He put out his hand for it. - -“May I have it?” - -For a moment she seemed to hesitate, then shrugged her shoulders: - -“Why not?” she said, and placed the letter in his hand: but before her -hold on it relaxed, she added seriously: “You will be discreet, -Bertrand?” - -“Of course,” he replied. - -“I mean you will not read more than the first page and a half, up to the -words: ‘I never forget——’” - -“Up to the words ‘I never forget’,” Bertrand assented. “I promise.” - -He took the letter and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. Old Madame -with a final nod to him and the others sailed out of the room. - -“Mother is tired,” Micheline said, as soon as grandmama had gone, “let -us leave the talking until to-morrow; shall we?” - -Bertrand agreed. He appeared much relieved at the suggestion, kissed his -mother and sister and finally went away. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - VOICES - - -The shrieking voices were all stilled, but there were murmurings and -whisperings in Bertrand’s ears all the while that he made his way down -into the valley. He had no definite purpose in his mind, only just -wandered down the mountain-side, in and out of the groves of olive trees -and mimosa, past the carob tree beside which when a boy he was wont to -tilt at dragons, whilst wee, podgy Nicolette would wait patiently, stiff -and sore and uncomplaining, until he was ready to release her. The whole -drama of his life seemed to be set on this mountain-side beside the -carob tree: his hot-headedness, his selfishness, his impulsive striving -after impossible ideals, beside Nicolette’s gentle abnegation and her -sublime surrender. - -After the cold of the early days of the year, the air had become sweet -and balmy: already there was a feeling of spring in the warm, gentle -breeze that came wafted from the south and softly stirred the delicate -tendrils of grevillea and mimosa. In the branches of carob and olive the -new sap was slowly rising, whilst the mossy carpet beneath the -wanderer’s feet was full of young life and baby shoots that exhaled a -perfume of vitality and of young, eager growth. From the valley below -there rose a pungent scent of wild thyme and basilisk, and from afar -there came wafted on the gently stirring wings of night the fragrance of -early citron-blossom. Overhead the canopy of the sky was of an intense, -deep indigo: on it the multitude of tiny stars appeared completely -detached, like millions of infinitesimal balls, never still ... winking, -blinking, alive—a thousand hued and infinitely radiant. When Bertrand -emerged into the open, the crescent moon, mysterious and pale, was -slowly rising above the ruined battlements of the old château. A moment -later and the whole landscape gleamed as if tinged with silver. A -living, immense radiance shimmering like an endless sheet of myriads -upon myriads of paillettes, against which trenchant and detached, as if -thrown upon that glowing background, by the vigorous brush of a master -craftsman, rose the multi-coloured tiled roofs of the mas, the sombre -splashes of slender cypress trees, or the bright golden balls of oranges -nestling in the dark, shiny foliage. - -And the wanderer stood and gazed upon this perfect picture which was his -home: old Provence the land of his ancestors, of the troubadours, of the -courts of love, of romance and poesy: the fragrant, exquisite, warm land -of the south; and out of all this beauty, this radiance, this life, -there rose in his heart a wild, mad longing that seemed almost to -deprive him of his senses. Voices rose out of the valley, came down from -the mountain-side, voices gentle and sweet were all around him, and the -words that they murmured and whispered all became merged into one—just -one magic word, a name that was the very essence, the inbeing of his -longing. - -“Nicolette!” - - -He arrived at the mas, just after they had finished supper. Jaume -Deydier was sitting silent and moody, as he always was now, beside the -fire. Nicolette was helping Margaï to put the house in order for the -night. The front door was still on the latch and Bertrand walked -straight into the living-room. At sight of him Deydier rose frowning. - -“M. le Comte,” he began. - -But Bertrand went boldly up to him. He placed one hand on the old man’s -shoulder, and with the other drew the letter out of his pocket—the -letter which had been written by M. de Montaudon who was Treasurer to -the King. - -“Monsieur Deydier,” he said simply, “a fortnight ago, when I had the -presumption to suppose that you would consent to my marriage with your -daughter, you very justly taunted me in that I had nothing whatever to -offer her save a tarnished name and a multiplicity of debts. You spoke -harshly that day, Monsieur Deydier——” - -“My dear Bertrand,” the old man put in kindly. - -“Let me have my say, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand went on speaking very -rapidly, “for in truth the words are choking me. No doubt you think me -an impudent puppy for daring to come to you again. But circumstances are -different now—very, very different. I no longer come before you -empty-handed, I come to you to-day holding here, in my hand, a brilliant -career, a dazzling future. Those two things are mine—a free gift to me -from one who believes in me, who means me well. They are mine, Monsieur -Deydier,” and Bertrand’s voice broke on a note of pathetic entreaty, -“and I have come to you to-night just to lay them without the slightest -compunction or regret at the feet of Nicolette. Let her come to me,” he -entreated. “I want neither money, nor luxury, nor rank. I only want her -and her love. My career, my future prospects I just offer her in -exchange for the right to live here with you at the mas, to be your son, -your servant, your devoted worker, to do with and order about just as -you please! Read this letter, Monsieur Deydier, you will see that I am -not lying——Everything I have—everything I hope for—family—friends—I want -nothing—if only you will give me Nicolette.” - -Now his voice broke completely. He sank into a chair and hid his face in -his hand, for his eyes were filled with tears. - -Silently Jaume took the letter from him, and silently he read it. When -he had finished reading, he gave the letter back to Bertrand. - -“You have your mother to consider, M. le Comte,” was the first thing he -said. - -“My mother’s hold on life is so slender, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand -replied. “When she is gone nothing will hold me to the château, for -Micheline loves me and would be happy if she were anywhere with me.” - -“And do you really mean all that you said just now?” the old man -rejoined earnestly. - -“Ask yourself, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand replied simply. “Do you think -that I was lying?” - -“No!” Deydier said firmly, and placed an affectionate hand on the -other’s shoulder. “But there is old Madame——” - -“For the sake of a past sin,” Bertrand retorted, “or a time-worn -revenge, would you wreck Nicolette’s happiness? She loves me. She will -never be happy without me. Old Madame shall never come between us. She -will remain at the château, or go as she pleases, but she shall never -cross my life’s path again. ’Tis with me now, and with me alone that you -need deal, Monsieur Deydier. By giving up all that M. de Montaudon has -offered me, I break definitely with the past, and ’tis to Nicolette that -I look for the future, to Nicolette and this old place which I love: and -if you no longer think me mean and unworthy....” - -The words died upon his lips. He had spoken dully, quietly, with intent -gaze fixed upon the flickering fire. But now, suddenly two warm, -clinging arms were around his neck, a soft, silky mass of brown curls -was against his cheek. - -“You are right, Tan-tan,” a fairy voice murmured in his ear, “I will -never be happy without you.” - -The next moment he was down on his knees, pressing his face against two -sweet-smelling palms, that were soft and fragrant like a mass of -orange-blossom. - -And Jaume Deydier tiptoed silently out of the room. - - - THE END - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as - printed. - 3. 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