THE TURNING POINT
The first inkling that Nicolette had of the happenings at the château
was on Christmas Day itself after High Mass. When she came out of church
with her father some of the people had already got hold of the news:
those who had arrived late had heard of it as they came along, and with
that agitation which comes into even, monotonous lives whenever the
unexpected occurs, groups of village folk stood about outside the
church, and instead of the usual chaff and banter, every one talked only
of the one thing: the events at the château.
“What? You have not heard?”
“No, what is it?”
“A death in the family.”
“Holy Virgin, who?”
“The old Comtesse? She is very old!”
“The Comtesse Marcelle? She is always sick!”
“No one knows.”
Nicolette, vaguely frightened, questioned those who seemed to know best.
_Mais, voilà!_ no one knew anything definite, although one or two
averred that they had seen a man on horseback go up to the château, soon
after dawn. This detail did not calm Nicolette’s fears. On the contrary.
If the sad news had come from a distance ... from Paris, for example....
Oh! it was unthinkable! But already she had made up her mind. After
midday dinner she would go and see Micheline. It was but a short walk to
the château, and surely father could spare her for an hour or two.
Jaume Deydier was obdurate at first. What had Nicolette to do with the
château? Their affairs were no concern of hers. He himself never set
foot inside that old owl’s nest, and he had hoped that by now Nicolette
had had enough of those proud, ungrateful folk. If they had trouble at
the mas, would some one from the château come over to see what was
amiss? But Nicolette held on to her idea. If Micheline was in trouble
she would have no one to comfort her. Even father could not object to
her friendship with Micheline, dear, misshapen, gentle Micheline!—and
then there was the Comtesse Marcelle! If the old Comtesse spoke to
either of them at all, it would only be to say unkind things! Oh! it was
terrible to think of those three women at the château, faced with
trouble, and with no one to speak to but one another. And until
recently—the last two years, in fact—Nicolette had always gone over to
the château on Christmas afternoon to offer Christmas greetings and
_calènos_ from the mas, in the shape of oranges, lemons, tangerines, and
a beautiful _Poumpo taillado_, baked by herself. And now when Micheline
was perhaps in trouble, and she, Nicolette, pining to know what the
trouble was oh! father could not be so cruel as to stop her going.
No doubt Deydier would have remained obdurate, but just at that moment
he happened to catch sight of Ameyric. The lad was standing close by, an
eager expression on his face, and—if such an imputation could be laid at
the door of so sober a man as Jaume Deydier—one might almost say that an
imp of mischief seized hold of him and whispered advice which he was
prompt to take.
“Well, boy!” he called over to Ameyric; “what do you say? Will you call
for Nicolette after dinner, and walk with her to the château?”
“Aye! and escort her back,” Ameyric replied eagerly, “if Mademoiselle
Deydier will allow.”
After which the father gave the required permission, mightily satisfied
with his own diplomacy. He had always believed in Christmas festivals
for bringing lads and maidens together, and he himself had been tokened
on Christmas Eve.
Ameyric shook him warmly by the hand: “Thank you, Mossou Deydier,” he
murmured.
“Well, boy,” Deydier retorted in a whisper, “it should be to-day with
you, or I fear me it will be never.”
Whenever she thought over the sequence of events which had their
beginning on that Christmas morning, Nicolette always looked upon that
climb up to the château as a blank. She could not even have told you if
it was cold or warm. She wore her beautiful orange-coloured shawl with
the embroidery and deep fringe, and she had on shoes that were
thoroughly comfortable for the long tramp up the road. She knew that
Ameyric helped her to carry the baskets that contained the fruits and
cakes; she also knew that at times he talked a great deal, and that at
others there were long silences between them. She knew that she was
very, very sorry for Ameyric, because love that is not reciprocated is
the most cruel pain that can befall any man. She also tried to remember
what Father Fournier had said in his sermon at midnight Mass, and her
own firm resolution not to hate her enemies, and to submit her selfish
will to the wishes of her father.
Now and again friends overtook them and walked with them a little way,
or others coming from Pertuis met them and exchanged greetings.
The roads between the villages round about here are always busy at
Christmas time with people coming and going to and fro, from church, or
one another’s houses, and Ameyric, who grumbled when a chattering crowd
came to disturb his _tête-à-tête_ with Nicolette, had to own that, but
for the roads being so busy, he would not perhaps have been allowed to
walk at this hour with Nicolette.
And people who saw them that afternoon spread the news abroad.
“Ameyric Barnadou,” they said, “will be tokened before the New Year to
Nicolette Deydier.”
Father Siméon-Luce was just leaving the château when Nicolette arrived
there with Ameyric. Jasmin was at the door, and the old priest said
something to him, and then put on his hat. Ameyric was waiting in the
court-yard, and Nicolette, with a basket on each arm, had gone up to the
main entrance door alone. She curtsied to the priest, who nodded to her
in an absent-minded manner.
“Very sad, very sad,” he murmured abstractedly, “but only to be
expected.” Then he seemed to become aware of Nicolette’s identity, and
added kindly:
“You have come to see Mademoiselle Micheline, my child? Ah! a very sad
Christmas for them all.”
