When old Madame heard from Bertrand that he had asked Nicolette Deydier to be his wife, and that Jaume had rejected his suit with contempt, she was hotly indignant.

“The insolence of that rabble passes belief!” she said, and refused even to discuss the subject with Bertrand.

“You do not suppose, I imagine,” she went on haughtily, “that I should go curtsying to that lout and humbly beg for his wench’s hand in marriage for my grandson.”

But her pride, though it had received many a blow these last few days, was not altogether laid in the dust. It was not even humbled. To the Comtesse Marcelle she said with the utmost confidence:

“You were always a coward and a fool, my dear: and imbued with the Christian spirit of holding out your left cheek when your right one had been smitten. But you surely know me well enough to understand that I am not going to do the same in our present difficulty. Fate has dealt us an unpleasant blow, I admit, through the hand of that vixen, my sister Sybille. You notice that I have refrained from having Masses said for the repose of her soul, and if the bon Dieu thinks as I do on the subject, Sybille is having a very uncomfortable time in Purgatory just now. Be that as it may, her spirit shall not have the satisfaction of seeing how hard her body could hit, and in a very few days—two weeks at most—you will see how little I have bent to adverse fate, and how quickly I have turned the tide of our misfortune into one of prosperity.”

She would say no more just then, only hinted vaguely at Court influence, which she was neither too old nor too poor to wield. The difficulty was to extract a promise from Bertrand not to do anything rash, until certain letters which she expected from Paris should arrive. Bertrand, indeed, was in such a state of misery that he felt very like a wounded animal that only desires to hide itself away in some hole and corner, there to bleed to death in peace. When Jaume Deydier had delivered his inflexible ultimatum to him, and he had realised that the exquisite Paradise which Nicolette’s love and self-sacrifice had revealed was indeed closed against him for ever, something in him had seemed to snap: it was his pride, his joy in life, his self-confidence. He had felt so poor, beside her, so poor in spirit, in love, in selflessness, that humiliation had descended on him like a pall, which had in it something of the embrace, the inevitable embrace of death.

He had gone home like a sleepwalker, and had felt like a sleepwalker ever since: neither his sister’s sympathy, nor old Madame’s taunts and arrogance affected him in the least. The cords of life were so attenuated that he felt they would snap at any moment. This was his only consolation: a broken spirit, which might lead to the breaking of the cords of life. Without Nicolette what was life worth now?

Love had come, but it had come too late. Too late he had come to understand that whilst he gazed, intoxicated and dazzled, upon a showy, artificial flower, an exquisite and fragrant bud had bloomed all the while close to his hand. Like so many young creatures on this earth, he believed that God had especially created him for love and happiness, that the Almighty Hand had for the time being so ordained the world and society that love and happiness would inevitably fall to his lot. Nevertheless, when those two priceless blessings were actually within his reach, he had thoughtlessly and wantonly turned away from them and rushed after a mirage which had proved as cruel as it was elusive.

And now it was too late!

Like a wanderer on the face of the earth, he would henceforth be for ever seeking that which he had lost.

Only one thing held him now: held him to his home in old Provence, to the old owl’s nest and the ruined walls of his ancestral chÂteau: that was his mother. The Comtesse Marcelle, broken down in health and spirit, had such a weak hold on life that Bertrand felt that at any rate here was one little thing in the world that he could do to earn a semblance of peace and content for his soul. He could stay beside his mother and comfort her with his presence. He could allay the fears which she had for him and which seemed to drain the very fountain of life in her. So he remained beside her, spending his days beside her couch, reading to her, reassuring her as to his own state of mind. And when he went about the room, or turned toward the door, her anxious eyes would follow his every movement, as if at the back of her mind there was always the awful fear that the terrible tragedy which had darkened her life once and made of her the heart-broken widow that she was, would be re-enacted again, and she be left in uttermost loneliness and despair.

His mother, of course!

But as for Nicolette, and all that Nicolette stood for now: love, happiness, peace, content, it was too late!

Much, much too late!

He never argued with old Madame about her schemes and plans. He was much too tired to argue, and all his time belonged to his mother. She had so little time of her own left, whilst he had a kind of grotesque consciousness that grandmama would go on and on in this world, planning, scheming, writing letters, and making debts.

Oh! those awful debts! But for them Bertrand would have looked forward with perfect content to following his mother, when she went to her rest.

But there were the debts and the disgrace!

The last of the de Ventadours seeking in death a refuge from shame, and leaving an everlasting blot upon his name! The debts and the disgrace!

He did once try to speak of it to old Madame, but she only laughed.

