It was therefore a matter of great importance for Bertrand’s future career that he
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should not be too long absent from duty, which at any moment might put him in the way of earning distinction for himself, and the personal attention of the King.
As it happened, when he did come home during the spring of that year 1822, Nicolette was detained in the convent school at Avignon because she had measles8. 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 lavishly9 trimmed with gold lace, and the képi with the tuft of white feathers in front, which gave him such a martial10 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 puny11 lad. She would above all things have loved to take him across to the mas and let Jaume Deydier and Margaï see him, for then surely they would write and tell Nicolette about him. Bertrand acquiesced12 quite humouredly in the idea that she should thus take him on a grand tour to be inspected, and
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plans were formed to go over to Apt, and see M. le Curé there, and Gastinel Barnadou, the mayor of the commune, who lived at La Bastide, and whose son Ameyric was considered the handsomest lad of the country-side, and the bravest and most skilful13 too. All the girls were in love with him because he could run faster, jump higher, and throw the bar and the disc farther than any man between the Caulon and the Durance, but Micheline knew that as soon as Huguette or Madeleine or Rigaude set eyes on her Bertrand they would never look on any other man again. And Bertrand smiled and listened to Micheline’s plans, and promised that he would go with her to Jaume Deydier’s or to Apt, or whithersoever she chose to take him. But the Easter holidays came and went: Father Siméon-Luce came over from Manosque to celebrate Mass in the chapel14 of the château, then he went away again. And after Easter the weather turned cold and wet. It was raining nearly every day, and for one reason or another it was difficult to go over to the mas, and the expedition to Apt was an impossibility because there was no suitable vehicle in the coach-house of the château, and it was impossible
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to borrow Jaume Deydier’s barouche until one had paid him a formal visit.
And so the time went by and the day was at hand when Bertrand had to return to Versailles. Instead of going in comfort in Deydier’s barouche as far as Pertuis, he went with Jasmin in the cart, behind the old horse that had done work in and about the château for more years than Bertrand could remember. The smart officer of the King’s bodyguard sat beside the old man-of-all-work, on a wooden plank15, with his feet planted on the box that contained his gorgeous uniforms, and his one thought while the old horse trotted16 leisurely17 along the rough mountain roads, was how good it would be to be back at Versailles. Visions of the brilliantly lighted salons18 floated tantalisingly before his gaze, of the King and the Queen, and M. le Comte d’Artois, and all the beautiful ladies of the Court, the supper and card parties, the Opera and the rides in the Bois. And amidst all these visions there was one more tantalising, more alluring19 than the rest: the vision of his still unknown cousin Rixende. She was coming from the fashionable convent in Paris, where she had been finishing her education, in order to spend the next summer holidays with her great-aunt, Mme. de
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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 Laurels20. Rixende—the heiress to the Mont-Pahons’ millions—who, with her wealth, her influence and her beauty, would help to restore the glories of the family of Ventadour, which to his mind was still the finest family in France. With her money he would restore the old feudal21 château in Provence, of which, despite its loneliness and dilapidated appearance, he was still inordinately22 proud.
Once more the halls and corridors would resound23 with laughter and merry-making, once more would gallant24 courtiers whisper words of love in fair ladies’ ears! He and lovely Rixende would restore the Courts of Love that had been the glory of old Provence in mediæval days; they would be patrons of the Arts, and attract to this fair corner of France all that was greatest among the wits, sweetest among musicians, most famous in the world of letters. Ah! they were lovely visions that accompanied Bertrand on his lonely drive through the mountain passes of his boyhood’s home. For as long as he could, he gazed behind
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him on the ruined towers of the old château, grimly silhouetted25 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 beckoned26 to him full of promises and of coming joys, and where through a haze27 of fluffy28, cream-coloured clouds, he seemed to see blue-eyed Rixende holding out to him a golden cornucopia29 from which fell a constant stream of roses, each holding a bag full of gold concealed30 in its breast.
It was owing to the war with Spain, and the many conspiracies31 of the Carbonari that Bertrand was unable for the next three years to obtain a sufficient extension of leave to visit his old home. He was now a full lieutenant32 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 appreciation33.