But somehow Nicolette felt that these were conventional words, and that
if there had been real sorrow at the château, Father Siméon-Luce would
have looked more sympathetic. Somewhat reassured already, Nicolette
waited till the old priest had gone across the court-yard, then she
slipped in through the great door and spoke to Jasmin:
“Who is it, Jasmin?” she asked excitedly.
“Madame de Mont-Pahon,” the old man replied, and Nicolette was conscious
of an immense feeling of relief. She had not realised herself until this
moment how desperately anxious she had been.
“She died, it seems, the night before last, in Paris,” Jasmin went on
glibly, “but how the news came here early this morning, I do not pretend
to know, Mam’zelle Nicolette,” he added in an awed whisper, “it must be
through the devil’s agency.”
Jasmin had never even tried to fathom the mysteries of the new aerial
telegraph which of late had been extended as far as Avignon, and which
brought news from Paris quicker than a man could ride from Pertuis. The
devil, in truth, had something to do with that, and Jasmin very much
hoped that Father Siméon-Luce had taken the opportunity of exorcising
those powers of darkness whilst he ate his Christmas dinner with the
family.
“Can I see Mademoiselle Micheline?” Nicolette broke in impatiently on
the old man’s mutterings.
“Yes, yes, mam’zelle! Mademoiselle Micheline must be somewhere about the
house. But mam’zelle must excuse me—we—we—are busy in the kitchen——”
“Yes, yes, go, Jasmin! I’ll find my way.”
It was now late in the afternoon, and twilight was drawing rapidly in;
while Jasmin shuffled off in one direction Nicolette made her way
through the vestibule. It was very dark, for candles were terribly dear
these days, but Nicolette knew every flagstone, every piece of furniture
in the familiar old place, and she made her way cautiously toward the
great hall, where hung the portraits. A buzz of conversation came from
there. Then and only then did Nicolette realise what a foolish thing she
had done. How would she dare thrust herself in the midst of the family
circle at a moment like this? She had taken to living of late so much in
the past that she had not realised how unwelcome she was at the château:
but now she remembered: she remembered the last time she had been here,
and how the old Comtesse had not even spoken to her, whilst Bertrand’s
fiancée had made cutting remarks about her. She looked down ruefully on
her baskets, feeling that her cakes would no more be appreciated than
herself. A furious desire seized her to turn back and to run away: but
she would leave the _calènos_ with Jasmin, for she would be ashamed to
own to her father what a coward she had been. Already she had made a
movement to go, when a name spoken over there in the portrait gallery
fell on her ear.
“Bertrand.”
Instinctively Nicolette paused: there was magic in the name: she could
not go whilst its echo lingered in the old hall.
“It need make no difference to Bertrand’s plans,” the old Comtesse was
saying in that hard, decisive tone which seemed to dispose of the
destinies of her whole family.
Hers was the only voice that penetrated as far as the vestibule where
Nicolette had remained standing; the soft, wearied tones of the Comtesse
Marcelle, and the uncertain ones of Micheline did not reach the
listener’s ears.
“No. Perhaps not for the New Year,” the old Comtesse said presently in
response to a remark from one of the others; “but soon, you may be sure.
The will will be read directly after the funeral, and there is no reason
why Bertrand should not be here a week later.”
Again there was a pause, during which all that Nicolette heard was a
weary sigh. Then Madame’s harsh voice was raised again.
“You are a fool, my good Marcelle! What should go wrong, I should like
to know?...”
Then once more a pause and presently a loud, hard laugh.
“Pardi! but I should not have credited you with such a talent for
raising bogeys, my dear. Have I not told you, over and over again, that
I had Sybille de Mont-Pahon’s definite promise that the two young people
shall be co-heirs of her fortune? Instead of lamenting there, you should
rejoice. Sybille has died most opportunely, for now Bertrand can pay his
debts even before his marriage, and the young couple can make a start
without a cloud upon the horizon of their lives!”
At this point Nicolette felt that she had no right to listen further.
She deposited her two baskets upon the table in the vestibule, and
tiptoed back to the door. Even as she did so she heard old Madame’s
unpleasant voice raised once more.
“You should thank me on your knees,” she said tartly, “for all I have
done. Debts, you call them? and dare to upbraid me for having contracted
them? Let me tell you this: Rixende de Peyron-Bompar would never have
tolerated this old barrack at all, had she seen it as it was. The stuffs
which I bought, the carpets, the liveries for those loutish servants
were so much capital invested to secure the Mont-Pahon millions. What
did they amount to? Five thousand louis at most! and we have secured
five millions and Bertrand’s happiness.”
And Nicolette, as she finally ran out of the house, heard a murmur, like
a sigh of longing:
“God grant it!”
But she was not quite sure whether the sound came from the old picture
hall, or was just the echo of the wish that had risen from her heart.
Outside she met Ameyric, and he escorted her home. He spoke again of his
love, and she was no longer impatient to hear him talk. She was
intensely sorry for him. If he had the same pain in his heart that she
had, then he was immensely to be pitied: and if it lay in her power to
make one man happy, then surely it was her duty to do so.
But she would make no definite promise.
“Let us wait until the spring,” she said, in answer to an earnest appeal
from him for a quick decision.
“Orange-blossom time?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she replied.
And with this half-promise he had perforce to be satisfied.