FATHER AND DAUGHTER
For a few seconds after Bertrand had gone, Nicolette remained standing
where she was, quite still, dry-eyed now, and with lips set; she seemed
for the moment not to have realised that he was no longer there. Then
presently, when his footsteps ceased to resound through the house, when
the front door fell to with a bang, and the gate gave a creak as it
turned on its hinges, she seemed to return to consciousness, the
consciousness of absolute silence. Not a sound now broke the stillness
of the house. Jaume Deydier had sunk into a chair and was staring
unseeing, into the fire; Margaï and the serving wenches were far away in
the kitchen. Only the old clock ticked on with dreary monotony, and the
flame from the hard olive wood burned with a dull sound like a
long-drawn-out sigh.
Then suddenly Nicolette turned and ran towards the door. But her father
was too quick for her: he jumped to his feet and stood between her and
the door.
“Where are you going, Nicolette?” he asked.
“What is that to you?” she retorted defiantly.
Just like some dumb animal that has received a death blow Deydier
uttered a hoarse cry; he staggered up against the door, and had to cling
to it as if he were about to fall. For a second or two he stared at her
almost doubting his own sanity. This then was his little Nicolette, the
baby girl who had lain in his arms, whose first toddling steps he had
guided, for whom he had lain awake o’ nights, schemed, worked, lived?
The motherless child who had never missed a mother because he had been
everything to her, had done twice as much for her as any mother could
have done? This, his little Nicolette who stabbed at his heart with that
sublime selfishness of love that rides rough-shod over every obstacle,
every affection, every duty, and in order to gain its own heaven, hurls
every other fond heart into hell?
Deydier was no longer a young man. He had married late in life, and
strenuous work had hastened one or two of the unpleasant symptoms of old
age. The last two days had brought with them such a surfeit of emotions,
such agonising sensations, that this final sorrow seemed beyond his
physical powers of endurance. Clinging to the door, he felt himself
turning giddy and faint; once or twice he drew his arm across and across
his forehead on which stood beads of cold perspiration. Then a shadow
passed before his eyes, the walls of the room appeared to be closing in
around him, hemming him in. Everything became dark, black as night; he
put out his arms, and the next moment would have measured his length on
the floor. It all occurred in less than two seconds. At his first cry
all the obstinacy, the defiance in Nicolette’s heart, melted in face of
her father’s grief—her father whom she loved better than anything in the
world. When he staggered forward she caught him. She was as strong as a
young sapling, and fear and love gave her additional strength. A chair
was close by, she was able to drag him into it, to prop him up against
the cushions, to fondle him until she saw his dear eyes open, and fasten
themselves hungrily upon her. She would then have broken down
completely, great sobs were choking her, but she would not cry, not now
when he was ill and weak, and it was her privilege to minister to him.
She found a glass and a bottle of old cognac, and made him swallow that.
But when he had drunk the cognac, and had obviously recovered, when he
drew her forcibly on his knee crying:
“My little Nicolette, my dear, dear little Nicolette,” and pressed her
head against his breast, till she could hardly breathe, when she felt
hot, heavy tears falling against her forehead, then she could not hold
back those sobs any longer, and just lay on his breast, crying, crying,
while he soothed her with his big, fond hand, murmuring with infinite
tenderness:
“There, there, my little Nicolette! Don’t—don’t cry—I ought to have told
you before. You were a grown girl, and I did not realise it—or I should
have told you before——”
“Told me what, father?” she contrived to whisper through her sobs.
“You would have understood,” he went on gently. “It was wrong of me to
think that you would just obey your old father, without understanding.
Love is a giant,” he added with a sigh, “he cannot be coerced, I ought
to have known.”
He paused a moment, and stared out straight before him. Nicolette slid
out of his arms on to the floor; her hand was resting on his knee, and
she laid her cheek against it. He drew a deep breath, and then went on:
“Your mother was just like you, my dear, I loved her with as great a
love as man ever gave to a woman. But she did not care for me—not
then.—Did she ever care, I wonder—God alone knows that.”