“It is the dream of my declining days,” she wrote to her sister, the old Comtesse de Ventadour, “that Bertrand and Rixende should be united. Both these children are very dear to me: kinship and affection binds34 me equally to both. I am old now, and sick, but my most
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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 quell35 the conspiracy36 of those abominable37 Carbonari, his bravery as well as his shrewdness were liberally commented on. I only wish he would make more headway in his courtship of Rixende. Of course the child is young, and does not understand how serious a thing life is: but Bertrand also is too serious at times, at others he seems to reserve his enthusiasm for the card-table or the pleasure of the chase. For his sake, as well as for that of Rixende, I would not like this marriage, on which I have set my heart, to be delayed too long.”
Later on she became even more urgent:
“The doctors tell me I have not long to live. Ah, well! my dear, I have had my time, let the two children whom I love have theirs. My fortune will suffice for a brilliant life for them, I make no doubt: but it must remain in its entirety. I will not have Bertrand squander39
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it at cards or in pearl-necklaces for the ladies of the Opera. Therefore hurry on the marriage on your side, my good Margarita, and I will do my best on mine.”
The old Comtesse, with her sister’s last letter in her hand, hurried to her daughter-in-law’s room.
“You see, Marcelle,” she said resolutely40, after a hurried and unsympathetic inquiry41 as to the younger woman’s health: “You see how it is. Everything depends on Bertrand. Sybille de Mont-Pahon means to divide her wealth between him and Rixende, but he will lose all if he does not exert himself. Oh! if I had been a man!” she exclaimed, and looked down with an obvious glance of contempt on the two invalids42, mother and daughter, the two puny props43 of the tottering44 house of Ventadour.
“Bertrand can but lead an honourable45 life,” the mother argued wearily. “He is an honourable man, but you could not expect him at his age to toady46 to an old woman for the mere47 sake of her wealth.”
“Who talks of toadying48?” the old woman exclaimed, with an irritable49 note in her harsh voice. “You are really stupid, Marcelle.”
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Over five years had gone by since first Bertrand went away from the old home in Provence, driven as far as Pertuis in Deydier’s barouche, his pockets empty, and his heart full of longing50 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 renowned51 families in France, who had helped to make history, and whose lineage could be traced back to the days of Charlemagne, even though, now—in the nineteenth century—they owned but a few mètres of barren land around an ancient and dilapidated château.
Not even grandmama disputed Bertrand’s right at this hour to make use of the Book of Reason as he thought best, and she had promised him over and over again of late, by written word, that when next he came to Ventadour, she would give him the key of the chest that contained the family archives. To a Provençal, the key to the Book of Reason is a symbol of his own status as head of the house, and to Bertrand it meant all that and more, because his pride in his family and lineage, and even in the old barrack which he called home was the dominating factor in all his actions, and because he felt that there could be nothing
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in his family history that was not worthy52 and honourable. There had been secrets kept from him while he was a child, secrets in connection with his father, and with his great-uncle, Raymond de Ventadour, but Bertrand was willing to admit that there might have been a reason for this, one that was good enough to determine the actions of grandmama, who was usually to be trusted in all affairs that concerned the honour of the family.
But somehow things did not occur just as Bertrand had expected. His arrival at the château was a great event, of course, and from the first he felt that he was no longer being treated as a boy, and that even his grandmother spoke53 to him of family affairs in tones of loving submission54 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 deference55 to his urgent demand, she gave him the key of the chest that contained the family archives. It was a great moment for Bertrand. He would not touch the chest while anyone was in the room; his first delving56 into those priceless treasures should have no witness save the unseen spirit that animated57 him. With an indulgent
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shrug58 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 lookout59 for records that would throw some light upon the life and adventures of his uncle Raymond de Ventadour, whose name was never mentioned by grandmama, save with a sneer60. 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 interrogating61 his mother.
But though the chest contained a number of births, baptismal, marriage and death certificates, and the book a few records of the political events of the past fifty years, there was nothing there that would throw any light upon the secrets that Bertrand long to fathom62. 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
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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 futile63, 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 engraved64 thereon, and their quaint65 device, “moun amour e moun noum.”
