BARONBSS
 
 NICOLETTE 
 
 BARONESS ORCZY
 
 By BARONESS ORCZY 
 
 NICOLE TTE 
 
 CASTLES IN THE Ant 
 
 THE FIRST Sm PERCT 
 
 LEAGTTE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 
 
 FLOWER o' THE LILY 
 
 THE MAN IK GRET 
 
 LORD TOUT'S WIFE 
 
 LEATHEHFACE 
 
 THE BRONZE EAGLE 
 
 A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS 
 
 THE LAUGHING CAVALIER 
 
 "UNTO C^SAR" 
 
 EL DORADO 
 
 MEADOWSWEET 
 
 THE NOBLE ROGTTE 
 
 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 </ 
 
 the Lily," "Lord Tony's Wife/' "The 
 
 Scarlet Pimpernel/' etc. 
 
 NEW ^SlT YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 NICOLETTE. I 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 Stack PP 
 
 Annex 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 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
 
 NICOLETTE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 
 
 MIDWAY between Apt and the shores of 
 the Durance, on the southern slope of 
 Luberon there stands an old chateau. It had 
 once been the fortified stronghold of the proud 
 seigneurs de Ventadour, who were direct de- 
 scendants of the great troubadour, and claimed 
 kinship with the Comtes de Provence, but al- 
 ready in the days when Bertrand de Venta- 
 dour 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 bat- 
 tlements had long since broken away, whilst 
 many of the windows, innocent of glass, stared,
 
 10 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 
 Rene 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 treas- 
 ures 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 do- 
 maine of the Comtes de Ventadour. The an- 
 cient family, once feudal seigneurs who owed 
 alliance to none save to the Kings of Anjou, 
 had long since fallen on evil days. The wild
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 11 
 
 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 pos- 
 sessions, but the chateau 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 feath- 
 ery pines, and clumps of dull-coloured carob 
 and silvery, sweet-scented rosemary : with their 
 serpentine paths on the edge of which butter- 
 cups and daisies and wild violets grew in such 
 profusion in the spring, and which in the sum- 
 mer 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 crevases, and of
 
 12 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 near- 
 er, 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 maid- 
 en, 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 uncomfort- 
 able 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
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 13 
 
 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 un- 
 equal 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 rest- 
 ing-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 buzz- 
 ing 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-
 
 14, NICOLETTE 
 
 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 pos- 
 sibly wish for. 
 
 What mattered after that, that old Margai 
 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 swarm- 
 ing up the mountain ash like a squirrel, shut-
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 15 
 
 ting his manly ears to the sweet, insidious call 
 of baby lips that called pathetically to him 
 from below: 
 "Tan-tan I" 
 
 Then, when outside it rained, or the mistral 
 blew across the valley, it meant delicious wan- 
 derings through the interminable halls and 
 corridors of the old chateau more distressed 
 maidens held in durance in castellated towers, 
 Xicolette and Micheline held captive by cruel, 
 unseen foes : there were walls to be scaled, pris- 
 ons 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 role of chivalrous knight-errant, 
 and would stand thoughtful and absorbed be- 
 fore the portraits of his dead forbears. These
 
 16 NICOLETTE 
 
 pictures had a strange fascination for the boy. 
 He never tired of gazing on them and repeat- 
 ing 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 
 chateau in Provence to the Court of Ver- 
 sailles, 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 beau- 
 ty 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 chateau 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 Geoff roy, Com- 
 te de Ventadour, Tan-tan's great-grandfather, 
 he whose portrait hung just above the monu- 
 mental hearth, returned, a somewhat sobered
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 17 
 
 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 re- 
 puted to be the richest man in Provence, but he 
 never set foot inside the old chateau. 
 
 Nicolette did not really mind that her an- 
 cestor 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 Margai did 
 the scrubbing, and the washing and the bak- 
 ing, put Nicolette to bed, and knitted innu- 
 merable 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 Venta- 
 dour 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
 
 18 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Ven- 
 tadour, 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 Com- 
 te Joseph- Alexis, and the Vicomtesse Yolande, 
 the Marquis de Croze (a collateral), and 
 Damoysella Ysabeau d'Agoult, she who mar- 
 ried 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 Lau- 
 rels. They also called her Riande, for short, 
 because she was always laughing, and was so
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 19 
 
 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 chateau, 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 beau- 
 ty. 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 un-
 
 20 NICOLETTE 
 
 swerving 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 un- 
 derstand. 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 ! Ber- 
 trand, 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 after- 
 noon." 
 
 Bertrand did as he was commanded. The 
 .austere grandmother, tall and proud, and for-
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 21 
 
 bidding 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 mush- 
 room Empire, held out her thin white hand, 
 and the boy approached and kissed it, and she 
 patted his cheek, and called him a true Venta- 
 dour. 
 
 "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 Nico- 
 lette's innocent glance. "Margai has baked a
 
 22 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 moth- 
 er. I will join you all at coffee directly." 
 
 Even Bertrand, the favourite, the enfant 
 gate, dared not disobey when grandmama 
 spoke in that tone of voice. He said: "Yes, 
 grandmama," quite meekly, and went out with- 
 out 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 
 Margai'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
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 23 
 
 towards her than she always was, for Miche- 
 line 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, Miche- 
 line knelt down beside her little friend, and 
 hugged and kissed her. 
 
 "Never mind about to-day, Nicolette," she 
 said, "run back and tell Margai 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 re- 
 minded her of Margai's brioche, and of the 
 jar of cream, and the tears dried off, of them- 
 selves ; she picked herself up, and ran out of the
 
 24, NICOLETTE 
 
 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 moun- 
 tain-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 wind- 
 ing track to the old house which her much-de- 
 spised ancestor had built on the slope above the 
 Leze 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 Dey- 
 diers, 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 for- 
 mer 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 Nico- 
 lette knew nothing as yet: she did not even 
 know that she loved the grey-green olive trees,
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 25 
 
 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 win- 
 dow 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 
 fetes 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 im- 
 patient with her, but that it was nice, oh! ever
 
 26 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Nico- 
 lette 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 Perone who was grandmama's 
 maid, and seemed to hold Nicolette in especial 
 aversion, or the reverend Father Simeon-Luce 
 who came daily from Manosque to the chateau 
 in order to give lessons to Bertrand in all sorts 
 of wonderful subjects. And so jNTicolette 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 admira- 
 tion expressed in her luminous eyes. She took 
 to coming less and less to the chateau; some- 
 how she preferred to think of Tan-tan quietly, 
 alone in her cheerful little room, from the win- 
 dows 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
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 27 
 
 dragons for her sake. Bertrand was not really 
 Tan-tan when he was at the chateau, and 
 Father Simeon-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 Marga'i would bake a lovety- 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, w r ho 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 Leze 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
 
 28 NICOLETTE 
 
 rough, and it made her tired to walk quite so 
 far, and at the chateau no one knew that Nieo- 
 lette was with Bertrand when he fished. Fa- 
 ther Simeon-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 exer- 
 tions for their very existence. Bertrand had 
 to fish, else they would have nothing to eat on 
 the morrow. 
 
 All the good things which Margai's loving 
 hands had packed for them in the morning, 
 were really either the result of mysterious for- 
 aging expeditions which Bertrand had under- 
 taken at peril of his life, or of marvellous in- 
 genuity 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
 
 FADED SPLENDOUR 29 
 
 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 moun- 
 tain-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 be- 
 come 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 
 
 30
 
 31 
 
 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 com- 
 mands him to do. 
 
 Just for a time, when Bertrand's father 
 brought a young wife home to the old chateau, 
 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 author- 
 ity 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 con- 
 stant repinings and tears, was not fit to con- 
 duct family affairs that were in such a hopeless 
 tangle as those of the de Ventadours. The 
 young Comtesse had yielded without a strug- 
 gle to her mother-in-law's masterful assump- 
 tion of authority; and since that hour it was 
 grandmama who had ruled the household, su- 
 perintended the education of her grandchil-
 
 32 NICOLETTE 
 
 drcn, 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 ac- 
 quiesced without a murmur, even though she 
 felt that the boy was too young, too inexperi- 
 enced to be thus launched into the world where 
 his isolated upbringing in far-off old Provence 
 would handicap him in face of his more sophis- 
 ticated companions. Only once did she sug- 
 gest 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." 
 
 <r Bah!" grandmama had retorted with a 
 shrug of her shoulders, "Sybille de Mont- 
 Pahon is no fool, else she were not my sister.
 
 LELIVREDERAISON 33 
 
 She will look after Bertrand well enough if 
 only for the sake of Rixende." 
 
 After which feeble effort mother said noth- 
 ing 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 al- 
 most a sin. 
 
 But grandmama thought otherwise. 
 
 "It is never too soon," she declared, "to make 
 a boy understand something of his future des- 
 tiny, and of the responsibilities which he will 
 have to shoulder. Sybille de Mont-Pahon de- 
 sires the marriage as much as I do : she speaks
 
 34 NICOLETTE 
 
 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. Ber- 
 trand's path lies clear before him : win Sybille's 
 regard and the affection of Rixende, and the 
 Mont-Pahon millions will help to re-gild 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 Jas- 
 min, 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 Ber- 
 trand 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
 
 LE LIVRE DE RAISON 35 
 
 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 Miche- 
 line'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 christen- 
 ing 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-estab- 
 lishment of the family fortunes. 
 
 Ever since he had come to the age of under- 
 standing, 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
 
 86 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Ber- 
 trand'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 per- 
 petrated 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."
 
 LE LIVRE DE RAISON 37 
 
 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 per- 
 sonality there hung some kind of mystery. 
 He thought that since he was going away on 
 the morrow, the privileges of an enfant gate 
 might be accorded him to-night, and his eager- 
 ly 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. Swallow- 
 ing 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 representa- 
 tive 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.
 
 38 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "I do not see the necessity," grandmama re- 
 plied. "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 Miche- 
 line 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 Margai, and Jaume Deydier him- 
 self has never been more than a peasant." 
 
 "Nicolette is only a child," mother had re- 
 plied 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
 
 LE LIVRE DE RAISON 39 
 
 Father Simeon-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 Com- 
 tesse Marcelle rejoined with unwonted energy, 
 "Bertrand is young and " 
 
 "He is seventeen," the old Comtesse inter- 
 posed in her hard, trenchant voice, "an im- 
 pressionable age. And we do not want a 
 repetition of the adventure which sent Ray- 
 mond 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 ad- 
 venture 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 no- 
 ticeable in most of the portraits of the de Ven- 
 tadours, 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
 
 40 NICOLETTE 
 
 forehead and gazed searchingly into his face. 
 He returned her glance fearlessly, even lov- 
 ingly, 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 unpleas- 
 ant, 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
 
 LELIVREDERAISON 41 
 
 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-mor- 
 row. 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 dishonour- 
 able action." 
 
