“And remember, Bertrand,” was one of the last things she said to him that night, “when you next come home, Rixende de Peyron-Bompar must pay us a visit too, with that atrocious father of hers.”
“But, grandmama——” Bertrand hazarded.
“Tush, boy! do not start on that humiliating subject again. What do you take me for? I tell you Rixende shall be entertained in a style that will not cause you to blush. Besides,” she added with a shrug6 of her aristocratic shoulders, “Sybille insists that Rixende shall see her future home before she will acquiesce7 in the formal fiançailles. So put a
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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 emphatic8, above all so dominating, that Bertrand gratefully followed her lead. After all, he loved his ancestral home, despite its shortcomings. He was proud of it, too. Think of that old Peyron-Bompar, who did not even know who his grandfather was, being brought in contact with traditions that had their origin in Carlovingian times. That the tapestries9 on the walls were tattered10 and faded, the curtains bleached11 to a drab, colourless tone, the carpets in holes, the masonry12 tumbling to ruins, was but a glorious evidence of the antiquity13 of this historic château. Bertrand was proud of it. He longed to show it to Rixende, and to stand with her in the great ancestral hall, where hung the portraits of his glorious forbears. Rambaud de Ventadour, the friend of the Grand Monarque, Guilhem de Ventadour, the follower14 of St. Louis, and Rixende, surnamed Riande—because she was always laughing, and whose beauty had rivalled that of Montespan.
Even to-night he paid a visit to those beloved portraits. He seemed to want to steep
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himself in tradition, and the grandeur16 and chivalry17 which was his richest inheritance. The great hall looked vast and silent in the gloom, like the graveyard18 of glorious dead. The darkness was mysterious, and filled him with a delicious awe19: through the tall windows the moonlight came peeping in, spectral20 and wan15, and Bertrand would have been neither surprised nor frightened if, lured21 by that weird22 light, the ghosts of his forbears were to step out of the lifeless canvases and march in solemn procession before him, bidding him remember that he was one of them, one of the imperishable race of the Ventadours, and that his chief aim in life must be to restore the name and family to their former glory.
Grandmama was quite right when she said that the time had now come when the individual must cease to count, and everything be done for the restoration of the family to its former importance. He himself must be prepared to sacrifice his noblest impulses to the common cause. Thank God! his heart was not in conflict with his duty. He loved Rixende, the very woman whom it was his duty to marry, and this urgent call back to Versailles had been thrice welcome, since it would take him back to his beloved one’s side, at least one
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month before he had hoped to return. A pang23 of remorse24 shot through his heart, however, when he thought of the mas: of Jaume Deydier, who had been a kind friend to his mother in the hour of her distress25, and of Nicolette, the quaint26, chubby27 child, who was wont28 to worship him so. Quite unaccountably his memory flew back to that late afternoon five years ago, when, troubled and perplexed29, very much as he was now, he had suddenly thought of Nicolette, and felt a strange, indefinable yearning30 for her, just as he did now.
And almost unconsciously he found himself presently wandering through the woods. The evening air was warm and fragrant31 and so clear, so clear in the moonlight that every tiny twig32 and delicate leaf of olive and mimosa cast a sharp, trenchant33 shadow as if carved with a knife.
Poor little Nicolette! She had been a pretty child, and her admiration34 for him, Bertrand, had been one of the nicest traits in her character. He had not seen her since that moment, five years ago, when she stood leaning against the gate with the riotous35 vine as a background to her brown curls, and the lingering twilight36 defining her arms and the white shift which she wore. He supposed
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that she must have grown, and, in truth, she must have altered a good deal, during her stay at the convent school in Avignon. No doubt, too, her manners would have improved; she had been rather tomboyish and very childish in her ideas. Poor little Nicolette! No doubt she would feel hurt that he had not been over to the mas, but it had been difficult, very difficult; and he really meant to go on the morrow with Micheline, if this urgent despatch37 had not come for him to return to duty at once. Poor little Nicolette!
Then all at once he saw her. Absorbed in thought he had wandered on and on without realising that he had gone so far. And now he found himself down in the Valley of the Lèze, picking his way on the rough stones left high and dry during the summer in the river bed. And there in front of him was the pool with the overhanging carob tree, and beside it stood Nicolette. He recognised her at once, even though the light of the moon only touched her head and neck and the white fichu which she wore about her shoulders. She seemed very different from the child whom he remembered, for she looked tall and slender, and her brown curls did not tumble all about her face as they were wont to do; some of
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them did still fall over her forehead and ears, and their delicate tendrils glistened38 like chestnuts39 in the mysterious light, but the others were hidden under the quaint head-dress, the small, round knob of muslin which she wore over the crown of her head like most Provençal maidens40.
