CHAPTER III
THE HONOUR OF THE NAME
Bertrand came home for his Easter holidays after he had passed out of St. Cyr and received his commission in the King’s bodyguard: an honour which he owed as much to his name as to Madame de Mont-Pahon’s wealth and influence. He was only granted two weeks’ vacation because political conditions in Paris were in a greatly disturbed state just then, owing to the King’s arbitrary and reactionary policy, which caused almost as much seething discontent as that which precipitated the Revolution nigh on forty years ago. Louis XVIII in very truth was so unpopular at this time, and the assassination of his nephew, the Duc de Berry, two years previously, had so preyed upon his mind that he never stirred out of his château de Versailles save under a powerful escort of his trusted bodyguard.
It was therefore a matter of great importance for Bertrand’s future career that he should not be too long absent from duty, which at any moment might put him in the way of earning distinction for himself, and the personal attention of the King.
As it happened, when he did come home during the spring of that year 1822, Nicolette was detained in the convent school at Avignon because she had measles. A very prosy affair, which caused poor little Micheline many a tear.
She had been so anxious that her dear little friend should see how handsome Bertrand had grown, and how splendid he looked in his beautiful blue uniform all lavishly trimmed with gold lace, and the képi with the tuft of white feathers in front, which gave him such a martial appearance.
In truth, Micheline was so proud of her brother that she would have liked to take him round the whole neighbourhood and show him to all those who had known him as a reserved and rather puny lad. She would above all things have loved to take him across to the mas and let Jaume Deydier and Margaï see him, for then surely they would write and tell Nicolette about him. Bertrand acquiesced quite humouredly in the idea that she should thus take him on a grand tour to be inspected, and plans were formed to go over to Apt, and see M. le Curé there, and Gastinel Barnadou, the mayor of the commune, who lived at La Bastide, and whose son Ameyric was considered the handsomest lad of the country-side, and the bravest and most skilful too. All the girls were in love with him because he could run faster, jump higher, and throw the bar and the disc farther than any man between the Caulon and the Durance, but Micheline knew that as soon as Huguette or Madeleine or Rigaude set eyes on her Bertrand they would never look on any other man again. And Bertrand smiled and listened to Micheline’s plans, and promised that he would go with her to Jaume Deydier’s or to Apt, or whithersoever she chose to take him. But the Easter holidays came and went: Father Siméon-Luce came over from Manosque to celebrate Mass in the chapel of the château, then he went away again. And after Easter the weather turned cold and wet. It was raining nearly every day, and for one reason or another it was difficult to go over to the mas, and the expedition to Apt was an impossibility because there was no suitable vehicle in the coach-house of the château, and it was impossible to borrow Jaume Deydier’s barouche until one had paid him a formal visit.
And so the time went by and the day was at hand when Bertrand had to return to Versailles. Instead of going in comfort in Deydier’s barouche as far as Pertuis, he went with Jasmin in the cart, behind the old horse that had done work in and about the château for more years than Bertrand could remember. The smart officer of the King’s bodyguard sat beside the old man-of-all-work, on a wooden plank, with his feet planted on the box that contained his gorgeous uniforms, and his one thought while the old horse trotted leisurely along the rough mountain roads, was how good it would be to be back at Versailles. Visions of the brilliantly lighted salons floated tantalisingly before his gaze, of the King and the Queen, and M. le Comte d’Artois, and all the beautiful ladies of the Court, the supper and card parties, the Opera and the rides in the Bois. And amidst all these visions there was one more tantalising, more alluring than the rest: the vision of his still unknown cousin Rixende. She was coming from the fashionable convent in Paris, where she had been finishing her education, in order to spend the next summer holidays with her great-aunt, Mme. de Mont-Pahon. In his mind he could see her as the real counterpart of the picture which he had loved ever since he was a boy. Rixende of the gentian-blue eyes and fair curly locks! His Lady of the Laurels. Rixende—the heiress to the Mont-Pahons’ millions—who, with her wealth, her influence and her beauty, would help to restore the glories of the family of Ventadour, which to his mind was still the finest family in France. With her money he would restore the old feudal château in Provence, of which, despite its loneliness and dilapidated appearance, he was still inordinately proud.
Once more the halls and corridors would resound with laughter and merry-making, once more would gallant courtiers whisper words of love in fair ladies’ ears! He and lovely Rixende would restore the Courts of Love that had been the glory of old Provence in mediæval days; they would be patrons of the Arts, and attract to this fair corner of France all that was greatest among the wits, sweetest among musicians, most famous in the world of letters. Ah! they were lovely visions that accompanied Bertrand on his lonely drive through the mountain passes of his boyhood’s home. For as long as he could, he gazed behind him on the ruined towers of the old château, grimly silhouetted against the afternoon sky. Then, when a sharp turn of the road hid the old owl’s nest from view, he looked before him, where life beckoned to him full of promises and of coming joys, and where through a haze of fluffy, cream-coloured clouds, he seemed to see blue-eyed Rixende holding out to him a golden cornucopia from which fell a constant stream of roses, each holding a bag full of gold concealed in its breast.
It was owing to the war with Spain, and the many conspiracies of the Carbonari that Bertrand was unable for the next three years to obtain a sufficient extension of leave to visit his old home. He was now a full lieutenant in the King’s bodyguard, and Mme. de Mont-Pahon wrote with keen enthusiasm about his appearance and his character, both of which had earned her appreciation.
“It is the dream of my declining days,” she wrote to her sister, the old Comtesse de Ventadour, “that Bertrand and Rixende should be united. Both these children are very dear to me: kinship and affection binds me equally to both. I am old now, and sick, but my most earnest prayer to God is to see them happy ere I close my eyes in their last long sleep.”
In another letter she wrote:
“Bertrand has won my regard as well as my affection. In this last affair at Belfort, whither the King’s bodyguard was sent to quell the conspiracy of those abominable Carbonari, his bravery as well as his shrewdness were liberally commented on. I only wish he would make more headway in his courtship of Rixende. Of course the child is young, and does not understand how serious a thing life is: but Bertrand also is too serious at times, at others he seems to reserve his enthusiasm for the card-table or the pleasure of the chase. For his sake, as well as for that of Rixende, I would not like this marriage, on which I have set my heart, to be delayed too long.”
Later on she became even more urgent:
“The doctors tell me I have not long to live. Ah, well! my dear, I have had my time, let the two children whom I love have theirs. My fortune will suffice for a brilliant life for them, I make no doubt: but it must remain in its entirety. I will not have Bertrand squander it at cards or in pearl-necklaces for the ladies of the Opera. Therefore hurry on the marriage on your side, my good Margarita, and I will do my best on mine.”
The old Comtesse, with her sister’s last letter in her hand, hurried to her daughter-in-law’s room.
“You see, Marcelle,” she said resolutely, after a hurried and unsympathetic inquiry as to the younger woman’s health: “You see how it is. Everything depends on Bertrand. Sybille de Mont-Pahon means to divide her wealth between him and Rixende, but he will lose all if he does not exert himself. Oh! if I had been a man!” she exclaimed, and looked down with an obvious glance of contempt on the two invalids, mother and daughter, the two puny props of the tottering house of Ventadour.
“Bertrand can but lead an honourable life,” the mother argued wearily. “He is an honourable man, but you could not expect him at his age to toady to an old woman for the mere sake of her wealth.”
“Who talks of toadying?” the old woman exclaimed, with an irritable note in her harsh voice. “You are really stupid, Marcelle.”
Over five years had gone by since first Bertrand went away from the old home in Provence, driven as far as Pertuis in Deydier’s barouche, his pockets empty, and his heart full of longing for that great world into which he was just entering. Five years and more, and now he was more than a man; he was the head of the house of Ventadour, one of the most renowned families in France, who had helped to make history, and whose lineage could be traced back to the days of Charlemagne, even though, now—in the nineteenth century—they owned but a few mètres of barren land around an ancient and dilapidated château.
Not even grandmama disputed Bertrand’s right at this hour to make use of the Book of Reason as he thought best, and she had promised him over and over again of late, by written word, that when next he came to Ventadour, she would give him the key of the chest that contained the family archives. To a Provençal, the key to the Book of Reason is a symbol of his own status as head of the house, and to Bertrand it meant all that and more, because his pride in his family and lineage, and even in the old barrack which he called home was the dominating factor in all his actions, and because he felt that there could be nothing in his family history that was not worthy and honourable. There had been secrets kept from him while he was a child, secrets in connection with his father, and with his great-uncle, Raymond de Ventadour, but Bertrand was willing to admit that there might have been a reason for this, one that was good enough to determine the actions of grandmama, who was usually to be trusted in all affairs that concerned the honour of the family.