 Throughout this short passage of arms be- 
 tween 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 en- 
 compass him, poisoning the joy he had in going 
 away from the gloomy old chateau, from old 
 women and girls and senile servitors, out into
 
 42 NICOLETTE 
 
 the great gay world of Paris, where the ro- 
 mance 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 be- 
 fore her time, sick and weary, an absolute non- 
 entity 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 hence- 
 forth 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, grand- 
 mama," 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 am- 
 bition, and the same challenge to an adverse
 
 LELIVREDERAISON 43 
 
 fate. For a moment, too, it seemed as if the 
 grandmother would speak, tell the boy some- 
 thing at least of the tragedies which had dark- 
 ened the last few pages of the family chron- 
 icles; 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, grand- 
 mama 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 com- 
 mand. 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
 
 44 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 un- 
 grateful and she had died of sorrow. Ber- 
 trand 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 mysteri- 
 ous 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 Nico- 
 lette. She had sent him a message by Miche- 
 line 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
 
 LE LIVRE DE RAISON 45 
 
 ciliated shadows of carob and olive were begin- 
 ning to lengthen. It would take an hour to 
 run as far as the pool ; and then it would be al- 
 most time to come home again, for of late Jau- 
 me Deydier had insisted that Nicolette must 
 be home before dark. It was foolish of Nico- 
 lette to be waiting for him so far away. Why 
 could she not be sensible and come across to the 
 chateau to say good-bye? The boy was fight- 
 ing 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 grand- 
 mama, and then by Father Simeon-Luce; he 
 had been wept over by mother and by Miche- 
 line: now Nicolette neither admonished nor 
 wept. He would not allow her to do the for- 
 mer 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
 
 46 NICOLETTE 
 
 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, Ber- 
 trand sauntered down the mountain-side. It 
 was still hot on this late September afternoon, 
 and the boy instinctively sought, as he de- 
 scended, the cool shadows that lay across the 
 terraced gradients. A pungent scent of rose- 
 mary 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 dissatisfac- 
 tion 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 lit- 
 tered 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
 
 LE LIVRE DE RAISON 47 
 
 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 pad- 
 dling, 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 be- 
 hind Luberon, but here on the island every- 
 thing was cool and grey and peaceful, with 
 only the murmur of the stream over the peb- 
 bles to break the great solemn silence of the 
 woods. 
 
 When Bertrand jumped upon the big boul-
 
 48 NICOLETTE 
 
 der, 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 Ber- 
 trand 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 swal- 
 lowed; 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 after- 
 noons when I come here 
 
 "But you are going away too," the boy re- 
 joined, 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."
 
 LELIVREDERAISON 49 
 
 He frowned and she thought that he was 
 cross because she had called him Tan-tan. 
 
 "By the time you come back," she said meek- 
 ly, "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, Ber- 
 trand 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 but- 
 tercups and daisies ; and bunches of vivid blue 
 gentian and lavender and broom nestled 
 against the great grey boulders. Here Ber- 
 trand and Nicolette had been in the habit of 
 sitting when they pretended to be Paul et Vir- 
 ginie 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
 
 50 NICOLETTE 
 
 then, when they sat very, very still, a hare 
 would dart out from behind a great big boul- 
 der, and peep out at them with large fright- 
 ened eyes, his long ears sharply silhouetted 
 against the sun-kissed earth, and at the slight- 
 est 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, re- 
 vealed, the lavender which had to be carried 
 home in huge bunches for Margai 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 when- 
 ever 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 gen- 
 tian growing on the island of Paul et Virginie. 
 
 They had been so happy here so often,
 
 LELIVREDERAISON 51 
 
 away from grandmama's stern gaze and Fa- 
 ther Simeon-Luce's admonitions, when they 
 had just pretended and pretended: pretended 
 that the Leze 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 ap- 
 peared 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 re- 
 joined, seemingly deeply occupied in the put- 
 ting 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. 
 
 "Margai," she said, "overheard Perone talk- 
 ing to Jasmin the other day, and Perone said
 
 52 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 bri- 
 oche, 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 is- 
 land," she said, "and the milk from the nuts 
 is as sweet as if it were sugared." But Ber- 
 trand 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 try- 
 ing 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."
 
 LE LIVRE DE RAISON 53 
 
 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, a<nd 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 dis- 
 tinguish 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,
 
 54 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 j bye, Bertrand," she murmured un- 
 der 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 Nico- 
 lette 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,
 
 LELIVREDERAISON 55 
 
 under the tutelage of old Margai 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 so- 
 cial 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 condi- 
 tions 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 pre- 
 cipitated the Revolution nigh on forty years 
 ago. Louis XVIII in very truth was so un- 
 popular at this time, and the assassination 
 of his nephew, the Due de Berry, two years 
 previously, had so preyed upon his mind that 
 he never stirred out of his chateau de Ver- 
 sailles save under a powerful escort of his 
 trusted bodyguard. 
 
 It was therefore a matter of great impor- 
 tance for Bertrand's future career that he 
 
 66
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 57 
 
 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 per- 
 sonal 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 kepi 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 Janme Deydier and Marga'i see him, 
 for then surely they would write and tell Nico- 
 lette about him. Bertrand acquiesced quite 
 humouredly in the idea that she should thus 
 take him on a grand tour to be inspected, and
 
 58 NICOLETTE 
 
 plans were formed to go over to Apt, and see 
 M. le Cure there, and Gastinel B amadou, the 
 mayor of the commune, who lived at La Bas- 
 tide, 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 Miche- 
 line'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 Sim- 
 eon-Luce came over from Manosque to cele- 
 brate Mass in the chapel of the chateau, 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 an- 
 other it was difficult to go over to the mas, and 
 the expedition to Apt was an impossibility be- 
 cause there was no suitable vehicle in the 
 coach-house of the chateau, and it was impos-
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 59 
 
 sible 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 Ver- 
 sailles. Instead of going in comfort in Dey- 
 dier'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 chateau 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 tan- 
 talisingly 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 Rix- 
 ende. She was coming from the fashionable 
 convent in Paris, where she had been finishing 
 her education, in order to spend the next sum- 
 mer holidays with her great-aunt, Mme. de
 
 60 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 heir- 
 ess 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 chateau in Prov- 
 ence, of which, despite its loneliness and di- 
 lapidated appearance, he was still inordinately 
 proud. 
 
 Once more the halls and corridors would re- 
 sound 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 me- 
 diaeval 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 be-
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 61 
 
 hind him on the ruined towers of the old cha- 
 teau, 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 prom- 
 ises 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 Ber- 
 trand 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 Venta- 
 dour, "that Bertrand and Ritrende 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
 
 62 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Car- 
 bonari, 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
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 63 
 
 it at cards or in pearl-necklaces for the ladies 
 of the Opera. Therefore hurry on the mar- 
 riage on your side, my good Margarita, and I 
 will do my best on mine" 
 
 The old Comtesse, with her sister's last let- 
 ter 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. Sy- 
 bille 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 Ven- 
 tadour. 
 
 "Bertrand can but lead an honourable life," 
 the mother argued wearily. "He is an hon- 
 ourable 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."
 
 64 NICOLETTE 
 
 Over five years had gone by since first Ber- 
 trand went away from the old home in Prov- 
 ence, 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 metres of barren land around 
 an ancient and dilapidated chateau. 
 
 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 Ven- 
 tadour, she would give him the key of the chest 
 that contained the family archives. To a Pro- 
 ven9al, the key to the Book of Reason is a sym- 
 bol of his own status as head of the house, and 
 to Bertrand it meant all that and more, be- 
 cause 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
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 65 
 
 in his family history that was not worthy and 
 honourable. There had been secrets kept 
 from him while he was a child, secrets in con- 
 nection 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 con- 
 cerned the honour of the family. 
 
 But somehow things did not occur just as 
 Bertrand had expected. His arrival at the 
 chateau 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 lov- 
 ing 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 defer- 
 ence to his urgent demand, she gave him the 
 key of the chest that contained the family ar- 
 chives. It was a great moment for Bertrand. 
 He would not touch the chest while anyone was 
 in the room ; his first delving into those price- 
 less treasures should have no witness save the 
 unseen spirit that animated him. With an in-
 
 66 NICOLETTE 
 
 dulgent 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 ad- 
 ventures of his uncle Raymond de Ventadour, 
 whose name was never mentioned by grand- 
 mama, 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 certifi- 
 cates, and the book a few records of the po- 
 litical 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
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 67 
 
 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, "mown amour 
 e moun noum." 
 
 Bertrand loved the device; for his love and 
 for his name, he would in very truth have sacri- 
 ficed 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.
 
 68 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 shame- 
 facedly. 
 
 "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
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 69 
 
 etiquette and of usage. It was Jaume Dey- 
 dier's duty in the first instance to pay his re- 
 spects 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 chateau, but God knows that 
 he owes us nothing, so why should he come? 
 We on the other hand owe him countless kind- 
 nesses 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. Miche- 
 line at once held her tongue, cowed as she al- 
 ways 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
 
 70 NICOLETTE 
 
 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, be- 
 cause 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 sar- 
 casm 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 Dey- 
 diers." 
 
 "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 magftificent 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 house- 
 hold. 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 grandi- 
 ose air, and riposted coolly: 
 
 "Quarrel? My dear Bertrand? Surely you 
 are joking. How could there be a quarrel be- 
 tween us and the er Deydiers? The old 
 man chooses to hold himself aloof from the 
 chateau: 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 fu- 
 ture 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 "
 
 72 NICOLETTE 
 
 "But what," she asked, for he seemed to 
 hesitate. 
 
 "Rixende is so fastidious," Bert rand 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 man- 
 ner, and further argument was, of course, use- 
 less. Bertrand said nothing more, only stood 
 by, frowning moodily. Micheline had suc- 
 ceeded in reaching the shelter of the window 
 recess. From here she could still see Bertrand, 
 could watch every play of emotion on his tell- 
 tale 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
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 73 
 
 should act as a man; whilst she was only a 
 weak, misshapen, ugly creature with a bound- 
 less capacity for suffering, and no more cour- 
 age 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 re- 
 vered as the embodiment of all the splendours 
 of the Ventadours. Now his pride was up in 
 arms against her for her assumption of con- 
 trol. 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 tem- 
 per, and sobered him instantly.
 
 74 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 in- 
 voluntarily. "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, Ber- 
 trand. 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 vacil- 
 lating. 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 gaz- 
 ing 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 re- 
 joined quietly. "The ring which you now
 
 76 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment 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 un- 
 moved was the old Comtesse. When she heard 
 the moan, and then the thud, she glanced 
 coolly over her shoulder, and seeing her daugh- 
 ter-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
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 77 
 
 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 involun- 
 tary 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 ach- 
 ing head to his breast, and let her rest there, 
 while he would comfort her. She saw the ges- 
 ture, 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 recap-
 
 78 NICOLETTE 
 
 tured it, and began stroking it gently, ten- 
 derly: 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 ter- 
 rible revelation and the moment when he had 
 to expend all his energies in looking after his 
 mother, had held a veritable inferno of humili-
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 79 
 
 ation 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 gener- 
 ous. 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?"
 
