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why it should not take place before the end of the summer, and as Rixende no longer had a home now in Paris, the ceremonies could well taken place in Bertrand’s old home.
This last suggestion sent old Madame into a veritable frenzy6 of management. The marriage of the last of the de Ventadours should be solemnised with a splendour worthy8 of the most noble traditions of his house. Closeted all day with Pérone, her confidential9 maid, the old Comtesse planned and arranged: day after day couriers arrived from Avignon, from Lyons and from Marseilles, with samples and designs and suggestions for decorations, for banquets, for entertainments on a brilliant scale.
A whole fortnight went by in this whirl, old Madame having apparently10 eschewed11 all idea of mourning for her dead sister. There were consultations12 with Father Siméon-Luce too, the Bishop13 of Avignon must come over to perform the religious ceremony in the private chapel14 of the château: fresh altar-frontals and vestments must be ordered at Arles for the great occasion.
Old Madame’s mood was electrical: Micheline quickly succumbed15 to it. She was young, and despite her physical infirmities, she was
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woman enough to thrill at thoughts of a wedding, of pretty clothes, bridal bouquets16 and banquets. And she loved Rixende! the dainty fairy-like creature who, according to grandmama’s unerring judgment17, would resuscitate18 all the past splendours of the old château and make it resound19 once more with song and laughter.
Even the Comtesse Marcelle was not wholly proof against the atmosphere of excitement. Meetings were held in her room, and more than once she actually gave her opinion on the future choice of a dress for Micheline, or of a special dish for the wedding banquet.
Bertrand was expected three days after the New Year. Grandmama had decided20 that if he and M. de Peyron-Bompar started on the 29th, the day after the funeral, and they were not delayed anywhere owing to the weather conditions, they need not be longer than five days on the way. Whereupon she set to, and ordered Jasmin to recruit a few lads from La Bastide or Manosque, and to clean out the coach-house and the stables, and to lay in a provision of straw and forage21, as M. le Comte de Ventadour would be arriving in a few days in his calèche with four horses and postilions.
Nor were her spirits affected22 by Bertrand’s non-arrival. The weather accounted for
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everything. The roads were blocked. If there had been a fall of snow here in the south, there must have been positive avalanches23 up in the north. And while the Comtesse Marcelle with her usual want of spirit began to droop26 once more after those few days of factitious well-being27, old Madame’s energies went on increasing, her activities never abated28. She found in Micheline a willing, eager help, and a pale semblance29 of sympathy sprang up between the young cripple and the stately old grandmother over their feverish30 plans for Bertrand’s wedding.
The tenth day after the New Year, the Comtesse Marcelle once more took to her couch. She had a serious fainting fit in the morning brought on by excitement when a carriage was heard to rattle31 along the road. When the sound died away and she realised that the carriage had not brought Bertrand, she slid down to the floor like a poor bundle of rags and was subsequently found, lying unconscious on the doorstep of her own room, where she had been standing32 waiting to clasp Bertrand in her arms.
Grandmama scolded her, tried to revive her spirits by discussing the decorations of Rixende’s proposed boudoir, but Marcelle had
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sunk back into her habitual33 listlessness and grandmama’s grandiloquent34 plans only seemed to exacerbate35 her nerves. She fell from one fainting fit into another, the presence of Pérone was hateful to her, Micheline was willing but clumsy. The next day found her in a state of fever, wide-eyed, her cheeks of an ashen36 colour, her thin hands perpetually twitching37, and a look of pathetic expectancy38 in her sunken, wearied face. In the end, though grandmama protested and brought forth39 the whole artillery40 of her sarcasm41 to bear against the project, Micheline walked over to the mas and begged Nicolette to come over and help her look after mother, who once or twice, when she moaned with the pain in her head, had expressed the desire to have the girl beside her. Of course Jaume Deydier protested, but as usual Nicolette had her way, and the next day found her installed as sick-nurse in the room of the Comtesse Marcelle. She only went home to sleep. It was decided that if the next two days saw no real improvement in the patient’s condition, a messenger should be sent over to Pertuis to fetch a physician. For the moment she certainly appeared more calm, and seemed content that Nicolette should wait on her.
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But on the fourteenth day, even old Madame appeared to be restless. All day she kept repeating to any one who happened to be nigh—to Micheline, to Pérone, to Jasmin—that the weather was accountable for Bertrand’s delay, that he and M. de Peyron-Bompar would surely be here before nightfall, and that, whatever else happened, supper must be kept ready for the two travellers and it must be good and hot.
It was then four o’clock. The volets all along the façade of the château had been closed, and the curtains closed in all the rooms. The old Comtesse, impatient at her daughter-in-law’s wan25, reproachful looks, and irritated by Nicolette’s presence in the invalid42’s room, had avoided it all day and kept to her own apartments, where Pérone, obsequious43 and sympathetic, was always ready to listen to her latest schemes and plans. Later on in the afternoon Micheline had been summoned to take coffee in grandmama’s room, and as mother seemed inclined to sleep and Nicolette had promised not to go away till Micheline returned, the latter went readily enough. The question of Micheline’s own dress for the wedding was to be the subject of debate, and Micheline, having kissed her mother, and made Nicolette swear to
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come and tell her the moment the dear patient woke, ran over to grandmama’s room.
Nicolette rearranged the pillows round Marcelle’s aching head, then she sat down by the table, and took up her needlework. After awhile it certainly seemed as if the invalid slept. The house was very still. In the hearth44 a log of olive wood crackled cheerfully. Suddenly Nicolette looked up from her work. She encountered Marcelle de Ventadour’s eyes fixed45 upon her. They looked large, dark, eager. Nicolette felt that her own heart was beating furiously, and a wave of heat rushed to her cheeks. She had heard a sound, coming from the court-yard below—a commotion—the tramp of a horse’s hoofs46 on the flagstones—she was sure of that—then the clanking of metal—a shout—Bertrand’s voice—no doubt of that——
Marcelle had raised herself on her couch: a world of expectancy in her eyes. Nicolette threw down her work, and in an instant was out of the room and running along the gallery to the top of the stairs. Here she paused for a moment, paralysed with excitement: the next she heard the clang of the bolts being pulled open, the rattling47 of the chain, and Jasmin’s cry of astonishment48:
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“M. le Comte!”
For the space of two seconds Nicolette hesitated between her longing49 to run down the stairs so as to be first to wish Tan-tan a happy New Year, and the wish to go back to the Comtesse Marcelle and see that the happy shock did not bring on an attack of fainting. The latter impulse prevailed. She turned and ran back along the gallery. But Marcelle de Ventadour had forestalled50 her. She stood on the threshold of her room, under the lintel. She had a candle in her hand and seemed hardly able to stand. In the flickering51 light, her features looked pinched and her face haggard: her hair was dishevelled and her eyes seemed preternaturally large. Nicolette ran to her, and was just in time to clasp the tottering52 form in her strong, steady arms.
“It is all right, madame,” she cried excitedly, her eyes full with tears of joy, “all right, it is Bertrand!”
“Bertrand,” the mother murmured feebly, and then reiterated53, babbling54 like a child: “It is all right, it is Bertrand!”
Bertrand came slowly across the vestibule, then more slowly still up the stairs. The two women could not see him for the moment: they just heard his slow and heavy footstep coming
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nearer and nearer. The well of the staircase was in gloom, only lit by an oil lamp that hung high up from the ceiling, and after a moment or two Bertrand came round the bend of the stairs and they saw the top of his head sunk between his shoulders. His shadow projected by the flickering lamp-light looked grotesque56 against the wall, all hunched-up, like that of an old man.
Nicolette murmured: “I’ll run and tell Micheline and Mme. la Comtesse!” but suddenly Marcelle drew her back, back into the room. The girl felt scared: all her pleasure in Bertrand’s coming had vanished. Somehow she wished that she had not seen him—that it was all a dream and that Bertrand was not really there. Marcelle had put the candle down on the table in the centre of the room. Her face looked very white, but her hands were quite steady; she turned up the lamp and blew out the candle and set it on one side, then she drew a chair close to the hearth, but she herself remained standing, only steadied herself with both her hands against the chair, and stared at the open doorway57. All the while Nicolette knew that she must not run out and meet Bertrand, that she must not call to him to hurry. His mother wished that he should come into
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her room, and tell her—tell her what? Nicolette did not know.
Now Bertrand was coming along the corridor. He paused one moment at the door: then he came in. He was in riding breeches and boots, and the collar of his coat was turned up to his ears: he held his riding whip in his gloved hand, but he had thrown down his hat, and his hair appeared moist and dishevelled. On the smooth blue cloth of his coat, myriads58 of tiny drops of moisture glistened59 like so many diamonds.
