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 Design and Analysis of Algorithms
The text introduces readers to different paradigms of computing in addition to the traditional
approach of discussing fundamental computational problems and design techniques in the
random access machine model. Alternate models of computation including parallel,
cache-sensitive design and streaming algorithms are dealt in separate chapters to underline
the significant role of the underlying computational environment in the algorithm design. The
treatment is made rigorous by demonstrating new measures of performances along with
matching lower bound arguments.
The importance of greedy algorithms, divide-and-conquer technique and dynamic
programming is highlighted by additional applications to approximate algorithms that come
with guarantees. In addition to several classical techniques, the book encourages liberal use of
probabilistic analysis and randomized techniques that have been pivotal for many recent
advances in this area. There is also a chapter introducing techniques for dimension reduction
which is at the heart of many interesting applications in data analytics as well as statistical
machine learning. While these techniques have been known for a while in other communities,
their adoption into mainstream computer science has been relatively recent.
Concepts are discussed with the help of rigorous mathematical proofs, theoretical
explanations and their limitations. Problems have been chosen from a diverse landscape
including graphs, geometry, strings, algebra and optimization. Some exposition of
approximation algorithms has also been included, which has been a very active area of
research in algorithms. Real life applications and numerical problems are spread throughout
the text. The reader is expected to test her understanding by trying out a large number of
exercise problems accompanying every chapter.
The book assumes familiarity with basic data structures, to focus on more algorithmic aspects
and topics of contemporary importance.

Sandeep Sen has been a faculty member in the Department of Computer Science and
Engineering, Indian Institute of Technology Delhi, India, since 1991 where he is currently a
professor. His research spans randomized algorithms, computational geometry, dynamic
graph algorithms and models of computation. He is a Fellow of the Indian National Science
Academy and the Indian Academy of Sciences.

Amit Kumar is a faculty member in the Department of Computer Science and Engineering,
Indian Institute of Technology Delhi, India. His research lies in the area of combinatorial
optimization, with emphasis on problems arising in scheduling, graph theory and
clustering. He is a Fellow of Indian Academy of Sciences, and is a recent recipient of the Shanti
Swarup Bhatnagar Award for Mathematical Sciences.
Design and Analysis of Algorithms

Sandeep Sen
Amit Kumar
University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom
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www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108496827
c Sandeep Sen and Amit Kumar 2019
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2019
Printed in India
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sen, Sandeep, author. | Kumar, Amit, 1976- author.
Title: Design and analysis of algorithms / Sandeep Sen, Amit Kumar.
Description: New York, NY, USA : University Printing House, 2019. | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019002080| ISBN 9781108496827 (hardback : alk. paper) |
ISBN 9781108721998 (paperback : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Algorithms.
Classification: LCC QA9.58 .S454 2019 | DDC 005.1–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002080
ISBN 978-1-108-49682-7 Hardback
ISBN 978-1-108-72199-8 Paperback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy
of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication,
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
To the loving memory of my parents, Sisir Sen and Krishna Sen who nourished and
inspired my academic pursuits and all my teachers who helped me imbibe the beauty
and intricacies of various subjects
– Sandeep Sen

To my parents
– Amit Kumar
Content

List of Figures xv
List of Tables xix
Preface xxi
Acknowledgments xxv

1 Model and Analysis 1

1.1 Computing Fibonacci Numbers 1
1.2 Fast Multiplication 3
1.3 Model of Computation 4
1.4 Randomized Algorithms: A Short Introduction 6
1.4.1 A different flavor of randomized algorithms 8
1.5 Other Computational Models 10
1.5.1 External memory model 10
1.5.2 Parallel model 11
Further Reading 12
Exercise Problems 13

2 Basics of Probability and Tail Inequalities 16

2.1 Basics of Probability Theory 16
2.2 Tail Inequalities 21
2.3 Generating Random Numbers 26
2.3.1 Generating a random variate for an arbitrary distribution 26
viii Contents

2.3.2 Generating random variables from a sequential file 27

2.3.3 Generating a random permutation 29
Further Reading 31
Exercise Problems 31

3 Warm-up Problems 34
3.1 Euclid’s Algorithm for the Greatest Common Divisor (GCD) 34
3.1.1 Extended Euclid’s algorithm 35
3.1.2 Application to cryptography 36
3.2 Finding the kth Smallest Element 37
3.2.1 Choosing a random splitter 38
3.2.2 Median of medians 39
3.3 Sorting Words 41
3.4 Mergeable Heaps 43
3.4.1 Merging binomial heaps 44
3.5 A Simple Semi-dynamic Dictionary 45
3.5.1 Potential method and amortized analysis 46
3.6 Lower Bounds 47
Further Reading 50
Exercise Problems 50

4 Optimization I: Brute Force and Greedy Strategy 54

4.1 Heuristic Search Approaches 55
4.1.1 Game trees* 57
4.2 A Framework for Greedy Algorithms 60
4.2.1 Maximum spanning tree 64
4.2.2 Finding minimum weight subset 64
4.2.3 A scheduling problem 65
4.3 Efficient Data Structures for Minimum Spanning Tree Algorithms 66
4.3.1 A simple data structure for Union–Find 68
4.3.2 A faster scheme 69
4.3.3 The slowest growing function? 71
4.3.4 Putting things together 72
4.3.5 Path compression only* 73
4.4 Greedy in Different Ways 74
4.5 Compromising with Greedy 76
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Contents ix

4.6 Gradient Descent* 77

4.6.1 Applications 83
Further Reading 87
Exercise Problems 88

5 Optimization II: Dynamic Programming 92

5.1 Knapsack Problem 94
5.2 Context Free Parsing 95
5.3 Longest Monotonic Subsequence 97
5.4 Function Approximation 99
5.5 Viterbi’s Algorithm for Maximum Likelihood Estimation 100
5.6 Maximum Weighted Independent Set in a Tree 102
Further Reading 102
Exercise Problems 103

6 Searching 109
6.1 Skip-Lists – A Simple Dictionary 110
6.1.1 Construction of skip-lists 110
6.1.2 Analysis 111
6.1.3 Stronger tail estimates 113
6.2 Treaps: Randomized Search Trees 114
6.3 Universal Hashing 117
6.3.1 Existence of universal hash functions 120
6.4 Perfect Hash Function 121
6.4.1 Converting expected bound to worst case bound 122
6.5 A log log N Priority Queue* 122
Further Reading 124
Exercise Problems 125

7 Multidimensional Searching and Geometric Algorithms 128

7.1 Interval Trees and Range Trees 129
7.1.1 Two-dimensional range queries 131
7.2 k–d Trees 132
7.3 Priority Search Trees 135
7.4 Planar Convex Hull 137
7.4.1 Jarvis march 139
7.4.2 Graham’s scan 140
7.4.3 Sorting and convex hulls 141
x Contents

7.5 Quickhull Algorithm 142

7.5.1 Analysis 143
7.5.2 Expected running time* 145
7.6 Point Location Using Persistent Data Structure 146
7.7 Incremental Construction 149
Further Reading 152
Exercise Problems 153

8 String Matching and Finger Printing 157

8.1 Rabin–Karp Fingerprinting 157
8.2 KMP Algorithm 161
8.2.1 Analysis of the KMP algorithm 165
8.2.2 Pattern analysis 165
8.3 Tries and Applications 165
Further Reading 168
Exercise Problems 169

9 Fast Fourier Transform and Applications 171

9.1 Polynomial Evaluation and Interpolation 171
9.1.1 Multiplying polynomials 172
9.2 Cooley–Tukey Algorithm 173
9.3 The Butterfly Network 175
9.4 Schonage and Strassen’s Fast Multiplication* 176
9.5 Generalized String Matching 179
9.5.1 Convolution based approach 180
Further Reading 182
Exercise Problems 182

10 Graph Algorithms 184

10.1 Depth First Search 184
10.2 Applications of DFS 188
10.2.1 Strongly connected components (SCC) 188
10.2.2 Biconnected components 191
10.3 Path Problems 193
10.3.1 Bellman–Ford SSSP algorithm 194
10.3.2 Dijkstra’s SSSP algorithm 195
10.3.3 All pair shortest paths algorithm 197
Contents xi

10.4 Computing Spanners for Weighted Graphs 198

10.5 Global Min-cut 201
10.5.1 The contraction algorithm 202
10.5.2 Probability of min-cut 203
Further Reading 204
Exercise Problems 205

11 Maximum Flow and Applications 208

11.0.1 Max-Flow Min-Cut 212
11.0.2 Ford and Fulkerson algorithm 213
11.0.3 Edmond–Karp augmentation strategy 214
11.0.4 Monotonicity lemma and bounding the number of iterations 215
11.1 Applications of Max-Flow 216
11.1.1 Disjoint paths 216
11.1.2 Bipartite matching 217
11.1.3 Circulation problems 222
11.1.4 Project planning 224
Further Reading 226
Exercise Problems 227

12 NP Completeness and Approximation Algorithms 230

12.1 Classes and Reducibility 233
12.2 Cook–Levin Theorem 235
12.3 Common NP-Complete Problems 237
12.4 Proving NP Completeness 240
12.4.1 Vertex cover and related problems 241
12.4.2 Three coloring problem 242
12.4.3 Knapsack and related problems 244
12.5 Other Important Complexity Classes 247
12.6 Combating Hardness with Approximation 249
12.6.1 Maximum knapsack problem 251
12.6.2 Minimum set cover 252
12.6.3 The metric TSP problem 253
12.6.4 Three coloring 253
12.6.5 Max-cut problem 254
Further Reading 254
Exercise Problems 255
xii Contents