 80 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 re- 
 plied 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 enter- 
 tain 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 mar- 
 riage 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 lega- 
 tee on condition that you marry Rixende." 
 
 For a moment or two Bertrand said nothing. 
 He had jumped to his feet and stood at the
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 81 
 
 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 
 
 "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?" Ber- 
 trand 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,
 
 82 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 ear- 
 nestly. "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 lifetime 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 ven- 
 ture 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.
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 83 
 
 "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 fa- 
 ther's memory." 
 
 "We cannot do that unless we pay what we 
 owe," he retorted. 
 
 "We cannot do that, Bertrand," she re- 
 joined 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
 
 84 NICOLETTE 
 
 Micheline who, as was her wont, had with- 
 drawn 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 after- 
 noon," 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 anxious- 
 ly, "there is nothing for which you need thank 
 Jaume Daydier. Your grandmother would 
 noi wish it." 
 
 "No one," Bertrand said emphatically, 
 "may dictate to me on a point of honour. I
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE NAME 85 
 
 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 ten- 
 derly. 
 
 "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 our- 
 selves, 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 
 
 MECHELINE 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 enthusi- 
 asm 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 de- 
 licious ties of childish friendship which she, 
 Micheline, looked on as almost sacred. 
 
 But Bert rand did not know that it was in 
 truth Jaume Deydier who, during those try- 
 ing 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 mone- 
 tary difficulties, had confessed to Micheline,
 
 THE DESPATCH 87 
 
 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 ref- 
 erence 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 cer- 
 tain 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 grand- 
 mama 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 bour- 
 geois tradesmen who could well afford it, with- 
 out much knowledge as to how those thou-
 
 88 NICOLETTE 
 
 sands 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 sym- 
 pathy 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 when- 
 ever opportunity arose. No doubt the pres- 
 ent 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
 
 THE DESPATCH 89 
 
 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 chateau 
 from the hands of the creditors had set his 
 young mind speculating, but that was all. 
 
 There was much of his grandmother's tem- 
 perament 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 Nico- 
 lette. It was perhaps a little late to-day. 
 They had their dinner early at the mas, and 
 it w r ould not do to interrupt them all at their 
 meal. But to-morrow she and Bertrand 
 would go over in the morning, and spend a
 
 90 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Margai, who made such delicious preserves 
 from them. Overhead the starlings were mak- 
 ing 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 chateau and were eating 
 their fill. The evening was drawing in rap- 
 idly, 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
 
 THE DESPATCH 91 
 
 could glimpse the whitewashed walls of the 
 old mas gleaming, rose-tinted by the after- 
 glow, 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, Xicolette would be sitting at this hour, 
 gazing across the valley to the towers of the 
 old chateau 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, Nico- 
 lette'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 moun- 
 tain-side, united and disintegrated and united 
 again, then vanished up the valley. After 
 which all was still. 
 
 Micheline put down her basket and throw- 
 ing out her frail, flat chest she breathed into 
 her lungs the perfumed evening air, fragrant
 
 92 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 de- 
 scended 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 chateau. 
 
 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
 
 THE DESPATCH 93 
 
 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 cha- 
 teau 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 chateau 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 pres- 
 ently 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 
 chateau and was just in time to see Jasmin 
 shuffling across the courtyard 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
 
 94 NICOLETTE 
 
 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, mon- 
 sieur," she said. 
 
 The big front door was always on the latch 
 (there was nothing to tempt the foot-pad or 
 the housebreaker in the chateau 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, mon-
 
 THE DESPATCH 95 
 
 sieur?" she asked. "Jasmin will go and call 
 M. le Comte." 
 
 "By your leave, Mademoiselle," the mes- 
 senger 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 de- 
 liver 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. Jas- 
 min 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
 
 96 NICOLETTE 
 
 she could hear Bertrand's footsteps descend- 
 ing 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 an- 
 other an exclamation from Bertrand. In the 
 end Bertrand said formally: 
 
 "And where do you go after this?" 
 "Straight back to Avignon, mon lieuten- 
 ant," 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
 
 THE DESPATCH 97 
 
 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 stand- 
 ing 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 breath- 
 lessly. "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."
 
 98 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 win- 
 dow: 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 unac- 
 countable sigh; "I do firmly believe," he added 
 slowly, "that Rixende loves me."
 
 THE DESPATCH 99 
 
 "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 out- 
 burst 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. Be- 
 sides," she added with a shrug of her aristo- 
 cratic shoulders, "Sybille insists that Rixende 
 shall see her future home before she will ac- 
 quiesce in the formal finanp allies. So put a 
 
 100
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 101 
 
 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 grate- 
 fully 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 chateau. 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 Monte- 
 span. 
 
 Even to-night he paid a visit to those be- 
 loved portraits. He seemed to want to steep
 
 102 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 rilled 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 re- 
 member 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 individ- 
 ual 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 con- 
 flict 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
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 103 
 
 month before he had hoped to return. A 
 pang of remorse shot through his heart, how- 
 ever, 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, in- 
 definable 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 lean- 
 ing 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
 
 104 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 diffi- 
 cult ; 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 
 Leze, 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
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 105 
 
 them did still fall over her forehead and ears, 
 and their delicate tendrils glistened like chest- 
 nuts 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 Proven9al 
 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.
 
 106 NICOLETTE 
 
 "Yes," she said, "Margai 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. 
 
 "Margai 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. 
 
 "Margai will have to bake a very large
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 107 
 
 brioche to-morrow as a punishment for having 
 doubted you." 
 
 "Nicolette," he rejoined dejectedly, "I can- 
 not come to-morrow." 
 
 "Then the next day why! it will be Sun- 
 day, 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 Margai 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."
 
 108 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 Leze 
 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. Every- 
 thing 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
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 109 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment 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. Ber- 
 trand drew a deep sigh of relief. What a 
 comfort that she was so sensible, poor Nico- 
 lette! 
 
 "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 Margai?" he asked lightly. 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, "y u know what Margai is, 
 always grumbling and scolding. Age has not 
 softened her temper, nor hardened her heart." 
 
 Then they looked at one another. Ber- 
 trand murmured "Good old Margai!" and 
 laughed, and Nicolette laughed in response. 
 She was quite gay now. Oh! she was un- 
 doubtedly changed! Five years ago she
 
 110 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Mademoi- 
 selle 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 feltthat 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 torn-boy who 
 used to run after him crying for "Tan-tan"; 
 less of a woman and more w 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 laugh-
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 111 
 
 ingly 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 Leze, 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 look- 
 out man's attention to their desert island. 
 
 Bertrand did not walk with her as far as 
 the mas. Nicolette herself declared that it 
 w r as too late; father would be abed, and 
 Margai 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?"
 
 112 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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, Ber- 
 trand." 
 
 "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 en- 
 folded her and hidden her as the wood hides 
 its nymphs, and the voice of the mountain 
 stream mocked him because his eyes were not
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST US 
 
 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 Margai 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
 
 114 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Margai's shoulders: 
 
 "Thou wert wrong, Margai," she cried, 
 "thou wert wrong. He meant to come. He 
 wished to come. He had decided to come to- 
 morrow " 
 
 "Ta, ta, ta," Margai 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 
 & surety the old woman could not have defined. 
 
 "Oh! go away with your Tan-tans," Margai 
 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, what- 
 ever thou mayest choose to call him."
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST 115 
 
 "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, Margai," Nicolette 
 said with a great air of importance, "by the 
 King." 
 
 "As if the King would trouble to send for 
 Tan-tan!" old Margai riposted with a shrug 
 of the shoulders. 
 
 Nicolette stood before Margai, 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, Margai. Do not dare to contra- 
 dict 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 Ver- 
 sailles. If the King had not sent for him he 
 would have come here to see us in the after- 
 noon, and all that thou didst say, Margai, 
 about his being proud and ungrateful is not 
 true, not true," she reiterated, stamping her
 
 116 NI COLETTE 
 
 foot resolutely upon the ground, then proceed- 
 ing to give Margai first a good shake, then a 
 kiss, and finally a hug. "Say now, Margai, 
 say at once that it is not true." 
 
 "There now the milk is boiling over," was 
 Margai's only comment upon the child's per- 
 oration, 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 
 
 117
 
 118 NICOLETTE 
 
 are boys and girls together and all are be- 
 trothed to one another in accordance to old 
 Proven9al 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 Petrone or Magde- 
 leine as the fiancee 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, hold- 
 ing up the sheet, the air is filled as with 
 myriads of sweet-scented fluttering snow- 
 flakes. 
 
 Jaume Deydier, in addition to his special 
 process for the manufacture of olive oil, has 
 3, 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 fra- 
 grant harvest is of great importance. 
 
 And what a feast it is for the eye. Be- 
 neath the brilliant canopy above, a veritable
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 119 
 
 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 Cure's soutane, a note of sober black, 
 as he moves from group to group, admonish- 
 ing, chaffing, bestowing blessings as he goes 
 by, his well-worn soutane held high above his
 
 120 NICOLETTE 
 
 buckled shoes, his three-cornered hat pushed 
 back above his streaming forehead. 
 
 "Eh ! Mossou le Cure !" comes in a ringing 
 shout from a chorus of young voices, "this 
 way, Mossou le Cure, 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 
 Cure 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 attend- 
 ance 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 cal- 
 culated to bring a quick blush to any damask
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 121 
 
 cheek. Glances of admiration and approval 
 were freely bestowed on the young couple : and 
 more than one sigh of longing or regret fol- 
 lowed 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 
 fiancee. 
 
 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 
 B amadou 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
 
 122 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 ex-
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 123 
 
 pressing 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 ex- 
 claimed passionately:
 
 124 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 
 dejeuner, and in groups of half a dozen or 
 more, boys and girls, men and women squatted 
 upon the ground under the orange trees, hav- 
 ing polished off their bread and cheese, drunk 
 their wine and revelled in the cakes which 
 Margai always baked expressly for the har- 
 vesters. 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 naive love-making; 
 the boys for the most part were lying full 
 length on the ground, their hats over their
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 125 
 
 eyes, tired out after the long morning's work: 
 the girls squatted beside them, teasing, chaff- 
 ing, 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 entoned 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
 
 126 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 naive 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 pecu- 
 liarly 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 per-
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 127 
 
 fumed 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 vola vola ! " 
 
 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 chateau. When she ceased 
 to sing some of the lads shouted enthusiasti- 
 cally: "Encore! Encore!" and M. le Cure 
 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 Nico- 
 lette's voice; but Ameyric in the meanwhile 
 had swarmed up the big orange tree. It had 
 not yet been picked and was laden with blos- 
 som. 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
 
 128 N I C (XL E T T E 
 
 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 Nico- 
 lette with the flowers : he threw them down in 
 huge handfuls one after the other, and Nico- 
 lette 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 Faran- 
 doulo, 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
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 129 
 
 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, Marga'i, and even 
 Mossou le Cure. 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 Cure 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?"
 