But somehow things did not occur just as Bertrand had expected. His arrival at the château was a great event, of course, and from the first he felt that he was no longer being treated as a boy, and that even his grandmother spoke to him of family affairs in tones of loving submission which went straight to his heart, and gave him that consciousness of importance for which he had been longing ever since he had left childhood’s days behind him. But close on a fortnight went by before at last, in deference to his urgent demand, she gave him the key of the chest that contained the family archives. It was a great moment for Bertrand. He would not touch the chest while anyone was in the room; his first delving into those priceless treasures should have no witness save the unseen spirit that animated him. With an indulgent shrug of her aristocratic shoulders, grandmama left him to himself, and Bertrand spent a delicious five minutes, first in turning the key in the old-fashioned lock of the chest, then lifting out the book, and turning over its time-stained pages.
He was on the lookout for records that would throw some light upon the life and adventures of his uncle Raymond de Ventadour, whose name was never mentioned by grandmama, save with a sneer. Bertrand was quite sure that if the Book of Reason had been kept as it should, he would learn something that would clear up the mystery that hung over that name. He was above all anxious to find out something definite about his own father’s death, without having recourse to the cruel task of interrogating his mother.
But though the chest contained a number of births, baptismal, marriage and death certificates, and the book a few records of the political events of the past fifty years, there was nothing there that would throw any light upon the secrets that Bertrand long to fathom. Nothing about Raymond de Ventadour, save his baptismal certificate and a brief record that he fought under General Moreau in Germany, and subsequently in Egypt. What happened to him after that, where he went, when he came back—if he came back at all—and when he died, was not chronicled in this book wherein every passing event, however futile, if it was in any way connected with the Ventadours had been recorded for the past five hundred years. In the same way there was but little said about Bertrand’s father, there was his marriage certificate to Marcelle de Cercomans, and that of his death the year of Micheline’s birth. But that was all. A few trinkets lay at the bottom of the chest, among these a seal-ring with the arms of the Ventadours engraved thereon, and their quaint device, “moun amour e moun noum.”
Bertrand loved the device; for his love and for his name, he would in very truth have sacrificed life itself. He took up the ring and slipped it on his finger; then he continued to turn over the pages of the old book, still hoping to extract from it that knowledge he so longed to possess.
Half an hour later a soft foot-tread behind him roused him from his meditations, and two loving arms were creeping round his neck:
“Are you ready, Bertrand?” Micheline asked.
“Ready for what?” he retorted.
“You said you would come over to the mas with me this afternoon.”
Bertrand frowned, and then with obvious moodiness, he picked up the family chronicle, and went to lock it up in the big dower-chest.
“You are coming, Bertrand, are you not?” Micheline insisted with a little catch in her throat.
“Not to-day, Micheline,” he replied after awhile.
“Bertrand!”
The cry came with such a note of reproach that the frown deepened on his forehead.
“Grandmama has such a violent objection to my going,” he said, somewhat shamefacedly.
“And you—at your age——” Micheline broke in more bitterly than she had ever spoken to her brother in her life; “you are going to allow, grandmama, an old woman, to dictate to you as to where you should go, and where not?”
Bertrand at this taunt aimed at his dignity had blushed to the roots of his hair, and a look of obstinacy suddenly hardened his face, making it seem quite set and old.
“There is no question,” he said coldly, “of anybody dictating to me: it is a question of etiquette and of usage. It was Jaume Deydier’s duty in the first instance to pay his respects to me.”
“It is not a question of etiquette or of usage, Bertrand,” the girl retorted hotly, “but of Nicolette our friend and playmate. I do not know what keeps Jaume Deydier from setting foot inside the château, but God knows that he owes us nothing, so why should he come? We on the other hand owe him countless kindnesses and boundless generosity, which we can never repay save by kindliness and courtesy. Why! when you were first at St. Cyr——”
“Micheline!”
