“The old Comtesse? She is very old!”
“The Comtesse Marcelle? She is always sick!”
“No one knows.”
Nicolette, vaguely frightened, questioned those who seemed to know best. Mais, voilà! no one knew anything definite, although one or two averred that they had seen a man on horseback go up to the château, soon after dawn. This detail did not calm Nicolette’s fears. On the contrary. If the sad news had come from a distance ... from Paris, for example.... Oh! it was unthinkable! But already she had made up her mind. After midday dinner she would go and see Micheline. It was but a short walk to the château, and surely father could spare her for an hour or two.
Jaume Deydier was obdurate at first. What had Nicolette to do with the château? Their affairs were no concern of hers. He himself never set foot inside that old owl’s nest, and he had hoped that by now Nicolette had had enough of those proud, ungrateful folk. If they had trouble at the mas, would some one from the château come over to see what was amiss? But Nicolette held on to her idea. If Micheline was in trouble she would have no one to comfort her. Even father could not object to her friendship with Micheline, dear, misshapen, gentle Micheline!—and then there was the Comtesse Marcelle! If the old Comtesse spoke to either of them at all, it would only be to say unkind things! Oh! it was terrible to think of those three women at the château, faced with trouble, and with no one to speak to but one another. And until recently—the last two years, in fact—Nicolette had always gone over to the château on Christmas afternoon to offer Christmas greetings and calènos from the mas, in the shape of oranges, lemons, tangerines, and a beautiful Poumpo taillado, baked by herself. And now when Micheline was perhaps in trouble, and she, Nicolette, pining to know what the trouble was oh! father could not be so cruel as to stop her going.
No doubt Deydier would have remained obdurate, but just at that moment he happened to catch sight of Ameyric. The lad was standing close by, an eager expression on his face, and—if such an imputation could be laid at the door of so sober a man as Jaume Deydier—one might almost say that an imp of mischief seized hold of him and whispered advice which he was prompt to take.
“Well, boy!” he called over to Ameyric; “what do you say? Will you call for Nicolette after dinner, and walk with her to the château?”
“Aye! and escort her back,” Ameyric replied eagerly, “if Mademoiselle Deydier will allow.”
After which the father gave the required permission, mightily satisfied with his own diplomacy. He had always believed in Christmas festivals for bringing lads and maidens together, and he himself had been tokened on Christmas Eve.
Ameyric shook him warmly by the hand: “Thank you, Mossou Deydier,” he murmured.