13 Dimensionality Reduction* 258

13.1 Random Projections and the Johnson–Lindenstrauss Lemma 259
13.2 Gaussian Elimination 262
13.3 Singular Value Decomposition and Applications 264
13.3.1 Some matrix algebra and the SVD theorem 265
13.3.2 Low-rank approximations using SVD 267
13.3.3 Applications of low-rank approximations 269
13.3.4 Clustering problems 271
13.3.5 Proof of the SVD theorem 273
Further Reading 275
Exercise Problems 275

14 Parallel Algorithms 277

14.1 Models of Parallel Computation 277
14.2 Sorting and Comparison Problems 278
14.2.1 Finding the maximum 278
14.2.2 Sorting 282
14.3 Parallel Prefix 287
14.4 Basic Graph Algorithms 291
14.4.1 List ranking 292
14.4.2 Connected components 294
14.5 Basic Geometric Algorithms 298
14.6 Relation between Parallel Models 300
14.6.1 Routing on a mesh 301
Further Reading 303
Exercise Problems 304

15 Memory Hierarchy and Caching 308

15.1 Models of Memory Hierarchy 308
15.2 Transposing a Matrix 310
15.2.1 Matrix multiplication 311
15.3 Sorting in External Memory 313
15.3.1 Can we improve the algorithm?* 314
15.4 Cache Oblivious Design 316
15.4.1 Oblivious matrix transpose 317
Further Reading 320
Exercise Problems 321
Contents xiii

16 Streaming Data Model 323

16.1 Introduction 323
16.2 Finding Frequent Elements in a Stream 324
16.3 Distinct Elements in a Stream 327
16.4 Frequency Moment Problem and Applications 331
16.4.1 The median of means trick 334
16.4.2 The special case of second frequency moment 335
16.5 Proving Lower Bounds for Streaming Model 337
Further Reading 339
Exercise Problems 340

Appendix A Recurrences and Generating Functions 343

A.1 An Iterative Method – Summation 344
A.2 Linear Recurrence Equations 345
A.2.1 Homogeneous equations 345
A.2.2 Inhomogeneous equations 346
A.3 Generating Functions 346
A.3.1 Binomial theorem 348
A.4 Exponential Generating Functions 348
A.5 Recurrences with Two Variables 349

Bibliography 351
Index 363
Figures

1.1 Algorithm for verifying matrix product 9

2.1 Generating a random permutation of n distinct objects 29
3.1 Euclid’s algorithm 35
3.2 Algorithm based on median of medians 40
3.3 (a) Recursive construction of binomial tree; (b) Binomial heap of 11
elements consisting of three binomial trees 44
W
4.1 Illustration of the induction proof when root node is 59
4.2 Algorithm Gen Greedy 61
4.3 The matching (a, d) is a maximal independent set, but (a, b), (c, d) is a larger
maximal independent set 63
4.4 Kruskal’s minimum spanning tree algorithm 64
4.5 Successive iterations in Kruskal’s greedy algorithm 67
4.6 An example of a Union–Find data structure storing elements {1, 2, . . . , 12} 69
4.7 An example of a path compression heuristic 70
4.8 Prim’s minimum spanning tree algorithm 74
4.9 Boruvka’s minimum spanning tree algorithm 76
4.10 A convex function of one variable 78
4.11 Gradient descent algorithm 80
4.12 The convex function is non-differentiable at x 82
4.13 The point P should ideally lie on the intersection of the three circles, but
there are some measurement errors 83
4.14 A perceptron with inputs x1 , x2 , . . . , xn and output determined by the sign of
w0 + w1 x1 + . . . + wn xn 84
xvi Figures

4.15 A plot of the function g as an approximation to the sgn function 85

4.16 The points in P are denoted by dots, and those in N by squares 86
5.1 Recursive Fibonacci sequence algorithm 93
5.2 The recursive unfolding of computing F6 93
5.3 Table (a) implies that the string aba does not belong to the grammar
whereas Table (b) shows that baaba can be generated from S 96
5.4 In (a), the constant function is an average of the y values which minimizes
the sum of squares error. In (b), a 3 step function approximates the 7 point
function 99
5.5 For the label aba and starting vertex v1 , there are several possible labeled
paths like [v1 , v3 , v4 , v6 ], [v1 , v4 , v5 , v6 ], etc. 101
5.6 In the sequence 13, 5, 8, 12, 9, 14, 15, 2 we have predefined the tree structure
but only the first four numbers have been scanned, i.e., 13, 5, 8, 12 104
6.1 The path traversed while searching for the element 87 111
6.2 Diagrams (a) to (d) depict the rotations required to insert the element 20
having priority 58 starting with the treap for the first four elements.
Diagram (e) is the final tree after the entire insertion sequence. Diagram (f)
shows the schematic for left/right rotations 117
6.3 The shaded leaf nodes correspond to the subset S 123
7.1 The structure of a one-dimensional range search tree where a query interval
is split into at most 2log n disjoint canonical (half)-intervals 130
7.2 The rectangle is the union of the slabs represented by the darkened nodes
plus an overhanging left segment containing p6 132
7.3 Rectangular range query used in a k–d tree 133
7.4 Each rectangular subdivision corresponds to a node in the k–d tree and is
labeled by the splitting axis – either vertical or horizontal 134
7.5 The query is the semi-infinite upper slab supported by the two bottom
points (0, 4.5) and (10, 4.5) 137
7.6 The figure on the left is convex, whereas the one on the right is not convex 137
7.7 Convex hull of points shown as the shaded region 138
7.8 Jarvis March algorithm for convex hull 140
7.9 Merging upper hulls 141
7.10 Left turn(pm , p2 j−1 , p2 j ) is true but slope(p2 j−1 p2 j ) is less than the median
slope given by L 144
7.11 The shaded vertical region does not contain any intersection points 147
7.12 An example depicting Ω(n2 ) space complexity for n segments 149
7.13 Path copying technique on adjacent slabs s5 and s6 149
7.14 Incremental algorithm for closest pair computation 150
Figures xvii