The word rang out hard and trenchant, as the old Comtesse sailed into the room. Micheline at once held her tongue, cowed as she always was in the presence of her autocratic grandmother.
“What is the discussion about?” grandmama asked coldly.
“My going to the mas,” Bertrand replied.
“To pay your respects to Jaume Deydier?” she asked, with a sneer.
“To see Nicolette,” Micheline broke in boldly. “Bertrand’s oldest friend.”
“Quite a nice child,” the old Comtesse owned with ironical graciousness. “She is at liberty to come and see Bertrand when she likes.”
“She is too proud——” Micheline hazarded, then broke down suddenly in her speech, because grandmama had raised her lorgnette, and was staring at her so disconcertingly that Micheline felt tears of mortification rising to her eyes.
“So,” grandmama said with that biting sarcasm which hurt so terribly, and which she knew so well how to throw into her voice. “So Mademoiselle Deydier is proud, is she? Too proud to pay her respects to the Comtesse de Ventadour. Ah, well! let her stay at home then. It is not for a Ventadour to hold out a hand of reconciliation to one of the Deydiers.”
“Reconciliation, grandmama?” Bertrand broke in quickly. “Has there been a quarrel then?”
For a moment it seemed to Bertrand’s keenly searching eyes as if the old Comtesse’s usually magnificent composure was slightly ruffled. Certain it is that a delicate flush rose to her withered cheeks, and her retort did not come with that trenchant rapidity to which she had accustomed her family and her household. However, the hesitation—if hesitation there was—was only momentary: an instant later she had shrugged her shoulders, elevated her eyebrows with her own inimitably grandiose air, and riposted coolly:
“Quarrel? My dear Bertrand? Surely you are joking. How could there be a quarrel between us and the—er—Deydiers? The old man chooses to hold himself aloof from the château: but that is right and proper, and no doubt he knows his place. We cannot have those sort of people frequenting our house in terms of friendship—especially if your cousin Rixende should pay us a visit one of these days. Once an intimacy is set up, it is very difficult to break off again—and surely you would not wish that oil-dealer’s child to meet your future wife on terms of equality?”
“Rixende is not that yet,” Bertrand rejoined almost involuntarily, “and if she comes here——”
“She will have to come here,” grandmama said in her most decided tone. “Sybille de Mont-Pahon wishes it, and it is right and proper that Rixende should be brought here to pay her respects to me—and to your mother,” she added as with an after-thought.
“But——”
“But what,” she asked, for he seemed to hesitate.
“Rixende is so fastidious,” Bertrand said moodily. “She has been brought up in the greatest possible luxury. This old house with its faded furniture——”
“This old house with its faded furniture,” grandmama broke in icily, “has for centuries been the home of the Comtes de Ventadour, a family whose ancestors claimed kinship with kings. Surely it is good enough to shelter the daughter of a—of a—what is their name?—a Peyron-Bompar! My good Bertrand, your objections are both futile and humiliating to us all. Thank God! we have not sunk so low, that we cannot entertain a Mademoiselle—er—Peyron-Bompar and her renegade father in a manner befitting our rank.”
Grandmama had put on her grandest manner, and further argument was, of course, useless. Bertrand said nothing more, only stood by, frowning moodily. Micheline had succeeded in reaching the shelter of the window recess. From here she could still see Bertrand, could watch every play of emotion on his telltale face. She felt intensely sorry for him, and ashamed for him as well as for herself. But above all for him. He was a man, he should act as a man; whilst she was only a weak, misshapen, ugly creature with a boundless capacity for suffering, and no more courage than a cat. Even now she was conscious right through her pity for Bertrand which dominated every other feeling—of an intense sense of relief that the tattered curtain hung between her and grandmama, and concealed her from the irascible old lady’s view.
She tried to meet Bertrand’s eyes: but he purposely evaded hers. As for him, he felt vaguely ashamed he knew not exactly of what. He dared not look at Micheline, fearing to read either reproach or pity in her gaze; either of which would have galled him. For the first time, too, in his life, he felt out of tune with the ideals of the old Comtesse, whom he revered as the embodiment of all the splendours of the Ventadours. Now his pride was up in arms against her for her assumption of control. Where was his vaunted manhood? Was he—the head of the house—to be dictated to by women? Already he was lashing himself up into a state of rebellion and of fury. Planning a sudden assertion of his own authority, when his grandmother’s voice, hard and trenchant, acted like a cold douche upon his heated temper, and sobered him instantly.