 130 NICOLETTE 
 
 "The oldest custom in Provence. A na- 
 tional 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, ex- 
 cited glance. The Provencal 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 sud- 
 denly 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 Cure, shame- 
 faced, is the first to let go; he mops his stream- 
 ing forehead and watches with some anxiety 
 the approach of the strange lady in her gor- 
 geous riding habit of crimson velvet, her fair 
 curls half concealed beneath a coquettish tri- 
 corne adorned with a falling white plume. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" he mutters. "I
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 131 
 
 trust they did not perceive me. M. le Comte 
 and this strange lady: what will they think?" 
 
 "Bah!" Jaume Deydier replies with a some- 
 what ironic laugh, " 'tis not so many years 
 ago that young Bertrand would have been 
 proud to lead the Farandoulo himself." 
 
 "Ah!" the old cure murmurs with a grave 
 shake of his old head, "but he has changed 
 since then." 
 
 "Yes," Deydier assents dryly: "he has 
 changed." 
 
 The cure 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 reel- 
 ing in the excitement of this wild rush through 
 perfume-laden space went on running, run- 
 ning, for the longer the Farandoulo can be 
 kept up by the leaders the greater is the hon-
 
 132 NICOLETTE 
 
 our that awaits them in the end; and so they 
 ran, these two, until their mad progress was 
 suddenly arrested by a loud, shrill cry, fol- 
 lowed less than a second later by another terri- 
 fied one, and the pawing and clanging of a 
 horse's hoofs upon the hard stony road. 
 Ameyric was only just in time to drag Nico- 
 lette, 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 Ber- 
 trand, bending over in his saddle, succeeded
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 133 
 
 not only in quieting the horse, but also in sooth- 
 ing his loved one's temper; he helped her to 
 readjust her hat and to regain her seat, he re- 
 arranged 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 fret- 
 fully, "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 Cure to offer you an apology for his flock." 
 
 "Helas, mademoiselle," M. le Cure said, with 
 hands held up in genuine concern, as he hur- 
 ried to greet M. le Comte and his fair com- 
 panion, "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 Cure," Rixende re- 
 torted dryly. "I might have lost my life by 
 what you are pleased to call this unfortunate 
 accident. Had my horse taken the bit be- 
 tween his teeth ..." 
 
 She shrugged her pretty shoulders in order
 
 134 NICOLETTE 
 
 to express all the grim possibilities that her 
 words had conjured up. 
 
 "Oh! Mademoiselle," le cure protested be- 
 nignly, "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 per- 
 haps were best left unsaid. Indeed there ap- 
 peared to be some truth in Rixende's com- 
 plaint, for while she certainly was the object 
 of Bertrand's tender solicitude, and the old 
 cure 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 Nico- 
 lette, Ameyric, Margai and Jaume Deydier. 
 
 Nicolette had not been hurt, thanks to 
 Ameyric's promptitude, but she had been in 
 serious danger from the fretful, maddened
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 135 
 
 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 Margai's fussy ways. Marga'i 
 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! Margai, 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 Margai crossly, "who 
 don't know how to sit a horse should not be 
 allowed to ride." 
 
 And rows of wise young heads nodded sage- 
 ly 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 cure re- 
 plied gently. "The child was running and 
 dancing, and Ameyric dragged her so fast in
 
 136 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Ber- 
 trand 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. Nico- 
 lette! Poor little Nicolette hurt! He must 
 know, he must know at once. Just for the 
 next few seconds he forgot Rixende, yes! for- 
 got her! and sped across the road and through 
 the orange-grove in the direction of that dis- 
 tant, 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 dan- 
 ger which she had run, and indifference was 
 a manlike condition which she could not toler- 
 ate. 
 
 "Bertrand," she called, "Bertrand, come 
 back." 
 
 But he did not hear her, which further exas- 
 perated her nerves. She turned to the old
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM is? 
 
 cure who was standing by rather uncomfor- 
 tably, longing for an excuse to go and see how 
 Nicolette was faring. 
 
 "M. le Cure," Rixende said tartly, "I pray 
 you tell M. le Comte that my nerves are on 
 edge, and that I must return home immediate- 
 ly. 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 Ber- 
 trand standing beside Nicolette. 
 
 "Xicolette!" Bertrand had exclaimed as 
 soon as he saw her. He felt immensely re- 
 lieved to find that she was not hurt, but at 
 sight of her he suddenly felt shy and awk- 
 ward; 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
 
 138 NICOLETTE 
 
 young throat down to her shoulders under the 
 transparent fichu. The boys and girls who 
 had been crowding round her fell back re- 
 spectfully as M. le Comte approached, and 
 even Ameyric stood aside, only Margai 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 ner- 
 vousness 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 Dey- 
 dier, whom he greeted a little shamefacedly, 
 but with hearty goodwill. After which it was 
 the turn of Margai, whom he kissed on both 
 cheeks, despite her grumblings and mutter- 
 ings, and of the boys and girls whom he had
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 139 
 
 not seen for over five years. Amongst them 
 Ameyric. 
 
 "Eh Hen, 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 kind- 
 ly 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 Marga'i 
 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 Xicolette 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
 
 140 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 moun- 
 tain-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 "Rossignou," but rather the gay 
 ditties of La Farandoulo. 
 
 " La Farandoulo ? La faren 
 Lou cor gai la testo flourido 
 E la faren tant que voudren 
 En aio ! En aio ! "
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 141 
 
 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 cure peremptorily to order Ber- 
 trand to come back to her. But instead of de- 
 livering 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
 
 142 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 fiancee, 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
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOM 143 
 
 for departure, did Bertrand send back a fare- 
 well 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 Ver- 
 sailles, 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, Nico- 
 lette thought of the dainty face with its deli- 
 cate, 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
 
 144 NICOLETTE 
 
 finally rode away at the bidding of his imperi- 
 ous queen. 
 
 "Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of God," Nico- 
 lette murmured fervently under her breath, 
 "pray to our Lord that He may allow Ber- 
 trand 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 
 
 f I ^HE second time that Nicolette saw the 
 A 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 chateau 
 in order to be formally introduced to Ber- 
 trand's fiancee. 
 
 It was Whit- Sunday, and a glorious after- 
 noon. 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 
 Margai over at the mas could not have known 
 how to bake : gateaux 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 em- 
 bellished with a magnificent jewelled comb. 
 
 145
 
 146 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 choco- 
 late 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 al- 
 ways 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 bergere in the midst of a veritable 
 cloud of muslin and lace, all adorned with rib-
 
 TWILIGHT 147 
 
 bons 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 Xicolette as fast as her poor lame 
 leg would allow, and Nicolette, who a moment 
 ago had been assailed with the terrible tempta- 
 tion to play the coward and to run away, away 
 from this strange scene, was compelled to 
 come forward to greet the older ladies by kiss- 
 ing 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 feel-
 
 148 NICOLETTE 
 
 ing, 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 af- 
 fected manner that he approached Nicolette 
 and took her hand, then formally presented 
 her to his fiancee. 
 
 "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 meas- 
 ure 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. Nico- 
 lette felt tongue-tied and was furious with her- 
 self for her awkwardness; she, who was called 
 little chatter-box by her father and by Margai, 
 could find nothing to say but "Yes!" or "No!" 
 or short, prim answers to Rixende's super- 
 cilious queries. 
 
 "Was the harvesting of orange-blossom fin- 
 ished?" 
 
 "Not quite."
 
 TWILIGHT 149 
 
 "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 accom- 
 pany 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 
 chateau yesterday. One could not get one's 
 afternoon siesta." 
 
 "Have a cup of chocolate, Nicolette!" Mi- 
 cheline suggested by way of a diversion as the 
 conversation threatened to drop altogether. 
 
 "No, thank you, Micheline!" Nicolette re- 
 plied, "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 chateau of Venta- 
 dour 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 parapher- 
 nalia of good living and fine clothes threw a 
 mantle of falsehood almost of vulgarity over 
 the place.
 
 150 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 rack- 
 ing 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 fiancee 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 fol- 
 lowed 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
 
 TWILIGHT 151 
 
 they went into the house came from Made- 
 moiselle 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 naive enthu- 
 siasm : 
 
 "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 draw- 
 ing-room and in very truth she was entirely 
 dumb with surprise. The room was trans- 
 formed in a manner which she would not have 
 thought possible. It is true that she had not 
 been inside the chateau 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 lux- 
 urious fauteuils, covered in elegant tapestries. 
 There were flowers in cut-glass bowls, books
 
 152 NICOLETTE 
 
 laid negligently on the tables; an open escri- 
 toire displayed a silver-mounted inkstand, 
 whilst like a crowning ornament to this beauti- 
 fully furnished room, a spinet in inlaid rose- 
 wood case stood in the corner beside the far- 
 thest 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 pic- 
 ture, 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 chateau 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 pal- 
 ace 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
 
 TWILIGHT 153 
 
 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 vola, vola ! " 
 
 Nicolette's sweet young voice rose to the ac- 
 companiment of the soft-toned spinet. She 
 sang, hardly knowing that she did so, cer- 
 tainly 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
 
 154 N I COLETTE 
 
 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 bewil- 
 derment at Rixende whom she had hitherto 
 admired so whole-heartedly and who at this mo- 
 ment looked like an angry little vixen. Ber- 
 trand, 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
 
 TWILIGHT 155 
 
 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, "y u were al- 
 ways 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 chateau." 
 