7.15 Maximum number of D-separated points per cell is 4 and the shaded area
is the region within which a point can lie with distance less than D from p 152
8.1 Testing equality of two large numbers 159
8.2 Karp–Rabin string matching algorithm 160
8.3 Knuth–Morris–Pratt string matching algorithm 164
8.4 The suffix tree construction corresponding to the string catca $: (i) Suffix a
starting at position 5, (ii) Suffixes at position 4 and 5, etc. 167
9.1 FFT computation 174
9.2 Computing an eight point FFT using a butterfly network 176
9.3 Matching with wildcards: The pattern is X = 3 2 1 ∗ and r1 = 6, r2 = 4, r3 =
11, r4 = 0 all chosen from [1 . . . 16] corresponding to p = 17 182
10.1 Algorithm for Depth First Search 186
10.2 The pair of numbers associated with each vertex denotes the starting time
and finishing time respectively as given by the global counter 187
10.3 The pair of numbers associated with the vertices represent the start and
finish time of the DFS procedure 189
10.4 Finding strongly connected components using two DFS 190
10.5 The component graph for the graph on the left is shown on the right 192
10.6 Bellman–Ford single-source shortest path problem 194
10.7 For every vertex, the successive labels over the iterations of the
Bellman–Ford algorithm are indicated where i denotes ∞ 196
10.8 Dijkstra’s single source shortest path algorithm 196
10.9 An algorithm for weighted 3-spanner 199
10.10 The 3-spanner algorithm – Stages 1 and 2 200
10.11 Stretch bound: (i) Intracluster; (ii) Intercluster 201
10.12 Algorithm for computing t-partition 202
11.1 Greedy algorithm for max-flow: it may not give optimal solution 211
11.2 Example of residual graph 211
11.3 Example of disjoint paths in a graph 217
11.4 Reduction from a matching instance on the left to a max-flow instance on
the right 218
11.5 The matching M is shown by dotted edges 220
11.6 Illustration of Hall’s theorem 221
11.7 The shaded region consisting of s, A,C, D, E, F represents a min s-t cut of
capacity 3 222
11.8 Example of circulation on the left 223
11.9 Figure on the left shows an example of DAG on a set of tasks 225
11.10 Figure for Exercise 11.3. Numbers denote edge capacities 227
12.1 Many-to-one reduction from Π1 to Π2 by using a function f : N → N 234
xviii Figures

12.2 Graph illustrating the reduction for the 3-CNF formula 242
12.3 Illustration of the reduction proving NP-completeness of the three coloring
problem. 243
13.1 Gaussian elimination algorithm 263
13.2 A two-dimensional illustration of the SVD subspace V1 of points
represented by circular dots, where V1 denotes the subspace spanned by
the first column of V 273
14.1 Parallel odd–even transposition sort 282
14.2 Sorting two rows by alternately sorting rows and columns 284
14.3 Shearsort algorithm for a rectangular mesh 285
14.4 Partition sort in parallel 285
14.5 Parallel prefix computation: this procedure computes prefix of xa , xa+1 ,
. . . , xb 287
14.6 Parallel prefix computation using blocking 289
14.7 Recursive unfolding of the prefix circuit with 8 inputs in terms of 4-input
and 2-input circuits 289
14.8 Parallel list ranking 292
14.9 The star rooted at vertex 5 is connected to all the stars (dotted edges) on the
right that have higher numbered vertices 296
14.10 Parallel connectivity: We assume that there is a processor assigned to every
vertex v ∈ V and to every edge (u, w) ∈ E 297
14.11 Starting from (r, c), the packet is routed to a random row r0 within the same
column c 303
15.1 The tiling of a p × q matrix in a row-major layout 310
15.2 Transposing a matrix using minimal transfers 311
15.3 Computing the product Z = X ·Y using tiles of size s 312
15.4 Searching a dictionary in external memory 316
15.5 Consider numbers from 1 to 16 arranged according to the Algorithm in
Fig. 15.4 316
15.6 Algorithm for matrix transpose 317
15.7 Base case: Both A,B fit into cache – no further cache miss 318
15.8 The subsequence σi1 σi1 +1 . . . σi1 +r1 σi2 have k+1 distinct elements, whereas
the subsequence σi1 σi1 +1 . . . σi1 +r1 have k distinct elements 319
16.1 The algorithm A receives input xt at time t, but has limited space 324
16.2 Boyer–Moore majority voting algorithm 325
16.3 Misra–Gries streaming algorithm for frequent elements 327
16.4 Counting number of distinct elements 328
16.5 Combining reservoir sampling with the estimator for Fk 332
16.6 Estimating F2 336
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Tables

