The shrieking voices were all stilled, but there were murmurings and whisperings in Bertrand’s ears all the while that he made his way down into the valley. He had no definite purpose in his mind, only just wandered down the mountain-side, in and out of the groves of olive trees and mimosa, past the carob tree beside which when a boy he was wont to tilt at dragons, whilst wee, podgy Nicolette would wait patiently, stiff and sore and uncomplaining, until he was ready to release her. The whole drama of his life seemed to be set on this mountain-side beside the carob tree: his hot-headedness, his selfishness, his impulsive striving after impossible ideals, beside Nicolette’s gentle abnegation and her sublime surrender.

After the cold of the early days of the year, the air had become sweet and balmy: already there was a feeling of spring in the warm, gentle breeze that came wafted from the south and softly stirred the delicate tendrils of grevillea and mimosa. In the branches of carob and olive the new sap was slowly rising, whilst the mossy carpet beneath the wanderer’s feet was full of young life and baby shoots that exhaled a perfume of vitality and of young, eager growth. From the valley below there rose a pungent scent of wild thyme and basilisk, and from afar there came wafted on the gently stirring wings of night the fragrance of early citron-blossom. Overhead the canopy of the sky was of an intense, deep indigo: on it the multitude of tiny stars appeared completely detached, like millions of infinitesimal balls, never still... winking, blinking, alive—a thousand hued and infinitely radiant. When Bertrand emerged into the open, the crescent moon, mysterious and pale, was slowly rising above the ruined battlements of the old chÂteau. A moment later and the whole landscape gleamed as if tinged with silver. A living, immense radiance shimmering like an endless sheet of myriads upon myriads of paillettes, against which trenchant and detached, as if thrown upon that glowing background, by the vigorous brush of a master craftsman, rose the multi-coloured tiled roofs of the mas, the sombre splashes of slender cypress trees, or the bright golden balls of oranges nestling in the dark, shiny foliage.

And the wanderer stood and gazed upon this perfect picture which was his home: old Provence the land of his ancestors, of the troubadours, of the courts of love, of romance and poesy: the fragrant, exquisite, warm land of the south; and out of all this beauty, this radiance, this life, there rose in his heart a wild, mad longing that seemed almost to deprive him of his senses. Voices rose out of the valley, came down from the mountain-side, voices gentle and sweet were all around him, and the words that they murmured and whispered all became merged into one—just one magic word, a name that was the very essence, the inbeing of his longing.

“Nicolette!”

He arrived at the mas, just after they had finished supper. Jaume Deydier was sitting silent and moody, as he always was now, beside the fire. Nicolette was helping MargaÏ to put the house in order for the night. The front door was still on the latch and Bertrand walked straight into the living-room. At sight of him Deydier rose frowning.

“M. le Comte,” he began.

But Bertrand went boldly up to him. He placed one hand on the old man’s shoulder, and with the other drew the letter out of his pocket—the letter which had been written by M. de Montaudon who was Treasurer to the King.

“Monsieur Deydier,” he said simply, “a fortnight ago, when I had the presumption to suppose that you would consent to my marriage with your daughter, you very justly taunted me in that I had nothing whatever to offer her save a tarnished name and a multiplicity of debts. You spoke harshly that day, Monsieur Deydier——”

“My dear Bertrand,” the old man put in kindly.

“Let me have my say, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand went on speaking very rapidly, “for in truth the words are choking me. No doubt you think me an impudent puppy for daring to come to you again. But circumstances are different now—very, very different. I no longer come before you empty-handed, I come to you to-day holding here, in my hand, a brilliant career, a dazzling future. Those two things are mine—a free gift to me from one who believes in me, who means me well. They are mine, Monsieur Deydier,” and Bertrand’s voice broke on a note of pathetic entreaty, “and I have come to you to-night just to lay them without the slightest compunction or regret at the feet of Nicolette. Let her come to me,” he entreated. “I want neither money, nor luxury, nor rank. I only want her and her love. My career, my future prospects I just offer her in exchange for the right to live here with you at the mas, to be your son, your servant, your devoted worker, to do with and order about just as you please! Read this letter, Monsieur Deydier, you will see that I am not lying——Everything I have—everything I hope for—family—friends—I want nothing—if only you will give me Nicolette.”

Now his voice broke completely. He sank into a chair and hid his face in his hand, for his eyes were filled with tears.

Silently Jaume took the letter from him, and silently he read it. When he had finished reading, he gave the letter back to Bertrand.

“You have your mother to consider, M. le Comte,” was the first thing he said.

“My mother’s hold on life is so slender, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand replied. “When she is gone nothing will hold me to the chÂteau, for Micheline loves me and would be happy if she were anywhere with me.”

“And do you really mean all that you said just now?” the old man rejoined earnestly.

“Ask yourself, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand replied simply. “Do you think that I was lying?”

“No!” Deydier said firmly, and placed an affectionate hand on the other’s shoulder. “But there is old Madame——”

“For the sake of a past sin,” Bertrand retorted, “or a time-worn revenge, would you wreck Nicolette’s happiness? She loves me. She will never be happy without me. Old Madame shall never come between us. She will remain at the chÂteau, or go as she pleases, but she shall never cross my life’s path again. ’Tis with me now, and with me alone that you need deal, Monsieur Deydier. By giving up all that M. de Montaudon has offered me, I break definitely with the past, and ’tis to Nicolette that I look for the future, to Nicolette and this old place which I love: and if you no longer think me mean and unworthy....”

The words died upon his lips. He had spoken dully, quietly, with intent gaze fixed upon the flickering fire. But now, suddenly two warm, clinging arms were around his neck, a soft, silky mass of brown curls was against his cheek.

“You are right, Tan-tan,” a fairy voice murmured in his ear, “I will never be happy without you.”

The next moment he was down on his knees, pressing his face against two sweet-smelling palms, that were soft and fragrant like a mass of orange-blossom.

And Jaume Deydier tiptoed silently out of the room.