They shrieked and they shrieked, and he could no longer hear grandmama’s arguments, nor his mother’s gentle appeal. They shrieked so loudly that his head buzzed and his temples throbbed: because all the while he was straining every nerve to listen to something which was inaudible, which was drowned in that awful uproar.
After awhile the noise was stilled. Old Madame ceased to speak. The Comtesse Marcelle, wearied out by so much excitement, lay back with eyes closed against the pillows. Micheline was bathing her forehead with vinegar. Bertrand woke as from a dream. He gazed about him like a sleepwalker brought back to consciousness, and found old Madame’s slightly mocking gaze fixed upon him. She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are bewildered, my dear,” she said not unkindly. “I am not surprised. It will take you some time to realise the extent of your good fortune.”
She carefully folded the letter up again, and patted it with both her hands like a precious, precious treasure.
“What a future, Bertrand,” she exclaimed suddenly. “What a future! In my wildest dreams I had never hoped for this!”
She looked at him quizzically, then smiled again.
“Were I in your shoes, my dear, I should be equally bewildered. Take my advice and go quietly to your room and think it all over. To-morrow we will plan the immediate future. Eh?”
“Yes, to-morrow!” Bertrand assented mechanically.
“You will have to start for Paris very soon,” she went on earnestly.
“Very soon,” Bertrand assented again.