“It is the dream of my declining days,” she wrote to her sister, the old Comtesse de Ventadour, “that Bertrand and Rixende should be united. Both these children are very dear to me: kinship and affection binds me equally to both. I am old now, and sick, but my most earnest prayer to God is to see them happy ere I close my eyes in their last long sleep.”
In another letter she wrote:
“Bertrand has won my regard as well as my affection. In this last affair at Belfort, whither the King’s bodyguard was sent to quell the conspiracy of those abominable Carbonari, his bravery as well as his shrewdness were liberally commented on. I only wish he would make more headway in his courtship of Rixende. Of course the child is young, and does not understand how serious a thing life is: but Bertrand also is too serious at times, at others he seems to reserve his enthusiasm for the card-table or the pleasure of the chase. For his sake, as well as for that of Rixende, I would not like this marriage, on which I have set my heart, to be delayed too long.”
Later on she became even more urgent:
“The doctors tell me I have not long to live. Ah, well! my dear, I have had my time, let the two children whom I love have theirs. My fortune will suffice for a brilliant life for them, I make no doubt: but it must remain in its entirety. I will not have Bertrand squander it at cards or in pearl-necklaces for the ladies of the Opera. Therefore hurry on the marriage on your side, my good Margarita, and I will do my best on mine.”
The old Comtesse, with her sister’s last letter in her hand, hurried to her daughter-in-law’s room.
“You see, Marcelle,” she said resolutely, after a hurried and unsympathetic inquiry as to the younger woman’s health: “You see how it is. Everything depends on Bertrand. Sybille de Mont-Pahon means to divide her wealth between him and Rixende, but he will lose all if he does not exert himself. Oh! if I had been a man!” she exclaimed, and looked down with an obvious glance of contempt on the two invalids, mother and daughter, the two puny props of the tottering house of Ventadour.
“Bertrand can but lead an honourable life,” the mother argued wearily. “He is an honourable man, but you could not expect him at his age to toady to an old woman for the mere sake of her wealth.”
“Who talks of toadying?” the old woman exclaimed, with an irritable note in her harsh voice. “You are really stupid, Marcelle.”
Over five years had gone by since first Bertrand went away from the old home in Provence, driven as far as Pertuis in Deydier’s barouche, his pockets empty, and his heart full of longing for that great world into which he was just entering. Five years and more, and now he was more than a man; he was the head of the house of Ventadour, one of the most renowned families in France, who had helped to make history, and whose lineage could be traced back to the days of Charlemagne, even though, now—in the nineteenth century—they owned but a few mètres of barren land around an ancient and dilapidated château.