“It is snowing a little,” were the first words that he said. “I am sorry I am so wet.”
“Bertrand,” the mother cried in an agony of entreaty60, “what is it?”
He stood quite still for a moment or two, and looked at her as if he thought her crazy for asking such a question. Then he came farther into the room, threw his whip down on the table and pulled off his gloves: but still he said nothing. His mother and Nicolette watched him; but Marcelle did not ask again. She just waited. Presently he sat down on the chair by the hearth, rested his elbows on his knees and held his hands to the blaze. Nicolette from where she stood could only see his
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face in profile: it looked cold and pinched and his eyes stared into the fire.
“It is all over, mother,” he said at last, “that is all.”
Marcelle de Ventadour went up to her son, and put her thin hand on his shoulder.
“You mean——?” she murmured.
“Mme. de Mont-Pahon,” he went on in a perfectly61 quiet, matter-of-fact tone of voice, “has left the whole of her fortune to her great-niece Rixende absolutely. Two hours after the reading of the will, M. de Peyron-Bompar came to me and told me in no measured language that having heard in what a slough62 of debt I and my family were wallowing, he would not allow his daughter’s fortune to be dissipated in vain efforts to drag us out of that mire63. He ended by declaring that all idea of my marrying Rixende must at once be given up.”
Here his voice shook a little, and with a quick, impatient gesture he passed his hand across his brows. Marcelle de Ventadour said nothing for the moment. Her hand was still on his shoulder. Nicolette, who watched her closely, saw not the faintest sign of physical weakness in her quiet, silent attitude. Then as Bertrand was silent too, she asked after awhile:
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“Did you speak to Rixende?”
“Did I speak to Rixende?” he retorted, and a hard, unnatural64 laugh broke from his parched65, choking throat. “My God! until I spoke66 with her I had no idea how much humiliation67 a man could endure, and survive the shame of it.”
He buried his face in his hands and a great sob68 shook his bent69 shoulders. Marcelle de Ventadour stared wide-eyed into the fire, and Nicolette, watching Tan-tan’s grief, felt that Mother Earth could not hold greater misery70 for any child of hers than that which she endured at this moment.
“Rixende did not love you, Bertrand,” the mother murmured dully, “she never loved you.”
“She must have hated me,” Bertrand rejoined quietly, “and now she despises me too. You should have heard her laugh, mother, when I spoke to her of our life here together in the old château——”
His voice broke. Of course he could not bear to speak of it: and Nicolette had to stand by, seemingly indifferent, whilst she saw great tears force themselves into his eyes. She longed to put her arms round him, to draw his head against her cheek, to smooth his hair and
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kiss the tears away. Her heart was full with words of comfort, of hope, of love which, if only she dared, she would have given half her life to utter. But she was the stranger, the intruder even, at this hour. Except for the fact that she was genuinely afraid Marcelle de Ventadour might collapse71 at any moment, she would have slipped away unseen. Marcelle for the moment seemed to find in her son’s grief, a measure of strength such as she had not known whilst she was happy. She had led such an isolated72, self-centred life that she was too shy now to be demonstrative, and it was pathetic to watch the effort which she made to try and speak the words of comfort which obviously hovered73 on her lips; but nevertheless she stood by him, with her hand on his shoulder, and something of the magnetism74 of her love for him must have touched his senses, for presently he seized hold of her hand and pressed it against his lips.
The clock above the hearth ticked loudly with a nerve-racking monotony. The minutes sped on while Bertrand and his mother stared into the fire, both their minds a blank—grief having erased75 every other thought from their brain. Nicolette hardly dared to move. So far it seemed that Bertrand had remained entirely76
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unaware77 of her presence, and in her heart she prayed that he might not see her, lest he felt his humiliation and his misery more completely if he thought that she had witnessed it.
After awhile the Comtesse Marcelle said:
“You must be hungry, Bertrand, we’ll let grandmama know you’re here. She has ordered supper to be ready for you, as soon as you came.”
Bertrand appeared to wake as if out of a dream.
“Did you speak, mother?” he asked.
“You must be hungry, dear.”
“Yes—yes!” he murmured vaguely78. “Perhaps I am. It was a long ride from Pertuis—the roads are bad——”
“Grandmama has ordered——”
But quickly Bertrand seized his mother’s hands again. “Don’t tell grandmama yet,” he said hoarsely79. “I—I could not—not yet....”
