Micheline was the first to catch sight of her friend.
“Nicolette,” she cried, and struggled to her feet, “come quick! We are waiting for you.”
She ran to Nicolette as fast as her poor lame leg would allow, and Nicolette, who a moment ago had been assailed with the terrible temptation to play the coward and to run away, away from this strange scene, was compelled to come forward to greet the older ladies by kissing their hands as was customary, and to mix with all these people who, she vaguely felt, were hostile to her. The Comtesse Marcelle had given her a friendly kiss. But she felt like an intruder, a dependent who is tolerated, without being very welcome in the family circle. All her pride rebelled against the feeling, even though she could not combat it. It was Bertrand who made her feel so shy. He had risen very slowly and very deliberately to his feet, and it was with a formal bow and affected manner that he approached Nicolette and took her hand, then formally presented her to his fiancée.
“Mademoiselle Nicolette Deydier,” he said, “our neighbour’s daughter.”
He did not say “my oldest friend” this time. And Mademoiselle de Peyron-Bompar tore herself away from the contemplation of a box of bonbons in order to gaze on Nicolette with languid interest. There was quite a measure of impertinence in the glance which she bestowed on the girl’s plain muslin gown, on the priceless fichu of old Mechlin which she wore round her graceful shoulders and on the string of rare pearls around her neck. Nicolette felt tongue-tied and was furious with herself for her awkwardness; she, who was called little chatter-box by her father and by Margaï, could find nothing to say but “Yes!” or “No!” or short, prim answers to Rixende’s supercilious queries.
“Was the harvesting of orange-blossom finished?”
“Not quite.”
“What ennui! The smell of the flowers is enough to give one the migraine. How long would it last?”
“Another week perhaps.”
“And does that noisy dance always accompany the harvesting?”