Bertrand loved the device; for his love and for his name, he would in very truth have sacrificed life itself. He took up the ring and slipped it on his finger; then he continued to turn over the pages of the old book, still hoping to extract from it that knowledge he so longed to possess.
Half an hour later a soft foot-tread behind him roused him from his meditations66, and two loving arms were creeping round his neck:
“Are you ready, Bertrand?” Micheline asked.
“Ready for what?” he retorted.
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“You said you would come over to the mas with me this afternoon.”
Bertrand frowned, and then with obvious moodiness67, he picked up the family chronicle, and went to lock it up in the big dower-chest.
“You are coming, Bertrand, are you not?” Micheline insisted with a little catch in her throat.
“Not to-day, Micheline,” he replied after awhile.
“Bertrand!”
The cry came with such a note of reproach that the frown deepened on his forehead.
“Grandmama has such a violent objection to my going,” he said, somewhat shamefacedly.
“And you—at your age——” Micheline broke in more bitterly than she had ever spoken to her brother in her life; “you are going to allow, grandmama, an old woman, to dictate68 to you as to where you should go, and where not?”
Bertrand at this taunt69 aimed at his dignity had blushed to the roots of his hair, and a look of obstinacy70 suddenly hardened his face, making it seem quite set and old.
“There is no question,” he said coldly, “of anybody dictating71 to me: it is a question of
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etiquette72 and of usage. It was Jaume Deydier’s duty in the first instance to pay his respects to me.”
“It is not a question of etiquette or of usage, Bertrand,” the girl retorted hotly, “but of Nicolette our friend and playmate. I do not know what keeps Jaume Deydier from setting foot inside the château, but God knows that he owes us nothing, so why should he come? We on the other hand owe him countless73 kindnesses and boundless74 generosity75, which we can never repay save by kindliness76 and courtesy. Why! when you were first at St. Cyr——”
“Micheline!”
The word rang out hard and trenchant77, as the old Comtesse sailed into the room. Micheline at once held her tongue, cowed as she always was in the presence of her autocratic grandmother.
“What is the discussion about?” grandmama asked coldly.
“My going to the mas,” Bertrand replied.
“To pay your respects to Jaume Deydier?” she asked, with a sneer.
“To see Nicolette,” Micheline broke in boldly. “Bertrand’s oldest friend.”
“Quite a nice child,” the old Comtesse owned
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with ironical78 graciousness. “She is at liberty to come and see Bertrand when she likes.”
“She is too proud——” Micheline hazarded, then broke down suddenly in her speech, because grandmama had raised her lorgnette, and was staring at her so disconcertingly that Micheline felt tears of mortification79 rising to her eyes.
“So,” grandmama said with that biting sarcasm80 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 reconciliation81 to one of the Deydiers.”
“Reconciliation, grandmama?” Bertrand broke in quickly. “Has there been a quarrel then?”
For a moment it seemed to Bertrand’s keenly searching eyes as if the old Comtesse’s usually magnificent composure was slightly ruffled82. Certain it is that a delicate flush rose to her withered83 cheeks, and her retort did not come with that trenchant rapidity to which she had accustomed her family and her household. However, the hesitation84—if hesitation
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there was—was only momentary85: an instant later she had shrugged86 her shoulders, elevated her eyebrows87 with her own inimitably grandiose88 air, and riposted coolly:
“Quarrel? My dear Bertrand? Surely you are joking. How could there be a quarrel between us and the—er—Deydiers? The old man chooses to hold himself aloof89 from the château: but that is right and proper, and no doubt he knows his place. We cannot have those sort of people frequenting our house in terms of friendship—especially if your cousin Rixende should pay us a visit one of these days. Once an intimacy90 is set up, it is very difficult to break off again—and surely you would not wish that oil-dealer’s child to meet your future wife on terms of equality?”
“Rixende is not that yet,” Bertrand rejoined almost involuntarily, “and if she comes here——”
“She will have to come here,” grandmama said in her most decided91 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——”
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“But what,” she asked, for he seemed to hesitate.