“But you must be hungry, dear,” the mother insisted, “and grandmama will have to know,” she added gently. “And there is Micheline!”
“Yes, I know,” he retorted. “I am a fool—but—— Let us wait a little, shall we?”
Again he kissed his mother’s hands, but he never once looked up into her face. Once
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when the light from the lamp struck full upon him, Nicolette saw how much older he had grown, and that there was a look in his eyes as if he was looking into the future, and saw something there that was tragic80 and inevitable81!
That look frightened her. But what could she do? Some one ought to be warned and Bertrand should not be allowed to remain alone—not for one moment. Did the mother realise this? Was this the reason why she remained standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder, as if to warn him or to protect?
Five minutes went by, perhaps ten! For Nicolette it was an eternity82. Then suddenly grandmama’s voice was heard from way down the gallery, obviously speaking to Jasmin:
“Why was I not told at once?”
After which there was a pause, and then footsteps along the corridor: Micheline’s halting dot and carry one, grandmama’s stately gait.
“I can’t,” Bertrand said and jumped to his feet. “You tell her, mother.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” Marcelle rejoined soothingly83, quite gently as if she were speaking to a sick child.
“Let me get away somewhere,” he went on, “where she can’t see me—not just yet—I can’t——”
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It was Nicolette who ran to the door which gave on Marcelle’s bedroom, and threw it open.
“That’s it, my dear,” Marcelle said, and taking Bertrand’s hand she led him towards the door. “Nicolette is quite right—go into my bedroom—I’ll explain to grandmama.”
“Nicolette?” Bertrand murmured and turned his eyes on her, as if suddenly made aware of her presence. A dark flush spread all over his face. “I didn’t know she was here.”
The two women exchanged glances. They understood one another. It meant looking after Bertrand, and, if possible, keeping old Madame from him for a little while.
Bertrand followed Nicolette into his mother’s room. He did not speak to her again, but sank into a chair as if he were mortally tired. She went to a cupboard where a few provisions were always kept for Marcelle de Ventadour, in case she required them in the night: a bottle of wine and some cake. Nicolette put these on the table with a glass and poured out the wine.
“Drink it, Bertrand,” she whispered, “it will please your mother.”
Later she went back to the boudoir. Old Madame was standing in the middle of the
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room, and as Nicolette entered she was saying tartly84:
“But why was I not told?”
“I was just on the point of sending Nicolette to you, Madame——” Marcelle de Ventadour said timidly. Her voice was shaking, her face flushed and she wandered about the room, restlessly fingering the draperies. Whereupon the old Comtesse raised her lorgnette and stared at Nicolette.
“Ah!” she said coldly, “Mademoiselle Deydier has not yet gone?”
“She was just going, Madame,” the younger woman rejoined, “when——”
“Then you have not yet seen Bertrand?” grandmama broke in.
“No,” Marcelle replied, stammering85 and flushing, “that is——”
“What do you mean by ‘No, ... that is, ...’?” old Madame retorted sharply. “Ah ça, my good Marcelle, what is all this mystery? Where is my grandson?”
“He was here a moment ago, he——”
“And where is M. de Peyron-Bompar?”
“He did not come. He is in Paris—that is—I think so——”
“M. de Peyron-Bompar not here? But——”
Suddenly she paused: and Nicolette who
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watched her, saw that the last vestige86 of colour left her cheeks. Her eyelids87 fluttered for a moment or two, and her eyes narrowed, narrowed till they were mere88 slits89. The Comtesse Marcelle stood by the table, steadying herself against it with her hand: but that hand was shaking visibly. Old Madame walked slowly, deliberately90 across the room until she came to within two steps of her daughter-in-law: then she said very quietly:
“What has happened to Bertrand?”
Marcelle de Ventadour gave a forced little laugh.
“Why, nothing, Madame,” she said. “What should have happened?”
“You are a fool, Marcelle,” grandmama went on with slow deliberation. “Your face and your hands have betrayed you. Tell me what has happened to Bertrand.”
“Nothing,” Marcelle replied, “nothing!” But her voice broke in a sob, she sank into a chair and hid her face in her hands.
“If you don’t tell me, I will think the worst,” old Madame continued quietly. “Jasmin has seen him. He is in the house. But he dare not face me. Why not?”
But Marcelle was at the end of her tether. Now she could do no more than moan and cry.
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“His marriage with Rixende de Peyron-Bompar is broken off. Speak,” the old woman added, and with her claw-like hand seized her daughter-in-law by the shoulder, “fool, can’t you speak? Nom de Dieu, I’ll have to know presently.”
Her grip was so strong that involuntarily, Marcelle gave a cry of pain. This was more than Nicolette could stand: even her timidity gave way before her instinct of protection, of standing up for this poor, tortured, weak woman whom she loved because she was the mother of Tan-tan and suffered now almost as much as he did. She ran to Marcelle and put her arms round her, shielding her against further attack from the masterful, old woman.
“Mme. la Comtesse is overwrought,” she said firmly, “or she would have said at once what has happened. M. le Comte has come home alone. Mme. de Mont-Pahon has left the whole of her fortune to Mlle. Rixende absolutely, and so she, and M. de Peyron-Bompar have broken off the marriage, and,” she added boldly, “we are all thanking God that he has saved M. le Comte from those awful harpies!”
Old Madame had listened in perfect silence while Nicolette spoke: and indeed the girl herself
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could not help but pay a quick and grudging92 tribute of admiration93 to this old woman, who faithful to the traditions of her aristocratic forbears, received this staggering blow without flinching94 and without betraying for one instant what she felt. There was absolute silence in the room after that: only the clock continued its dreary95 and monotonous96 ticking. The Comtesse Marcelle lay back on her couch with eyes closed and a look almost of relief on her wan face, now that the dread97 moment had come and gone. Micheline had, as usual, taken refuge in the window embrasure and Nicolette knelt beside Marcelle, softly chafing98 her hands. Grandmama was still standing beside the table, lorgnette in hand, erect99 and unmoved.
“Bertrand,” she said after awhile, “is in there, I suppose.” And with her lorgnette she pointed100 to the bedroom door, which Nicolette had carefully closed when she entered, drawing the heavy portière before it, so as to prevent the sound of voices from penetrating101 through. Nicolette hoped that Bertrand had heard nothing of what had gone on in the boudoir, and now when grandmama pointed toward the door, she instinctively102 rose to her feet as if making ready to stand between this irascible old woman and the grief-stricken man.
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But old Madame only shrugged103 her shoulders and looked down with unconcealed contempt on her daughter-in-law.
“I ought to have guessed,” she said dryly, “What a fool you are, my good Marcelle!”
Then she paused a moment and added slowly as if what she wished to say caused her a painful effort.
“I suppose Bertrand said nothing about money?”
Marcelle de Ventadour opened her eyes and murmured vaguely:
“Money?”
“Pardi!” grandmama retorted impatiently, “the question of money will loom55 largely in this affair presently, I imagine. There are Bertrand’s debts——”
Again she shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference104, as if that matter was unworthy of her consideration.
“I suppose that his creditors105, when they heard that the marriage was broken off, flocked around him like vultures.—Did he not speak of that?”
Slowly Marcelle raised herself from her couch. Her eyes circled with deep purple rims106 looked large and glowing, as they remained fixed upon her mother-in-law.
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“No,” she said tonelessly, “Bertrand is too broken-hearted at present to think of money.”
“He will have to mend his heart then,” grandmama rejoined dryly, “those sharks will be after him soon.”
Marcelle threw back her head, and for a moment looked almost defiant107:
“The debts which he contracted, he did at your bidding, Madame,” she said.
“Of course he did, my good Marcelle,” old Madame retorted coldly, “but the creditors will want paying all the same. If the marriage had come about, this would have been easy enough, as I told you at the time. Bertrand was a fool not to have known how to win that jade’s affections.”
A cry of indignation rose to the mother’s throat.
“Oh!”
“Eh, what?” Madame riposted unmoved. “Young men have before now succeeded in gaining a woman’s love, even when she sat on a mountain of money-bags and he had not even one to fasten to his saddle-bow. It should have been easier for Bertrand with his physique and his accomplishments108 to win a woman’s love than it will be for him to pay his debts.”
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“You know very well,” Marcelle cried, “that he cannot do that.”
“That is why we shall have to think of something,” grandmama retorted, and at that moment went deliberately towards the door. Her hand was already on the portière and Nicolette stood by undecided what she should do, when suddenly Marcelle sprang forward more like a wild animal, defending its young, than an ailing, timid woman: she interposed her slim, shrunken form between the door and the old woman, and whispered hoarsely, but commandingly:
“What do you want with Bertrand?”