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 lamely41. “And how you have grown,” he added.
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“Yes,” she said, “Margaï thought you would say that when——”
“I was coming over with Micheline to-morrow,” he broke in quickly. “It was all arranged.”
Her face lit up with a wonderful expression of relief and of joy.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I knew—I knew——”
Bertrand smiled, for she looked so happy.
“What did you know, Nicolette?” he asked.
“Margaï said you would not come to see us, because you were too proud, now that you were an officer of the King’s guard. Time went on, and even father said——”
“But you knew better, eh, little one?”
“I knew,” she said simply, “that you would not turn your back on old friends.”
He felt so ashamed of himself that he could not say anything for the moment. Indeed, he felt foolish, standing42 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 moody43 and silent, she went on after a while.
“Margaï will have to bake a very large
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brioche to-morrow as a punishment for having doubted you.”
“Nicolette,” he rejoined dejectedly, “I cannot come to-morrow.”
“Then the next day—why! it will be Sunday, and father’s birthday, we will....”
He shook his head. He dared not meet her eyes, those great hazel eyes of hers, which had golden lights in them just like a topaz. He knew that the expression of joy had gone out of them, and that the tears were beginning to gather. So he just put his hand in his pocket and drew out the letter which the soldier-messenger had brought from Avignon.
“It was all arranged,” he said haltingly, “Micheline and I were coming over to-morrow. I wanted to see your father and—and thank him, and I longed to see you, Nicolette, and dear old Margaï—but a messenger came with this, a couple of hours ago.”
He held out the paper to her, but she did not take it.
“It is very dark,” she said simply. “I could not read it. What does it say?”
“That by order of His Majesty the King, Lieutenant44 Comte de Ventadour must return to duty at once.”
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“Does that mean” she said, “that you must go away?”
“Early to-morrow morning, alas45!”
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 vaguely46 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 murmur47 of the Lèze on its narrow rocky bed broke the silence of the valley, and far away the cooing of a wood-pigeon settling down to rest. Bertrand would have liked to say something, but the words choked him before they were uttered. He would have liked to speak lightly of the days of long ago, of Paul et Virginie, and their desert island. But he could not. Everything around him seemed to reproach him for his apathy48 and his indifference49; the carob tree, and the boulder50 from the top of which he used to fish, the crest51 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 scent52 of rosemary, of wild thyme and
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sweet marjoram that filled the air, gave him a sense of something irretrievable, of something that he, with a callous53 hand, was wilfully54 sweeping55 away.
“I am sorry, Bertrand, that you cannot come to the mas,” Nicolette said after a moment or two, which to Bertrand seemed like an hour, “but duty is duty. We must hope for better luck next time.”
Her quick, measured voice broke the spell that seemed to be holding him down. Bertrand drew a deep sigh of relief. What a comfort that she was so sensible, poor Nicolette!
“You understand, don’t you, Nicolette?” he said lamely.
“Of course I do,” she replied. “Father will be sorry, but he, too, will understand.”
“And Margaï?” he asked lightly.
She smiled.
“Oh!” she said, “you know what Margaï is, always grumbling56 and scolding. Age has not softened57 her temper, nor hardened her heart.”
Then they looked at one another. Bertrand murmured “Good old Margaï!” and laughed, and Nicolette laughed in response. She was quite gay now. Oh! she was undoubtedly58 changed! Five years ago she
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would have cried if she thought Bertrand was going away and she would not see him for a time. She would not have made a scene, but she would have cried. Now she scarcely seemed to mind. Bertrand had been a fool to worry as to what she would think or do. She began asking him questions quite naturally about his life at the Court, about the King and the Queen. She even asked about Mademoiselle de Peyron-Bompar, and vowed59 she must be even more beautiful than the lovely Lady of the Laurels60. But Bertrand was in that lover-like state when the name of the loved one seems almost too sacred to be spoken by another’s lips. So the subject of Rixende was soon dropped, and Nicolette chatted of other things.
Bertrand felt that he was losing control over his nerves. He felt an ever-growing strange irritation62 against Nicolette. In this elusive63 moonlight she seemed less and less like the girl he had known, the podgy little tom-boy who used to run after him crying for “Tan-tan”; less of a woman and more of a sprite, a dweller64 of these woods, whose home was in the hollow trunks of olive trees, and who bathed at dawn in the mountain stream, and wound sprigs of mimosa in her hair. Anon, when she laughingly
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taunted65 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 deliberately66 turned to walk away from it, back along the stony67 shore of the Lèze, never once glancing behind her, even when he laughingly declared that a ship had appeared upon the horizon, and they must hoist68 up the signal to draw her lookout69 man’s attention to their desert island.
Bertrand did not walk with her as far as the mas. Nicolette herself declared that it was too late; father would be abed, and Margaï was sure to be cross. So they parted down on the road, Bertrand declaring that he would stand there and watch until he knew that she was safely within.
“How foolish of you, Bertrand,” she said gaily70. “Why should you watch? I am often out much later than this.”
“But not with me,” he said.
“Then what must I do to reassure71 you?”
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“Put a light in your bedroom window. I would see it from here.”
“Very well,” she assented72 with a careless shrug of the shoulders. “Good night, Bertrand.”
“Good-bye, Nicolette.”
He took her hand and drew her to him. He wanted to kiss her just as he used to do in the past, but with a funny little cry she evaded73 him, and before he could detain her, she had darted74 up the slope, and was bounding upwards75 from gradient to gradient like a young antelope76 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 bosom77 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 dense78. It had enfolded her and hidden her as the wood hides its nymphs, and the voice of the mountain stream mocked him because his eyes were not
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keen enough to see. Overhead the stars with myriads79 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, lulling80 waves, wafted81 to his nostrils82, the scent of rosemary which is for remembrance.
Bertrand waited awhile. The moon veiled her radiance behind a mantle83 of gossamer84 clouds, which she had tinged85 with lemon-gold, the sharp, trenchant shadows of glistening86 lights gave place to a uniform tone of silvery-grey. The trees sighed and bowed their crests87 under a sudden gust88 of wind, which came soughing down the valley, and all at once the air grew chill as if under a breath from an ice-cold mouth. Bertrand shivered a little and buttoned his coat. He thought that Nicolette must have reached the mas by now. Perhaps Margaï was keeping her talking downstairs, or she had forgotten to put her light in her bedroom window.
Perhaps the trees had grown of late and were obstructing89 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
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so long, so very long ago since he had been here, he had really forgotten his bearings.
And with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to walk away.
But over at the mas Nicolette had thrown her arms around old Margaï’s shoulders:
“Thou wert wrong, Margaï,” she cried, “thou wert wrong. He meant to come. He wished to come. He had decided90 to come to-morrow——”
“Ta, ta, ta,” Margaï broke in crossly, “what is all that nonsense about now? And why those glistening eyes, I would like to know. Who is it that had decided to come to-morrow?”
“Tan-tan, of course!” Nicolette cried, and clapped her hands together, and her dark eyes glistened, glistened with an expression that of a surety the old woman could not have defined.
“Oh! go away with your Tan-tans,” Margaï retorted gruffly. “You know you must not say that.”
“I’ll say M. le Comte then, an thou wilt,” the girl retorted, for her joy was not to be marred91 by any grumblings or wet blankets. “But he was coming here, all the same, whatever thou mayest choose to call him.”
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“Was he, indeed?”
The old woman was not to be mollified quite so easily, and, all the while that she watched the milk which she had put on the stove to boil for the child, she went on muttering to herself:
“Then why doth he not come? Why not, if he meant to?”
“He has been sent for, Margaï,” Nicolette said with a great air of importance, “by the King.”
“As if the King would trouble to send for Tan-tan!” old Margaï riposted with a shrug of the shoulders.
Nicolette stood before Margaï, drew her round by the arm, forcing her to look her straight in the eyes, then she put up her finger and spoke61 with a solemn earnestness.
“The King has sent for M. le Comte de Ventadour, Margaï. Do not dare to contradict this, because it would be disrespectful to an officer of His Majesty’s bodyguard. And the proof of what I say, is that Tan-tan has to start early to-morrow morning for Versailles. If the King had not sent for him he would have come here to see us in the afternoon, and all that thou didst say, Margaï, about his being proud and ungrateful is not true, not true,” she reiterated92, stamping her
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foot resolutely93 upon the ground, then proceeding94 to give Margaï first a good shake, then a kiss, and finally a hug. “Say now, Margaï, say at once that it is not true.”
“There now the milk is boiling over,” was Margaï’s only comment upon the child’s peroration95, as she succeeded in freeing herself from Nicolette’s clinging arms: after which she devoted96 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.
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收听单词发音
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1
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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8
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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41
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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42
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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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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45
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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46
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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47
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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48
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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50
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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51
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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52
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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53
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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54
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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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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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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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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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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