Suddenly she paused: and Nicolette who watched her, saw that the last vestige of colour left her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment or two, and her eyes narrowed, narrowed till they were mere slits. The Comtesse Marcelle stood by the table, steadying herself against it with her hand: but that hand was shaking visibly. Old Madame walked slowly, deliberately across the room until she came to within two steps of her daughter-in-law: then she said very quietly:
“What has happened to Bertrand?”
Marcelle de Ventadour gave a forced little laugh.
“Why, nothing, Madame,” she said. “What should have happened?”
“You are a fool, Marcelle,” grandmama went on with slow deliberation. “Your face and your hands have betrayed you. Tell me what has happened to Bertrand.”
“Nothing,” Marcelle replied, “nothing!” But her voice broke in a sob, she sank into a chair and hid her face in her hands.
“If you don’t tell me, I will think the worst,” old Madame continued quietly. “Jasmin has seen him. He is in the house. But he dare not face me. Why not?”
But Marcelle was at the end of her tether. Now she could do no more than moan and cry.
“His marriage with Rixende de Peyron-Bompar is broken off. Speak,” the old woman added, and with her claw-like hand seized her daughter-in-law by the shoulder, “fool, can’t you speak? Nom de Dieu, I’ll have to know presently.”
Her grip was so strong that involuntarily, Marcelle gave a cry of pain. This was more than Nicolette could stand: even her timidity gave way before her instinct of protection, of standing up for this poor, tortured, weak woman whom she loved because she was the mother of Tan-tan and suffered now almost as much as he did. She ran to Marcelle and put her arms round her, shielding her against further attack from the masterful, old woman.