“Well, boy,” Deydier retorted in a whisper, “it should be to-day with you, or I fear me it will be never.”
Whenever she thought over the sequence of events which had their beginning on that Christmas morning, Nicolette always looked upon that climb up to the château as a blank. She could not even have told you if it was cold or warm. She wore her beautiful orange-coloured shawl with the embroidery and deep fringe, and she had on shoes that were thoroughly comfortable for the long tramp up the road. She knew that Ameyric helped her to carry the baskets that contained the fruits and cakes; she also knew that at times he talked a great deal, and that at others there were long silences between them. She knew that she was very, very sorry for Ameyric, because love that is not reciprocated is the most cruel pain that can befall any man. She also tried to remember what Father Fournier had said in his sermon at midnight Mass, and her own firm resolution not to hate her enemies, and to submit her selfish will to the wishes of her father.
Now and again friends overtook them and walked with them a little way, or others coming from Pertuis met them and exchanged greetings.
The roads between the villages round about here are always busy at Christmas time with people coming and going to and fro, from church, or one another’s houses, and Ameyric, who grumbled when a chattering crowd came to disturb his tête-à-tête with Nicolette, had to own that, but for the roads being so busy, he would not perhaps have been allowed to walk at this hour with Nicolette.
And people who saw them that afternoon spread the news abroad.
“Ameyric Barnadou,” they said, “will be tokened before the New Year to Nicolette Deydier.”
Father Siméon-Luce was just leaving the château when Nicolette arrived there with Ameyric. Jasmin was at the door, and the old priest said something to him, and then put on his hat. Ameyric was waiting in the court-yard, and Nicolette, with a basket on each arm, had gone up to the main entrance door alone. She curtsied to the priest, who nodded to her in an absent-minded manner.
“Very sad, very sad,” he murmured abstractedly, “but only to be expected.” Then he seemed to become aware of Nicolette’s identity, and added kindly:
“You have come to see Mademoiselle Micheline, my child? Ah! a very sad Christmas for them all.”
But somehow Nicolette felt that these were conventional words, and that if there had been real sorrow at the château, Father Siméon-Luce would have looked more sympathetic. Somewhat reassured already, Nicolette waited till the old priest had gone across the court-yard, then she slipped in through the great door and spoke to Jasmin: