Project Management A Systems Approach to Planning Scheduling and Controlling Kerzner 11th Edition Solutions Manual

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Solution Manual for Project Management: A Systems Approach
to Planning, Scheduling, and Controlling 11th Edition
Harold R. Kerzner
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PROJECT MANAGEMENT INSTRUCTOR’S MANUAL
1–6 Project managers believe that since they control total project
costs, they are the only ones that contribute to profits, since
in “project driven” organizations all profits must come out of
the projects. Line managers, on the other hand, believe that they
are the ones who contribute to profits by assigning the right

salaried personnel at the right time to meet schedule commit-
ments. Both groups are correct. Both project managers and line
managers contribute to profits. It is a team effort.
1–7 In general, the most important attributes of a project manager
are communicative skills and interpersonal skills. Individuals
cannot be trained to be a project manager simply by taking
courses or attending seminars. Project managers can only be de-
veloped by on-the-job training. Some companies prefer to train
project managers by first rotating them through the various line
organizations (say two weeks to two months each) and then as-
signing them as an assistant project manager. The question, of
course, is how much they can learn in such a short period of
time. Promoting from within is best because the first few project
managers must know the total organization. If functional employ-
ees see promotions from within, then they feel that there are
several career paths in the company. However, the new project
managers must be able to divorce themselves from the functional
organization. It is often best to hire from the outside so that
you will have a project manager who does not have any functional
ties and does not owe any favors.
1–8 Functional managers can make good project managers if they can
divorce themselves from the functional details of the project and
act as generalist managers worrying about time and cost as well
as performance. The exception to the rule would be an R & D proj-
ect manager. Generally speaking, line managers do not make good
project managers if they have to wear two hats at the same time;
a line manager and a project manager. In this case, the line man-
ager may save the best resources for his project. His project
will be a success at the expense of every other project that he
has to supply resources for.
1–9 Functional managers would prefer to manage projects which stay
within their functional groups. This greatly reduces authority
problems. Sometimes, however, the line manager may be asked to
manage an entire project even though only 60% of the work stays
within his group. This can work if the line manager has good in-
terpersonal skills and must interface with only one or two other
departments.
1–10 All three items are more important on the horizontal line than on
the vertical line. Because the project manager is under a time
constraint, time management is vital. Communications are im-
portant because the project manager may be working with func-
tional employees that he has never worked with before. Motivation
is important because the project manager must try to motivate
functional employees without the leverage of controlling their
salaries and pay raises.

1–11 This definitely applies to project management since the project
manager may have to negotiate for all resources on the project.
1–12 All are basic characteristics of project management.
1–13 Either executives or line managers usually look over the shoulder
of the project manager. If the project is a high priority, then
executives may get actively involved and act as a project spon-
sor. And even if there exists a project sponsor, line managers
should still look over the shoulders of the project managers to
verify that all decisions are in the best interest of the company
as well as the best interest of the project.
1–14 In most organizations, power rests with the individuals that con-
trol the resources. If the project manager has to negotiate for
all resources, and the resources are still attached administra-
tively to the line manager, then project management may very well
make line managers more powerful than before. Of course, senior
management still retains the right to “glorify” the project man-
agement position.
1–15 In project-driven organizations, the fastest career path is in
project management, with project engineering second and line man-
agement third. The major reason for this is because project man-
agement and project engineering may be viewed as having direct
control and input to corporate profitability since each project
has its own profit and loss statement. In non-project-driven or-
ganizations, where the profit is measured vertically, the career
path opportunities are reversed.
1–16 Placing highly technical people in charge of a project can lead
to micromanagement and over-design with very little regard for
budget and schedule.
1–17 This is a very common situation. The project manager must be made
to realize that he is now a generalist.

CHAPTER 2
2–1 All organizational charts are examples of closed, dynamic systems
as shown in Figure 2-2.
2–2 The major item here is time. Projects generally have severe time
constraints whereas systems are ongoing entities (perhaps com-
posed of several projects) with more flexible time requirements.
2–3 R & D is a system with feedback to top management, engineering,
manufacturing, and marketing.
2–4 a. Open, closed, or extended
b. Extended
c. Closed
d. Closed
e. Closed
2–5 Organizations are static, schematic models although we would like
them to be dynamic. Generally, the change is so slow that they
cannot be considered as dynamic.
2–6 Projects can be subdivided into smaller elements such as tasks,
subtasks, and work packages. This will be discussed in Chapter
11.
2–7 People can have “tunnel vision” and not realize how their efforts
fit into the big picture, thus making integration more difficult.
2–8 People try to optimize each major or minor activity rather than
the total package.
2–9 A cost-benefit analysis or feasibility study is generally easier
in a horizontal structure because many diverse groups can pool
their knowledge toward the achievement of a single objective.
2–10 Project management can be made to work effectively on short dura-
tion activities (i.e. short life cycles). For long life cycle ac-
tivities, product rather than project management may be more ap-
plicable.
2–11 Usually this entails the establishment of major decision-making
milestones, such as budget approval, project approval, schedule
approval, and critical design reviews.
2–12 Because the project manager is under time, cost, and performance
constraints, he often has to take risks and cut corners in order
to get the task accomplished.

2-13 Yes, as long as the projects have some degree of
similarity between them. But once a totally new
project comes along, especially if it has some degree
of complexity, the company may be in trouble.
2-14 This is usually an executive decision based upon how
much control the executives want to have over the
project management processes. It is also based upon
how much trust they have in the project managers.
2-15 Assuming that maturity is accompanied by trust, the
number of phases should decrease.
2-16 Executives are afraid that they may lose control and
authority if they support project management. This is
a serious fear that must be overcome.
2-17 If the corporate culture is based upon trust,
cooperation and effective communications, the cost of
implementation can be lessened.
2-18 If you discover early on in the project that the
objectives are unrealistic and cannot be achieved, the
project might be seen as a failure because the
objectives are unreachable and also seen as a success
because it clearly shows that you were going in the
wrong direction and are no longer squandering
resources.
2-19 With informal project management, there is generally
less paperwork because the organization has faith in
the project managers and their ability to perform.
2-20 Generally speaking, formalized project management
comes first. Then, after trust is achieved, an
informal project management approach is possible.

CHAPTER 3
3–1 Grinnell and Apple are correct in that a matrix would eliminate
these problems provided that the problems are the result of poor
interaction between diverse functional groups. If these problems
are common to projects which stay within one line organization,
then the problems rest with the line managers.
3–2 Converting from a traditional to a project structure may take be-
tween two to three years if employees feel that they cannot ef-
fectively report to more than one boss, or if they feel that they
will not be evaluated effectively. Any organizational structural
change must be married to the wage and salary administration pro-
gram. Once employees learn how to report to multiple managers, a
company can convert from one project organizational form to an-
other, virtually overnight.
3–3 People should undergo therapy sessions both during conversion and
for some time after, say two to three years. The follow-up ses-
sions are designed to obtain feedback from the employees and
their recommendations as to how the system can be improved. This
should be done regardless of the form.
3–4 A matrix structure is well suited for each of these.
3–5 Not all project managers have the same amount of project author-
ity. Furthermore, the project manager, by virtue of his ability
to establish his own project policies and procedures, can dele-
gate as much authority as he wishes. Everything must be docu-
mented so that all players understand the ground rules. This will
be discussed in more depth in Section 5.3.
3–6 Under special circumstances, each of these factors can be used as
the criteria for selecting an organizational form. In general,
the only good reason for changing the organizational form is to
get better control of resources. However, since customers may
consider your organization as an extension of their own company,
they may wish to have some say as to the organizational structure
for a project.
3–7 Combining organizational forms is designed to obtain the best of
two worlds. For example, the matrix is a combination of the hori-
zontal and traditional structure. The idea is to obtain an orga-
nizational structure where the advantages grossly outweigh the
disadvantages.
3–8 Obviously, the capabilities of all levels of management are im-
portant. However, if the middle and lower-level managers have
demonstrated the ability to manage resources, then more authority
can be delegated to them and the company can be run on a day-to-