 Bertrand threw a rapid, comprehensive 
 glance over the old pile that held all his family 
 pride, all the glorious traditions of his for- 
 bears. 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," Rix- 
 ende 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
 
 156 NICOLETTE 
 
 womanhood ; she was one of those women who 
 have the secret of rousing every instinct of pro- 
 tection 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 Ber- 
 trand's face as he gazed on the lovely upturned 
 face, and into those blue eyes wherein a few 
 tears were slowly gathering. He felt sudden- 
 ly 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 Rix- 
 ende's little hand, and drawing it under his
 
 TWILIGHT 157 
 
 arm, led her away in the direction of the wood. 
 Micheline continued to gaze after them, a puz- 
 zled 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 direc- 
 tion 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 repre- 
 sents 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 sen- 
 timental schoolgirl! My dear Marcelle! to
 
 158 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 re- 
 plied 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 Com- 
 tesse 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 Venta- 
 dour in a patched and darned gown, waited on 
 by a lad from the village in sabots and an un- 
 washed shirt that reeked of manure? Yes," 
 she went on in that firm, decisive tone against 
 which no one at the chateau 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
 
 TWILIGHT 159 
 
 fiancee. 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 fu- 
 ture 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 fiancee, Mile, 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, al- 
 most 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 Mile. Peyron-Bompar was signed. I con- 
 fess that I did him too much honour, for he re- 
 fused. 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 mother-
 
 160 NICOLETTE 
 
 in-law she buried her face in her hands. Mi- 
 cheline's heart was torn between the desire to 
 run and comfort her mother and her fear of 
 grandmama's wrath if she did so. Instinc- 
 tively 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 ex- 
 pression of detachment as if her spirit were not 
 here at all; her eyes seemed to be gazing in- 
 wardly, 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. 
 Margai 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
 
 TWILIGHT 161 
 
 hand to her, which Nicolette kissed affection- 
 ately, 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 teth- 
 ered whilst gallant knights, slew impossible 
 dragons and tinged the grass with the mon- 
 ster'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
 
 162 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Nico- 
 lette, whose pretty head held a fair amount 
 of shrewd common sense, marvelled what de- 
 gree of happiness the future held for those 
 two, who were so obviously unsuited to one 
 another. Rixende de Peyron-Bompar, petu- 
 lant, 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 de- 
 scendant of troubadours, the idealist, the
 
 TWILIGHT 163 
 
 dreamer, the weak vessel filled to the brim 
 with all that was most lovable, most reprehen- 
 sible, 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 beau- 
 tiful was Provence! the trees, the woods, Lu- 
 beron and its frowning crags, the orange trees 
 that sent their intoxicating odour through the 
 air. Already the sun had hidden his splen- 
 dour 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
 
 164 NICOLETTE 
 
 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
 
 TWILIGHT 165 
 
 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, stand- 
 ing upon a grass-covered knoll, two forms in- 
 terlaced: Bert rand had his arms around Rix- 
 ende, 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 pas- 
 sionate and yearning, whilst overhead the 
 nightingale trilled its sweet, sad melody. 
 Xicolette 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
 
 166 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 handker- 
 chief 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 har- 
 mony reigned habitually between Jaume Dey- 
 dier, his daughter and the old servant who had 
 loved and cared for her ever since Nicolette 
 had been a tiny baby, laid in Margai'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 nat- 
 ural. The child was pretty, loving, lovable 
 and motherless; the latter being the greater 
 claim on her father's indulgence. As for Mar- 
 ga'i, she was Nicolette's slave, even though she 
 
 167
 
 168 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 cha- 
 teau. 
 
 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 Margai's mutterings were as in- 
 cessant as they were for the most part unin- 
 telligible. 
 
 "I cannot understand you, Mossou Dey- 
 dier," she said more than once to her master, 
 "one would think you wanted to be rid of the 
 child." 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Margai," was Deydier's 
 tart response. But Margai 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 argu-
 
 CHRIST MAS EVE 169 
 
 ing, "I would not say another word. But she 
 has told you once and for all that she does not 
 care for young B amadou, 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!" Margai 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?" Mar- 
 gai 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 fetes. I was 
 affianced to my wife two days before Noel, we
 
 170 NICOLETTE 
 
 had the gros soupe at her parents' house on 
 Christmas Eve, and walked together to mid- 
 night Mass." 
 
 "And two years later she was in her coffin," 
 Margai muttered. 
 
 "What has that to do with it? Thou'rt 
 a fool, Margai." Whereupon Margai, feeling 
 that in truth her last remark had been neither 
 logical nor kind, reverted to her original argu- 
 ment : "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 Margai 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 throw- 
 ing 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-
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 171 
 
 rooms at the mas huge fires of olive and euca- 
 lyptus burned in the hearths. Margai had 
 been very busy preparing the food for the 
 gros soupe, the traditional banquet of Christ- 
 mas Eve in old Provence, and which Jaume 
 Deydier offered every year to forty of his chief 
 employes. Nicolette now was also versed in 
 the baking and roasting of the calenos, the 
 fruits and cakes which would be distributed 
 to all the men employed at the farm and to 
 their families: and even Margai was forced 
 to admit that the Poumpo taillado the na- 
 tional cake, baked with sugar and oil was 
 never so good as when Nicolette mixed it her- 
 self. 
 
 Of Ameyric Barnadou there was less and 
 less talk as the festival drew nigh. Margai 
 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 fa! 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 fianfailles should be 
 celebrated on Christmas Eve had been knocked 
 on the head by Nicolette's obstinacy, but
 
 172 NICOLETTE 
 
 Jaume hoped a great deal from the banquet, 
 the calignaou, and above all, from the mid- 
 night Mass. Nicolette was very gentle and 
 very sentimental, and Ameyric so very pas- 
 sionately in love. The boy would be a fool 
 if he could not make the festivals, the proces- 
 sion, 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 whis- 
 kers 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 
 chatelaine of this beautiful home, the queen 
 of this little kingdom amongst the mountains, 
 the beneficent fairy to whom the whole coun- 
 try-side looked if help or comfort or material 
 assistance was required. Around her pressed 
 the men and the women and the children who
 
 C H R I S T M A S E V E 173 
 
 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 over- 
 seer, 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 an- 
 other 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 chateau had ever been so conscious 
 of his own dignity. As for Nicolette, she was 
 just the little fairy whom they had seen grow- 
 ing 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 Prov- 
 ence. 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 Christ- 
 mas Eve was the day of all days. They all 
 loved the gifts of the catenas, the dried fruits
 
 174 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Dey- 
 dier'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 bouilla- 
 baisse which was concocted by Margai 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 Na- 
 ture 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
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 175 
 
 had finished striking six, old Tiberge, whose 
 first birthday was lost in the nebulas 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 : Decem- 
 ber 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 w r hich 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 : 
 
 " Alegre, Diou nous alegre 
 Cachofue ven, tout ben ven 
 Diou nous fague la graci de voir 1'an qu6 ven 
 Se sian pas mai, siguen pas men." 
 
 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 
 
 * 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.
 
 176 NICOLETTE 
 
 of the Proven9al 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 fu- 
 ture, 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, out- 
 wardly 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
 
 CHRIST MAS EVE 177 
 
 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 
 Metastase, who was said to be one hundred 
 years old, and whose hands trembled like the 
 leaves of the old aspen tree down by the Leze, 
 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 Metastase 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
 
 178 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 night- 
 ingale 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 vil- 
 lage 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 mys- 
 terious, 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 Provencal has the 
 temperament of the South in its highest degree,
 
 CHRIST MAS EVE 179 
 
 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 eucalyp- 
 tus 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 Nicollette 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 Margai 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 pres-
 
 180 NICOLETTE 
 
 ent, in vague hopes of the future, but every 
 turn of the road, every tree, and every boulder, 
 even the shadows that lengthened and dimin- 
 ished 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 pur- 
 pose: 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 white- 
 washed pillars or nestling in huge, untidy bou- 
 quets around the painted effigy of the Virgin. 
 In one corner of the little church, the tradi- 
 tional creche 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 naive 
 and very crude, but tender and lovable, and
 
 CHRIST MAS EVE 181 
 
 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 riot- 
 ous 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 en- 
 tering 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 rev- 
 erence 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
 
 182 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 trill- 
 ing away for dear life over her head. 
 
 So persistently did Nicolette think of this 
 picture that she succeeded in persuading her- 
 self 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 won- 
 dered if it was not perhaps her duty to do as 
 her father wished and to marry Ameyric Bar- 
 nadou? 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
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 183 
 
 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 can- 
 dles, the agitated breath of hundreds of en- 
 tranced 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 dis- 
 tressful maidens, and woods redolent with rose- 
 mary 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 Four- 
 nier'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
 
 184 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Margai's arm around her to keep 
 her steady, but Tan-tan's pride would have a 
 long struggle with his curiosity. He would re- 
 main seated just like a grown man and pre- 
 tend that he could see quite well ; and this pre- 
 tence he would keep up for a long while, al- 
 though 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 en- 
 tirely 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 col-
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 185 
 
 oured 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. Nico- 
 lette 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 gen- 
 tian-blue eyes shouting petulantly at him or 
 feigning love \vhich 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
 
 186 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 chateau was on Christ- 
 mas 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 cha- 
 teau. 
 
 ''What? You have not heard?" 
 
 "No, what is it?" 
 
 "A death in the family." 
 
 "Holy Virgin, who?" 
 
 "The old Comtesse? She is very oldl" 
 
 "The Comtesse Marcelle? She is always 
 sick!" 
 
 "No one knows." 
 
 187
 
 188 NICOLETTE 
 
 Nicolette, vaguely frightened, questioned 
 those who seemed to know best. Mais, voila! 
 no one knew anything definite, although one 
 or two averred that they had seen a man on 
 horseback go up to the chateau, 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 ex- 
 ample . . . Oh! it was unthinkable! But al- 
 ready she had made up her mind. After mid- 
 day dinner she would go and see Micheline. 
 It was but a short walk to the chateau, and 
 surely father could spare her for an hour or 
 two. 
 
 Jaume Deydier was obdurate at first. What 
 had Nicolette to do with the chateau? 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 chateau 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 Com-
 
 THE TURNING POINT 189 
 
 tesse spoke to either of them at all, it would 
 only be to say unkind things! Oh! it was ter- 
 rible to think of those three women at the cha- 
 teau, faced with trouble, and with no one to 
 speak to but one another. And until recently 
 the last two years, in fact Nicolette had al- 
 ways gone over to the chateau on Christmas 
 afternoon to offer Christmas greetings and 
 calenos from the mas, in the shape of oranges, 
 lemons, tangerines, and a beautiful Poumpo 
 tcdllado, 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 ob- 
 durate, but just at that moment he happened 
 to catch sight of Ameyric. Tl e lad was stand- 
 ing close by, an eager expression on his face, 
 and if such an imitation 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 Nico- 
 lette after dinner, and walk with her to the 
 chateau?"
 
 190 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 di- 
 plomacy. He had always believed in Christ- 
 mas 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 chateau as a blank. 
 She could not even have told you if it was cold 
 or warm. She wore her beautiful orange-col- 
 oured shawl with the embroidery and deep 
 fringe, and she had on shoes that were thor- 
 oughly 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
 
 THE TURNING POINT 191 
 
 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 remem- 
 ber what Father Fournier had said in his ser- 
 mon at midnight Mass, and her own firm reso- 
 lution 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 com- 
 ing 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 tete-a-tete 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 Simeon-Luce was just leaving the 
 chateau when Nicolette arrived there with 
 Ameyric. Jasmin was at the door, and the
 
 192 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 ab- 
 stractedly, "but only to be expected." Then 
 he seemed to become aware of Nicolette's iden- 
 tity, and added kindly: 
 
 "You have come to see Mademoiselle Miche- 
 line, 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 chateau, Father Simeon- 
 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: 
 
 VWho is it, Jasmin?" she asked -excitedly. 
 
