Ah, bah! What mattered? It was all over now, thank the Lord, the good-byes and the weepings and the admonitions. The book of life lay open at last before him. To-morrow he would shake the dust of old Provence from his feet. To-morrow he would begin to read. Paris! Rixende! Wealth! The great big world. Oh, God! how weary he was of penury and of restraint!
CHAPTER III
THE HONOUR OF THE NAME
Bertrand came home for his Easter holidays after he had passed out of St. Cyr and received his commission in the King’s bodyguard: an honour which he owed as much to his name as to Madame de Mont-Pahon’s wealth and influence. He was only granted two weeks’ vacation because political conditions in Paris were in a greatly disturbed state just then, owing to the King’s arbitrary and reactionary policy, which caused almost as much seething discontent as that which precipitated the Revolution nigh on forty years ago. Louis XVIII in very truth was so unpopular at this time, and the assassination of his nephew, the Duc de Berry, two years previously, had so preyed upon his mind that he never stirred out of his château de Versailles save under a powerful escort of his trusted bodyguard.
It was therefore a matter of great importance for Bertrand’s future career that he should not be too long absent from duty, which at any moment might put him in the way of earning distinction for himself, and the personal attention of the King.
As it happened, when he did come home during the spring of that year 1822, Nicolette was detained in the convent school at Avignon because she had measles. A very prosy affair, which caused poor little Micheline many a tear.
She had been so anxious that her dear little friend should see how handsome Bertrand had grown, and how splendid he looked in his beautiful blue uniform all lavishly trimmed with gold lace, and the képi with the tuft of white feathers in front, which gave him such a martial appearance.
In truth, Micheline was so proud of her brother that she would have liked to take him round the whole neighbourhood and show him to all those who had known him as a reserved and rather puny lad. She would above all things have loved to take him across to the mas and let Jaume Deydier and Margaï see him, for then surely they would write and tell Nicolette about him. Bertrand acquiesced quite humouredly in the idea that she should thus take him on a grand tour to be inspected, and plans were formed to go over to Apt, and see M. le Curé there, and Gastinel Barnadou, the mayor of the commune, who lived at La Bastide, and whose son Ameyric was considered the handsomest lad of the country-side, and the bravest and most skilful too. All the girls were in love with him because he could run faster, jump higher, and throw the bar and the disc farther than any man between the Caulon and the Durance, but Micheline knew that as soon as Huguette or Madeleine or Rigaude set eyes on her Bertrand they would never look on any other man again. And Bertrand smiled and listened to Micheline’s plans, and promised that he would go with her to Jaume Deydier’s or to Apt, or whithersoever she chose to take him. But the Easter holidays came and went: Father Siméon-Luce came over from Manosque to celebrate Mass in the chapel of the château, then he went away again. And after Easter the weather turned cold and wet. It was raining nearly every day, and for one reason or another it was difficult to go over to the mas, and the expedition to Apt was an impossibility because there was no suitable vehicle in the coach-house of the château, and it was impossible to borrow Jaume Deydier’s barouche until one had paid him a formal visit.
And so the time went by and the day was at hand when Bertrand had to return to Versailles. Instead of going in comfort in Deydier’s barouche as far as Pertuis, he went with Jasmin in the cart, behind the old horse that had done work in and about the château for more years than Bertrand could remember. The smart officer of the King’s bodyguard sat beside the old man-of-all-work, on a wooden plank, with his feet planted on the box that contained his gorgeous uniforms, and his one thought while the old horse trotted leisurely along the rough mountain roads, was how good it would be to be back at Versailles. Visions of the brilliantly lighted salons floated tantalisingly before his gaze, of the King and the Queen, and M. le Comte d’Artois, and all the beautiful ladies of the Court, the supper and card parties, the Opera and the rides in the Bois. And amidst all these visions there was one more tantalising, more alluring than the rest: the vision of his still unknown cousin Rixende. She was coming from the fashionable convent in Paris, where she had been finishing her education, in order to spend the next summer holidays with her great-aunt, Mme. de Mont-Pahon. In his mind he could see her as the real counterpart of the picture which he had loved ever since he was a boy. Rixende of the gentian-blue eyes and fair curly locks! His Lady of the Laurels. Rixende—the heiress to the Mont-Pahons’ millions—who, with her wealth, her influence and her beauty, would help to restore the glories of the family of Ventadour, which to his mind was still the finest family in France. With her money he would restore the old feudal château in Provence, of which, despite its loneliness and dilapidated appearance, he was still inordinately proud.
Once more the halls and corridors would resound with laughter and merry-making, once more would gallant courtiers whisper words of love in fair ladies’ ears! He and lovely Rixende would restore the Courts of Love that had been the glory of old Provence in mediæval days; they would be patrons of the Arts, and attract to this fair corner of France all that was greatest among the wits, sweetest among musicians, most famous in the world of letters. Ah! they were lovely visions that accompanied Bertrand on his lonely drive through the mountain passes of his boyhood’s home. For as long as he could, he gazed behind him on the ruined towers of the old château, grimly silhouetted against the afternoon sky. Then, when a sharp turn of the road hid the old owl’s nest from view, he looked before him, where life beckoned to him full of promises and of coming joys, and where through a haze of fluffy, cream-coloured clouds, he seemed to see blue-eyed Rixende holding out to him a golden cornucopia from which fell a constant stream of roses, each holding a bag full of gold concealed in its breast.
It was owing to the war with Spain, and the many conspiracies of the Carbonari that Bertrand was unable for the next three years to obtain a sufficient extension of leave to visit his old home. He was now a full lieutenant in the King’s bodyguard, and Mme. de Mont-Pahon wrote with keen enthusiasm about his appearance and his character, both of which had earned her appreciation.