day basis by cooperation between the project and functional
managers.
3–9 Companies will always be willing to accept organizational re-
structuring if they really want or need the customer’s business.
Once a company accepts project management, the company becomes
dynamic and can usually adapt to a changing environment very
quickly because individuals learn how to report effectively to
multiple managers. Management must consider the feasibility of
the change, the impact on the existing organization, and espe-
cially the possibility that this might become a precedent for the
future.
3–10 Generally speaking, life cycles are used on long term projects
where each life cycle phase can be measured in weeks or months.
Organizational structures, although they must be able to adapt to
a changing environment, are designed for a stable flow of work.
Companies should not design organizational forms based upon the
individual life cycle phases but rather the total project life
cycle. There are exceptions, however, as in the situation where
the first phase is R & D and the remaining phases include selling
in the market. (See Problem 3–11)
3–11 R & D is one of the best applications of the matrix structure be-
cause the best technical resources can be shared between projects
and the general atmosphere fosters teamwork.
3–12 The company has been very successful in the past using informal
project management where people appear to be talking to one an-
other and making decisions which are in the best interest of the
project. This type of structure cannot work effectively for large
organizations or large projects which span several departments.
However, many companies find this organizational structure effec-
tive because they get the advantages of formal project management
without the disadvantages of the necessity for formally defined
authority and a massive flow of paperwork. Personnel resent orga-
nizational change unless they are convinced that the new struc-
ture will give them more authority, responsibility, opportunity
for advancement, ability to build an empire, more status, more
pay, and other such arguments.
3–13 Both statements are correct.
3–14 All three statements are correct.
3–15 The first concern in selecting an organizational form for a small
company is to minimize the overhead rate. This is usually accom-
plished by minimizing the number of top-level managers while try-
ing to delegate the minimum amount of authority (especially for
decision-making) to lower-level personnel. Therefore, although
some companies may wish to have an informal matrix, the usual se-
lection is the formal, traditional structure.
3–16 Project managers believe that they report to every executive in

the organization and the customer even though they may be
attached to one line group. In addition, some project managers
believe that they must report to every line manager as well since
only the line managers control resources. Function team members
report formally to their line manager and informally to all proj-
ect managers. Some line employees try to avoid the “horizontal”
informal reporting by asserting that they have only one boss.
Functional managers report to only one person, their functional
executive.
3–17 If a project organization were large enough to control its own
resources on a full-time basis, then a project organizational
form may not be acceptable. Most of the time, when this occurs,
the project is shown as a vertical line on the organizational
chart, perhaps as a separate division, rather than a horizontal
line.
3–18 Yes. There is a tendency to create more upper-level management
slots when first going to a matrix in order to obtain better con-
trol. However, there comes a point where the matrix becomes ma-
ture and less top-level personnel are required.
3–19, 3–20 A matrix organizational form is that structure which best
fosters teamwork and communications. The reason for this is be-
cause it forces people in each one of the functional disciplines
to communicate with one another, and if the project manager gives
these people more information than they have to have (i.e. the
total picture), then this has a tremendous bearing on how well
people will communicate with one another and work together.
3–21 Yes. The matrix structure can be used in banks to create banking
general managers. Branch managers are often regarded as banking
general managers performing in a matrix.
3–22 A separate project management division would alleviate many of
the problems. However, line managers may perceive this new divi-
sion as a threat to their power base and authority, and may not
provide the support needed. A training program will be necessary
to convince the line managers that the new structure is in the
best interest of the company.
3–23 Project-driven industries identify all corporate profitability
and loss on a project-by-project basis since the entire function
of the organization is to support projects. Such industries would
be aerospace, defense, construction, and divisions within larger
companies, such as the MIS groups. Matrix structures are ideal
for project-driven industries.
3–24 It is always better to have one individual who is dedicated and
committed (perhaps through full-time assignment) than to fragment
the responsibility among several people who must share their loy-
alties among several projects.
3–25 The major reasons are usually attributed to the responsibility

for profit and loss. The greater one’s influence on profit or
loss, the higher one usually reports. Another reason for re-
porting high is customer interfacing.
3–26 For projects internal to the department, this works well. How-
ever, when interfacing with other departments becomes necessary,
Ralph may find a greater need for interpersonal skills.
3–27 As long as the other divisions are willing to provide support,
this situation can work. The other divisions must be allowed to
participate in planning and decision-making. Using the project
management division would be easier, but not necessarily more
practical. Not all projects must flow through the project manage-
ment division.
3–28 Project management advocates that there is no one best way to or-
ganize under all conditions. Organizations must be dynamic in or-
der to respond rapidly to an ever-changing environment. The needs
of the organization should determine the structure and, as needs
change, so should the structure.
3–29 This situation can do more harm than good. Organizational charts
do not necessarily indicate the balance of power in the organiza-
tion. The line managers may be upset about seeing project manag-
ers drawn in higher positions on the organizational charts.
3–30 Both statements are true and should be considered in developing
matrix structures.
3–31 With this many project managers, it is best to set up a line
group for project managers. It is not uncommon for 15 project
managers to report to one manager of project managers. The reason
for this is that project managers should not require any direct
supervision.
3–32 Project management can work here, but a matrix is not practical.
Departmental project management may be best.
3–33 Project task forces generally have full-time membership whereas
pure project management advocates sharing resources on several
projects which can support full-time membership.
3–34 It is highly unlikely that both formal and informal project man-
agement can be in use at the same time and yet share the same re-
sources.
3–35 The best application of such a structure is for multinational
corporations and multinational projects.
3–36 Informal project is designed for non-project-driven organiza-
tions. The characteristics are (1) low need to define authority
of the project manager, (2) low need to bury the project in pa-
perwork, and (3) free flow of information among company per-
sonnel.
3–37 Yes. It is possible to have one matrix for the flow of work and a
second matrix for communications or authority.
3–38 Project-driven organizations are used to these problems and cope

well. Some companies may have 50–100 projects going on at the
same time. If the company has a severe problem because of too
many projects, then executives must be willing to delay approval
or startup of projects in order to match availability of re-
sources.
3–39 The problem is not necessarily with matrix design as much as it
is with security. Going to a matrix may make priority information
available to more people than necessary.
3–40 Implementation can be done in stages, say from division to divi-
sion. However, this will take much longer than implementing proj-
ect management across the entire organization simultaneously.
Partial implementation may result in having to solve the same
problems over and over again.
3–41 As long as both categories of projects are prioritized from the
same list, the line managers may find it easier to allocate re-
sources. Without common priorities, short-term thinking together
with immediate profits may become more important than long-term
thinking and long-term profits.
3–42 The corporate engineering function is designed to supply a pro-
fessional project manager to any line group needing service. The
project manager reports “solid” to corporate engineering and
“dotted” to whichever manager requires the services.

CHAPTER 4
4–1 The situations described here can occur in any organizational
structure, not necessarily a project form. However, the relative
intensity of this situation can vary. These situations are usu-
ally more pronounced in a matrix than in any other organizational
form.
4–2 If the project manager must direct an activity which requires the
establishment of a project team, then the project manager must
have the authority to obtain (or at least request) manpower as
necessary provided that the project constraints are not violated.
4–3 All three statements are true. The first statement, however, may
have a flaw. Generally speaking, if there exists an atmosphere of
trust, there may not be any need for a close customer-contractor
working relationship. This, of course, may depend upon who the
customer is.
4–4 Project management is designed to make effective utilization of
resources. This is accomplished by sharing key personnel as
needed, thus fostering an atmosphere of variable manpower load-
ing. Performance evaluation is complex only if the line manager
does not have sufficient time to observe his people in action,
and therefore must rely upon the project manager for input. The
project manager utilizes this input as a leverage tool to moti-
vate his personnel (see Journal of Systems Management, February
1980 for the author’s article, “Personnel Evaluation in Project
Management”). In project management, it is often impossible to
distinguish between the various grade levels of project manage-
ment and project engineering. Although these grade levels may
be possible in a functional department, functional employees are
often asked to work both above and below their normal pay grades,
thus questioning the validity of using pay grades. Training in a
project environment requires that people learn how to report and
interact horizontally as well as vertically at the same time. Mo-
rale problems may be greater in a project environment because
both project and functional managers may be competing for the
loyalty of the employee.
4–5 According to the description given here, project managers appear
to be grossly underpaid medical doctors. The job descriptions are
the same except that only the life and death of the project is at
stake.
4–6 Paul should pick up these employees early if they are that neces-
sary for success and if the increased costs are not a problem.
Trade-off analyses may be required. This is a common technique

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“He did not come. He is in Paris—that is—I think so——”
“M. de Peyron-Bompar not here? But——”
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.

“Mme. la Comtesse is overwrought,” she said firmly, “or she would
have said at once what has happened. M. le Comte has come home
alone. Mme. de Mont-Pahon has left the whole of her fortune to Mlle.
Rixende absolutely, and so she, and M. de Peyron-Bompar have
broken off the marriage, and,” she added boldly, “we are all thanking
God that he has saved M. le Comte from those awful harpies!”
Old Madame had listened in perfect silence while Nicolette spoke:
and indeed the girl herself could not help but pay a quick and
grudging tribute of admiration to this old woman, who faithful to the
traditions of her aristocratic forbears, received this staggering blow
without flinching and without betraying for one instant what she felt.
There was absolute silence in the room after that: only the clock
continued its dreary and monotonous ticking. The Comtesse
Marcelle lay back on her couch with eyes closed and a look almost of
relief on her wan face, now that the dread moment had come and
gone. Micheline had, as usual, taken refuge in the window embrasure
and Nicolette knelt beside Marcelle, softly chafing her hands.
Grandmama was still standing beside the table, lorgnette in hand,
erect and unmoved.
“Bertrand,” she said after awhile, “is in there, I suppose.” And with
her lorgnette she pointed to the bedroom door, which Nicolette had
carefully closed when she entered, drawing the heavy portière before
it, so as to prevent the sound of voices from penetrating through.
Nicolette hoped that Bertrand had heard nothing of what had gone
on in the boudoir, and now when grandmama pointed toward the
door, she instinctively rose to her feet as if making ready to stand
between this irascible old woman and the grief-stricken man. But old
Madame only shrugged her shoulders and looked down with
unconcealed contempt on her daughter-in-law.
“I ought to have guessed,” she said dryly, “What a fool you are, my
good Marcelle!”
Then she paused a moment and added slowly as if what she wished
to say caused her a painful effort.
“I suppose Bertrand said nothing about money?”
Marcelle de Ventadour opened her eyes and murmured vaguely:
“Money?”