The debts would be paid—in full—in full! As for the disgrace, how dare Bertrand mention such a word in connection with the de Ventadours. And Bertrand did not dare speak of his father just then. Besides, what had been the use?

The debts and the disgrace; and the shame! That awful day in the magnificent apartment in Paris, when he knelt to Rixende and begged her, begged her not to throw him over! That awful, awful day! And her laugh! It would ring in his ears until the crack of doom. When he told her he could not live without her, she laughed: when he vaguely hinted at a bullet through his head, she had warned him not to make a mess on the carpet. Oh! the shame of that! And old Madame did not seem to understand! The word “disgrace” or “shame” was not to be used in connection with the de Ventadours, and when he, Bertrand, thought of that day in Paris, and of the debts, and—and other things, he ground his teeth, and could have beaten his head against the wall in an agony of shame.

How right Jaume Deydier had been! How right! What was he, Comte de Ventadour, but a defaulting debtor, a ne’er-do-well, sunk into a quagmire of improbity and beating the air with upstretched hands till they grasped a safety-pole held out to him by the weak, trusting arms of a young girl?

How right Jaume Deydier had been to turn on him and confound him with his final act of cowardice. What had he to offer? Debts, a name disgraced, a heart spurned by another! How right, how right! But, God in heaven, the shame of it!

And grandmama would not understand. Deydier would give his ears, she said, to have a Comte de Ventadour for a son-in-law: he only demurred, made difficulties and demands in order to dictate his own terms with regard to Nicolette’s dowry. That was old Madame’s explanation of the scene which had well-nigh killed Bertrand with shame. Pretence, she declared, mere pretence on Deydier’s part.

“Keep away from the mas, my son,” she said coolly to Bertrand one day, “keep away from it for a week, and we’ll have Deydier sending his wench to the chÂteau on some pretext or another, just to throw her in your way again.”

“But, thank God,” she added a moment or two later, “that we have not yet sunk so low as to be driven into bestowing the name of Ventadour on a peasant wench for the sake of her money-bags.”

Not yet sunk so low? Ye gods! Could man sink lower than he, Bertrand, had sunk? Could man feel more shamed than he had done when Nicolette stood beside him and said: “Take me, take all! I’ll not even ask for love in return.”

There was no question that the Comtesse Marcelle was sinking. Vitality in her was at its lowest ebb. Bertrand hardly ever left her side. Her only joy appeared to be in his presence, and that of Micheline. When her two children were near her she always seemed to revive a little, and when Bertrand made pathetic efforts to entertain her by telling her tales of gay life in Paris, she even tried to smile.

Old Madame spared her the infliction of her presence. She never entered the sick room; and PÉrone only came two or three times a day to do what was necessary for the invalid.

Then one day a mounted courier arrived from Avignon. He brought a letter for old Madame.

It was in the late afternoon. The old owl’s nest was wrapped in gloom, for though the Aubussons and the tapestries, the silver and the spinet had been bought with borrowed money or else on credit, the funds had run low, and candles and oil were very dear.

Marcelle de Ventadour lay on her couch with her children beside her, and only the flickering fire-light to illumine the room. Bertrand for the first time had broached the magic word “America.” Many had gone to that far-off land of late, and made fortunes there. Why should not he tempt destiny too? He had sworn to his mother that he would never again think of suicide. The word “America” had made her tremble, but it was not so terrible as death.

And on this dull winter’s afternoon, with the fire-light making quaint, fantastic patterns on the whitewashed ceiling, they had for the first time talked seriously of America.

“But promise me, Bertrand,” mother had entreated, “that you will not think of it, until I’ve gone.”

And Micheline had said nothing: she had not even wondered what would become of her, when mother had gone and Bertrand sailed for America.

They all heard the noise attendant on the arrival of the courier: the tramping of the horse’s hoofs in the court-yard, the rattle of chains, the banging of doors, and old Madame’s voice harsh and excited. Then her quick step along the corridor, the rustle of her gown. Instinctively the three of them drew closer to one another—like trapped animals when the enemy is nigh.

Old Madame came in with arms outstretched, and an open letter in her hand.

“Come to my arms, Bertrand,” she said, with a dramatic gesture. “The last of the Ventadours can look every man in the face now.”

She was striving to hide her excitement, her obvious relief behind a theatrical and showy attitude. She went up to the little group around the invalid’s couch, and stood over them like a masterful, presiding deity. And all the while she flourished the letter which she held.

