This last suggestion sent old Madame into a veritable frenzy of management. The marriage of the last of the de Ventadours should be solemnised with a splendour worthy of the most noble traditions of his house. Closeted all day with Pérone, her confidential maid, the old Comtesse planned and arranged: day after day couriers arrived from Avignon, from Lyons and from Marseilles, with samples and designs and suggestions for decorations, for banquets, for entertainments on a brilliant scale.
A whole fortnight went by in this whirl, old Madame having apparently eschewed all idea of mourning for her dead sister. There were consultations with Father Siméon-Luce too, the Bishop of Avignon must come over to perform the religious ceremony in the private chapel of the château: fresh altar-frontals and vestments must be ordered at Arles for the great occasion.
Old Madame’s mood was electrical: Micheline quickly succumbed to it. She was young, and despite her physical infirmities, she was woman enough to thrill at thoughts of a wedding, of pretty clothes, bridal bouquets and banquets. And she loved Rixende! the dainty fairy-like creature who, according to grandmama’s unerring judgment, would resuscitate all the past splendours of the old château and make it resound once more with song and laughter.
Even the Comtesse Marcelle was not wholly proof against the atmosphere of excitement. Meetings were held in her room, and more than once she actually gave her opinion on the future choice of a dress for Micheline, or of a special dish for the wedding banquet.
Bertrand was expected three days after the New Year. Grandmama had decided that if he and M. de Peyron-Bompar started on the 29th, the day after the funeral, and they were not delayed anywhere owing to the weather conditions, they need not be longer than five days on the way. Whereupon she set to, and ordered Jasmin to recruit a few lads from La Bastide or Manosque, and to clean out the coach-house and the stables, and to lay in a provision of straw and forage, as M. le Comte de Ventadour would be arriving in a few days in his calèche with four horses and postilions.
Nor were her spirits affected by Bertrand’s non-arrival. The weather accounted for everything. The roads were blocked. If there had been a fall of snow here in the south, there must have been positive avalanches up in the north. And while the Comtesse Marcelle with her usual want of spirit began to droop once more after those few days of factitious well-being, old Madame’s energies went on increasing, her activities never abated. She found in Micheline a willing, eager help, and a pale semblance of sympathy sprang up between the young cripple and the stately old grandmother over their feverish plans for Bertrand’s wedding.
The tenth day after the New Year, the Comtesse Marcelle once more took to her couch. She had a serious fainting fit in the morning brought on by excitement when a carriage was heard to rattle along the road. When the sound died away and she realised that the carriage had not brought Bertrand, she slid down to the floor like a poor bundle of rags and was subsequently found, lying unconscious on the doorstep of her own room, where she had been standing waiting to clasp Bertrand in her arms.
Grandmama scolded her, tried to revive her spirits by discussing the decorations of Rixende’s proposed boudoir, but Marcelle had sunk back into her habitual listlessness and grandmama’s grandiloquent plans only seemed to exacerbate her nerves. She fell from one fainting fit into another, the presence of Pérone was hateful to her, Micheline was willing but clumsy. The next day found her in a state of fever, wide-eyed, her cheeks of an ashen colour, her thin hands perpetually twitching, and a look of pathetic expectancy in her sunken, wearied face. In the end, though grandmama protested and brought forth the whole artillery of her sarcasm to bear against the project, Micheline walked over to the mas and begged Nicolette to come over and help her look after mother, who once or twice, when she moaned with the pain in her head, had expressed the desire to have the girl beside her. Of course Jaume Deydier protested, but as usual Nicolette had her way, and the next day found her installed as sick-nurse in the room of the Comtesse Marcelle. She only went home to sleep. It was decided that if the next two days saw no real improvement in the patient’s condition, a messenger should be sent over to Pertuis to fetch a physician. For the moment she certainly appeared more calm, and seemed content that Nicolette should wait on her.
But on the fourteenth day, even old Madame appeared to be restless. All day she kept repeating to any one who happened to be nigh—to Micheline, to Pérone, to Jasmin—that the weather was accountable for Bertrand’s delay, that he and M. de Peyron-Bompar would surely be here before nightfall, and that, whatever else happened, supper must be kept ready for the two travellers and it must be good and hot.
It was then four o’clock. The volets all along the façade of the château had been closed, and the curtains closed in all the rooms. The old Comtesse, impatient at her daughter-in-law’s wan, reproachful looks, and irritated by Nicolette’s presence in the invalid’s room, had avoided it all day and kept to her own apartments, where Pérone, obsequious and sympathetic, was always ready to listen to her latest schemes and plans. Later on in the afternoon Micheline had been summoned to take coffee in grandmama’s room, and as mother seemed inclined to sleep and Nicolette had promised not to go away till Micheline returned, the latter went readily enough. The question of Micheline’s own dress for the wedding was to be the subject of debate, and Micheline, having kissed her mother, and made Nicolette swear to come and tell her the moment the dear patient woke, ran over to grandmama’s room.