“Pardi!” grandmama retorted impatiently, “the question of money
will loom largely in this affair presently, I imagine. There are
Bertrand’s debts——”
Again she shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference, as if
that matter was unworthy of her consideration.
“I suppose that his creditors, when they heard that the marriage
was broken off, flocked around him like vultures.—Did he not speak
of that?”
Slowly Marcelle raised herself from her couch. Her eyes circled
with deep purple rims looked large and glowing, as they remained
fixed upon her mother-in-law.
“No,” she said tonelessly, “Bertrand is too broken-hearted at
present to think of money.”
“He will have to mend his heart then,” grandmama rejoined dryly,
“those sharks will be after him soon.”
Marcelle threw back her head, and for a moment looked almost
defiant:
“The debts which he contracted, he did at your bidding, Madame,”
she said.
“Of course he did, my good Marcelle,” old Madame retorted coldly,
“but the creditors will want paying all the same. If the marriage had
come about, this would have been easy enough, as I told you at the
time. Bertrand was a fool not to have known how to win that jade’s
affections.”
A cry of indignation rose to the mother’s throat.
“Oh!”
“Eh, what?” Madame riposted unmoved. “Young men have before
now succeeded in gaining a woman’s love, even when she sat on a
mountain of money-bags and he had not even one to fasten to his
saddle-bow. It should have been easier for Bertrand with his
physique and his accomplishments to win a woman’s love than it will
be for him to pay his debts.”
“You know very well,” Marcelle cried, “that he cannot do that.”
“That is why we shall have to think of something,” grandmama
retorted, and at that moment went deliberately towards the door.
Her hand was already on the portière and Nicolette stood by

undecided what she should do, when suddenly Marcelle sprang
forward more like a wild animal, defending its young, than an ailing,
timid woman: she interposed her slim, shrunken form between the
door and the old woman, and whispered hoarsely, but
commandingly:
“What do you want with Bertrand?”
Old Madame, taken aback, raised her aristocratic eyebrows: she
looked her daughter-in-law ironically up and down, then, as was her
wont, she shrugged her shoulders and tried to push her aside.
“My dear Marcelle,” she said icily, “have you taken leave of your
senses?”
“No,” Marcelle replied, in a voice which she was endeavouring to
keep steady. “I only want to know what you are going to say to
Bertrand.”
“That will depend on what he tells me,” grandmama went on
coldly. “You do not suppose, I presume, that the future can be
discussed without my having a say in it?”
“Certainly not,” the younger woman rejoined, “seeing that the
present is entirely of your making.”
“Then I pray you let me go to Bertrand. I wish to speak with him.”
“We’ll call him. And you shall speak with him in my presence.”
Now she spoke quite firmly: her face was very pale and her eyes
certainly had a wild look in them. With a mechanical gesture she
pushed the unruly strands of her hair from her moist forehead. Old
Madame gazed at her for a moment or two in silence, then she broke
into harsh, ironical laughter.
“Ah ça, ma mie!” she said, “Will you tell me, I pray, what is the
exact meaning of this melodramatic scene?”
“I have already told you,” Marcelle replied more calmly, “if you
wish to speak with Bertrand, we’ll call him, and you shall speak with
him here.”
“Bertrand and I understand one another. We prefer to talk
together, when we are alone.”
“The matter that concerns him concerns us all equally. You may
speak with him if you wish—but only in my presence.”

“But, nom de Dieu!” old Madame exclaimed, “will you tell me by
what right you propose to stand between me and my grandson?”
“By the right which you gave me, Madame,” Marcelle replied with
slow deliberation, “when you stood between your son and me.”
“Marcelle!” the old woman cried, and her harsh voice for the first
time had in it a quiver of latent passion.
“The evil which you wrought that night,” Marcelle went on slowly,
“shall not find its echo now. I was really a fool then. Such monsters
as you had never been within my ken.”
“Silence, you idiot!” old Madame broke in, throwing into her tone
and into her attitude all the authority which she knew so well how to
exert. But Marcelle would not be silenced. She was just one of those
weak, down-trodden creatures who, when roused, are as formidable
in their wrath as they are obstinate in their purpose. She spoke now
as if for the past twenty years she had been longing for this relief and
the words tumbled out of her mouth like an avalanche falls down the
side of a mountain.
“An idiot!” she exclaimed. “Yes, you are right there, Madame! A
dolt and a fool! but, thank God, sufficiently sane to-night to prevent
your staining your hands with my son’s blood, as you did with that of
his father. Had I not been a fool, should I not have guessed your
purpose that night?—then, too, you wished to speak with your son
alone—then too you wished to discuss the future after you had
dragged him down with you into a morass of debts and obligations
which he could not meet. To satisfy your lust for pomp, and for show,
you made him spend and borrow, and then when the day of
reckoning came——”
“Silence, Marcelle!”
“When the day of reckoning came,” Marcelle reiterated coldly,
“you, his mother, placed before him the only alternative that your
damnable pride would allow—a pistol which you, yourself, put into
his hand.”
“My son preferred death to dishonour,” old Madame put in boldly.
“At his mother’s command,” the other retorted. “Oh! you thought I
did not know, you thought I did not guess. But—you remember—it
was midsummer—the window was open—I was down in the garden—
I heard your voice: ‘My son, there is only one way open for a de

Ventadour!’ I ran into the house, I ran up the stairs—you remember?
—I was on the threshold when rang the pistol shot which at your
bidding had ended his dear life.”
“What I did then is between me and my conscience——”
“Perhaps,” Marcelle replied, “but for what you do now, you will
answer to me. I suffered once—I will not suffer again——”
Again with that same wild gesture she pushed her hair away from
her forehead. Nicolette thought that she was on the point of
swooning, but her excitement gave her strength: she pulled herself
together, drew the portière aside, opened the door, and went through
into the other room.
Grandmama appeared for a moment undecided: that her pride had
received a severe shaking, there could be no doubt: for once she had
been routed in a wordy combat with the woman whom she affected
to despise. But she was too arrogant, too dictatorial to argue, where
she had failed to command. Perhaps she knew that her influence
over Bertrand would not be diminished by his mother’s interference.
She was not ashamed of that dark page in the past history: her
notions of honour, and of what was due to the family name were not
likely to be modified by the ravings of a sick imbecile. She was fond
of Bertrand and proud of him, but if the cataclysm which she
dreaded did eventually come about, she would still far sooner see
him dead than dishonoured. A debtor’s prison was no longer an
impossibility for a de Ventadour; the principles of equality born of
that infamous Revolution, and fostered by that abominable Corsican
upstart had not been altogether eliminated from the laws of France
with the restoration of her Bourbon kings. Everything nowadays was
possible, even, it seems, the revolt of weak members of a family
against its acknowledged head.
Marcelle had gone through into the next room without caring
whether her mother-in-law followed her or not. Just as she entered
she was heard to call her son’s name, tenderly, and as if in
astonishment. Old Madame then took a step forward and peeped
through the door. Then she threw back her head and laughed.
“What an anti-climax, eh, my good Marcelle,” she said with cool
sarcasm. “See what a fool you were to make such a scene. While you
spouted heroics at me about pistols and suicide, the boy was

