Not even grandmama disputed Bertrand’s right at this hour to make use of the Book of Reason as he thought best, and she had promised him over and over again of late, by written word, that when next he came to Ventadour, she would give him the key of the chest that contained the family archives. To a Provençal, the key to the Book of Reason is a symbol of his own status as head of the house, and to Bertrand it meant all that and more, because his pride in his family and lineage, and even in the old barrack which he called home was the dominating factor in all his actions, and because he felt that there could be nothing in his family history that was not worthy and honourable. There had been secrets kept from him while he was a child, secrets in connection with his father, and with his great-uncle, Raymond de Ventadour, but Bertrand was willing to admit that there might have been a reason for this, one that was good enough to determine the actions of grandmama, who was usually to be trusted in all affairs that concerned the honour of the family.
But somehow things did not occur just as Bertrand had expected. His arrival at the château was a great event, of course, and from the first he felt that he was no longer being treated as a boy, and that even his grandmother spoke to him of family affairs in tones of loving submission which went straight to his heart, and gave him that consciousness of importance for which he had been longing ever since he had left childhood’s days behind him. But close on a fortnight went by before at last, in deference to his urgent demand, she gave him the key of the chest that contained the family archives. It was a great moment for Bertrand. He would not touch the chest while anyone was in the room; his first delving into those priceless treasures should have no witness save the unseen spirit that animated him. With an indulgent shrug of her aristocratic shoulders, grandmama left him to himself, and Bertrand spent a delicious five minutes, first in turning the key in the old-fashioned lock of the chest, then lifting out the book, and turning over its time-stained pages.
He was on the lookout for records that would throw some light upon the life and adventures of his uncle Raymond de Ventadour, whose name was never mentioned by grandmama, save with a sneer. Bertrand was quite sure that if the Book of Reason had been kept as it should, he would learn something that would clear up the mystery that hung over that name. He was above all anxious to find out something definite about his own father’s death, without having recourse to the cruel task of interrogating his mother.
But though the chest contained a number of births, baptismal, marriage and death certificates, and the book a few records of the political events of the past fifty years, there was nothing there that would throw any light upon the secrets that Bertrand long to fathom. Nothing about Raymond de Ventadour, save his baptismal certificate and a brief record that he fought under General Moreau in Germany, and subsequently in Egypt. What happened to him after that, where he went, when he came back—if he came back at all—and when he died, was not chronicled in this book wherein every passing event, however futile, if it was in any way connected with the Ventadours had been recorded for the past five hundred years. In the same way there was but little said about Bertrand’s father, there was his marriage certificate to Marcelle de Cercomans, and that of his death the year of Micheline’s birth. But that was all. A few trinkets lay at the bottom of the chest, among these a seal-ring with the arms of the Ventadours engraved thereon, and their quaint device, “moun amour e moun noum.”
Bertrand loved the device; for his love and for his name, he would in very truth have sacrificed life itself. He took up the ring and slipped it on his finger; then he continued to turn over the pages of the old book, still hoping to extract from it that knowledge he so longed to possess.
Half an hour later a soft foot-tread behind him roused him from his meditations, and two loving arms were creeping round his neck:
“Are you ready, Bertrand?” Micheline asked.
“Ready for what?” he retorted.
“You said you would come over to the mas with me this afternoon.”
Bertrand frowned, and then with obvious moodiness, he picked up the family chronicle, and went to lock it up in the big dower-chest.