“We cannot do that, Bertrand,” she rejoined earnestly. “We have not the money. At the time of—of your father’s death the creditors took everything from us that they could: we were left with nothing—nothing but this old owl’s nest. It, too, had been heavily mortgaged, but—but a—but a kind friend paid off the mortgage, then allowed us to stay on here.”
“A kind friend,” Bertrand asked. “Who?”
“I—don’t know,” his mother replied after an imperceptible moment’s hesitation. “Your grandmother knows about it, she has always kept control of our money. We must leave it to her. She knows best.”
Then, as Bertrand relapsed into silence, she insisted more earnestly:
“You do think that your grandmother knows best, do you not, Bertrand?”
“Perhaps,” he said with an impatient sigh, and turned away.
It was then that he caught sight of Micheline—Micheline who, as was her wont, had withdrawn silently into the nearest window recess, and had sat there, patient and watchful, until such time as it pleased some one to take notice of her.
“Micheline,” Bertrand said, “have you been here all the time?”
“All the time,” she replied simply.
“It is getting late,” he remarked, and gazed out of the window to distant Luberon, behind whose highest peak the sunset had already lighted his crimson fire.