comfortably asleep. When he wakes,” she added lightly, “send him to
me, and you may chaperon him if you like. I do not see a tragedy in
this sleeping prince.”
With that she went: and Nicolette ran into the next room. The
Comtesse Marcelle was on the verge of a collapse. Nicolette contrived
to undress her and put her to bed. Bertrand did not stir. He had
drunk a couple of glasses of wine and eaten some of the cake, then
apparently his head had fallen forward over his arms, and leaning
right across the table he had fallen asleep. The sound of voices had
not roused him. He was so tired, so tired! Nicolette, while she looked
after Marcelle, was longing to undo Bertrand’s heavy boots, and
place a cushion for his head, and make him lean back in his chair.
This was such an uncomfortable, lonely house, lonely for every one
except old Madame, who had Pérone to look after her. Marcelle and
poor little Micheline looked after themselves, and Bertrand only had
old Jasmin. During Mlle. de Peyron-Bompar’s visit last May, some
extra servants had been got in to make a show. They had been put
into smart liveries for the time being, but had since gone away again.
It was all a very dreary homecoming for Tan-tan, and Nicolette, who
longed to look after his creature comforts, was forced to go away
before she could do anything for him.
Marcelle de Ventadour kissed and thanked her. She assured her
that she felt well and strong. Pérone, though dour and repellent,
would come and see to her presently, and Micheline slept in a room
close by. Between them they would look after Bertrand when he
woke from this long sleep. The supper ordered for two was still there.
Jasmin would see to it that Bertrand had all that he wanted.
A little reassured, Nicolette went away at last, promising to come
again the next day. Micheline accompanied her as far as the main
door: the girl had said absolutely nothing during the long and painful
scene which had put before her so grim a picture of the past: she was
so self-centred, so reserved, that not even to Nicolette did she reveal
what she had felt: only she clung more closely than even before to the
friend whom she loved: and when the two girls finally said “good
night” to one another they remained for a long time clasped in one
another’s arms.
“Bertrand will be all right now,” Nicolette whispered in the end, “I
don’t think old Madame will want to see him, and he is so tired that

he will not even think. But do not leave him too much alone,
Micheline. Promise!”
And Micheline promised.

S
CHAPTER XI
GREY DAWN
trange that it should all have happened in the grey dawn of a cold
winter’s morning. Nicolette, when she came home afterwards
and thought it all out, marvelled whether the grey sky, the muffled
cadence of the trees, the mysterious pallidity of the woods were a
portent of the future. And yet if it had to be done all over again, she
would not have acted differently, and minute by minute, hour by
hour, it seemed as if destiny had guided her—or God’s hand,
perhaps! Oh, surely it was God’s hand.
She rose early because she had passed a restless, miserable night,
also her head ached and she longed for fresh air. It was still dark, but
Margaï was astir, and a bright fire was blazing in the kitchen when
Nicolette came down. She was not hungry, but to please Margaï she
drank some warm milk and ate the home-made bread, and when the
cold morning light first peeped in through the open window, she set
out for a walk.
She went down the terraced gradients into the valley, and turned
to wander up the river bank, keeping her shawl closely wrapped
around her shoulders, as it was very cold. The Lèze, swelled by the
early winter’s rains, tossed and tumbled in its bed with fretful
turbulence. The snow lay deep in untidy little heaps in all sorts of
unexpected nooks and crannies, but the smooth surfaces of the
boulders were shiny with dewy frost and the blades of the rough
grass were heavy with moisture.
The air was very still, and slowly the silvery dawn crept up behind
the canopy of clouds, and transformed it into a neutral tinted veil
that hung loosely over the irregular heights of Luberon and
concealed the light that lay beyond. One by one the terraced slopes
emerged from the pall of night, and the moist blades of grass turned

to strings of tiny diamonds. A pallid argent hue lay over mountain
and valley, and every leaf of every tree became a looking-glass that
mirrored the colourless opalescence of the sky.
When Nicolette started out for this early morning walk she had no
thought of meeting Bertrand. Indeed she had no thought of anything
beyond a desire to be alone, and to still the restlessness which had
kept her awake all night. Anon she reached the pool and the great
boulder that marked the boundary of Paul et Virginie’s island, and
she came to a halt beside the carob tree on the spot hallowed by all
the cherished memories of the past.
And suddenly she saw Bertrand.
He too had wandered along the valley by the bank of the stream,
and Nicolette felt that it was her intense longing for him that had
brought him hither to this land of yore.
How it all came about she could not have told you. Bertrand
looked as if he had not slept: his eyes were ringed with purple, he
was hatless, and his hair clung dishevelled and moist against his
forehead. Nicolette led the way to the old olive tree, and there they
stood together for awhile, and she made him tell her all about
himself. At first it seemed as if it hurt him to speak at all, but
gradually his reserve appeared to fall away from him: he talked more
and more freely! he spoke of his love for Rixende, how it had sprung
into being at first sight of her: he spoke of the growth of his love
through days of ardour and nights of longing, when, blind to all save
the beauty of her, he would have laid down his life to hold her in his
arms. He also spoke of that awful day of humiliation and of misery
when he dragged himself on his knees at her feet like an abject
beggar imploring one crumb of pity, and saw his love spurned, his
ideal shattered, and his father’s shame flung into his face like a soiled
rag.
What he had been unable to say to his mother he appeared to
speak of with real relief to Nicolette. He seemed like a man groaning
under a heavy load, who is gradually being eased of his burden. He
owned that for hours after that terrible day he had been a prey to
black despair: it was only the thought of his father’s disgrace and of
his mother’s grief that kept him from the contemplation of suicide.

But his career was ended: soon those harpies, who were counting on
his wealthy marriage to exact their pound of flesh from him, would
fall on him like a cloud of locusts, and to the sorrow in his heart
would be added the dishonour of his name. His happiness had fled
on the wings of disappointment and disillusion.
“The Rixende whom I loved,” he said, “never existed. She was just
a creation of my own brain, born of a dream. The woman who jeered
at me because I loved her and had nothing to offer her but my love,
was a stranger whom I had never known.”
Was it at that precise moment that the thought took shape in her
mind, or had it always been there? Always? When she used to run
after him and thrust her baby hand into his palm? Or when she gazed
up-stream, pretending that the Lèze was the limitless ocean, on
which never a ship appeared to take her and Tan-tan away from their
island of bliss? All the dreams of her girlhood came floating, like
pale, ghostlike visions, before Nicolette’s mind; dreams when she
wandered hand in hand with Tan-tan up the valley and the birds
around her sang a chorus: “He loves thee, passionately!” Dreams
when he was gay and happy, and they would laugh together and sing
till the mountain peaks gave echo to their joy! Dreams when, wearied
or sad, he would pillow his head on her breast, and allow her to
stroke his hair, and to whisper soft words of comfort, or sing to him
his favourite songs.
Those dream visions had long since receded into forgetfulness,
dispelled by the masterful hand of a beautiful woman with gentian-
blue eyes and a heart of stone. Was this the hour to recall them from
never-never land? to let them float once more before her mind? and
was this the hour to lend an ear to the sweet insidious voice that
whispered: “Why not?” even on this cold winter’s morning, when a
pall of grey monotone lay over earth and sky, when the winter wind
soughed drearily through the trees, and every bird-song was stilled?
Is there a close time for love? Perhaps. But there is none for that
sweet and gentle pity which is the handmaid of the compelling
Master of the Universe. The sky might be grey, the flowers dead and
the birds still, but Nicolette’s heart whispered to her that Tan-tan
was in pain; he had been hurt in his love, in his pride, in that which
he held dearer than everything in life: the honour of his name. And
she, Nicolette, had it in her power to shield him, his honour and his

pride, whilst in her heart there was such an infinity of love, that the
wounds which he had endured would be healed by its magical power.
How it came about she knew not. He had spoken and he was tired:
shame and sorrow had brought tears to his eyes. Then all of a sudden
she put out her arms and drew his head down upon her breast. Like a
mother crooning over her sick baby, she soothed and comforted him:
and words of love poured out from her heart as nectar from an
hallowed vessel, and in her eyes there glowed a light of such perfect
love and such sublime surrender, that he, dazed at first, not
understanding, could but listen in silence, and let this marvellous ray
of hope slowly filtrate through the darkness of his despair.
“Nicolette,” he cried the moment he could realise what it was she
was saying, “do you really love me enough to——”
But she quickly put her hand over his mouth.
“Ask me no question, Tan-tan,” she said. “I have always loved you,
neither more nor less—just loved you always—and now that you are
in trouble and really need me, how can you ask if I love you enough?”
“Your father will never permit it, Nicolette,” he said soberly after a
while.
“He will permit it,” she rejoined simply, “because now I should die
if anything were to part us.”
“If only I could be worthy of your love, little one,” he murmured
ruefully.
“Hush, my dear,” she whispered in reply. “In love no one is either
worthy or unworthy. If you love me, then you have given me such a
priceless treasure that I should not even envy the angels up in
heaven.”
“If I love you, sweetheart!” he sighed, and a sharp pang of remorse
shot through his heart.
But she was content even with this semblance of love. Never of
late, in her happiest dreams, had she thought it possible that she and
Tan-tan would ever really belong to one another. Oh! she had no
illusions as to the present: the image of that blue-eyed little fiend had
not been wholly eradicated from his heart, but so long as she had
him she would love him so much, so much, that in time he would
forget everything save her who made him happy.

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.