“A light, Bertrand, for mercy’s sake!” she went on impatiently. “Name of a name, all our lives are transformed by this letter! Did I not tell you all along that I would turn the tide of our misfortune into one of prosperity? Well! I’ve done it. I’ve done it more completely, more wonderfully than I ever dared to hope! And you all sit here like automatons whilst the entire current of our destiny has been diverted to golden channels!”

She talked rather wildly, somewhat incoherently; altogether she appeared different to her usual haughty, unimpassioned self. Bertrand rose obediently and lit the lamp, and placed a chair for old Madame beside the table.

She sat down and without another word to the others, she became absorbed in rereading the letter, the paper made a slight crackling sound while she read, as her hands were trembling a little. The Comtesse Marcelle, silent as usual, kept her eyes fixed on the stately figure of the family autocrat with the pathetic gaze of an unloved dog seeking to propitiate an irascible master. Micheline clung to her mother’s hand, silent and subdued by this atmosphere of unreality which grandmama’s theatrical gestures and speech had evoked. Bertrand alone appeared disinterested. He stood beside the hearth and stared moodily into the fire as if the whole affair, whatever it was, did not concern him.

Grandmama read the letter through twice from beginning to end. Then she folded it up carefully, laid it on the table, and clasped her hands over it.

“There is no mistake,” she said more quietly, “no ambiguity.”

She looked at them all as if expecting to be questioned. The news was so wonderful! She was bubbling over with it, and they sat there like automatons!

“Bertrand,” she half implored, half commanded.

“Yes, grandmama,” he responded dully.

“You say nothing,” she urged with a febrile beating together of her hands, “you ask no questions. And this letter—mon Dieu, this letter—it means life to you—to us all!”

“Is it from the King, Madame?” the Comtesse Marcelle asked, still with that look on her face of a poor dog trying to propitiate his master. She was so afraid that grandmama would become angry if Bertrand remained silent—and there were the habits of a life-time—the fear of grandmama if she should become angry.

“The letter is from M. le Marquis de Montaudon,” old Madame condescended to explain. “He writes to me in answer to an appeal which I made to him on behalf of Bertrand.”

Bertrand tried to rouse himself from his apathy. The habits of a life-time ruled him too—the respect always accorded grandmama when she spoke.

“M. de Montaudon,” he said, speaking with an effort, “is treasurer to the King.”

“And a valued friend of His Majesty,” old Madame rejoined. “You must have met him in Paris.”

“No, never,” Bertrand replied. “De Montaudon is a real misanthrope where society is concerned. He leads the life of a hermit wrapped up in bank-notes, so ’tis said, and juggling all day with figures.”

“A brilliant man,” grandmama assented. “He has saved the financial situation of France and of his King. He is a man who deals in millions, and thinks in millions as others do in dozens. He and I were great friends once,” she went on with a quick, impatient sigh, “many, many years ago—in the happy days before the Revolution—my husband took me up to Paris one year when I was sick with nostalgia and ennui, and he feared that I would die of both complaints in this old owl’s nest. Then it was that I met de Montaudon—le beau Montaudon as he was called—and he fell in love with me. He had the blood of the South in his veins, for his mother was a Sicilian, and he loved me as only children of the South can love—ardently, immutably.

“My husband’s jealousy, then the turmoil of the Revolution, and finally Montaudon’s emigration to England, whence he only returned six years ago, kept us apart all this while. A whole life-time lies between the miseries of to-day and those happy, golden days in Paris. Since then my life has been one ceaseless, tireless struggle to rebuild the fortunes of this family to which I had been fool enough to link my destiny. Forty years I have worked and toiled and fought—beaten again and again—struck down by Fate and the cowardice of those who should have been my fellow-workers and my support—but vanquished never—I have fought and struggled—and had I died during the struggle I should have died fighting and unconquered. Forty years!” she went on with ever-growing excitement, whilst with a characteristic gesture of determination and energy she beat upon the letter before her with her fists, “but I have won at last! Montaudon has not forgotten. His letter here is in answer to mine. I asked him for the sake of old times to extend his patronage to my grandson, to befriend him, to help him in his career! And see his reply!”

She took up the letter once more, unfolded it, smoothed it out with loving, quivering hands. She put up her lorgnette to read: obviously her eyes were dim, filled with tears of excitement and of joy.

“This is how he begins,” she began slowly, striving in vain to steady her voice.

“Send your grandson to me! I will provide for him, because he belongs to you, and because in his eyes I shall mayhap find a look which will help me to recapture a memory or so out of the past. Send the boy without delay. I really need a help in my work, and there is a young and beautiful lady who is very dear to me; for whom I would gladly find a well-born and handsome husband. Your grandson appears to be the very man for that attractive office: thus he will have a brilliant career before him as my protÉgÉ and an exquisitely sentimental one as the husband of one of the loveliest women in this city where beautiful women abound. See! how right you were to make appeal to my memory. I never forget....”

