Love had come, but it had come too late. Too late he had come to understand that whilst he gazed, intoxicated and dazzled, upon a showy, artificial flower, an exquisite and fragrant bud had bloomed all the while close to his hand. Like so many young creatures on this earth, he believed that God had especially created him for love and happiness, that the Almighty Hand had for the time being so ordained the world and society that love and happiness would inevitably fall to his lot. Nevertheless, when those two priceless blessings were actually within his reach, he had thoughtlessly and wantonly turned away from them and rushed after a mirage which had proved as cruel as it was elusive.
And now it was too late!
Like a wanderer on the face of the earth, he would henceforth be for ever seeking that which he had lost.
Only one thing held him now: held him to his home in old Provence, to the old owl’s nest and the ruined walls of his ancestral château: that was his mother. The Comtesse Marcelle, broken down in health and spirit, had such a weak hold on life that Bertrand felt that at any rate here was one little thing in the world that he could do to earn a semblance of peace and content for his soul. He could stay beside his mother and comfort her with his presence. He could allay the fears which she had for him and which seemed to drain the very fountain of life in her. So he remained beside her, spending his days beside her couch, reading to her, reassuring her as to his own state of mind. And when he went about the room, or turned toward the door, her anxious eyes would follow his every movement, as if at the back of her mind there was always the awful fear that the terrible tragedy which had darkened her life once and made of her the heart-broken widow that she was, would be re-enacted again, and she be left in uttermost loneliness and despair.
His mother, of course!
But as for Nicolette, and all that Nicolette stood for now: love, happiness, peace, content, it was too late!
Much, much too late!
He never argued with old Madame about her schemes and plans. He was much too tired to argue, and all his time belonged to his mother. She had so little time of her own left, whilst he had a kind of grotesque consciousness that grandmama would go on and on in this world, planning, scheming, writing letters, and making debts.
Oh! those awful debts! But for them Bertrand would have looked forward with perfect content to following his mother, when she went to her rest.
But there were the debts and the disgrace!