T
CHAPTER XII
FATHER
here 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.”
Deydier had not put in one word while his daughter spoke. He did
not even look at her, only stared into the fire. When she had finished
he said quietly:
“And now, little one, all that you can do is to forget all about this
morning’s walk and what has passed between you and M. le Comte
de Ventadour!”
“Father!”
“Understand me, my dear once and for all,” Deydier went on quite
unmoved; “never with my consent will you marry one of that brood.”
Nicolette was silent for a moment or two. She had expected
opposition, of course. She knew her father and his dearly-loved
scheme that she should marry young Barnadou: she also knew that
deep down in his heart there was a bitter grudge against old
Madame. What this grudge was she did not know, but she had
complete faith in her father’s love, and in any case she would be
fighting for her happiness. So she put her arms around him and
leaned her head against his shoulder, in that cajoling manner which
she had always found irresistible.
“Father,” she whispered, “you are speaking about my happiness.”
“Yes,” he said with a dull sigh of weariness, “I am.”
“Of my life, perhaps.”
“Nicolette,” the father cried, with a world of anxiety, of reproach,
of horror in his tone.
But Nicolette knelt straight before him now, sitting on her heels,
her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed quite determinedly on
his face.
“I love Bertrand, father,” she said simply, “and he loves me.”
“My child——”

“He loves me,” Nicolette reiterated with firm conviction. “A
woman is never mistaken over that, you know.”
“A woman perhaps, my dear,” the father retorted gently, and
passed a hand that shook a little over her hair: “but you are such a
child, my little Nicolette. You have never been away from our
mountains and our skies, where God’s world is pure and simple.
What do you know of evil?”
“There is no evil in Bertrand’s love for me,” she protested.
“Bah! there is evil in all the de Ventadours. They are all tainted
with the mania for show and for wealth. And now that they are
bankrupt in pocket as well as in honour, they hope to regild their
stained escutcheon with your money——”
“That is false!” Nicolette broke in vehemently, “no one at the
château knows that Bertrand and I love one another. A few hours ago
he did not know that I cared for him.”
“A few hours ago he knew that his father’s fate was at his door. He
is up to his eyes in debt; nothing can save even the roof over his
head; his mother, his sister and that old harpy his grandmother have
nothing ahead of them but beggary. Then suddenly you come to him
with sweet words prompted by your dear kind heart, and that man,
tottering on the brink of an awful precipice, sees a prop that will save
him from stumbling headlong down. The Deydier money, he says to
himself, why not indeed? True I shall have to stoop and marry the
daughter of a vulgar peasant, but I can’t have the money without the
wife, and so I’ll take her, and when I have got her, I can return to my
fine friends in Paris, to the Court of Versailles and all the gaieties,
and she poor fool can stay at home and nurse my mother or attend to
the whims of old Madame; and if she frets and repines and eats out
her heart with loneliness down at my old owl’s nest in Provence, well
then I shall be rid of her all the sooner....”
“Father!” Nicolette cried with sudden passionate intensity which
she made no attempt to check. “What wrong has Bertrand done to
you that you should be willing to sacrifice my happiness to your
revenge?”
A harsh laugh came from Jaume Deydier’s choking throat.
“Revenge?” he exclaimed. And then again: “Revenge?”

“Yes, revenge!” Nicolette went on with glowing eyes and flaming
cheeks. “Oh, I know! I know! There is a dark page somewhere in our
family history connected with the château, and because of that—
because of that——”
Her voice broke in a sob. She was crouching beside the hearth at
her father’s feet, and for a moment he looked down at her as if
entirely taken aback by her passionate protest. Life had always gone
on so smoothly at the mas, that Jaume Deydier had until now never
realised that the motherless baby whom he had carried about in his
arms had become a woman with a heart, and a mind and passions of
her own. It had never struck him that his daughter—little Nicolette
with the bright eyes and the merry laugh, the child that toddled after
him, obedient and loving—would one day wish to frame her destiny
apart from him, apart from her old home.
A child! A child! He had always thought of her as a child—then as a
growing girl who would marry Ameyric Barnadou one day, and in
due course present her husband with a fine boy or two and perhaps a
baby girl that would be the grandfather’s joy!
But this girl!—this woman with the flaming eyes in which glowed
passion, reproach, an indomitable will; this woman whose voice,
whose glance expressed the lust of a fight for her love and her
happiness!—was this his Nicolette?
Ah! here was a problem, the like of which had never confronted
Jaume Deydier’s even existence before now. How he would deal with
it he did not yet know. He was a silent man and not fond of talking,
and, after her passionate outburst, Nicolette, too, had lapsed into
silence. She still crouched beside her father’s chair, squatting on her
heels, and gazing into the fire. Deydier stroked her soft brown hair
with a tender hand. He loved the child more than anything in the
whole world. To her happiness he would have sacrificed everything
including his life, but in his own mind he was absolutely convinced
that Bertrand de Ventadour had only sought her for her money, and
that nothing but sorrow would come of this unequal marriage—if the
marriage was allowed to take place, which, please God, it never
would whilst he, Deydier, was alive.... But as he himself was a man
whose mind worked with great deliberation, he thought that time
and quietude would act more potently than words on Nicolette’s
present mood. He was quite sure that at any rate nothing would be

gained at this moment by further talk. She was too overwrought, too
recently under the influence of Bertrand to listen to reason now.
Time would show. Time would tell. Time and Nicolette’s own sound
sense and pride. So Deydier sat on in his arm-chair, and said
nothing, and presently he asked his girl to get him his pipe, which
she did. She lighted it for him, and as she stood there so close to him
with the lighted tinder in her hand, he saw that her eyes were dry,
and that the glow had died out of her cheeks. He pulled at his pipe in
a moody, abstracted way, and fell to meditating—as he so often did—
on the past. There was a tragedy in his life connected with those
Ventadours. He had never spoken of it to any one since the day of his
marriage, not even to old Margaï, who knew all about it, and he had
sworn to himself at one time that he would never tell Nicolette.
But now——
So deeply had he sunk in meditation that he did not notice that
Nicolette presently went out of the room.
Margaï brought in the lamp an hour later.
“I did not want to disturb you,” she said as she set it on the table,
“but it is getting late now.”
“Well?” she went on after awhile, seeing that Deydier made no
comment, that his pipe had gone out, and that he was staring
moodily into the fire. Even now he gave her no reply, although she
rattled the silver on the sideboard so as to attract his attention.
Finally, she knelt down in front of the hearth and made a terrific
clatter with the fire-irons. Even then, Jaume Deydier only said:
“Well?” too.
“Has the child told you anything?” Margaï went on tartly. She had
never been kept out of family councils before and had spent the last
hour in anticipation of being called into the parlour.
“Why, what should she tell me?” Deydier retorted with
exasperating slowness.
“Tiens! that she is in love with Bertrand de Ventadour, and wants
to marry him.”
Deydier gave a startled jump as if a pistol shot had rung in his ear,
and his pipe fell with a clatter to the ground.

“Nicolette in love with Bertrand,” he cried with well-feigned
astonishment. “Whoever told thee such nonsense?”
“No one,” the old woman replied dryly. “I guessed.”
Then as Deydier relapsed into moody silence, she added irritably:
“Don’t deny it, Mossou Deydier. The child told you.”
“I don’t deny it,” he replied gravely.
“And what did you say?”
“That never while I live would she marry a de Ventadour.”
“Hm!” was the only comment made on this by Margaï. And after
awhile she added:
“And where is the child now?”
“I thought,” Deydier replied, “that she was in the kitchen with
thee.”
“I have not seen her these two hours past.”
“She is not in her room?”
“No!”
“Then, maybe, she is in the garden.”
“Maybe. It is a fine night.”
There the matter dropped for the moment. It was not an unusual
thing for Nicolette to run out into the garden at all hours of the day
or evening, and to stay out late, and Deydier was not surprised that
the child should have wished to be let in peace for awhile. Margaï
went back to her kitchen to see about supper, and Deydier lighted a
second pipe: a very unusual thing for him to do. At seven o’clock
Margaï put her head in through the door.
“The child is not in yet,” she said laconically, “and she is not in the
garden. I have been round to see.”
“Didst call for her, Margaï?” Deydier asked.
“Aye! I called once or twice. Then I stood at the gate thinking I
would see her go up the road. She should be in by now. It has started
to rain.”
Deydier jumped to his feet.
“Raining,” he exclaimed, “and the child out at this hour? Why didst
not come sooner, Margaï, and tell me?”

“She is often out later than this,” was Margaï’s reply. “But she
usually comes in when it rains.”
“Did she take a cloak with her when she went?”
“She has her shawl. Maybe,” the old woman added after a slight
pause, “she went to meet him somewhere.”
To this suggestion Deydier made no reply, but it seemed to Margaï
that he muttered an oath between his teeth, which was a very
unusual thing for Mossou Jaume to do. Without saying another
word, however, he stalked out of the parlour, and presently Margaï
heard his heavy footstep crossing the corridor and the vestibule, then
the opening and the closing of the front door.
She shook her head dolefully while she began to lay the cloth for
supper.
Jaume Deydier had thrown his coat across his shoulders, thrust his
cap on his head and picked up a stout stick and a storm lanthorn,
then he went down into the valley. It was raining now, a cold,
unpleasant rain mixed with snow, and the tramontane blew
mercilessly from way over Vaucluse. Deydier muttered a real oath
this time, and turned up the road in the direction of the château. It
was very dark and the rain beat all around his shoulders: but when
he thought of Bertrand de Ventadour, he gripped his stick more
tightly, and he ceased to be conscious of the wet or the cold.
He had reached the sharp bend in the road where the stony bridle-
path, springing at a right angle, led up to the gates of the château,
and he was on the point of turning up the path when he heard his
name called close behind him:
“Hey, Mossou Deydier! Is that you?”
He turned and found himself face to face with Pérone, old
Madame’s confidential maid—a person whom he could not abide.
“Are you going up to the château, Mossou Deydier?” the woman
went on with an ugly note of obsequiousness in her harsh voice.
“Yes,” Deydier replied curtly, and would have gone on, on his way,
but Pérone suddenly took hold of him by the coat.
“Mossou Deydier,” she said pitiably, “it would be only kind to a
poor old woman, if you would let her walk with you. It is so lonely

and so dark. I have come all the way from Manosque. I waited there
for awhile, thinking the rain would give over. It was quite fine when I
left home directly after dinner.”
Deydier let her talk on. He could not bear the woman, but he was
man enough not to let her struggle on in the dark behind him, whilst
he had his lanthorn to guide his own footsteps up the uneven road;
and so they walked on side by side for a minute or two, until Pérone
said suddenly:
“I hope Mademoiselle Nicolette has reached home by now. I told
her——”
“You saw Mademoiselle Nicolette?” Deydier broke in harshly,
“where?”
“Just above La Bastide, Mossou Deydier,” the woman replied. “You
know where she and Mossou le Comte used to fish when they were
children. It was raining hard already and I told her——”
But Deydier was in no mood to listen further. Without any
ceremony, or word of excuse, he turned on his heel and strode
rapidly down the road, swinging his lanthorn and gripping his stick,
leaving Pérone to go or come, or stand still as she pleased.
Moodiness and wrath had suddenly given place to a sickening
feeling of anxiety. The rain beat straight into his face as he turned his
steps up the valley, keeping close to the river bank, but he did not
feel either the wind or the rain: in the dim circle of light which the
lanthorn threw before him he seemed to see his little Nicolette, grief-
stricken, distraught, beside that pool that would murmur insidious,
poisoned words, promises of peace and forgetfulness. And at sight of
this spectral vision a cry like that of a wounded beast came from the
father’s overburdened heart.
“Not again, my God!” he exclaimed, “not again! I could not bear it!
Faith in Thee would go, and I should blaspheme!”
He saw her just as he had pictured her, crouching against the large
boulder that sheltered her somewhat against the wind and rain. Just
above her head the heavy branches of an old carob tree swayed under
the breath of the tramontane: at her feet the waters of the Lèze,

widening at this point into a pool, lapped the edge of her skirt and of
the shawl which had slipped from her shoulders.
She was not entirely conscious, and the wet on her cheeks did not
wholly come from the rain. Jaume Deydier was a big, strong man, he
was also a silent one. After one exclamation of heart-broken grief and
of horror, he had gathered his little girl in his arms, wrapped his own
coat round her, and, holding on to the lanthorn at the same time, he
set out for home.

J
CHAPTER XIII
MAN TO MAN
aume Deydier did not say anything to Nicolette that evening.
After he had deposited her on her bed and handed her over to
Margaï he knew that the child would be well and safe. Sleep and
Margaï’s household remedies would help the child’s robust
constitution to put up a good fight.
And Nicolette lay all the evening, and half the night, wide-eyed and
silent between the sheets; quite quiescent and obedient whenever
Margaï brought her something warm to drink. But she would not eat,
and when early the next morning Margaï brought her some warm
milk, she looked as if she had not slept. She had a little fever during
the night, but by the morning this had gone, only her face looked
white and pinched, and her eyes looked preternaturally large with
great dark rings around them.
Later on in the morning her father came and stood for a second or
two silently beside her bed. Her eyes were closed when he came, but
presently, as if drawn by the magnetism of his tender gaze, the heavy
lids slowly opened, and she looked at him. She looked so pale and so
small in the big bed, and there was such a look of sorrow around her
drooping mouth, that Deydier’s heart ached almost to the point of
breaking, and great tears gathered in his eyes and rolled slowly down
his rough cheeks.
The child drew a long sigh of tenderness, almost of pity, and put
out her arms. He gathered her to his breast, pillowing the dear head
against his heart, while he could scarcely control the heavy sobs that
shook his powerful shoulders, or stay the tears that wetted her curls.
“My Nicolette!” he murmured somewhat incoherently. “My little
Nicolette, thou’lt not do it, my little girl, not that—not that—I could

not bear it.”
Then he laid her down again upon the pillows, and kissed away the
tears upon her cheeks.
“Father,” she murmured, and fondled his hand which she had
captured, “you must try and forgive me, I was stupid and
thoughtless. I ought to have explained better. But I was unhappy,
very unhappy. Then I don’t know how it all happened—I did not look
where I was going, I suppose—and I stumbled and fell—it was stupid
of me,” she reiterated with loving humility; “but I forgot the time, the
weather—everything—I was so unhappy——”
“So unhappy that you forgot your poor old father,” he said, trying
to smile, “whose only treasure you are in this world.”
“No, dear,” she replied earnestly. “I did not forget you. On the
contrary, I thought and thought about you, and wondered how you
could be so unkind.”
He gave a quick, weary sigh.
“We won’t speak about that now, my child,” he said gently, “all you
have to do is to get well.”
“I am well, dear,” she rejoined, and as he tried to withdraw his
hand she grasped it closer and held it tightly against her bosom:
“When Bertrand comes,” she entreated, “will you see him?”
But he only shook his head, whereupon she let go his hand and
turned her face away. And he went dejectedly out of the room.
Bertrand came over to the mas in the early part of the forenoon.
Vague hints dropped by Pérone had already alarmed him, and he
spent a miserable evening and a sleepless night marvelling what had
happened.
As soon as he returned from the marvellous walk which had
changed the whole course of his existence, he had told his mother
and Micheline first, then grandmama, what had happened. Marcelle
de Ventadour, who, during the past four and twenty hours had been
in a state of prostration, due partly to sorrow and anxiety for her son,
and partly to the reaction following on excitement, felt very much
like one who has been at death’s door and finds himself
unaccountably alive again. She was fond of Nicolette in a gentle,

unemotional way: she knew that Deydier was very rich and his
daughter his sole heiress, and she had none of those violent caste
prejudices which swayed old Madame’s entire life; moreover, she had
never been able to endure Rixende’s petulant tempers and
supercilious ways. All these facts conduced to make her contented,
almost happy, in this new turn of events.
Not so old Madame! Bertrand’s news at first appeared to her
unworthy of consideration: the boy, she argued, partly to herself,
partly to him, had been inveigled at a moment when he was too weak
and too wretched to defend himself, by a designing minx who had a
coronet and a fine social position in her mind’s eye. The matter was
not worth talking about. It just would not be: that was all. When she
found that not only did Bertrand mean to go through with this
preposterous marriage, but that he defended Nicolette and sang her
praises with passionate warmth, she fell from contempt into
amazement and thence into wrath.
It should not be! It was preposterous! Impossible! A Comte de
Ventadour marry the descendant of a lacquey! the daughter of a
peasant! It should not be! not whilst she was alive. Thank God, she
still had a few influential friends in Paris, she would petition the King
to forbid the marriage.
“You would not dare——” Bertrand protested vehemently.
But old Madame only laughed.
“Dare?” she said tartly. “Of course I should dare. I have dared
more than that before now, let me tell you, in order to save the
honour of the Ventadours. That marriage can not be,” she went on
determinedly, “and if you are too foolish or too blind to perceive the
disgrace of such a mésalliance, then I will apply to the King. And you
know as well as I do that His Majesty has before now intervened on
the side of the family when such questions have been on the tapis,
and that no officer of the King’s bodyguard may marry without the
consent of his sovereign.”
This Bertrand knew. That archaic law was one of those petty
tyrannies in which the heart of a Bourbon delighted, and was one of
the first in connection with his army that Louis XVIII replaced upon
the statute book of his reconquered country.