He sighed again, and Nicolette not daring to speak, feeling that she
stood upon the threshold of a secret orchard, that time and death had
rendered sacred, waited in silence until he should continue.
“Just like you, my dear,” Deydier resumed slowly after awhile, “she had
given her heart to one of those Ventadours. Ah! I don’t say that he was
unworthy. God forbid! Like young Bertrand he was handsome and gallant,
full I dare say of enthusiasm and idealism. And she——! Ah, my dear, if
you had only known her! She was like a flower! like an exquisite,
delicate snowdrop, with hair fairer than yours, and large grey eyes that
conquered a man’s heart with one look. All the lads of our country-side
were in love with her. Margaridette was her name, but they all called
her Ridette; as for me I was already a middle-aged man when that
precious bud opened into a perfect blossom. I was rich, and I worshipped
her, but I had nothing else to offer. She used to smile when I spoke to
her of my love, and softly murmur, sighing: ‘Poor Jaume.’
“But somehow I never gave up hope, I felt that love, as strong as mine,
must conquer in the end. How this would come about I had not troubled to
think, I was not likely to become younger or handsomer as time went on,
was I?”
Once more he paused; memories were crowding around him fast. His eyes
stared into the smouldering embers of the hearth, seeing visions of past
things that had long ceased to be.
“Then one evening, my dear, something was revealed to me. Shall I ever
forget that night, soft as a dream, warm as a downy bed; and spring was
in the air—spring that sent the blood coursing through one’s veins, and
beating against one’s temples with a delicious sense of longing and of
languor. It was Candlemas, and I had been to church at Pertuis where
Monseigneur the Bishop of Aix had celebrated Mass. I remember I had
walked over with Margaï because she had never seen a real bishop
celebrating. We had some beautiful tall green candles which I had bought
in Marseilles, they were nearly two metres high, and very thick, and of
course these were blessed by Monseigneur. The air was so marvellously
still, and we both walked so carefully with our candles, that their
lights never went out the whole of the way back from Pertuis. Your
grandmother was alive then, and my cousin Violante was staying at the
mas with her two children, so when Margaï and I arrived home with our
beautiful green candles alight, my mother started the round of the house
with them, and we all after her, Violante, the children, Margaï and the
servants, and she marked every door and every window of the mas with a
cross, as is traditional in our beautiful country, so as to preserve us
all against God’s thunder and lightning. And still the candles were
burning; neither the draught nor the rush up and down the stairs had
blown out the lights. And they were so tall and thick, that I stuck them
up on spikes which I had got ready for the purpose, and they went on
burning all through dinner and the whole of the long afternoon. And
Margaï would have it that candles blessed by a bishop were more potent
as harbingers of good fortune than those on which only the hand of a
_curé_ had lain. So when the sun had gone down, and the air was full of
the scent of spring, of young earth, and growing grass and budding
flowers, I took one of the candles and went down into the valley. I
wanted to give it to Margaridette so that all the blessings of God of
which that burning candle was the symbol, should descend upon her head.
“I went down into the valley, and walked on the shores of the Lèze. The
candle burned clear and bright, the flame hardly flickered for the air
was so still. Then suddenly I spied, coming towards me, two young forms
that seemed as one, so closely did they cling to one another. Young
Raymond de Ventadour, it was, and he had his arm around your dear
mother’s waist, and her pretty head rested against his shoulder. They
did not see me, for they were so completely absorbed in one another; and
I remained quite still, crouching behind a carob tree, lest I should
disturb them in their happiness. But when they had gone by I saw that a
breath of wind, or perhaps the lips of an angel, had blown my candle
out.
“Well, my dear, after that,” Deydier went on in a firmer and more even
voice, “I was convinced in my mind that all was well with Margaridette.
True, Raymond de Ventadour belonged to an ancient and aristocratic race,
but the Revolution was recent then, and we all held on to those ideals
of equality and fraternity for which we had suffered so terribly.
