There was no question that the Comtesse Marcelle was sinking. Vitality in her was at its lowest ebb. Bertrand hardly ever left her side. Her only joy appeared to be in his presence, and that of Micheline. When her two children were near her she always seemed to revive a little, and when Bertrand made pathetic efforts to entertain her by telling her tales of gay life in Paris, she even tried to smile.
Old Madame spared her the infliction of her presence. She never entered the sick room; and Pérone only came two or three times a day to do what was necessary for the invalid.
Then one day a mounted courier arrived from Avignon. He brought a letter for old Madame.
It was in the late afternoon. The old owl’s nest was wrapped in gloom, for though the Aubussons and the tapestries, the silver and the spinet had been bought with borrowed money or else on credit, the funds had run low, and candles and oil were very dear.
Marcelle de Ventadour lay on her couch with her children beside her, and only the flickering fire-light to illumine the room. Bertrand for the first time had broached the magic word “America.” Many had gone to that far-off land of late, and made fortunes there. Why should not he tempt destiny too? He had sworn to his mother that he would never again think of suicide. The word “America” had made her tremble, but it was not so terrible as death.
And on this dull winter’s afternoon, with the fire-light making quaint, fantastic patterns on the whitewashed ceiling, they had for the first time talked seriously of America.
“But promise me, Bertrand,” mother had entreated, “that you will not think of it, until I’ve gone.”
And Micheline had said nothing: she had not even wondered what would become of her, when mother had gone and Bertrand sailed for America.
They all heard the noise attendant on the arrival of the courier: the tramping of the horse’s hoofs in the court-yard, the rattle of chains, the banging of doors, and old Madame’s voice harsh and excited. Then her quick step along the corridor, the rustle of her gown. Instinctively the three of them drew closer to one another—like trapped animals when the enemy is nigh.
Old Madame came in with arms outstretched, and an open letter in her hand.