“To revert to the subject of those Deydiers,” she said coldly, “my sister Mme. de Mont-Pahon has made it a point that all intimacy shall cease between you and them, before she would allow of Rixende’s engagement to you.”
“But why?” Bertrand exclaimed almost involuntarily. “In Heaven’s name, why?”
“You could ask her,” grandmama retorted quietly.
“Mme. de Mont-Pahon must understand that I seek my own friends, how and where I choose——”
“Your great-aunt would probably retort that she will then seek her heir also where and how she chooses—as well as Rixende’s future husband——”
Then as Bertrand in the excess of his shame and mortification buried his head in his hands, she went up to him, and placed her wrinkled aristocratic hand upon his shoulder.
“There, there,” she said almost gently, “don’t be childish, my dear Bertrand. Alas! when one is poor, one is always kissing the rod. All you want now is patience. Once Rixende is your wife, and my obstinate sister has left her millions to you both, and she and I have gone to join the great majority, you can please yourself in the matter of your friends.”
“It is so shameful to be poor,” Bertrand murmured bitterly.
“Yes, it is,” the old woman assented dryly. “That is the reason why I wish to drag you out of all this poverty and humiliation. But do not make the task too hard for me, Bertrand. I am old, and your mother is feeble. If I were to go you would soon drift down the road of destiny in the footsteps of your father.”
“My father?”
“Your father like you was weak and vacillating. Sunk in the slough of debt, enmeshed in a network of obligations which he had not the moral strength to meet, he blew out his brains, when broke the dawn of the inevitable day of reckoning.”
“It is false!” Bertrand cried impulsively.
He had jumped to his feet.
Clinging with one hand to the edge of the table, he faced the old Comtesse, his eyes gazing horror-struck upon that stern impassive face, on which scarce a tremor had passed while she delivered this merciless judgment on her own son.
“It is false!” the young man reiterated.
“It is true, Bertrand,” the old woman rejoined quietly. “The ring which you now wear, I myself took off his finger, after the pistol dropped from his lifeless hand.”
She was on the point of saying something more, when a long-drawn sigh, a moan, and an ominous thud, stayed the words upon her lips. Bertrand looked up at once, and the next moment darted across the room. There lay his mother, half crouching against the door frame to which she had clung when she felt herself swooning. Bertrand was down on his knees in an instant, and Micheline came as fast as she could to his side.
“Quick, Micheline, help me!” Bertrand whispered hurriedly. “She is as light as a feather. I’ll carry her to her room.”
The only one who had remained quite unmoved was the old Comtesse. When she heard the moan, and then the thud, she glanced coolly over her shoulder, and seeing her daughter-in-law, crouching helpless in the doorway, she only said dryly:
“My good Marcelle, why make a fuss? The boy was bound to know——”
But already Bertrand had lifted the poor feeble body in his arms, and was carrying his mother along the corridor to her own room. Here he deposited her on the sofa, on which in truth she spent most of her days, and here she lay now with her head against the pillows, her face so pale and drawn that Bertrand felt a great wave of love and sympathy for her surging in his heart.
“Poor little mother,” he said tenderly, and knelt by her side, chafing her cold hands, and gazing anxiously into her face. She opened her eyes, and looked at him. She seemed not to know at first what had happened.
“Bertrand!” she murmured, as if astonished to see him there.
Her astonishment in itself was an involuntary reproach, so very little of his time did Bertrand spend with his sad-eyed, ailing mother. A sharp pang of remorse went right through him as he noted, for the first time, how very aged and worn she had become since last he had been at home. Tears now were pouring down her cheeks, and he put out his arms, with a vague longing to draw her aching head to his breast, and let her rest there, while he would comfort her. She saw the gesture, and the ghost of a smile lit up her pale, wan face, and in her eyes there came a pathetic look as of a dog asking to be forgiven. With a sudden strange impulse she seized his hand, and drew it up to her lips. He snatched it away ashamed and remorseful, but she recaptured it, and began stroking it gently, tenderly: and all the while her spare, narrow shoulders shook with spasms of uncontrolled sobbing, just like a child after it has had a big, big cry. Then suddenly the smile vanished from her face, the tender look from her eyes, and an expression of horror crept into them as they fastened themselves upon his hand.