 "Madame de Mont-Pahon," the old man re- 
 plied, and Nicolette was conscious of an im- 
 mense feeling of relief. She had not realised 
 herself until this moment how desperately anx- 
 ious she had been. 
 
 "She died, it seems, the night before last, in
 
 THE TURNING POINT 193 
 
 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 Jas- 
 min very much hoped that Father Simeon- 
 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?" Nico- 
 lette broke in impatiently on the old man's 
 mutterings. 
 
 "Yes, yes, mam'zelle! Mademoiselle Miche- 
 line 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 twi- 
 light 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
 
 194 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 conversa- 
 tion 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 un- 
 welcome she was at the chateau: 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 
 fiancee had made cutting remarks about her. 
 She looked down ruefully on her baskets, feel- 
 ing that her cakes would no more be appreci- 
 ated than herself. A furious desire seized her 
 to turn back and to run away: but she would 
 leave the calenos with Jasmin, for she would be 
 ashamed to own to her father what a coward 
 she had been. Already she had made a move- 
 ment 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.
 
 THE TURNING POINT 195 
 
 "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 re- 
 mained 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 prom- 
 ise that the two young people shall be co-heirs 
 of her fortune? Instead of lamenting there,
 
 196 NICOLETTE 
 
 you should rejoice. Sybille has died most op- 
 portunely, 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: Rix- 
 ende de Peyron-Bompar would never have tol- 
 erated 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 se- 
 cured 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
 
 THE TURNING POINT 197 
 
 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 Ber- 
 trand, giving a few details of the proposed ar- 
 rangements for Madame de Mont-Pahon's fu- 
 neral, which was to take place on the feast of 
 the Holy Innocents. The letter had been writ- 
 ten 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 Pey- 
 ron-Bompar, Bixende'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 post- 
 poned for a few months, but there was no rea- 
 
 198
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 199 
 
 son 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 mar- 
 riage 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 Perone, 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 Simeon-Luce too, 
 the Bishop of Avignon must come over to per- 
 form the religious ceremony in the private 
 chapel of the chateau: fresh altar-frontals and 
 vestments must be ordered at Aries for the 
 great occasion. 
 
 Old Madame's mood was electrical: Miche- 
 line quickly succumbed to it. She was young, 
 and despite her physical infirmities, she was
 
 200 NICOLETTE 
 
 woman enough to thrill at thoughts of a wed- 
 ding, of pretty clothes, bridal bouquets and 
 banquets. And she loved Rixende! the dainty 
 fairy -like creature who, according to grandma- 
 ma's unerring judgment, would resuscitate all 
 the past splendours of the old chateau 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 caleche with four horses and postilions. 
 
 Nor were her spirits affected by Bertrand's 
 non-arrival. The weather accounted for
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 201 
 
 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 increas- 
 ing, 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 wed- 
 ding. 
 
 The tenth day after the New Year, the Com- 
 tesse 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 car- 
 riage 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 Rix- 
 ende's proposed boudoir, but Marcelle had
 
 202 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Pe- 
 rone 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 pa- 
 tient'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.
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 203 
 
 But on the fourteenth day, even old Madame 
 appeared to be restless. All day she kept re- 
 peating to any one who happened to be nigh 
 to Micheline, to Perone, 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, what- 
 ever 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 facade of the chateau 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 apart- 
 ments, where Perone, obsequious and sympa- 
 thetic, 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 lat- 
 ter 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
 
 204 NICOLETTE 
 
 come and tell her the moment the dear patient 
 woke, ran over to grandmama's room. 
 
 Nicolette rearranged the pillows round Mar- 
 celle'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. Sud- 
 denly 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 courtyard 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 :
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 205 
 
 "M.leComte!" 
 
 For the space of two seconds Nicolette hesi- 
 tated 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 hag- 
 gard: her hair was dishevelled and her eyes 
 seemed preternaturally large. Nicolette ran 
 to her, and was just in time to clasp the totter- 
 ing 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 I" 
 
 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
 
 206 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly 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 Ber- 
 trand, that she must not call to him to hurry. 
 His mother wished that he should come into
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 207 
 
 her room, and tell her tell her what? Nico- 
 lette did not know. 
 
 Now Bertrand was coming along the cor- 
 ridor. 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. Nico- 
 lette from where she stood could only see his
 
 208 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 lan- 
 guage 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 dissi- 
 pated 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 :
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 209 
 
 "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 humilia- 
 tion 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 en- 
 dured at this moment. 
 
 "Rixende did not love you, Bertrand," the 
 mother murmured dully, "she never loved 
 you." 
 
 "She must have hated me," Bertrand re- 
 joined 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 chateau " 
 
 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
 
 210 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 ob- 
 viously 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 en-
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 211 
 
 tirely 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 wit- 
 nessed it. 
 
 After awhile the Comtesse Marcelle said : 
 
 "You must be hungry, Bertrand, we'll let 
 grandmama know you're here. She has or- 
 dered supper to be ready for you, as soon as 
 you came." 
 
 Bertrand appeared to wake as if out of a 
 dream. 
 
 "Did you spe'ak, mother?" he asked. 
 
 "You must be hungry, dear." 
 
 "Yes yes!" he murmured vaguely. "Per- 
 haps 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
 
 212 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 shoul- 
 der, 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 foot- 
 steps 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 speak- 
 ing to a sick child. 
 
 "Let me get away somewhere," he went on, 
 "where she can't see me not just yet I 
 can't "
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 213 
 
 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 tak- 
 ing 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 moth- 
 er'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. Nico- 
 lette 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
 
 214 N I C O L E T T E 
 
 room, and as Nicolette entered she was saying 
 tartly : 
 
 "But why was I not told?" 
 
 "I was just on the point of sending Nico- 
 
 lette to you, Madame " Marcelle de Ven- 
 
 tadour 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 lor- 
 gnette and stared at Nicolette. 
 
 "Ah!" she said coldly, "Mademoiselle Dey- 
 dier 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 
 fa, 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
 
 WOMAN TO WO MAN 215 
 
 watched her, saw that the last vestige of colour 
 left her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered for a 
 moment or two, and her eyes narrowed, nar- 
 rowed 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.
 
 216 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 Mile. Rixende ab- 
 solutely, and so she, and M. de Peyron-Bom- 
 par 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 her-
 
 WOMANTOWOMAN 217 
 
 self could not help but pay a quick and grudg- 
 ing 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 Com- 
 tesse 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 ref- 
 uge 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, draw- 
 ing the heavy portiere before it, so as to pre- 
 vent the sound of voices from penetrating 
 through. Nicolette hoped that Bertrand had 
 heard nothing of what had gone on in the bou- 
 doir, and now when grandmama pointed to- 
 ward the door, she instinctively rose to her feet 
 as if making ready to stand between this iras- 
 cible old woman and the grief-stricken man.
 
 218 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 pain- 
 ful 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 un- 
 worthy 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.
 
 WOMANTOWOMAN 219 
 
 "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 mo- 
 ment 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."
 
 220 NICOLETTE 
 
 "You know very well," Marcelle cried, "that 
 he cannot do that." 
 
 "That is why we shall have to think of some- 
 thing," grandmama retorted, and at that mo- 
 ment went deliberately towards the door. Her 
 hand was already on the portiere 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 command- 
 ingly: 
 
 "What do you want with Bertrand?" 
 
 Old Madame, taken aback, raised her aris- 
 tocratic 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 sup-
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 221 
 
 pose, I presume, that the future can be dis- 
 cussed without my having a say in it?" 
 
 "Certainly not," the younger woman re- 
 joined, "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. 
 
 ff Ah fa, 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 Ber- 
 trand, 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
 
 222 NICOLETTE 
 
 all equally. You may speak with him if you 
 wish but only in my presence." 
 
 "But, nom de Dieu!" old Madame ex- 
 claimed, "will you tell me by what right you 
 propose to stand between me and my grand- 
 son?" 
 
 "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 re- 
 lief and the words tumbled out of her mouth
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 223 
 
 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 pre- 
 vent 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," Mar- 
 celle reiterated coldly, "you, his mother, placed 
 before him the only alternative that your dam- 
 nable 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 re- 
 torted. "Oh! you thought I did not know, you 
 thought I did not guess. But you remember 
 it was midsummer the window was open
 
 224 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 con- 
 science " 
 
 "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 
 portiere aside, opened the door, and went 
 through into the other room. 
 
 Grandmama appeared for a moment unde- 
 cided: 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 inter- 
 ference. She was not ashamed of that dark
 
 WOMAN TO WOMAN 225 
 
 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 impossibil- 
 ity for a de Ventadour ; the principles of equal- 
 ity 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 Mar- 
 celle," she said with cool sarcasm. "See what 
 a fool you were to make such a scene. While
 
 226 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 ap- 
 parently 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 ! Nico- 
 lette, while she looked after Marcelle, was long- 
 ing 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 uncom- 
 fortable, lonely house, lonely for every one 
 except old Madame, who had Perone to look 
 after her. Marcelle and poor little Micheline 
 looked after themselves, and Bertrand only 
 had old Jasmin. During Mile, 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
 
 WOMANTOWOMAN 227 
 
 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. Perone, 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 dur- 
 ing 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 an- 
 other 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 Ma-
 
 <228 NICOLETTE 
 
 dame 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 hap- 
 pened 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 rest- 
 less, miserable night, also her head ached and 
 she longed for fresh air. It was still dark, but 
 Margai was astir, and a bright fire was blazing 
 in the kitchen when Nicolette came down. She 
 was not hungry, but to please Margai she 
 drank some warm milk and ate the home-made 
 bread, and when the cold morning light first 
 
 229
 
 30 M C O L E T T E 
 
 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 
 Leze, 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 be- 
 yond. 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 even- 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
 
 GREYDAWN 231 
 
 Bertrand. Indeed she had no thought of any- 
 thing 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 re- 
 serve 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
 
 232 NICOLETTE 
 
 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
 
 GREYDAWN 233 
 
 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 al- 
 ways been there? Always? When she used 
 to run after him and thrust her baby hand into 
 his palm? Or when she gazed up-stream, pre- 
 tending that the Leze 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
 
 234 N I C O L E T T E 
 
 this the hour to lend an ear to the sweet insidi- 
 ous 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 croon- 
 ing over her sick baby, she soothed and com- 
 forted him: and words of love poured out 
 from her heart as nectar from an hallowed
 
 GREYDAWN 235 
 
 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 marvel- 
 lous 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, Nico- 
 lette," 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
 
 236 NICOLETTE 
 
 a sharp pang of remorse shot through his heart. 
 
 But she was content even with this sem- 
 blance 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 for- 
 get everything save her who made him happy. 
 
