“It was a cruel decision, madame,” the Comtesse Marcelle rejoined with unwonted energy, “Bertrand is young and——”
“He is seventeen,” the old Comtesse interposed in her hard, trenchant voice, “an impressionable age. And we do not want a repetition of the adventure which sent Raymond de Ventadour——”
“Hush, madame, in Heaven’s name!” her daughter-in-law broke in hastily, and glanced with quick apprehension in the direction where Bertrand stood gazing with the eager curiosity of his age, wide-eyed and excited, upon the old Comtesse, scenting a mystery of life and adventure which was being withheld from him.
Grandmama beckoned to him, and made him kneel on the little cushion at her feet. He had grown into a tall and handsome lad of late, with the graceful, slim stature of his race, and that wistful expression in the eyes which is noticeable in most of the portraits of the de Ventadours, and which gave to his young face an almost tragic look.
Grandmama with delicate, masterful hand, pushed back the fair unruly hair from the lad’s forehead and gazed searchingly into his face. He returned her glance fearlessly, even lovingly, for he was fond, in a cool kind of way, of his stately grandmother, who was so austere and so stern to everybody and unbent only for him.
“I wonder,” she said, and her eyes, which time had not yet dimmed, appeared to search the boy’s very soul.
“What at, grandmama?” he asked.
“If I can trust you, Bertrand.”
“Trust me?” the boy exclaimed, indignant at the doubt. “I am Comte de Ventadour,” he went on proudly. “I would sooner die than commit a dishonourable action....”
Whereat grandmama laughed;—an unpleasant, grating laugh it was, which acted like an icy douche upon the boy’s enthusiasm. She turned her gaze on her daughter-in-law, whose pale face took on a curious ashen hue, whilst her trembling lips murmured half incoherently: