They talked for awhile of the future: she would not see that in his heart he was ashamed—ashamed of her generosity and of his own weakness for accepting it. But she had found the right words, and he had been in such black despair that this glorious future which she held out before him was like a vision of paradise, and he was young and human, and did not turn his back on his own happiness. Then, as time was getting on, they remembered that there was a world besides themselves: a world to which they would now have to return and which they would have to face. It was no use restarting a game of “Let’s pretend!” on their desert island. A ship had come in sight on the limitless ocean, and they must make ready to go back.

Hand in hand they wandered down the valley. It was just like one of those pictures of which Nicolette had dreamed. She and Tan-tan alone together, the Lèze murmuring at their feet, the soughing of the trees making sweet melody as they walked. Way up in the sky a thin shaft of brilliant light had rent the opalescent veil and tinged the heights of Luberon with gold. The warm sun of Provence would have its way. It tore at that drab grey veil, tore and tore, until the rent grew wider and the firmament over which he reigned was translucent and blue. The leaves on the trees mirrored the azure of the sky, the mountain stream gurgled and whispered with a sound like human laughter, and from a leafy grove of winter oak a pair of pigeons rose and flew away over the valley, and disappeared in the nebulous ether beyond.

CHAPTER XII
FATHER

There was the natural longing to keep one’s happiness to oneself just for a little while, and Nicolette decided that it would be better for Bertrand to wait awhile before coming over to the mas, until she herself had had an opportunity of speaking with her father. For the moment she felt that she was walking on clouds, and that it would be difficult to descend to earth sufficiently to deceive both father and Margaï. Nor did she deceive either of them.

“What is the matter with the child?” Jaume Deydier said after midday dinner, when Nicolette ran out of the room singing and laughing in response to nothing at all.

And Margaï shrugged her shoulders. She could not think. Deydier suggested that perhaps Ameyric.... Eh, what? Girls did not know their own hearts until a man came along and opened the little gate with his golden key. Margaï shrugged her shoulders again: this time out of contempt for a man’s mentality. It was not Ameyric of a surety who had the power to make Nicolette sing and laugh as she had not done for many a month, or to bring that glow into her cheeks and the golden light into her eyes. No, no, it was not Ameyric!

Then as the afternoon wore on and the shades of evening came creeping round the corners of the cosy room, Jaume Deydier sat in his chair beside the hearth in which great, hard olive logs blazed cheerfully. He was in a soft and gentle mood. And Nicolette told him all that had happened ... to Bertrand and to her.

Jaume Deydier heard the story of Mme. de Mont-Pahon’s will, and of Rixende’s cruelty, with a certain grim satisfaction. He was sorry for the Comtesse Marcelle—very sorry—but the blow would fall most heavily on old Madame, and for once she would see all her schemes tumbling about her ears like a house of cards.

Then Nicolette knelt down beside him and told him everything. Her walk this morning, her meeting with Bertrand: her avowal of love and offer of marriage.

“It came from me, father dear,” she said softly, “Bertrand would never have dared.”