 They talked for awhile of ihe 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 restart- 
 ing a game of "Let's pretend!" on their desert 
 island. A ship had come in sight on the limit- 
 less ocean, and they must make ready to go 
 back.
 
 GREY DAWN 237 
 
 Hand in hand they wandered down the val- 
 ley. It was just like one of those pictures of 
 which Nicolette had dreamed. She and Tan- 
 tan alone together, the Leze 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 Prov- 
 ence 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 moun- 
 tain 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 
 
 r INHERE was the natural longing to keep 
 A one's happiness to oneself just for a little 
 while, and Nicolette decided that it would be 
 better for Bertrand to wait awhile before com- 
 ing 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 de- 
 scend to earth sufficiently to deceive both father 
 and Margai. Nor did she deceive either of 
 them. 
 
 "What is the matter with the child ?" Jaume 
 Deydier said after midday dinner, when Nico- 
 lette ran out of the room singing and laugh- 
 ing in response to nothing at all. 
 
 And Margai shrugged her shoulders. She 
 could not think. Deydier suggested that per- 
 haps Ameyric . . . Eh, what? Girls did not 
 know their own hearts until a man came along 
 and opened the little gate with his golden key. 
 Margai shrugged her shoulders again : this time 
 
 238
 
 FATHER 239 
 
 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 1 
 
 Then as the afternoon wore on and the 
 shades of evening came creeping round the cor- 
 ners 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 Ma- 
 dame, 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 daredj*
 
 240 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 fin- 
 ished 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."
 
 FATHER 241 
 
 "Yes," he said with a dull sigh of weari- 
 ness, "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 bank- 
 rupt in pocket as well as in honour, they hope
 
 242 NICOLETTE 
 
 to regild their stained escutcheon with your 
 money " 
 
 "That is false!" Nicolette broke in vehe- 
 mently, "no one at the chateau knows that Ber- 
 trand 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 Prov-
 
 FATHER 24S 
 
 ence, well then I shall be rid of her all the 
 sooner. ..." 
 
 "Father!" Nicolette cried with sudden pas- 
 sionate 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 
 chateau, and because of that because of 
 that " 
 
 Her voice broke in a sob. She was crouch- 
 ing beside the hearth at her father's feet, and 
 for a moment he looked down at her as if en- 
 tirely 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 daugh- 
 ter little Nicolette with the bright eyes and
 
 244 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 B amadou 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 flam- 
 ing 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 Nico- 
 lette? 
 
 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 fa- 
 ther'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 every-
 
 FATHER 245 
 
 thing 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 al- 
 lowed 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 Ven- 
 tadours. He had never spoken of it to any
 
 246 NICOLETTE 
 
 one since the day of his marriage, not even 
 to old Margai, 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. 
 
 Margai 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 side- 
 board 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?" Margai 
 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.
 
 FATHER 2 i7 
 
 "Why, what should she tell me?' y 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 Margai*. 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?" 
 
 "Xo!"
 
 248 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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. Margai 
 went back to her kitchen to see about supper, 
 and Deydier lighted a second pipe : a very un- 
 usual thing for him to do. At seven o'clock 
 Margai 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, Margai?" 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, 
 Margai, and tell me?" 
 
 "She is often out later than this," was Mar- 
 gai's reply. "But she usually comes in when 
 it rains."
 
 FATHER 24d 
 
 "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 Margai that he muttered an 
 oath between his teeth, which was a very un- 
 usual thing for Mossou Jaume to do. With- 
 out saying another word, however, he stalked 
 out of the parlour, and presently Margai 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 be- 
 gan 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 merciless- 
 ly from way over Vaucluse. Deydier mut- 
 tered a real oath this time, and turned up the 
 road in the direction of the chateau. It was 
 very dark and the rain beat all around his 
 shoulders: but when he thought of Bertrand de
 
 250 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 chateau, 
 and he was on the point of turning up the 
 path when he heard his name called close be- 
 hind him: 
 
 "Hey, Mossou Deydier ! Is that you?" 
 
 He turned and found himself face to face 
 with Perone, old Madame's confidential maid 
 a person whom he could not abide. 
 
 "Are you going up to the chateau, 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 Perone 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 din- 
 ner." 
 
 Deydier let her talk on. He could not bear
 
 FATHER 251 
 
 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 Perone 
 said suddenly: 
 
 "I hope Mademoiselle Nicolette has reached 
 home by now. I told her 
 
 "You saw Mademoiselle Nicolette?" Dey- 
 dier 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 fur- 
 ther. Without any ceremony, or word of ex- 
 cuse, he turned on his heel and strode rapidly 
 down the road, swinging his lanthorn and grip- 
 ping his stick, leaving Perone 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
 
 252 NICOLETTE 
 
 little Nicolette, grief -stricken, distraught, be- 
 side that pool that would murmur insidious, 
 poisoned words, promises of peace and forget- 
 fulness. 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 shel- 
 tered 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 Leze, 
 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 exclama- 
 tion 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 DE YDIER did not say anything 
 to Nicolette that evening. After he had 
 deposited her on her bed and handed her over 
 to Margai he knew that the child would be well 
 and safe. Sleep and Margai's household rem- 
 edies 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 
 Margai brought her something warm to drink. 
 But she would not eat, and when early the next 
 morning Margai brought her some warm milk, 
 she looked as if she had not slept. She had a 
 little fever during the night, but by the morn- 
 ing this had gone, only her face looked white 
 and pinched, and her eyes looked preternatu- 
 rally 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 
 
 253
 
 254 N I C O L E T T E 
 
 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, al- 
 most 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 in- 
 coherently. "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 pil- 
 lows, 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
 
 MAN TO MAN 255 
 
 was going, I suppose and I stumbled and fell 
 it was stupid of me," she reitemted with lov- 
 ing 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 
 Perone had already alarmed him, and he spent
 
 256 NICOLETTE 
 
 a miserable evening and a sleepless night mar- 
 velling 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 Miche- 
 line first, then grandmama, what had hap- 
 pened. 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 him- 
 self 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 con- 
 duced 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 considera- 
 tion: 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 de- 
 fend himself, by a designing minx who had a
 
 MAN TO MAX 257 
 
 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 Yentadour 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 in- 
 fluential friends in Paris, she would petition the 
 King to forbid the marriage. 
 
 "You would not dare " Bertrand pro- 
 tested vehemently. 
 
 But old Madame only laughed. 
 
 "Dare?" she said tartly. "Of course I 
 should dare. I have dared more than that be- 
 fore now, let me tell you, in order to save the 
 honour of the Yentadours. That marriage can 
 not be," she went on determinedly, "and if you 
 are too foolish or too blind to perceive the dis- 
 grace of such a mesalliance, then I will apply 
 to the King. And you know as well as I do 
 that His Majesty has before now intervened on
 
 258 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 con- 
 sent 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 Ber- 
 trand loved Nicolette now as passionately as he 
 had loved Rixende in the past, or that the im- 
 age 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 mur- 
 muring sweet words of love and surrender, he 
 felt a warmth within his heart, a longing for
 
 MANTOMAN 259 
 
 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, "con- 
 fess 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-Bom- 
 par 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
 
 260 NICOLETTE 
 
 with a sigh and a weary smile, said enigmatic- 
 ally: 
 
 "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 ex- 
 claimed. "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
 
 MAN TO MAN 261 
 
 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 flounder- 
 ing in a morass of debt and disgrace, and in- 
 stinctively 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, be- 
 fore 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."
 
 262 NICOLETTE 
 
 "Not I. She is proud and soon she will 
 understand." 
 
 "We love one another, Nicolette will under- 
 stand nothing save that I love her. You may 
 forbid the marriage," Bertrand went on vehe- 
 mently, "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 gen-
 
 MANTOMAN 263 
 
 erous 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 cred- 
 itors were at your heels and you saw no other 
 way before you to satisfy them, save a rich mar- 
 riage." 
 
 "It is false!" 
 
 "False is it?" Deydier riposted roughly, 
 "How else do you hope to satisfy your cred- 
 itors, 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 protes- 
 tations of selfless love. But I am not an aris- 
 tocrat. 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 secu- 
 rity, the wealth, which a marriage with my 
 daughter would bring you, what have you to
 
 264 NICOLETTE 
 
 offer her? An ancient name? It is tar- 
 nished. A chateau? '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 for- 
 tune 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 be- 
 neath 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 sud- 
 den 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 slow- 
 ly, "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
 
 MAX TO MAX 265 
 
 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 re- 
 puted 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 Xicolette a few hun- 
 dred louis a year, pin money, but that is all. 
 One moment, I pray you," Deydier added, see- 
 ing 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 Xicolette sufficiently to lead a life of use- 
 fulness 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 suffo-
 
 266 NICOLETTE 
 
 eating 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 ISTicolette's for- 
 tune expressed in so many words by her father 
 would soon dispel grandmama's objection to 
 her lowly birth. He hoped that he would re- 
 turn 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 impor- 
 tance 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 pre- 
 pared to take Nicolette without her fortune, 
 that he was certainly not prepared to give up
 
 MAN TO MAN 267 
 
 his career in order to live the life of usefulness 
 at the mas, which Jaume Deydier dangled be- 
 fore him. Oh! he had no illusion on these 
 points. Yesterday when old Madame threat- 
 ened him with an appeal to the King, there was 
 still the hope that in view of such hopeless finan- 
 cial difficulties as beset him, His Majesty might 
 consent to a mesalliance with the wealthy 
 daughter of a worthy manufacturer of Prov- 
 ence. But what Deydier demanded to-day 
 meant that he would have to resign his com- 
 mission 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 oc- 
 cupied. 
 
 Poor little Nicolette! He loved her, yes! 
 but not enough for that. To renounce any- 
 thing 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 morn- 
 ing 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
 
 268 N I C O L E T T E 
 
 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 for- 
 ward into the room, treading softly like a little 
 mouse, her face pale and her lips slightly quiv- 
 ering. 
 
 "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.
 
 MANTOMAN 269 
 
 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 de- 
 spise 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 sweet- 
 sounding 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 stand- 
 ing beside Bertrand and she was pleading for 
 her love.
 
 270 NICOLETTE 
 
 "Nay, father dear," she said resolutely, 
 "you have had your say. Now you must let 
 me have mine. Listen, Tan-tan, what I con- 
 fessed 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 bitter- 
 ness, 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. Ber- 
 trand looked at her with a sort of hungry long- 
 ing. 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
 
 MAN TO MAN 271 
 
 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 ; 
 Margai 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 
 
 272
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 27S 
 
 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 defi- 
 antly. 
 
 Just like some dumb animal that has re- 
 ceived 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 doubt- 
 ing his own sanity. This then was his little 
 Xicolette, 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
 
 274 NICOLETTE 
 
 brought with them such a surfeit of emotions, 
 such agonising sensations, that this final sor- 
 row seemed beyond his physical powers of en- 
 durance. 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
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 275 
 
 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 fore- 
 head, 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 w r hat, 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
 
 276 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 ex- 
 quisite, 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 
 countryside were in love with her. Margari- 
 dette 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 wor-
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 277 
 
 shipped 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 be- 
 come younger or handsomer as time went on, 
 was I?" 
 