Margaridette’s father had been a ship-builder in Marseilles; he had
retired at the outbreak of the Revolution and bought a house and a
little piece of land on the other side of La Bastide. We all looked upon
him as something of an “_aristo_,” and to me it seemed the most natural
thing in the world that the two young people, being in love with one
another, should eventually get married, especially as Raymond de
Ventadour was a younger son. But though I was a middle-aged man, turned
forty then, I had it seems not sufficient experience of life to realise
to what depths of infamy man or woman can sink, when their ruling
passion is at stake. I had not yet learned to know Madame la Comtesse
Margarita de Ventadour, the Italian mother of Bertrand’s father, and of
young Raymond.
“You know her, my dear, but have you eyes sharp enough to probe the
abyss of cruelty that lies in that woman’s soul? Her arrogance, her
pride of race, her worship of grandeur have made her a fiend—no longer
human—just a monster of falsehood and of malice. Well do I remember the
day when first the news reached my ears that young M. Raymond was
affianced to Mademoiselle Marcelle de Cercamons. There,” he added
quickly, and for the first time turning his gaze on the girl kneeling at
his feet, “your dear hand is trembling on mine. You have begun to guess
something of the awful tragedy which wrecked two young lives at the
bidding of that cruel vixen. Yes, that was the news that was all over
the villages that summer. M. Raymond was marrying Mademoiselle Marcelle
de Cercamons. He was fighting under General Moreau in Germany, but he
was coming home early in the autumn to get married. There was no doubt
in anyone’s mind about it, as the news was originally brought by Pérone,
Mme. la Comtesse’s own confidential maid. She spoke—to Margaï amongst
others—about the preparations for the wedding, the beauty of Marcelle de
Cercamons, the love M. Raymond had for his beautiful fiancée. The lady
was passing rich, and the wedding would take place at her ancestral home
in Normandy; all this that spawn of Satan, the woman Pérone, told
everyone with a wealth of detail that deceived us all. Then one day she
descended like a hideous black crow on Margaridette with a letter
purporting to be from M. Raymond, in which he demanded that the poor
child should return him the ring that he had given her in token of his
faith. The next day the Comtesse left the château, accompanied by
Pérone. She was going to Normandy for the wedding of her son.”
“It was all false?” Nicolette murmured under her breath, awed by this
tale of a tragedy that she felt was also the story of her destiny.
“All false, my dear,” Deydier replied, and the fire of a fierce
resentment glowed in his deep-set eyes. “It was M. le Comte de
Ventadour, Madame’s eldest son, who was marrying Mademoiselle de
Cercamons. He, too, was away. He was in Paris, leading the life of
dissipation which one has learned to associate with his family. M.
Raymond was in Germany fighting under Moreau, and writing letters full
of glowing ardour to his beloved. But mark the fulness of that woman’s
infamy. Before her son left for the war, he had confessed to his mother
his love for Margaridette, and the Comtesse, whose cruelty is only
equalled by her cunning, appeared to acquiesce in this idyll, nay! to
bestow on it her motherly blessing. And do you know why she did that, my
dear? So as to gain the two young people’s confidence and cause them to
send all their letters to one another through her hands. How should a
boy mistrust his own mother? especially after she has blessed him and
his love; and Raymond was little more than a boy.
“Madame la Comtesse withheld all his letters from Margaridette, and all
Margaridette’s letters from him. After awhile, Margaridette thought
herself forgotten, and when the news came that her lover had been false
to her, and was about to wed another, how could she help but believe it?
“From such depths of falsehood to the mere forging of a letter and a
signature asking for the return of the ring, was but a step in this path
of iniquity. Poor Margaridette fell into the execrable trap laid for her
by those cunning hands, she fell into it like a bird, and in it received
her death wound. It was the day of the wedding at Cercamons in
Normandy—Pérone, you see, had not spared us a single detail—and I,
vaguely agitated, vaguely terrified of something I could not define,
could not rest at home. All morning, all afternoon, I tried to kill that
agitation by hard work, but the evening came and my very blood was on
fire. I felt stifled in the house. My mother, I could see, was anxious
about me; her kind eyes fell sadly on me from time to time, while she
sat knitting in this very chair by the hearth. It was late autumn, and
the day had been grey and mild, but for some hours past heavy clouds had
gathered over Luberon and spread themselves above the valley. Toward
eight o’clock the rain came down; soon it turned into a downpour. The
water beat against the shutters, the cypress trees by the gate bowed and
sighed under the wind. Presently I noticed that my mother had, as was
her wont, fallen asleep over her knitting. I seized the opportunity and
stole out of the room, and out of the house. Something seemed to be
driving me along, just as it did last night, my dear, when I found that
you had gone——”
His rough hand closed on Nicolette’s, and he lifted her back upon his
knees, and put his arms round her with an almost savage gesture of
possession.
