“There, it’s getting late,” grandmama said decisively, “put down the book, Bertrand, and you may lock it up in the chest, and then give me back the key.”
But Bertrand lingered on, the book still open before him, the heavy key of the chest laid upon its open pages. He was so longing to read about his grandfather, and about his uncle Raymond, around whose name and personality there hung some kind of mystery. He thought that since he was going away on the morrow, the privileges of an enfant gâté might be accorded him to-night, and his eagerly expressed wish fulfilled. But the words had scarcely risen to his lips before grandmama said peremptorily: “Go, Bertrand, do as I tell you.”
And when grandmama spoke in that tone it was useless to attempt to disobey. Swallowing his mortification, Bertrand closed the book and, without another word, he picked up the big key and took the book and locked it up in the chest that stood in the furthest corner of the room. He felt cross and disappointed, conscious of a slight put upon him as the eldest son of the house and the only male representative of the Ventadours. He was by right the head of the family, and it was not just that he should be governed by women. Ah! when he came back from St. Cyr...!
But here his meditations were interrupted by the sound of his name spoken by his mother.
“Bertrand ought to go,” she was saying in her gentle and hesitating way, “and say good-bye to Nicolette and to Jaume Deydier and thank him for lending his barouche to-morrow.”
“I do not see the necessity,” grandmama replied. “He saw Deydier last Sunday, and methought he would have preferred to spend the rest of his time with his own sister.”
“Micheline might go with him,” mother urged, “as far as the mas. She would enjoy half an hour’s play with Nicolette.”
“In very truth,” grandmama broke in with marked irritation, “I do not understand, my good Marcelle, how you can encourage Micheline to associate with that Deydier child. I vow her manners get worse every day, and no wonder; the brat is shockingly brought up by that old fool Margaï, and Jaume Deydier himself has never been more than a peasant.”
“Nicolette is only a child,” mother had replied with a weary sigh, “and Micheline will have no one of her own age to speak to, when Bertrand has gone.”
“As to that, my dear,” grandmama retorted icily, “you have brought this early separation on yourself. Bertrand might have remained at home another couple of years, studying with Father Siméon-Luce, but frankly this intimacy with the Deydiers frightened me, and hastened my decision to send him to St. Cyr.”