“Yes, yes, my dear,” Marcelle rejoined soothingly, quite gently as if she were speaking to a sick child.
“Let me get away somewhere,” he went on, “where she can’t see me—not just yet—I can’t——”
It was Nicolette who ran to the door which gave on Marcelle’s bedroom, and threw it open.
“That’s it, my dear,” Marcelle said, and taking Bertrand’s hand she led him towards the door. “Nicolette is quite right—go into my bedroom—I’ll explain to grandmama.”
“Nicolette?” Bertrand murmured and turned his eyes on her, as if suddenly made aware of her presence. A dark flush spread all over his face. “I didn’t know she was here.”
The two women exchanged glances. They understood one another. It meant looking after Bertrand, and, if possible, keeping old Madame from him for a little while.
Bertrand followed Nicolette into his mother’s room. He did not speak to her again, but sank into a chair as if he were mortally tired. She went to a cupboard where a few provisions were always kept for Marcelle de Ventadour, in case she required them in the night: a bottle of wine and some cake. Nicolette put these on the table with a glass and poured out the wine.
“Drink it, Bertrand,” she whispered, “it will please your mother.”
Later she went back to the boudoir. Old Madame was standing in the middle of the room, and as Nicolette entered she was saying tartly:
“But why was I not told?”