5.1 The dynamic programming table for Knapsack 95

8.1 Finite automaton transition function for the string aabb matching 163
8.2 Illustration of matching using KMP failure function f for the pattern
abababca. 164
12.1 Creating an instance of decision-knapsack from a given instance of 3-SAT 245
14.1 Consecutive snapshots of the list ranking algorithm on 15 elements 293
Preface

This book embodies a distillation of topics that we, as educators, have frequently covered
in the past two decades in various postgraduate and undergraduate courses related to
Design and Analysis of Algorithms in IIT Delhi. The primary audience were the junior level
(3rd year) computer science (CS) students and the first semester computer science
post-graduate students. This book can also serve the purpose of material for a more
advanced level algorithm course where the reader is exposed to alternate and more
contemporary computational frameworks that are becoming common and more suitable.
A quick glance through the contents will reveal that about half of the topics are
covered by many standard textbooks on algorithms like those by Aho et al. [7], Horowitz
et al. [65], Cormen et al. [37], and more recent ones like those by Kleinberg and
Tardos [81] and Dasgupta et al. [40]. The first classic textbook in this area, viz., that by
Aho et al., introduces the subject with the observation ‘The study of algorithms is at the
very heart of computer science’ and this observation has been reinforced over the past
five decades of rapid development of computer science as well as of the more applied
field of information technology. Because of its foundational nature, many of the early
algorithms discovered about five decades ago continue to be included in every textbook
written including this one – for example, algorithms like FFT, quicksort, Dijkstra’s
shortest paths, etc.
What motivated us to write another book on algorithms are the several important and
subtle changes in the understanding of many computational paradigms and the relative
importance of techniques emerging out of some spectacular discoveries and changing
technologies. As teachers and mentors, it is our responsibility to inculcate the right focus
xxii Preface

in the younger generation so that they continue to enjoy this intellectually critical activity
and contribute to the enhancement of the field of study. As more and more human
activities are becoming computer-assisted, it becomes obligatory to emphasize and
reinforce the importance of efficient and faster algorithms, which is the core of any
automated process. We are often limited and endangered by the instictive use of
ill-designed and brute force algorithms, which are often erroneous, leading to fallacious
scientific conclusions or incorrect policy decisions. It is therefore important to introduce
some formal aspects of algorithm design and analysis into the school curriculum at par
with maths and science, and sensitize students about this subject.

Who can use it

The present book is intended for students who have acquired skills in programming as
well as basic data structures like arrays, stacks, lists, and even some experience with
balanced trees. The authors, with a long experience behind them in teaching this subject,
are convinced that algorithm design can be a deceptively hard subject and a gentle
exposure is important for, both, understanding and sustaining interest. In IIT Delhi, CS
undergraduates do a course in programming followed by a course in data structures with
some exposure to basic algorithmic techniques. This book is intended for students having
this background and so we have avoided any formal introduction of basic data structures
including elementary graph searching methods like BFS/DFS. Instead, the book focusses
on a mathematical treatment of the previously acquired knowledge and emphasizes a
clean and crisp analysis of any new idea and technique. The CS students in IIT Delhi
would have done a course in discrete mathematics and probability before they do this
course. The design of efficient algorithms go hand-in-hand with our ability to quickly
screen intuitions that lead to poor algorithms – both in terms of efficiency and correctness.
We have consciously avoided topics that require long and dry formalism, although we
have emphasized rigor at every juncture.
An important direction that we have pursued is based on the significance of adapting
algorithm design to the computational environment. Although there has been a long
history of research in designing algorithms for real-world models such as parallel and
cache-hierarchy models, these have remained in the realms of niche and specialized
graduate courses. The tacit assumption in basic textbooks is that we are dealing with
uniform cost random access machines (RAMs). It is our firm belief that algorithm design
is as much a function of the specific problem as the target model of execution, and failing
to recognize this aspect makes the exercise somewhat incomplete and ineffective.
Therefore, trying to execute the textbook data structures on a distributed model or
Dijkstra’s algorithm in a parallel computer would be futile. In summary,