“Rixende is so fastidious,” Bertrand said moodily92. “She has been brought up in the greatest possible luxury. This old house with its faded furniture——”
“This old house with its faded furniture,” grandmama broke in icily, “has for centuries been the home of the Comtes de Ventadour, a family whose ancestors claimed kinship with kings. Surely it is good enough to shelter the daughter of a—of a—what is their name?—a Peyron-Bompar! My good Bertrand, your objections are both futile and humiliating to us all. Thank God! we have not sunk so low, that we cannot entertain a Mademoiselle—er—Peyron-Bompar and her renegade father in a manner befitting our rank.”
Grandmama had put on her grandest manner, and further argument was, of course, useless. Bertrand said nothing more, only stood by, frowning moodily. Micheline had succeeded in reaching the shelter of the window recess93. From here she could still see Bertrand, could watch every play of emotion on his telltale face. She felt intensely sorry for him, and ashamed for him as well as for herself. But above all for him. He was a man, he
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should act as a man; whilst she was only a weak, misshapen, ugly creature with a boundless capacity for suffering, and no more courage than a cat. Even now she was conscious right through her pity for Bertrand which dominated every other feeling—of an intense sense of relief that the tattered94 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 evaded95 hers. As for him, he felt vaguely96 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 galled97 him. For the first time, too, in his life, he felt out of tune38 with the ideals of the old Comtesse, whom he revered98 as the embodiment of all the splendours of the Ventadours. Now his pride was up in arms against her for her assumption of control. Where was his vaunted manhood? Was he—the head of the house—to be dictated99 to by women? Already he was lashing100 himself up into a state of rebellion and of fury. Planning a sudden assertion of his own authority, when his grandmother’s voice, hard and trenchant, acted like a cold douche upon his heated temper, and sobered him instantly.
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“To revert101 to the subject of those Deydiers,” she said coldly, “my sister Mme. de Mont-Pahon has made it a point that all intimacy shall cease between you and them, before she would allow of Rixende’s engagement to you.”
“But why?” Bertrand exclaimed almost involuntarily. “In Heaven’s name, why?”
“You could ask her,” grandmama retorted quietly.
“Mme. de Mont-Pahon must understand that I seek my own friends, how and where I choose——”
“Your great-aunt would probably retort that she will then seek her heir also where and how she chooses—as well as Rixende’s future husband——”
Then as Bertrand in the excess of his shame and mortification buried his head in his hands, she went up to him, and placed her wrinkled aristocratic hand upon his shoulder.
“There, there,” she said almost gently, “don’t be childish, my dear Bertrand. Alas102! when one is poor, one is always kissing the rod. All you want now is patience. Once Rixende is your wife, and my obstinate104 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.”
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“It is so shameful105 to be poor,” Bertrand murmured bitterly.
“Yes, it is,” the old woman assented106 dryly. “That is the reason why I wish to drag you out of all this poverty and humiliation107. But do not make the task too hard for me, Bertrand. I am old, and your mother is feeble. If I were to go you would soon drift down the road of destiny in the footsteps of your father.”
“My father?”
“Your father like you was weak and vacillating. Sunk in the slough108 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 inevitable109 day of reckoning.”
“It is false!” Bertrand cried impulsively110.
He had jumped to his feet.
Clinging with one hand to the edge of the table, he faced the old Comtesse, his eyes gazing horror-struck upon that stern impassive face, on which scarce a tremor111 had passed while she delivered this merciless judgment112 on her own son.
“It is false!” the young man reiterated113.
“It is true, Bertrand,” the old woman rejoined quietly. “The ring which you now
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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-drawn114 sigh, a moan, and an ominous115 thud, stayed the words upon her lips. Bertrand looked up at once, and the next moment darted116 across the room. There lay his mother, half crouching117 against the door frame to which she had clung when she felt herself swooning. Bertrand was down on his knees in an instant, and Micheline came as fast as she could to his side.
“Quick, Micheline, help me!” Bertrand whispered hurriedly. “She is as light as a feather. I’ll carry her to her room.”
The only one who had remained quite unmoved was the old Comtesse. When she heard the moan, and then the thud, she glanced coolly over her shoulder, and seeing her daughter-in-law, crouching helpless in the doorway118, 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
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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, chafing119 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 astonishment120 in itself was an involuntary reproach, so very little of his time did Bertrand spend with his sad-eyed, ailing121 mother. A sharp pang122 of remorse123 went right through him as he noted124, for the first time, how very aged125 and worn she had become since last he had been at home. Tears now were pouring down her cheeks, and he put out his arms, with a vague longing to draw her aching head to his breast, and let her rest there, while he would comfort her. She saw the gesture, and the ghost of a smile lit up her pale, wan103 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 remorseful126, but she recaptured
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it, and began stroking it gently, tenderly: and all the while her spare, narrow shoulders shook with spasms127 of uncontrolled sobbing128, 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 hoarsely129, “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 entreated130, and moaned piteously just as if she were in pain. “Your grandmother took it off his dear, dead hand—oh, she is cruel—cruel—and without mercy ... she took it off after she——Oh, my boy! my boy! will you ever forgive?”
His one thought was just to comfort her. Awhile ago, when first his grandmother had told him, he had felt bitterly sore. His father dying a shameful death by his own hand! The shame of it was almost intolerable! And in the brief seconds that elapsed between the terrible revelation and the moment when he had to expend131 all his energies in looking after his mother, had held a veritable inferno132 of humiliation
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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 embarrassment133 here, one of pity there, his grandmother’s sneers134, his mother’s entreaties135. He saw it all, all of a sudden. People who knew pitied him—or else they sneered136. 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 chivalrous137 in his nature gained the upper hand over his resentment138.
“It is not for me to forgive, mother dear,” he said, “I am not my father’s judge.”
“He was so kind and good,” the poor soul went on with pathetic eagerness, “so generous. He only borrowed in order to give to others. People were always sponging on him. He never could say no—to any one—and of course we had no money to spare, to give away....”
Bertrand frowned.
“So,” he said quite quietly, “he—my father—borrowed some? He—he had debts?”
“Yes.”
“Many?”
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“Alas.”
“He—he did not pay them before he——?”
Marcelle de Ventadour slowly shook her head.
“And,” Bertrand asked, “since then? since my father—died, have his debts been paid?”
“We could not pay them,” his mother replied in a tone of dull, aching hopelessness, “we had no money. Your grandmother——”
“Grandmama,” he broke in, “said though we were poor, we could yet afford to entertain our relatives as befitted our rank. How can that be if—if we are still in debt?”
“Your grandmother is quite right, my dear boy, quite right.” Marcelle de Ventadour argued with pathetic eagerness; “she knows best. We must do our utmost—we must all do our very utmost to bring about your marriage with Rixende de Peyron-Bompar. Your great-aunt has set her heart on it, she has—she has, I know, made it a condition—your grandmother knows about it—she and Mme. de Mont-Pahon have talked it over together—Mme. de Mont-Pahon will make you her legatee on condition that you marry Rixende.”
For a moment or two Bertrand said nothing. He had jumped to his feet and stood at the
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foot of the couch, with head bent139 and a deep frown on his brow.
“I wish you had not told me that, mother,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I love Rixende, and now it will seem as if——”
“As if what?”
“As if I wooed her for the sake of Mme. de Mont-Pahon’s money.”
“That is foolishness, Bertrand,” Mme. de Ventadour said, with more energy than was habitual140 to her. “Let us suppose that I said nothing. And your grandmother may be wrong. Mme. de Mont-Pahon may only wish for the marriage because of her affection for you and Rixende.”
“You wish it, too, mother, of course?” Bertrand said.
The mother drew a deep sigh of longing.
“Wish it, my dear?” she rejoined. “Wish it? Why, it would turn the hell of my life into a real heaven!”
“Even though,” he insisted, “even though until that marriage is accomplished141, 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,
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borrow more and more, to keep me idling in Paris and to throw dust in the eyes of Mme. de Mont-Pahon.”
“We must do it, Bertrand,” she said earnestly. “Your grandmother says that we have to think of our name, not of ourselves; that it is the future that counts, and not the present.”
