“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.