“You say nothing,” she urged with a febrile beating together of her hands, “you ask no questions. And this letter—mon Dieu, this letter—it means life to you—to us all!”
“Is it from the King, Madame?” the Comtesse Marcelle asked, still with that look on her face of a poor dog trying to propitiate his master. She was so afraid that grandmama would become angry if Bertrand remained silent—and there were the habits of a life-time—the fear of grandmama if she should become angry.
“The letter is from M. le Marquis de Montaudon,” old Madame condescended to explain. “He writes to me in answer to an appeal which I made to him on behalf of Bertrand.”
Bertrand tried to rouse himself from his apathy. The habits of a life-time ruled him too—the respect always accorded grandmama when she spoke.
“M. de Montaudon,” he said, speaking with an effort, “is treasurer to the King.”
“And a valued friend of His Majesty,” old Madame rejoined. “You must have met him in Paris.”
“No, never,” Bertrand replied. “De Montaudon is a real misanthrope where society is concerned. He leads the life of a hermit wrapped up in bank-notes, so ’tis said, and juggling all day with figures.”
“A brilliant man,” grandmama assented. “He has saved the financial situation of France and of his King. He is a man who deals in millions, and thinks in millions as others do in dozens. He and I were great friends once,” she went on with a quick, impatient sigh, “many, many years ago—in the happy days before the Revolution—my husband took me up to Paris one year when I was sick with nostalgia and ennui, and he feared that I would die of both complaints in this old owl’s nest. Then it was that I met de Montaudon—le beau Montaudon as he was called—and he fell in love with me. He had the blood of the South in his veins, for his mother was a Sicilian, and he loved me as only children of the South can love—ardently, immutably.
“My husband’s jealousy, then the turmoil of the Revolution, and finally Montaudon’s emigration to England, whence he only returned six years ago, kept us apart all this while. A whole life-time lies between the miseries of to-day and those happy, golden days in Paris. Since then my life has been one ceaseless, tireless struggle to rebuild the fortunes of this family to which I had been fool enough to link my destiny. Forty years I have worked and toiled and fought—beaten again and again—struck down by Fate and the cowardice of those who should have been my fellow-workers and my support—but vanquished never—I have fought and struggled—and had I died during the struggle I should have died fighting and unconquered. Forty years!” she went on with ever-growing excitement, whilst with a characteristic gesture of determination and energy she beat upon the letter before her with her fists, “but I have won at last! Montaudon has not forgotten. His letter here is in answer to mine. I asked him for the sake of old times to extend his patronage to my grandson, to befriend him, to help him in his career! And see his reply!”
She took up the letter once more, unfolded it, smoothed it out with loving, quivering hands. She put up her lorgnette to read: obviously her eyes were dim, filled with tears of excitement and of joy.