One morning, the Montégriers arrived at Juvigny with Berthe. Agénor received them with genuine warmth, by now almost fully recovered, his eyes less troubled, more attuned to social graces.
They went up to their rooms to unpack, settle in, and refresh themselves. Shortly thereafter, as the château bell chimed the noon Angelus, they promptly reconvened.
A meal had been laid out for Madame la Comtesse.
The Count’s beard had turned pristinely white of late, whilst his hair—white for some time now—was growing sparse above his scrawny neck. His shoulders had become increasingly stooped. The Marquis de Cluses took note of this.
“Goodness gracious, Agénor!” Madame de Montégrier exclaimed as soon as they sat down to dine, unwittingly echoing her son-in-law’s observations. “How nothing stays the same! Whatever happened to the time of tight-fitting dresses, high waistlines, Greek and Dutch-inspired coiffures, when cache-folies(112) were all the rage? I was just looking at your mother’s portrait, and her attire—though I distinctly remember owning an identical one!—struck me as so terribly old-fashioned… so very strange…”
“Yes, quite so…” Agénor replied, a contemplative look in his eyes.
But the toothless mouth that kept talking no longer held his attention. Instead, his thoughts veered toward Thérèse, under the gleaming face of the ornate Louis XIV bracket clock, back to when the now-grey-haired man opposite him and the elderly lady, who spoke with a noticeable lisp, had embraced him as their son.
“I am here, right beside you. Can you hear me?” the voice reached him, stealthily.
“Yes.”
And his eyes lit up with diamond-like brilliance.
All the while, Berthe could hardly contain her undefined anxiety—a blend of trepidation and hope—as she pondered the approaching hour when her destiny would be settled. She wasn’t exactly besotted with Monsieur de Prahecq, nor did she particularly consider him more handsome or pleasant than anyone else. Young—perhaps too young—she simply took pride in being sought after in a way that acknowledged her womanhood. Moreover, the whole notion of marriage both entertained and intrigued her.
Fair-haired, lovely, and green-eyed—particularly striking in her beauty this year—she had styled her hair in flat bands with two lateral partings on her forehead. She looked most becoming in a havana-brown coat dress(113) sprinkled with tiny floral patterns, its sleeves puffing out to the elbows and its cape(114) gracefully curved.
“Do compliment Berthe!” Madame de Montégrier suddenly exclaimed. “Really, Agénor, isn’t she simply ravishing?”
Looking at his daughter, the Marquis de Cluses failed—for the hundredth time—to see any likeness to the mother whose life she had taken. Silently, he turned his gaze elsewhere.
Berthe’s face flushed crimson. The Count took up the conversation. Three liveried servants in yellow and silver moved busily about, and with guests filling it once more, the dining room with its heroic décor reclaimed a touch of its former glory.
As the meal progressed, Agénor heard various names dropped into conversation: Victor Hugo, Louis-Napoléon(115), Persigny(116), Molé(117)—people in whom his troubled mental state had, until now, prevented him from taking any interest.
Later in the day, they left the château to walk in the park. Whilst the women ambled along, delighting in the gentle weather and chattering about the spring shoots—some already in leaf—and the emerald buds festooning branches on all sides, Monsieur de Montégrier informed his son-in-law that a certain Viscount de Prahecq had requested Berthe’s hand.
“Yes, I…” Agénor started, then stopped himself.
He had nearly revealed that he already knew.
“The Prahecqs have a remarkably prestigious noble background,” the old gentleman continued.
He proceeded to share everything he had gathered about them.
“They’d planned to come with us and make their request directly, but I worried they might be imposing.”
“Berthe!” the Marquis de Cluses called to his daughter.
He showed not the slightest hesitation, nor the faintest sign of regret.
The young girl came obediently, walking arm in arm with the Countess—the older woman moving stiffly whilst the girl walked light and straight-backed—as shafts of sunlight playing along their forms created the impression of glittering adornments.
“Well then?” Madame de Montégrier asked expectantly.
From his position some distance away, one of the gardeners saw Berthe throw her arms around her father.
Once back at the château, she gave way to extreme happiness: her voice trembled, her eyes glistened with tears.
That night, she scarcely slept. Her mind raced with strange, burning satisfaction, and underneath it all, a muffled need to weep.
The marriage settlement being agreed upon, Mademoiselle de Cluses wed Viscount Charles de Prahecq in Paris, without Agénor considering it worth his while to attend.
“The Marquis regrettably couldn’t join us,” Monsieur de Montégrier had explained with practised nonchalance. “The Marquis is feeling rather unwell…”
One evening, amid extraordinary heat as Sirius descended below the horizon, Agénor and the Chevalier de Caristy were peacefully chatting along the hornbeam walkways of Juvigny when the arrival of the Viscount and Viscountess de Prahecq was announced. They were returning from their honeymoon.
Agénor found Berthe’s husband to be exactly as he had imagined: a well-mannered young fellow whose appearance stirred no particular interest.
The newlyweds took their evening meal at the château and departed the next day, having pledged to return for a visit each year, should circumstances permit.
Léon Hennique Novel 