And the wanderer stood and gazed upon this perfect picture which was his home: old Provence the land of his ancestors, of the troubadours, of the courts of love, of romance and poesy: the fragrant, exquisite, warm land of the south; and out of all this beauty, this radiance, this life, there rose in his heart a wild, mad longing that seemed almost to deprive him of his senses. Voices rose out of the valley, came down from the mountain-side, voices gentle and sweet were all around him, and the words that they murmured and whispered all became merged into one—just one magic word, a name that was the very essence, the inbeing of his longing.
“Nicolette!”
He arrived at the mas, just after they had finished supper. Jaume Deydier was sitting silent and moody, as he always was now, beside the fire. Nicolette was helping Margaï to put the house in order for the night. The front door was still on the latch and Bertrand walked straight into the living-room. At sight of him Deydier rose frowning.
“M. le Comte,” he began.
But Bertrand went boldly up to him. He placed one hand on the old man’s shoulder, and with the other drew the letter out of his pocket—the letter which had been written by M. de Montaudon who was Treasurer to the King.
“Monsieur Deydier,” he said simply, “a fortnight ago, when I had the presumption to suppose that you would consent to my marriage with your daughter, you very justly taunted me in that I had nothing whatever to offer her save a tarnished name and a multiplicity of debts. You spoke harshly that day, Monsieur Deydier——”
“My dear Bertrand,” the old man put in kindly.
“Let me have my say, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand went on speaking very rapidly, “for in truth the words are choking me. No doubt you think me an impudent puppy for daring to come to you again. But circumstances are different now—very, very different. I no longer come before you empty-handed, I come to you to-day holding here, in my hand, a brilliant career, a dazzling future. Those two things are mine—a free gift to me from one who believes in me, who means me well. They are mine, Monsieur Deydier,” and Bertrand’s voice broke on a note of pathetic entreaty, “and I have come to you to-night just to lay them without the slightest compunction or regret at the feet of Nicolette. Let her come to me,” he entreated. “I want neither money, nor luxury, nor rank. I only want her and her love. My career, my future prospects I just offer her in exchange for the right to live here with you at the mas, to be your son, your servant, your devoted worker, to do with and order about just as you please! Read this letter, Monsieur Deydier, you will see that I am not lying——Everything I have—everything I hope for—family—friends—I want nothing—if only you will give me Nicolette.”
Now his voice broke completely. He sank into a chair and hid his face in his hand, for his eyes were filled with tears.
Silently Jaume took the letter from him, and silently he read it. When he had finished reading, he gave the letter back to Bertrand.