This was no more than one half of the letter, but old Madame read no more. She glanced round in triumph on the three faces that were turned so eagerly towards her. But nobody spoke. Marcelle was silent, but her eyes were glowing as if new life had been infused into her blood. Micheline was silent because, young as she was, she had had in life such vast experience of golden schemes that had always gone agley! and Bertrand was silent because his very soul was in travail with hope and fear, with anxiety and a wild, mad, bewildering excitement which almost choked him.

Grandmama talked on for awhile: she planned and she arranged and gazed into a future so golden that she and Marcelle and Micheline were dazzled by it all. Bertrand alone remained obstinately silent: neither old Madame’s impatience, nor his mother’s joy dragged him out of his moodiness. In vain did grandmama expatiate on M. de Montaudon’s wealth and influence, or on the array of beautiful and rich heiresses whose amorous advances to Bertrand would make the faithless Rixende green with envy, in vain did his mother murmur with pathetic entreaty:

“Are you not happy, Bertrand?”

He remained absorbed, buried in thoughts, thoughts that he was for the moment wholly incapable of co-ordinating. It seemed to him as if hundreds of thousands of voices were shrieking in his ear: hundreds of thousands that were high-pitched and harsh like the voice of old Madame; they shrieked and they screamed, and they roared, and the words that they uttered all came in a jumble, incoherent and deafening: a medley of words through which he only distinguished a few from time to time:

“Treasurer to the King!” some of the voices shrieked.

“All debts paid in full—in full!” others screamed.

“Wealth—an heiress—a brilliant marriage—Rixende—envy—hatred—chance—career—money—money—money—wealth—a rich heiress—money—money—no debts——”

They shrieked and they shrieked, and he could no longer hear grandmama’s arguments, nor his mother’s gentle appeal. They shrieked so loudly that his head buzzed and his temples throbbed: because all the while he was straining every nerve to listen to something which was inaudible, which was drowned in that awful uproar.

After awhile the noise was stilled. Old Madame ceased to speak. The Comtesse Marcelle, wearied out by so much excitement, lay back with eyes closed against the pillows. Micheline was bathing her forehead with vinegar. Bertrand woke as from a dream. He gazed about him like a sleepwalker brought back to consciousness, and found old Madame’s slightly mocking gaze fixed upon him. She shrugged her shoulders.

“You are bewildered, my dear,” she said not unkindly. “I am not surprised. It will take you some time to realise the extent of your good fortune.”

She carefully folded the letter up again, and patted it with both her hands like a precious, precious treasure.

“What a future, Bertrand,” she exclaimed suddenly. “What a future! In my wildest dreams I had never hoped for this!”

She looked at him quizzically, then smiled again.

“Were I in your shoes, my dear, I should be equally bewildered. Take my advice and go quietly to your room and think it all over. To-morrow we will plan the immediate future. Eh?”

“Yes, to-morrow!” Bertrand assented mechanically.

“You will have to start for Paris very soon,” she went on earnestly.

“Very soon,” Bertrand assented again.

“Well! think over it, my dear,” old Madame concluded; she rose and made for the door; “I’ll say good night now, Marcelle,” she said coolly. “I am tired too, and will sup in my room, then go early to bed. Come and kiss me, Micheline!” she added.

The girl obeyed; old Madame’s hand was now on the handle of the door.

“Are you too dazed,” she said with a not unkind touch of irony and turning to Bertrand, “to bid me good night, my dear?”

He came across to her, took her hand and kissed it.

“Good night, grandmama,” he murmured.

Smiling she held up the letter.

“The casket,” she said, “that holds the golden treasure.”

He put out his hand for it.

“May I have it?”

For a moment she seemed to hesitate, then shrugged her shoulders:

“Why not?” she said, and placed the letter in his hand: but before her hold on it relaxed, she added seriously: “You will be discreet, Bertrand?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“I mean you will not read more than the first page and a half, up to the words: ‘I never forget——’”

“Up to the words ‘I never forget’,” Bertrand assented. “I promise.”

He took the letter and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. Old Madame with a final nod to him and the others sailed out of the room.

“Mother is tired,” Micheline said, as soon as grandmama had gone, “let us leave the talking until to-morrow; shall we?”

Bertrand agreed. He appeared much relieved at the suggestion, kissed his mother and sister and finally went away.