 Once more he paused ; memories were crowd- 
 ing around him fast. His eyes stared into the 
 smouldering embers of the hearth, seeing vi- 
 sions 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 beat- 
 ing 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 
 Margai because she had never seen a real 
 bishop celebrating. We had some beautiful 
 tall green candles which I had bought in Mar- 
 seilles, they were nearly two metres high, and
 
 278 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 Marga'i 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 chil- 
 dren, Margai 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 after- 
 noon. And Margai would have it that candles 
 blessed by a bishop were more potent as har- 
 bingers of good fortune than those on which 
 only the hand of a cure had lain. So when the 
 sun had gone down, and the air was full of the 
 scent of spring, of young earth, and growing
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 279 
 
 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 can- 
 dle was the symbol, should descend upon her 
 head. 
 
 "I went down into the valley, and walked on 
 the shores of the Leze. 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 an- 
 other ; and I remained quite still, crouching be- 
 hind 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 con- 
 vinced in my mind that all was well with Mar- 
 garidette. True, Raymond de Ventadour be- 
 longed to an ancient and aristocratic race, but 
 the Revolution was recent then, and we all held
 
 280 NICOLETTE 
 
 on to those ideals of equality and fraternity 
 for which we had suffered so terribly. Mar- 
 garidette's father had been a ship-builder in 
 Marseilles; he had retired at the outbreak of 
 the Revolution and bought a house and a lit- 
 tle piece of land on the other side of La Bas- 
 tide. We all looked upon him as something of 
 an "aristo" and to me it seemed the most nat- 
 ural 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 Ma- 
 dame 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
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 281 
 
 affianced to Mademoiselle Marcelle de Cerca- 
 mons. 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 Ger- 
 many, 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 Perone, Mme. la Com- 
 tesse's own confidential maid. She spoke to 
 Margai amongst others about the prepara- 
 tions for the wedding, the beauty of Marcelle 
 de Cercamons, the love M. Raymond had for 
 his beautiful fiancee. 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 Perone, told every- 
 one with a wealth of detail that deceived us all. 
 Then one day she descended like a hideous 
 black crow on Margaridette with a letter pur- 
 porting to be from M. Raymond, in which he 
 demanded that the poor child should return
 
 282 NICOLETTE 
 
 him the ring that he had given her in token of 
 his faith. The next day the Comtesse left the 
 chateau, accompanied by Perone. 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 Venta- 
 dour, 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 Ger- 
 many fighting under Moreau, and writing let- 
 ters full of glowing ardour to his beloved. But 
 mark the fulness of that woman's infamy. Be- 
 fore 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 bless- 
 ing. 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
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER <283 
 
 should a boy mistrust his own mother? espe- 
 cially after she has blessed him and his love; 
 and Raymond was little more than a boy. 
 
 "Madame la Comtesse withheld all his let- 
 ters 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 cun- 
 ning 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 
 Perone, you see, had not spared us a single 
 detail and I, vaguely agitated, vaguely terri- 
 fied 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.
 
 284 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 them- 
 selves above the valley. Toward eight o'clock 
 the rain came down ; soon it turned into a down- 
 pour. 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 be- 
 lieve 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!
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 285 
 
 "And there, where the mountain stream 
 widens into a shallow pool, and where a great 
 carob tree overshadows the waters, I saw Mar- 
 garidette 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 in- 
 tensity 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. Ray- 
 mond and then he liked me, and I was rich 
 and so we were married and I loved my Mar- 
 garidette so ardently that in time, I think, she 
 cared for me a little, too Then you were born, 
 my Nicolette and she died -"
 
 286 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 be- 
 came of Raymond de Ventadour. 
 
 "He came back from the wars," Deydier ex- 
 plained, "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 Margari- 
 dette's undying memory, that never once did 
 she make me feel that I had won her through 
 that woman's infamous trick. Raymond de
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 287 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 Lu- 
 beron melted year after year, and, year after 
 year, the wild thyme and rosemary came into
 
 288 NICOLETTE 
 
 bloom, and the flowers on the orange trees blos- 
 somed and withered again. 
 
 Year after year! 
 
 And Bertrand would never come back!
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 OLD MADAME 
 
 WHEN old Madame heard from Ber- 
 trand that he had asked Xicolette Dey- 
 dier to be his wife, and that Jaume had rejected 
 his suit with contempt, she was hotly indig- 
 nant. 
 
 "The insolence of that rabble passes belief!'* 
 she said, and refused even to discuss the sub- 
 ject with Bert rand. 
 
 "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 ut- 
 most 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 
 
 289
 
 290 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 lier soul, 
 and if the bon Dieu thinks as I do on the sub- 
 ject, 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 mis- 
 fortune 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 diffi- 
 culty 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 in- 
 flexible ultimatum to him, and he had realised 
 that the exquisite Paradise which Nicolette's
 
 OLD MADAME 291 
 
 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 selfless- 
 ness, 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. With- 
 out 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 fra- 
 grant 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.
 
 292 NICOLETTE 
 
 Nevertheless, when those two priceless bless- 
 ings 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 chateau: 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 be- 
 side his mother and comfort her with his pres- 
 ence. 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
 
 OLD MADAME 293 
 
 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 de- 
 spair. 
 
 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 Ber- 
 trand 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!
 
 294. NICOLETTE 
 
 He did once try to speak of it to old Ma- 
 dame, but she only laughed. 
 
 The debts would be paid in full in full! 
 As for the disgrace, how dare Bertrand men- 
 tion such a word in connection with the de Ven- 
 tadours. 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 under- 
 stand! The word "disgrace" or "shame" was 
 not to be used in connection with the de Venta- 
 dours, 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,
 
 OLD MADAME 395 
 
 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 Bertram! with shame. Pretence, she de- 
 clared, 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 chateau 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 Ven-
 
 296 NICOLETTE 
 
 tadour 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 Perone 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
 
 OLD MADAME 297 
 
 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
 
 298 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 out- 
 stretched, and an open letter in her hand. 
 
 "Come to my arms, Bertrand," she said, with 
 a dramatic gesture. "The last of the Venta- 
 dours 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 com- 
 pletely, 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 inco-
 
 OLD MADAME 299 
 
 herently; altogether she appeared different to 
 her usual haughty, unimpassioned self. Ber- 
 trand 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 trem- 
 bling a little. The Comtesse Marcelle, silent 
 as usual, kept her eyes fixed on the stately fig- 
 ure 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 at- 
 mosphere of unreality which grandmama's the- 
 atrical gestures and speech had evoked. Ber- 
 trand 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
 
 300 NICOLETTE 
 
 was bubbling over with it, and they sat there 
 like automatons ! 
 
 "Bertrand," she half implored, half com- 
 manded. 
 
 "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 Com- 
 tesse Marcelle asked, still with that look on her 
 face of a poor dog trying to propitiate his mas- 
 ter. 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 Mon- 
 taudon," 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
 
 OLD MADAME 301 
 
 Madame rejoined. "You must have met him 
 in Paris." 
 
 "No, never," Bertrand replied. "De Mon- 
 taudon 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 nos- 
 talgia and ennui, and he feared that I would 
 die of both complaints in this old owl's nest. 
 Then it wasihat 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 re- 
 turned six years ago, kept us apart all this
 
 302 N I C O L E T T E 
 
 while. A whole life-time lies between the mis- 
 eries of to-day and those happy, golden days 
 in Paris. Since then my life has been one 
 ceaseless, tireless struggle to rebuild the for- 
 tunes 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 van- 
 quished 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 excite- 
 ment, 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 excite- 
 ment and of joy.
 
 OLD MADAME 303 
 
 "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 mill pro- 
 vide for him, because he belongs to you, and 
 became in his eyes I shall mayhap find a 
 look which will help me to recapture a mem- 
 ory or so out of the past. Send the boy with- 
 out 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 protege 
 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
 
 304 NICOLETTE 
 
 her blood. Micheline was silent because, young 
 as she was, she had had in life such vast ex- 
 perience of golden schemes that had always 
 gone agley! and Bert rand was silent because 
 his very soul was in travail with hope and fear, 
 with anxiety and a wild, mad, bewildering ex- 
 citement 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 beauti- 
 ful and rich heiresses whose amorous advances 
 to Bertrand would make the faithless Rixende 
 green with envy, in vain did his mother mur- 
 mur 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
 
 OLD MADAME S05 
 
 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 strain- 
 ing every nerve to listen to something which 
 was inaudible, which was drowned in that awful 
 uproar. 
 
 After awhile the noise was stilled. Old Ma- 
 dame ceased to speak. The Comtesse Mar- 
 celle, wearied out by so much excitement, lay 
 back with eyes closed against the pillows. 
 Micheline was bathing her forehead with vine- 
 gar. Bertrand woke as from a dream. He
 
 306 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 me- 
 chanically. 
 
 "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;
 
 OLD MADAME 307 
 
 "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 ' "
 
 308 NICOLETTE 
 
 "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 talk- 
 ing until to-morrow; shall we?" 
 
 Bertrand agreed. He appeared much re- 
 lieved 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 defi- 
 nite 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 uncom- 
 plaining, 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 Nico- 
 lette's gentle abnegation and her sublime sur- 
 render. 
 
 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 
 
 309 *
 
 310 NICOLETTE 
 
 and softly stirred the delicate tendrils of gre- 
 villea 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 ex- 
 haled 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 chateau. 
 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 som- 
 bre splashes of slender cypress trees, or the
 
 VOICES an 
 
 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 Margai 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.
 
 S12 NICOLETTE 
 
 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 mar- 
 riage with your daughter, you very justly 
 taunted me in that I had nothing whatever to 
 offer her save a tarnished name and a multi- 
 plicity 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 bril- 
 liant 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
 
 VOICES sis 
 
 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 Xicolette. 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 serv- 
 ant, 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 Xicolette." 
 
 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, Mon- 
 sieur Deydier," Bertrand replied. "When she 
 is gone nothing will hold me to the chateau, for 
 Micheline loves me and would be happy if she 
 were anvwhere with me."
 
 314 NICOLETTE 
 
 "And do you really mean all that you said 
 just now?" the old man rejoined earnestly. 
 
 "Ask yourself, Monsieur Deydier," Ber- 
 trand 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 re- 
 torted, "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 chateau, 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 un- 
 worthy ..." 
 
 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,
 
 VOICES 315 
 
 a soft, silky mass of brown curls was against 
 his cheek. 
 
 "You are right, Tan-tan," a fairy voice mur- 
 mured in his ear, "I will never be happy with- 
 out 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
 
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