“You have your mother to consider, M. le Comte,” was the first thing he said.
“My mother’s hold on life is so slender, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand replied. “When she is gone nothing will hold me to the château, for Micheline loves me and would be happy if she were anywhere with me.”
“And do you really mean all that you said just now?” the old man rejoined earnestly.
“Ask yourself, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand replied simply. “Do you think that I was lying?”
“No!” Deydier said firmly, and placed an affectionate hand on the other’s shoulder. “But there is old Madame——”
“For the sake of a past sin,” Bertrand retorted, “or a time-worn revenge, would you wreck Nicolette’s happiness? She loves me. She will never be happy without me. Old Madame shall never come between us. She will remain at the château, or go as she pleases, but she shall never cross my life’s path again. ’Tis with me now, and with me alone that you need deal, Monsieur Deydier. By giving up all that M. de Montaudon has offered me, I break definitely with the past, and ’tis to Nicolette that I look for the future, to Nicolette and this old place which I love: and if you no longer think me mean and unworthy....”
The words died upon his lips. He had spoken dully, quietly, with intent gaze fixed upon the flickering fire. But now, suddenly two warm, clinging arms were around his neck, a soft, silky mass of brown curls was against his cheek.
“You are right, Tan-tan,” a fairy voice murmured in his ear, “I will never be happy without you.”
The next moment he was down on his knees, pressing his face against two sweet-smelling palms, that were soft and fragrant like a mass of orange-blossom.
And Jaume Deydier tiptoed silently out of the room.