Old Madame, taken aback, raised her aristocratic eyebrows109: she looked her daughter-in-law ironically up and down, then, as was her wont111, she shrugged her shoulders and tried to push her aside.
“My dear Marcelle,” she said icily, “have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No,” Marcelle replied, in a voice which she was endeavouring to keep steady. “I only want to know what you are going to say to Bertrand.”
“That will depend on what he tells me,” grandmama went on coldly. “You do not suppose,
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I presume, that the future can be discussed without my having a say in it?”
“Certainly not,” the younger woman rejoined, “seeing that the present is entirely of your making.”
“Then I pray you let me go to Bertrand. I wish to speak with him.”
“We’ll call him. And you shall speak with him in my presence.”
Now she spoke quite firmly: her face was very pale and her eyes certainly had a wild look in them. With a mechanical gesture she pushed the unruly strands112 of her hair from her moist forehead. Old Madame gazed at her for a moment or two in silence, then she broke into harsh, ironical110 laughter.
“Ah ça, ma mie!” she said, “Will you tell me, I pray, what is the exact meaning of this melodramatic scene?”
“I have already told you,” Marcelle replied more calmly, “if you wish to speak with Bertrand, we’ll call him, and you shall speak with him here.”
“Bertrand and I understand one another. We prefer to talk together, when we are alone.”
“The matter that concerns him concerns us
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all equally. You may speak with him if you wish—but only in my presence.”
“But, nom de Dieu!” old Madame exclaimed, “will you tell me by what right you propose to stand between me and my grandson?”
“By the right which you gave me, Madame,” Marcelle replied with slow deliberation, “when you stood between your son and me.”
“Marcelle!” the old woman cried, and her harsh voice for the first time had in it a quiver of latent passion.
“The evil which you wrought91 that night,” Marcelle went on slowly, “shall not find its echo now. I was really a fool then. Such monsters as you had never been within my ken5.”
“Silence, you idiot!” old Madame broke in, throwing into her tone and into her attitude all the authority which she knew so well how to exert. But Marcelle would not be silenced. She was just one of those weak, down-trodden creatures who, when roused, are as formidable in their wrath113 as they are obstinate114 in their purpose. She spoke now as if for the past twenty years she had been longing for this relief and the words tumbled out of her mouth
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like an avalanche24 falls down the side of a mountain.
“An idiot!” she exclaimed. “Yes, you are right there, Madame! A dolt115 and a fool! but, thank God, sufficiently116 sane117 to-night to prevent your staining your hands with my son’s blood, as you did with that of his father. Had I not been a fool, should I not have guessed your purpose that night?—then, too, you wished to speak with your son alone—then too you wished to discuss the future after you had dragged him down with you into a morass118 of debts and obligations which he could not meet. To satisfy your lust119 for pomp, and for show, you made him spend and borrow, and then when the day of reckoning came——”
“Silence, Marcelle!”
“When the day of reckoning came,” Marcelle reiterated coldly, “you, his mother, placed before him the only alternative that your damnable pride would allow—a pistol which you, yourself, put into his hand.”
“My son preferred death to dishonour,” old Madame put in boldly.
“At his mother’s command,” the other retorted. “Oh! you thought I did not know, you thought I did not guess. But—you remember—it was midsummer—the window was open—I
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was down in the garden—I heard your voice: ‘My son, there is only one way open for a de Ventadour!’ I ran into the house, I ran up the stairs—you remember?—I was on the threshold when rang the pistol shot which at your bidding had ended his dear life.”
“What I did then is between me and my conscience——”
“Perhaps,” Marcelle replied, “but for what you do now, you will answer to me. I suffered once—I will not suffer again——”
Again with that same wild gesture she pushed her hair away from her forehead. Nicolette thought that she was on the point of swooning, but her excitement gave her strength: she pulled herself together, drew the portière aside, opened the door, and went through into the other room.
