“Who is it, Jasmin?” she asked excitedly.
“Madame de Mont-Pahon,” the old man replied, and Nicolette was conscious of an immense feeling of relief. She had not realised herself until this moment how desperately anxious she had been.
“She died, it seems, the night before last, in Paris,” Jasmin went on glibly, “but how the news came here early this morning, I do not pretend to know, Mam’zelle Nicolette,” he added in an awed whisper, “it must be through the devil’s agency.”
Jasmin had never even tried to fathom the mysteries of the new aerial telegraph which of late had been extended as far as Avignon, and which brought news from Paris quicker than a man could ride from Pertuis. The devil, in truth, had something to do with that, and Jasmin very much hoped that Father Siméon-Luce had taken the opportunity of exorcising those powers of darkness whilst he ate his Christmas dinner with the family.
“Can I see Mademoiselle Micheline?” Nicolette broke in impatiently on the old man’s mutterings.
“Yes, yes, mam’zelle! Mademoiselle Micheline must be somewhere about the house. But mam’zelle must excuse me—we—we—are busy in the kitchen——”
“Yes, yes, go, Jasmin! I’ll find my way.”
It was now late in the afternoon, and twilight was drawing rapidly in; while Jasmin shuffled off in one direction Nicolette made her way through the vestibule. It was very dark, for candles were terribly dear these days, but Nicolette knew every flagstone, every piece of furniture in the familiar old place, and she made her way cautiously toward the great hall, where hung the portraits. A buzz of conversation came from there. Then and only then did Nicolette realise what a foolish thing she had done. How would she dare thrust herself in the midst of the family circle at a moment like this? She had taken to living of late so much in the past that she had not realised how unwelcome she was at the château: but now she remembered: she remembered the last time she had been here, and how the old Comtesse had not even spoken to her, whilst Bertrand’s fiancée had made cutting remarks about her. She looked down ruefully on her baskets, feeling that her cakes would no more be appreciated than herself. A furious desire seized her to turn back and to run away: but she would leave the calènos with Jasmin, for she would be ashamed to own to her father what a coward she had been. Already she had made a movement to go, when a name spoken over there in the portrait gallery fell on her ear.
“Bertrand.”
Instinctively Nicolette paused: there was magic in the name: she could not go whilst its echo lingered in the old hall.