Bertrand tried to argue with old Madame, and sharp words flew
between these two, who usually were so entirely at one in their
thoughts and their ideals. But he felt that he had been like a
drowning man, and the loving, gentle hand that had been held out to
him at the hour of his greatest peril had become very dear. Perhaps it
would be too much to say that Bertrand loved Nicolette now as
passionately as he had loved Rixende in the past, or that the image of
one woman had wholly obliterated that of the other: but he was
immensely grateful to her, and whenever his memory dwelt on the
thought of that sweet, trusting young body clinging to him, of those
soft, delicate hands fondling his hair, of that crooning voice
murmuring sweet words of love and surrender, he felt a warmth
within his heart, a longing for Nicolette, different, yes! sweeter than
anything he had experienced for Rixende.
“When you find yourself face to face with the alternative of giving
up your career or that peasant wench, you’ll not hesitate, I presume;
you, a Comte de Ventadour!”
These were old Madame’s parting words, when, wearied with an
argument that tended nowhere, Bertrand finally kissed her hand and
bade her good night.
“Come, come,” she added more gently, “confess that you have been
weak and foolish. You loved Rixende de Peyron-Bompar until a week
ago. You cannot have fallen out of love and in again in so short a
time. Have no fear, my dear Bertrand, an officer in the King’s
bodyguard, a young man as accomplished as yourself and with a
name like yours, has never yet failed to make a brilliant marriage.
There are as good fish in the sea as ever come out of it. A little
patience, and I’ll warrant that within three months you’ll be thanking
Heaven on your knees that Rixende de Peyron-Bompar was such a
fool, for you will be leading to the altar a far richer heiress than she.”
But Bertrand now was too tired to say more. He just kissed his
grandmother’s hand, and with a sigh and a weary smile, said
enigmatically:
“Perhaps!”
Then he went out of the room.

Jaume Deydier met Bertrand de Ventadour on the threshold of the
mas.
“Enter, Monsieur le Comte,” he said curtly.
Bertrand followed him into the parlour, and took the chair that
Deydier offered him beside the hearth. He inquired anxiously after
Nicolette, and the old man told him briefly all that had happened.
“And it were best, Monsieur le Comte,” he concluded abruptly, “if
you went back to Paris after this. It is not fair to the child.”
“Not fair to Nicolette!” Bertrand exclaimed. “Then she has told
you?”
“Yes, she told me,” he rejoined coldly, “that you and your family
have thought of a way of paying your debts.”
An angry flush rose to Bertrand’s forehead. “Monsieur Deydier!”
he protested, and jumped to his feet.
“Eh! what?” the father retorted loudly. “What else had you in
mind, when, fresh from the smart which one woman dealt you, you
sought another whose wealth would satisfy the creditors who were
snapping like dogs at your heels?”
“I swear that this is false! I love Nicolette——”
“Bah! you loved Rixende a week ago——”
“I love Nicolette,” he reiterated firmly, “and she loves me.”
“Nicolette is a child who has mistaken pity for love, as many
wenches do. You were her friend, her playmate; she saw you
floundering in a morass of debt and disgrace, and instinctively she
put out her hand to save you. She will get over that love. I’ll see to it
that she forgets you.”
“I don’t think you will be able to do that, Monsieur Deydier,”
Bertrand put in more quietly. “Nicolette is as true as steel.”
“Pity you did not find that out sooner, before you ran after that
vixen who has thrown you over.”
“Better men than I have gone blindly past their happiness. Not
many have had the luck to turn back.”
“Too late, M. le Comte,” Deydier riposted coldly. “I told Nicolette
yesterday that never, with my consent, will she be your wife.”
“You will kill her, Monsieur Deydier.”

“Not I. She is proud and soon she will understand.”
“We love one another, Nicolette will understand nothing save that
I love her. You may forbid the marriage,” Bertrand went on
vehemently, “but you cannot forbid Nicolette to love me. We love one
another; we’ll belong to one another, whatever you may do or say.”
“Whatever Madame, your grandmother, may say?” retorted
Deydier with a sneer. Then as Bertrand made no reply to that taunt,
he added more kindly:
“Come, my dear Bertrand, look on the affair as a man. I have
known you ever since you were in your cradle: would I speak to you
like this if I had not the happiness of my child to defend?”
Bertrand drew a quick, impatient sigh.
“That is where you are wrong, Monsieur Deydier,” he said,
“Nicolette’s happiness is bound up in me.”
“As your mother’s was bound up in your father, what?” Deydier
retorted hotly. “She too was a loving, trusting girl once: she too was
rich; and when her fortune was sunk into the bottomless morass of
family debts, your father went out of the world leaving her to starve
or not according as her friends were generous or her creditors
rapacious. Look at her now, M. le Comte, and tell me if any father
could find it in his heart to see his child go the way of the Comtesse
Marcelle?”
“You are hard, Monsieur Deydier.”
“You would find me harder still if you brought Nicolette to
unhappiness.”
“I love her——”
“You never thought of her until your creditors were at your heels
and you saw no other way before you to satisfy them, save a rich
marriage.”
“It is false!”
“False is it?” Deydier riposted roughly, “How else do you hope to
satisfy your creditors, M. le Comte de Ventadour? If you married
Nicolette without a dowry how would you satisfy them? How would
you live? how would you support your wife and your coming family?
“These may be sordid questions, ugly to face beside the fine
sounding assertions and protestations of selfless love. But I am not

an aristocrat. I am a peasant and speak as I think. And I ask you this
one more question, M. le Comte: in exchange for all the love, the
security, the wealth, which a marriage with my daughter would bring
you, what have you to offer her? An ancient name? It is tarnished. A
château? ’Tis in ruins. Position? ’Tis one of shame. Nay! M. le Comte
go and offer these treasures elsewhere. My daughter is too good for
you.”
“You are both cruel and hard, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand
protested, with a cry of indignation that came straight from the
heart. “On my honour the thought of Nicolette’s fortune never once
entered my mind.”
To this Deydier made no reply. A look of determination, stronger
even than before, made his face look hard and almost repellent. He
pressed his lips tightly together, his eyes narrowed till they appeared
like mere slits beneath his bushy brows; he buried his hands in the
pockets of his breeches and paced up and down the room, seeming
with each step to strengthen his resolve. Then he came to a sudden
halt in front of Bertrand, the hardness partly vanished from his face,
and he placed a hand, the touch of which was not altogether unkind,
on the young man’s shoulder.
“Suppose, my dear Bertrand,” he said slowly, “suppose I were to
take you at your word. On your honour you have assured me that
Nicolette’s fortune never once entered your head. Very well! Go back
now and tell Madame your grandmother that you love my daughter,
that your life’s happiness is bound up in hers and hers in yours, but
that I am not in a position to give her a dowry. I am reputed rich, but
I have no capital to dispose of and I have certain engagements which
I must fulfil before I can afford the luxury of paying your debts. I may
give Nicolette a few hundred louis a year, pin money, but that is all.
One moment, I pray you,” Deydier added, seeing that hot words of
protest had already risen to Bertrand’s lips. “I am not giving you a
supposition. I am telling you a fact. If you love Nicolette sufficiently
to lead a life of usefulness and simplicity with her, here in her old
home, you shall have her. Let old Madame come and ask me for my
daughter’s hand, on your behalf, you shall have her: but my money,
no!”
For a long while after that there was silence between the two men.
Jaume Deydier had once more resumed his fateful pacing up and

down the room. There was a grim, set smile upon his face, but every
time his eyes rested on Bertrand, a sullen fire seemed to blaze within
them.
A pall of despair had descended once more on Bertrand, all the
darker, all the more suffocating for the brief ray of hope that
lightened it yesterday. In his heart, he knew that the old man was
right. When he had set out this morning to speak with Deydier, he
had done so under the firm belief that Nicolette’s fortune expressed
in so many words by her father would soon dispel grandmama’s
objection to her lowly birth. He hoped that he would return from that
interview bringing with him such dazzling financial prospects that
old Madame herself would urge and approve of the marriage. Like all
those who are very young, he was so convinced of the justice and
importance of his cause, that it never entered his mind that his
advocacy of it would result in failure.
Failure and humiliation!
He, a Comte de Ventadour, had asked for the hand of a peasant
wench and it had been refused. Only now did he realise quite how
low his family had sunk, that in the eyes of this descendant of
lacqueys, his name was worth less than nothing.
Failure, humiliation and sorrow! Sorrow because the briefest
searching of his heart had at once revealed the fact that he was not
prepared to take Nicolette without her fortune, that he was certainly
not prepared to give up his career in order to live the life of
usefulness at the mas, which Jaume Deydier dangled before him. Oh!
he had no illusion on these points. Yesterday when old Madame
threatened him with an appeal to the King, there was still the hope
that in view of such hopeless financial difficulties as beset him, His
Majesty might consent to a mésalliance with the wealthy daughter of
a worthy manufacturer of Provence. But what Deydier demanded to-
day meant that he would have to resign his commission and become
an unpaid overseer on a farm, that he would have to renounce his
career, his friends, every prospect of ever rising again to the position
which his family had once occupied.
Poor little Nicolette! He loved her, yes! but not enough for that. To
renounce anything for her sake had not formed a part of his
affection. And love without sacrifice—what is it but the pale, sickly
ghost of the exacting Master of us all?