Grandmama appeared for a moment undecided: that her pride had received a severe shaking, there could be no doubt: for once she had been routed in a wordy combat with the woman whom she affected to despise. But she was too arrogant120, too dictatorial121 to argue, where she had failed to command. Perhaps she knew that her influence over Bertrand would not be diminished by his mother’s interference. She was not ashamed of that dark
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page in the past history: her notions of honour, and of what was due to the family name were not likely to be modified by the ravings of a sick imbecile. She was fond of Bertrand and proud of him, but if the cataclysm122 which she dreaded123 did eventually come about, she would still far sooner see him dead than dishonoured124. A debtor’s prison was no longer an impossibility for a de Ventadour; the principles of equality born of that infamous125 Revolution, and fostered by that abominable126 Corsican upstart had not been altogether eliminated from the laws of France with the restoration of her Bourbon kings. Everything nowadays was possible, even, it seems, the revolt of weak members of a family against its acknowledged head.
Marcelle had gone through into the next room without caring whether her mother-in-law followed her or not. Just as she entered she was heard to call her son’s name, tenderly, and as if in astonishment. Old Madame then took a step forward and peeped through the door. Then she threw back her head and laughed.
“What an anti-climax, eh, my good Marcelle,” she said with cool sarcasm. “See what a fool you were to make such a scene. While
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you spouted127 heroics at me about pistols and suicide, the boy was comfortably asleep. When he wakes,” she added lightly, “send him to me, and you may chaperon him if you like. I do not see a tragedy in this sleeping prince.”
With that she went: and Nicolette ran into the next room. The Comtesse Marcelle was on the verge128 of a collapse. Nicolette contrived129 to undress her and put her to bed. Bertrand did not stir. He had drunk a couple of glasses of wine and eaten some of the cake, then apparently his head had fallen forward over his arms, and leaning right across the table he had fallen asleep. The sound of voices had not roused him. He was so tired, so tired! Nicolette, while she looked after Marcelle, was longing to undo130 Bertrand’s heavy boots, and place a cushion for his head, and make him lean back in his chair. This was such an uncomfortable, lonely house, lonely for every one except old Madame, who had Pérone to look after her. Marcelle and poor little Micheline looked after themselves, and Bertrand only had old Jasmin. During Mlle. de Peyron-Bompar’s visit last May, some extra servants had been got in to make a show. They had been put into smart liveries for the time being, but had since gone away again. It was all
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a very dreary homecoming for Tan-tan, and Nicolette, who longed to look after his creature comforts, was forced to go away before she could do anything for him.
Marcelle de Ventadour kissed and thanked her. She assured her that she felt well and strong. Pérone, though dour7 and repellent, would come and see to her presently, and Micheline slept in a room close by. Between them they would look after Bertrand when he woke from this long sleep. The supper ordered for two was still there. Jasmin would see to it that Bertrand had all that he wanted.
A little reassured131, Nicolette went away at last, promising132 to come again the next day. Micheline accompanied her as far as the main door: the girl had said absolutely nothing during the long and painful scene which had put before her so grim a picture of the past: she was so self-centred, so reserved, that not even to Nicolette did she reveal what she had felt: only she clung more closely than even before to the friend whom she loved: and when the two girls finally said “good night” to one another they remained for a long time clasped in one another’s arms.
“Bertrand will be all right now,” Nicolette whispered in the end, “I don’t think old Madame
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will want to see him, and he is so tired that he will not even think. But do not leave him too much alone, Micheline. Promise!”
And Micheline promised.
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收听单词发音
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1
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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2
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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3
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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4
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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5
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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9
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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10
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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eschewed
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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13
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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14
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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15
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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16
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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17
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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18
resuscitate
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| v.使复活，使苏醒 | |
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19
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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20
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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21
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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22
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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23
avalanches
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| n.雪崩( avalanche的名词复数 ) | |
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24
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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25
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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26
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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27
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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28
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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29
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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30
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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31
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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32
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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33
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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34
grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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35
exacerbate
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| v.恶化，增剧，激怒，使加剧 | |
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36
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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37
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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38
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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39
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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40
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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41
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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42
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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43
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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44
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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45
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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46
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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48
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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49
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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50
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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52
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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53
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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54
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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55
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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56
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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57
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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58
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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59
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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60
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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62
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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63
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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64
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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65
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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66
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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67
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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68
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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69
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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72
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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73
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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74
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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75
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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78
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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79
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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80
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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81
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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82
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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83
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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84
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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85
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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86
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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87
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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88
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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89
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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90
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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91
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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92
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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93
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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94
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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95
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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96
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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97
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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98
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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99
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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100
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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101
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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102
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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103
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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104
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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105
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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106
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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107
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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108
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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109
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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110
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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111
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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112
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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114
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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115
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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116
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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117
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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