“But you, mother, what is your idea about it all?”
“Oh, I, my dear? I? I count for so little—what does it matter what I think?”
“It matters a lot to me.”
Marcelle de Ventadour sighed again. For a moment it seemed as if she would make of her son a confidant of all her hopes, her secret longings142, her spiritless repinings; as if she would tell him of what she thought and what she planned during those hours and days that she spent on her couch, listless and idle. But the habits of a life-time cannot be shaken off in a moment, even under the stress of great emotion, and Marcelle had been too long under the domination of her mother-in-law to venture on an independent train of thought.
“My dear lamb,” she said tenderly; “I only pray for your happiness—and I feel that your grandmother knows best.”
Bertrand gave a quick, impatient little sigh.
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“What we have to do,” his mother resumed more calmly after a while, “is to try and wipe away the shame that clings around your father’s memory.”
“We cannot do that unless we pay what we owe,” he retorted.
“We cannot do that, Bertrand,” she rejoined earnestly. “We have not the money. At the time of—of your father’s death the creditors143 took everything from us that they could: we were left with nothing—nothing but this old owl’s nest. It, too, had been heavily mortgaged, but—but a—but a kind friend paid off the mortgage, then allowed us to stay on here.”
“A kind friend,” Bertrand asked. “Who?”
“I—don’t know,” his mother replied after an imperceptible moment’s hesitation. “Your grandmother knows about it, she has always kept control of our money. We must leave it to her. She knows best.”
Then, as Bertrand relapsed into silence, she insisted more earnestly:
“You do think that your grandmother knows best, do you not, Bertrand?”
“Perhaps,” he said with an impatient sigh, and turned away.
It was then that he caught sight of Micheline—Micheline
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who, as was her wont144, had withdrawn145 silently into the nearest window recess, and had sat there, patient and watchful146, 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 crimson147 fire.
“Too late to go over to the mas this afternoon,” he added decisively.
A look of great joy lit up Micheline’s peaky little face.
“Then you are coming, Bertrand,” she cried impulsively.
“Not to-night,” he said, “because it is late. But to-morrow we’ll go together. I would like to—to thank Jaume Deydier for——”
“Oh, my dear,” his mother broke in anxiously, “there is nothing for which you need thank Jaume Deydier. Your grandmother would not wish it.”
“No one,” Bertrand said emphatically, “may dictate to me on a point of honour. I
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 tenderly.
“Grandmama shall know nothing,” he said reassuringly148; “but for once I must act as I wish, not as she commands. As you said just now, mother dear, we must not think of ourselves, but of our name, and we must try to wipe away the shame that clings round my father’s memory.”
He tried to say this quietly, with as little bitterness as possible, but in the end his voice broke, and he ran quickly out of the room.
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1
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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2
reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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3
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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4
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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5
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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8
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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9
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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10
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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11
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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12
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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14
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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15
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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16
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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17
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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18
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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19
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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20
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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21
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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22
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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23
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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24
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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25
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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26
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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28
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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29
cornucopia
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| n.象征丰收的羊角 | |
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30
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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32
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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33
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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34
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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35
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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36
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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37
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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38
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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39
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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40
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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41
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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42
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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43
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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44
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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45
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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46
toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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47
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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48
toadying
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| v.拍马，谄媚( toady的现在分词 ) | |
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49
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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50
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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51
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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54
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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55
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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56
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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57
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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58
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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59
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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60
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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61
interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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62
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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63
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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64
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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65
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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66
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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67
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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68
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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69
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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70
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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71
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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72
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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73
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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74
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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75
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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76
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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77
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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78
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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79
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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80
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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81
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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82
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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83
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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84
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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85
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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86
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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87
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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88
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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91
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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93
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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94
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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95
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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100
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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101
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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102
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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103
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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104
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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105
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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106
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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108
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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109
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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110
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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111
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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112
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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113
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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115
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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116
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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117
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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118
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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119
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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120
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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121
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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122
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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123
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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124
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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125
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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127
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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134
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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135
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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136
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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139
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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142
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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143
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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144
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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145
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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