“I went down into the valley,” he went on sombrely, “and along the river
bank. The rain beat into my face, and all around me the olive and the
carob trees were moaning and groaning under the lash of the wind. I had
a storm lanthorn with me—for in truth I do believe that God Himself sent
me out into the valley that night—and this, I swung before me as I
walked through the darkness and the gale. Something drew me on.
Something!
“And there, where the mountain stream widens into a shallow pool, and
where a great carob tree overshadows the waters, I saw Margaridette
crouching beside a boulder, just as I saw you, my little girl, last
night. Her hair was wet like yours was, her shawl had slipped from her
shoulders and was soaked in the stream; her dear arms were thrown over
the wet stone, and her face was buried in her hands. I gathered her up
in my arms. I wrapped my coat around her shoulders, and I carried her to
the mas, just as I carried you....”
He said no more, and with his arms still held tightly around his child,
he once more stared into the fire. And Nicolette lay in his arms, quite
still, quite still. Presently he spoke again, but she scarcely heard him
now: only a few phrases spoken with more passionate intensity than the
rest reached her dulled senses: “She acquiesced—just like a child who
was too sick to argue—her father urged it because he thought that
Margaridette’s name had been unpleasantly coupled with that of M.
Raymond—and then he liked me, and I was rich—and so we were married—and
I loved my Margaridette so ardently that in time, I think, she cared for
me a little, too—Then you were born, my Nicolette—and she died——”
Nicolette felt as if her very soul were numb within her; her heart felt
as if it were dead.
So then this was the end? Oh! she no longer had any illusions, no longer
any hope. What could she do in face of THIS? Her father’s grief! that
awful tragedy which he had recalled had as effectually killed every hope
as not even death could have done.
This, then, was the end? Tan-tan would in very truth go out of her life
after this. She could never see him again. Never. She could never hope
to make him understand how utterly, utterly impossible it would be for
her to deal her father another blow. It would be a death blow! And dealt
by her? No, it could not, could not be. Vaguely she asked—thinking of
Bertrand—what ultimately became of Raymond de Ventadour.
“He came back from the wars,” Deydier explained, “three months after I
had laid your mother in her grave. We, in the meanwhile, had heard of
the cruel deceit practised upon her by old Madame, we had seen M. le
Comte de Ventadour bring home his bride: and it is the fondest tribute
that I can offer to my Margaridette’s undying memory, that never once
did she make me feel that I had won her through that woman’s infamous
trick. Raymond de Ventadour had naturally been led to believe that
Margaridette had been false to him: when he came home his first visit
was to me. I think he meant to kill me. Never have I seen a man in such
a passion of despair. But, standing in the room where she died and where
you were born, I told him the whole truth just as I knew it: and I don’t
know which of us two suffered the most at that hour: he or I.”
“And after that?” Nicolette murmured.
“He went away. Some said that he fought in Egypt, and there was killed
in action. But no one ever knew: not even his mother. All we did know
was that Raymond de Ventadour never came back!”
He never came back!
And Nicolette, lying in her father’s arms, took to envying her mother
who rested so peacefully in the little churchyard way up at La Bastide.
As for her, even her life was not her own. It belonged to this
grief-stricken man who held her so closely in his arms that she knew she
could never go. It belonged to him, and would have to go on, and on, in
dreary, or cheerful monotony, while the snows on Luberon melted year
after year, and, year after year, the wild thyme and rosemary came into
bloom, and the flowers on the orange trees blossomed and withered again.
Year after year!
And Bertrand would never come back!