Algorithms = ProblemDe f inition + Model

Preface xxiii

The last three chapters specifically address three very important environments, namely
parallel computing, memory hierarchy, and streaming. They form the core of a course
taught in IIT Delhi, Model Centric Algorithm Design – some flavor can add diversity to a
core course in algorithms. Of course, any addition to a course would imply proportionate
exclusion of some other equally important topic – so it is eventually the instructor’s choice.
Another recurring theme in the book is the liberal use of randomized techniques in
algorithm design. To help students appreciate this aspect, we have described some basic
tools and applications in Chapter 2. Even for students who are proficient in the use of
probabilistic calculations (we expect all CS majors to have one college level course in
probability), may find these applications somewhat non-intuitive and surprising –
however, this may also turn into a very versatile and useful tool for anyone who is
mathematically minded.
The other major development over the past decade is an increasing popularity of
algebraic (particularly spectral) methods for combinatorial problems. This has made the
role of conventional continuous mathematics more relevant and important. Reconciling
and bridging the two distinct worlds of discrete and continuous methods is a huge
challenge to even an experienced researcher, let alone an average student. It is too
difficult to address this in a book like ours but we have tried to present some flavor in
Chapter 12, which is an introduction to the technique of random projections.
Each chapter is followed by some brief discussion on some historical origins of the
problem and pointers to relevant existing literature. The subsections/sections/chapters
marked with ∗ are more suitable for the advanced reader and may be skipped by others
without loss of continuity.
One of the primary objectives of a course on algorithms is to encourage an appreciation
for creativity without sacrificing rigor – this aspect makes algorithm design one of the most
challenging and fascinating intellectual pursuit.

Suggested use of the chapters

The material presented in the sixteen chapters can be taught over two semesters at a
leisurely pace, for example, in a two sequence course on algorithms. Alternately, for a first
course on algorithms (with prior background in basic data structures), the instructor can
choose majority portions from Chapters 3 to 11 and parts of Chapter 12. An advanced
course can be taught using material from Chapters 12–16. Chapters 14–16 can form the
crux of a course on model centric algorithm design which can be thought of as a more
pragmatic exposure to theory of computation using contemporary frameworks.

