“Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of God,” Nicolette murmured fervently under her breath, “pray to our Lord that He may allow Bertrand to be happy.”
The next moment her father’s voice from the distance roused her from her dreams:
“Nicolette! Hey, Nicolette! Don’t stand there dreaming, child!”
She turned and ran back to the grove; the day was still young, and the harvesters were at work already. But every one noticed that for the rest of the afternoon Mademoiselle Nicolette was more silent than was her wont.
CHAPTER VII
TWILIGHT
The second time that Nicolette saw the lovely Rixende she looked very different from the shrewish, nervous rider who forgot her manners and created such an unfavourable impression on the country-side a week ago.
Nicolette, urged thereto by Micheline, had at last consented to come over to the château in order to be formally introduced to Bertrand’s fiancée.
It was Whit-Sunday, and a glorious afternoon. When Nicolette arrived she found the entire family assembled on the terrace. A table, spread with a beautiful lace cloth, was laden with all kinds of delicacies, such as even Margaï over at the mas could not have known how to bake: gâteaux and brioches, and babas, and jars of cream and cups of chocolate. The old Comtesse sat at the head of the table, her white hair dressed high above her head in the stately mode of forty years ago, and embellished with a magnificent jewelled comb. Her dress was of rich, purple brocade, made after the fashion which prevailed before the Revolution, with hoops and panniers, and round her neck she wore a magnificent rope of pearls. There were rings on her fingers set with gems that sparkled in the sunlight as she raised the silver jug and poured some chocolate out into a delicate porcelain cup.
Nicolette could scarce believe her eyes. There was such an air of splendour about old Madame to-day!
Micheline, too, looked different. She had discarded the plain, drab stuff gown she always wore, and had on a prettily made, dainty muslin frock which made her look younger, less misshapen somehow than usual. Her mother alone appeared out of key in the highly coloured picture. Though she, too, had on a silk gown, it was of the same unrelieved black which she had never discarded since Nicolette could remember anything. But the chair in which she reclined was covered in rich brocade, and her poor, tired head rested upon gorgeously embroidered cushions. The centre of interest in this family group, however, was that delicate figure of loveliness that reclined in an elegant bergère in the midst of a veritable cloud of muslin and lace, all adorned with ribbons less blue than her eyes. With a quick glance, even as she approached, Nicolette took in every detail of the dainty apparition: from the exquisite head with its wealth of golden curls, modishly dressed with a high tortoiseshell comb, down to the tiny feet in transparent silk stockings and sandal shoes that rested on a cushion of crimson velvet, on the corner of which Bertrand sat, or rather crouched, with arms folded and head raised to gaze unhindered on his beloved.