“That ring, Bertrand,” she cried hoarsely, “take it off.”
“My father’s ring?” he asked. “I want to wear it.”
“No, no, don’t wear it, my dear lamb,” his mother entreated, and moaned piteously just as if she were in pain. “Your grandmother took it off his dear, dead hand—oh, she is cruel—cruel—and without mercy ... she took it off after she——Oh, my boy! my boy! will you ever forgive?”
His one thought was just to comfort her. Awhile ago, when first his grandmother had told him, he had felt bitterly sore. His father dying a shameful death by his own hand! The shame of it was almost intolerable! And in the brief seconds that elapsed between the terrible revelation and the moment when he had to expend all his energies in looking after his mother, had held a veritable inferno of humiliation for him. As in a swift and sudden vision he saw flitting before him all sorts of little signs and indications that had puzzled him in the past, but of which he had ceased to think almost as soon as they had occurred, a look of embarrassment here, one of pity there, his grandmother’s sneers, his mother’s entreaties. He saw it all, all of a sudden. People who knew pitied him—or else they sneered. The bitterness of it had been awful. But now he forgot all that. With his mother lying there so crushed, so weak, so helpless, all that was noble and chivalrous in his nature gained the upper hand over his resentment.
“It is not for me to forgive, mother dear,” he said, “I am not my father’s judge.”
“He was so kind and good,” the poor soul went on with pathetic eagerness, “so generous. He only borrowed in order to give to others. People were always sponging on him. He never could say no—to any one—and of course we had no money to spare, to give away....”
Bertrand frowned.
“So,” he said quite quietly, “he—my father—borrowed some? He—he had debts?”
“Yes.”
“Many?”
“He—he did not pay them before he——?”
Marcelle de Ventadour slowly shook her head.
“And,” Bertrand asked, “since then? since my father—died, have his debts been paid?”
“We could not pay them,” his mother replied in a tone of dull, aching hopelessness, “we had no money. Your grandmother——”
“Grandmama,” he broke in, “said though we were poor, we could yet afford to entertain our relatives as befitted our rank. How can that be if—if we are still in debt?”
“Your grandmother is quite right, my dear boy, quite right.” Marcelle de Ventadour argued with pathetic eagerness; “she knows best. We must do our utmost—we must all do our very utmost to bring about your marriage with Rixende de Peyron-Bompar. Your great-aunt has set her heart on it, she has—she has, I know, made it a condition—your grandmother knows about it—she and Mme. de Mont-Pahon have talked it over together—Mme. de Mont-Pahon will make you her legatee on condition that you marry Rixende.”
For a moment or two Bertrand said nothing. He had jumped to his feet and stood at the foot of the couch, with head bent and a deep frown on his brow.
“I wish you had not told me that, mother,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I love Rixende, and now it will seem as if——”
“As if what?”
“As if I wooed her for the sake of Mme. de Mont-Pahon’s money.”
“That is foolishness, Bertrand,” Mme. de Ventadour said, with more energy than was habitual to her. “Let us suppose that I said nothing. And your grandmother may be wrong. Mme. de Mont-Pahon may only wish for the marriage because of her affection for you and Rixende.”
“You wish it, too, mother, of course?” Bertrand said.
The mother drew a deep sigh of longing.
“Wish it, my dear?” she rejoined. “Wish it? Why, it would turn the hell of my life into a real heaven!”
“Even though,” he insisted, “even though until that marriage is accomplished, we cannot hope to pay off any of my father’s debts, even though for the next year, at least, we must go on spending more money and more money, borrow more and more, to keep me idling in Paris and to throw dust in the eyes of Mme. de Mont-Pahon.”
“We must do it, Bertrand,” she said earnestly. “Your grandmother says that we have to think of our name, not of ourselves; that it is the future that counts, and not the present.”
“But you, mother, what is your idea about it all?”
“Oh, I, my dear? I? I count for so little—what does it matter what I think?”
“It matters a lot to me.”
Marcelle de Ventadour sighed again. For a moment it seemed as if she would make of her son a confidant of all her hopes, her