Sandeep Sen
Amit Kumar
New Delhi, 2019
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Avignon must come over to perform the religious ceremony in the
private chapel of the château: fresh altar-frontals and vestments
must be ordered at Arles for the great occasion.
Old Madame’s mood was electrical: Micheline quickly succumbed
to it. She was young, and despite her physical infirmities, she was
woman enough to thrill at thoughts of a wedding, of pretty clothes,
bridal bouquets and banquets. And she loved Rixende! the dainty
fairy-like creature who, according to grandmama’s unerring
judgment, would resuscitate all the past splendours of the old
château and make it resound once more with song and laughter.
Even the Comtesse Marcelle was not wholly proof against the
atmosphere of excitement. Meetings were held in her room, and
more than once she actually gave her opinion on the future choice of
a dress for Micheline, or of a special dish for the wedding banquet.
Bertrand was expected three days after the New Year. Grandmama
had decided that if he and M. de Peyron-Bompar started on the 29th,
the day after the funeral, and they were not delayed anywhere owing
to the weather conditions, they need not be longer than five days on
the way. Whereupon she set to, and ordered Jasmin to recruit a few
lads from La Bastide or Manosque, and to clean out the coach-house
and the stables, and to lay in a provision of straw and forage, as M. le
Comte de Ventadour would be arriving in a few days in his calèche
with four horses and postilions.
Nor were her spirits affected by Bertrand’s non-arrival. The
weather accounted for everything. The roads were blocked. If there
had been a fall of snow here in the south, there must have been
positive avalanches up in the north. And while the Comtesse
Marcelle with her usual want of spirit began to droop once more after
those few days of factitious well-being, old Madame’s energies went
on increasing, her activities never abated. She found in Micheline a
willing, eager help, and a pale semblance of sympathy sprang up
between the young cripple and the stately old grandmother over their
feverish plans for Bertrand’s wedding.
The tenth day after the New Year, the Comtesse Marcelle once
more took to her couch. She had a serious fainting fit in the morning
brought on by excitement when a carriage was heard to rattle along
the road. When the sound died away and she realised that the
carriage had not brought Bertrand, she slid down to the floor like a
poor bundle of rags and was subsequently found, lying unconscious
on the doorstep of her own room, where she had been standing
waiting to clasp Bertrand in her arms.
Grandmama scolded her, tried to revive her spirits by discussing
the decorations of Rixende’s proposed boudoir, but Marcelle had
sunk back into her habitual listlessness and grandmama’s
grandiloquent plans only seemed to exacerbate her nerves. She fell
from one fainting fit into another, the presence of Pérone was hateful
to her, Micheline was willing but clumsy. The next day found her in a
state of fever, wide-eyed, her cheeks of an ashen colour, her thin
hands perpetually twitching, and a look of pathetic expectancy in her
sunken, wearied face. In the end, though grandmama protested and
brought forth the whole artillery of her sarcasm to bear against the
project, Micheline walked over to the mas and begged Nicolette to
come over and help her look after mother, who once or twice, when
she moaned with the pain in her head, had expressed the desire to
have the girl beside her. Of course Jaume Deydier protested, but as
usual Nicolette had her way, and the next day found her installed as
sick-nurse in the room of the Comtesse Marcelle. She only went
home to sleep. It was decided that if the next two days saw no real
improvement in the patient’s condition, a messenger should be sent
over to Pertuis to fetch a physician. For the moment she certainly
appeared more calm, and seemed content that Nicolette should wait
on her.
But on the fourteenth day, even old Madame appeared to be
restless. All day she kept repeating to any one who happened to be
nigh—to Micheline, to Pérone, to Jasmin—that the weather was
accountable for Bertrand’s delay, that he and M. de Peyron-Bompar
would surely be here before nightfall, and that, whatever else
happened, supper must be kept ready for the two travellers and it
must be good and hot.
It was then four o’clock. The volets all along the façade of the
château had been closed, and the curtains closed in all the rooms.
The old Comtesse, impatient at her daughter-in-law’s wan,
reproachful looks, and irritated by Nicolette’s presence in the
invalid’s room, had avoided it all day and kept to her own
apartments, where Pérone, obsequious and sympathetic, was always
ready to listen to her latest schemes and plans. Later on in the
afternoon Micheline had been summoned to take coffee in
grandmama’s room, and as mother seemed inclined to sleep and
Nicolette had promised not to go away till Micheline returned, the
latter went readily enough. The question of Micheline’s own dress for
the wedding was to be the subject of debate, and Micheline, having
kissed her mother, and made Nicolette swear to come and tell her the
moment the dear patient woke, ran over to grandmama’s room.
Nicolette rearranged the pillows round Marcelle’s aching head,
then she sat down by the table, and took up her needlework. After
awhile it certainly seemed as if the invalid slept. The house was very
still. In the hearth a log of olive wood crackled cheerfully. Suddenly
Nicolette looked up from her work. She encountered Marcelle de
Ventadour’s eyes fixed upon her. They looked large, dark, eager.
Nicolette felt that her own heart was beating furiously, and a wave of
heat rushed to her cheeks. She had heard a sound, coming from the
court-yard below—a commotion—the tramp of a horse’s hoofs on the
flagstones—she was sure of that—then the clanking of metal—a shout
—Bertrand’s voice—no doubt of that——
Marcelle had raised herself on her couch: a world of expectancy in
her eyes. Nicolette threw down her work, and in an instant was out of
the room and running along the gallery to the top of the stairs. Here
she paused for a moment, paralysed with excitement: the next she
heard the clang of the bolts being pulled open, the rattling of the
chain, and Jasmin’s cry of astonishment:
“M. le Comte!”
For the space of two seconds Nicolette hesitated between her
longing to run down the stairs so as to be first to wish Tan-tan a
happy New Year, and the wish to go back to the Comtesse Marcelle
and see that the happy shock did not bring on an attack of fainting.
The latter impulse prevailed. She turned and ran back along the
gallery. But Marcelle de Ventadour had forestalled her. She stood on
the threshold of her room, under the lintel. She had a candle in her
hand and seemed hardly able to stand. In the flickering light, her
features looked pinched and her face haggard: her hair was
dishevelled and her eyes seemed preternaturally large. Nicolette ran
to her, and was just in time to clasp the tottering form in her strong,
steady arms.
 “It is all right, madame,” she cried excitedly, her eyes full with
tears of joy, “all right, it is Bertrand!”
“Bertrand,” the mother murmured feebly, and then reiterated,
babbling like a child: “It is all right, it is Bertrand!”
Bertrand came slowly across the vestibule, then more slowly still