Poor little Nicolette! he sighed, and right through the silence of the
dull winter’s morning there came, faintly echoing, another sigh
which was just like a sob.
Both the men swung round simultaneously and gazed upon the
doorway. Nicolette stood there under the lintel. Unable to lie still in
bed, while her life’s happiness was held in the balance, she had
dressed herself and softly crept downstairs.
“Nicolette!” Bertrand exclaimed. And at sight of her all the
tenderness of past years, the ideal love of Paul for Virginie surged up
in his heart like a great wave of warmth and of pity. “When did you
come down?” She came forward into the room, treading softly like a
little mouse, her face pale and her lips slightly quivering.
“A moment or two ago,” she replied simply.
“Then you heard—” he asked involuntarily.
“I heard,” she said slowly. “I heard your silence.”
Bertrand raised his two hands and hid his face in them. Never in
his life had he felt so ashamed. Deydier went to his daughter’s side:
he wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her for this
humiliation, which he had been the means of putting upon her, but
she turned away from her father and came near to Bertrand. She
seized both his wrists with her tiny hands, and dragged them away
from his face.
“Look at me, Bertrand,” she said gently. And when his eyes,
shamed and passionately imploring met hers, she went on quietly.
“Listen, Bertrand, when yesterday, on our dear island, I confessed
to you that I had loved you—all my life—I did it without any thought,
any hope that you loved me in return—You could not love me yet—I
myself should despise you if you could so easily forget one love for
another—but I did it with the firm belief that in time you would learn
to love me——”
“Nicolette!” Bertrand cried, and her sweetsounding name was
choked in a sob.
“Listen, my dear,” she continued firmly. “Nothing that has passed
between my father and you can alter that belief—I love you and I
shall love you all my life—I know that it is foolish to suppose that
your family would come here and humbly beg me to be your wife—it
would also be mad folly to ask you to give up your career in order to

bury yourself here out of the world with me. That is not my idea of
love: that was not in my thoughts yesterday when I confessed my
love to you.”
“Nicolette!”
This time it was her father who protested, but she paid no heed to
him. She was standing beside Bertrand and she was pleading for her
love.
“Nay, father dear,” she said resolutely, “you have had your say.
Now you must let me have mine. Listen, Tan-tan, what I confessed to
you yesterday, that I still confess now. I have loved you always. I love
you still. If you will take me now from whatever motive, I am
content, for I know that in time you will love me too. Until then I can
wait. But if father makes it impossible for you to take me, then we
will part, but without bitterness, for I shall understand. And father
will understand, too, that without you, I cannot live. I have lain
against your breast, my dear, your lips have clung to mine; if they
tear me away from you, they will tear my heart out of my body now.”
At one time while she spoke her voice had broken, but in the end it
was quite steady, only the tears ran steadily down her cheeks.
Bertrand looked at her with a sort of hungry longing. He could not
speak. Any word would have choked him. What he felt was intense
humiliation, and, towards her, worship. When she had finished and
still stood there before him, with hands clasped and the great tears
rolling down her cheeks, he sank slowly on his knees. He seized both
her little hands and pressed them against his aching forehead, his
eyes, his lips: then with a passionate sob that he tried vainly to
suppress, he went quickly out of the room.

F
CHAPTER XIV
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
or a few seconds after Bertrand had gone, Nicolette remained
standing where she was, quite still, dry-eyed now, and with lips
set; she seemed for the moment not to have realised that he was no
longer there. Then presently, when his footsteps ceased to resound
through the house, when the front door fell to with a bang, and the
gate gave a creak as it turned on its hinges, she seemed to return to
consciousness, the consciousness of absolute silence. Not a sound
now broke the stillness of the house. Jaume Deydier had sunk into a
chair and was staring unseeing, into the fire; Margaï and the serving
wenches were far away in the kitchen. Only the old clock ticked on
with dreary monotony, and the flame from the hard olive wood
burned with a dull sound like a long-drawn-out sigh.
Then suddenly Nicolette turned and ran towards the door. But her
father was too quick for her: he jumped to his feet and stood between
her and the door.
“Where are you going, Nicolette?” he asked.
“What is that to you?” she retorted defiantly.
Just like some dumb animal that has received a death blow
Deydier uttered a hoarse cry; he staggered up against the door, and
had to cling to it as if he were about to fall. For a second or two he
stared at her almost doubting his own sanity. This then was his little
Nicolette, the baby girl who had lain in his arms, whose first toddling
steps he had guided, for whom he had lain awake o’ nights, schemed,
worked, lived? The motherless child who had never missed a mother
because he had been everything to her, had done twice as much for
her as any mother could have done? This, his little Nicolette who
stabbed at his heart with that sublime selfishness of love that rides

rough-shod over every obstacle, every affection, every duty, and in
order to gain its own heaven, hurls every other fond heart into hell?
Deydier was no longer a young man. He had married late in life,
and strenuous work had hastened one or two of the unpleasant
symptoms of old age. The last two days had brought with them such
a surfeit of emotions, such agonising sensations, that this final
sorrow seemed beyond his physical powers of endurance. Clinging to
the door, he felt himself turning giddy and faint; once or twice he
drew his arm across and across his forehead on which stood beads of
cold perspiration. Then a shadow passed before his eyes, the walls of
the room appeared to be closing in around him, hemming him in.
Everything became dark, black as night; he put out his arms, and the
next moment would have measured his length on the floor. It all
occurred in less than two seconds. At his first cry all the obstinacy,
the defiance in Nicolette’s heart, melted in face of her father’s grief—
her father whom she loved better than anything in the world. When
he staggered forward she caught him. She was as strong as a young
sapling, and fear and love gave her additional strength. A chair was
close by, she was able to drag him into it, to prop him up against the
cushions, to fondle him until she saw his dear eyes open, and fasten
themselves hungrily upon her. She would then have broken down
completely, great sobs were choking her, but she would not cry, not
now when he was ill and weak, and it was her privilege to minister to
him. She found a glass and a bottle of old cognac, and made him
swallow that.
But when he had drunk the cognac, and had obviously recovered,
when he drew her forcibly on his knee crying:
“My little Nicolette, my dear, dear little Nicolette,” and pressed her
head against his breast, till she could hardly breathe, when she felt
hot, heavy tears falling against her forehead, then she could not hold
back those sobs any longer, and just lay on his breast, crying, crying,
while he soothed her with his big, fond hand, murmuring with
infinite tenderness:
“There, there, my little Nicolette! Don’t—don’t cry—I ought to have
told you before. You were a grown girl, and I did not realise it—or I
should have told you before——”
“Told me what, father?” she contrived to whisper through her sobs.

“You would have understood,” he went on gently. “It was wrong of
me to think that you would just obey your old father, without
understanding. Love is a giant,” he added with a sigh, “he cannot be
coerced, I ought to have known.”
He paused a moment, and stared out straight before him. Nicolette
slid out of his arms on to the floor; her hand was resting on his knee,
and she laid her cheek against it. He drew a deep breath, and then
went on:
“Your mother was just like you, my dear, I loved her with as great a
love as man ever gave to a woman. But she did not care for me—not
then.—Did she ever care, I wonder—God alone knows that.”
He sighed again, and Nicolette not daring to speak, feeling that she
stood upon the threshold of a secret orchard, that time and death
had rendered sacred, waited in silence until he should continue.
“Just like you, my dear,” Deydier resumed slowly after awhile, “she
had given her heart to one of those Ventadours. Ah! I don’t say that
he was unworthy. God forbid! Like young Bertrand he was handsome
and gallant, full I dare say of enthusiasm and idealism. And she——!
Ah, my dear, if you had only known her! She was like a flower! like
an exquisite, delicate snowdrop, with hair fairer than yours, and
large grey eyes that conquered a man’s heart with one look. All the
lads of our country-side were in love with her. Margaridette was her
name, but they all called her Ridette; as for me I was already a
middle-aged man when that precious bud opened into a perfect
blossom. I was rich, and I worshipped her, but I had nothing else to
offer. She used to smile when I spoke to her of my love, and softly
murmur, sighing: ‘Poor Jaume.’
“But somehow I never gave up hope, I felt that love, as strong as
mine, must conquer in the end. How this would come about I had
not troubled to think, I was not likely to become younger or
handsomer as time went on, was I?”
Once more he paused; memories were crowding around him fast.
His eyes stared into the smouldering embers of the hearth, seeing
visions of past things that had long ceased to be.
“Then one evening, my dear, something was revealed to me. Shall I
ever forget that night, soft as a dream, warm as a downy bed; and
spring was in the air—spring that sent the blood coursing through

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