up the stairs. The two women could not see him for the moment:
they just heard his slow and heavy footstep coming nearer and
nearer. The well of the staircase was in gloom, only lit by an oil lamp
that hung high up from the ceiling, and after a moment or two
Bertrand came round the bend of the stairs and they saw the top of
his head sunk between his shoulders. His shadow projected by the
flickering lamp-light looked grotesque against the wall, all hunched-
up, like that of an old man.
Nicolette murmured: “I’ll run and tell Micheline and Mme. la
Comtesse!” but suddenly Marcelle drew her back, back into the
room. The girl felt scared: all her pleasure in Bertrand’s coming had
vanished. Somehow she wished that she had not seen him—that it
was all a dream and that Bertrand was not really there. Marcelle had
put the candle down on the table in the centre of the room. Her face
looked very white, but her hands were quite steady; she turned up
the lamp and blew out the candle and set it on one side, then she
drew a chair close to the hearth, but she herself remained standing,
only steadied herself with both her hands against the chair, and
stared at the open doorway. All the while Nicolette knew that she
must not run out and meet Bertrand, that she must not call to him to
hurry. His mother wished that he should come into her room, and
tell her—tell her what? Nicolette did not know.
Now Bertrand was coming along the corridor. He paused one
moment at the door: then he came in. He was in riding breeches and
boots, and the collar of his coat was turned up to his ears: he held his
riding whip in his gloved hand, but he had thrown down his hat, and
his hair appeared moist and dishevelled. On the smooth blue cloth of
his coat, myriads of tiny drops of moisture glistened like so many
diamonds.
“It is snowing a little,” were the first words that he said. “I am
sorry I am so wet.”
“Bertrand,” the mother cried in an agony of entreaty, “what is it?”
 He stood quite still for a moment or two, and looked at her as if he
thought her crazy for asking such a question. Then he came farther
into the room, threw his whip down on the table and pulled off his
gloves: but still he said nothing. His mother and Nicolette watched
him; but Marcelle did not ask again. She just waited. Presently he sat
down on the chair by the hearth, rested his elbows on his knees and
held his hands to the blaze. Nicolette from where she stood could
only see his face in profile: it looked cold and pinched and his eyes
stared into the fire.
“It is all over, mother,” he said at last, “that is all.”
Marcelle de Ventadour went up to her son, and put her thin hand
on his shoulder.
“You mean——?” she murmured.
“Mme. de Mont-Pahon,” he went on in a perfectly quiet, matter-of-
fact tone of voice, “has left the whole of her fortune to her great-niece
Rixende absolutely. Two hours after the reading of the will, M. de
Peyron-Bompar came to me and told me in no measured language
that having heard in what a slough of debt I and my family were
wallowing, he would not allow his daughter’s fortune to be dissipated
in vain efforts to drag us out of that mire. He ended by declaring that
all idea of my marrying Rixende must at once be given up.”
Here his voice shook a little, and with a quick, impatient gesture he
passed his hand across his brows. Marcelle de Ventadour said
nothing for the moment. Her hand was still on his shoulder.
Nicolette, who watched her closely, saw not the faintest sign of
physical weakness in her quiet, silent attitude. Then as Bertrand was
silent too, she asked after awhile:
“Did you speak to Rixende?”
“Did I speak to Rixende?” he retorted, and a hard, unnatural laugh
broke from his parched, choking throat. “My God! until I spoke with
her I had no idea how much humiliation a man could endure, and
survive the shame of it.”
He buried his face in his hands and a great sob shook his bent
shoulders. Marcelle de Ventadour stared wide-eyed into the fire, and
Nicolette, watching Tan-tan’s grief, felt that Mother Earth could not
hold greater misery for any child of hers than that which she endured
at this moment.
 “Rixende did not love you, Bertrand,” the mother murmured dully,
“she never loved you.”
“She must have hated me,” Bertrand rejoined quietly, “and now
she despises me too. You should have heard her laugh, mother, when
I spoke to her of our life here together in the old château——”
His voice broke. Of course he could not bear to speak of it: and
Nicolette had to stand by, seemingly indifferent, whilst she saw great
tears force themselves into his eyes. She longed to put her arms
round him, to draw his head against her cheek, to smooth his hair
and kiss the tears away. Her heart was full with words of comfort, of
hope, of love which, if only she dared, she would have given half her
life to utter. But she was the stranger, the intruder even, at this hour.
Except for the fact that she was genuinely afraid Marcelle de
Ventadour might collapse at any moment, she would have slipped
away unseen. Marcelle for the moment seemed to find in her son’s
grief, a measure of strength such as she had not known whilst she
was happy. She had led such an isolated, self-centred life that she
was too shy now to be demonstrative, and it was pathetic to watch
the effort which she made to try and speak the words of comfort
which obviously hovered on her lips; but nevertheless she stood by
him, with her hand on his shoulder, and something of the magnetism
of her love for him must have touched his senses, for presently he
seized hold of her hand and pressed it against his lips.
The clock above the hearth ticked loudly with a nerve-racking
monotony. The minutes sped on while Bertrand and his mother
stared into the fire, both their minds a blank—grief having erased
every other thought from their brain. Nicolette hardly dared to move.
So far it seemed that Bertrand had remained entirely unaware of her
presence, and in her heart she prayed that he might not see her, lest
he felt his humiliation and his misery more completely if he thought
that she had witnessed it.
After awhile the Comtesse Marcelle said:
“You must be hungry, Bertrand, we’ll let grandmama know you’re
here. She has ordered supper to be ready for you, as soon as you
came.”
Bertrand appeared to wake as if out of a dream.
“Did you speak, mother?” he asked.
 “You must be hungry, dear.”
“Yes—yes!” he murmured vaguely. “Perhaps I am. It was a long
ride from Pertuis—the roads are bad——”
“Grandmama has ordered——”
But quickly Bertrand seized his mother’s hands again. “Don’t tell
grandmama yet,” he said hoarsely. “I—I could not—not yet....”
“But you must be hungry, dear,” the mother insisted, “and
grandmama will have to know,” she added gently. “And there is
Micheline!”
“Yes, I know,” he retorted. “I am a fool—but—— Let us wait a little,
shall we?”
Again he kissed his mother’s hands, but he never once looked up
into her face. Once when the light from the lamp struck full upon
him, Nicolette saw how much older he had grown, and that there was
a look in his eyes as if he was looking into the future, and saw
something there that was tragic and inevitable!
That look frightened her. But what could she do? Some one ought
to be warned and Bertrand should not be allowed to remain alone—
not for one moment. Did the mother realise this? Was this the reason
why she remained standing beside him with her hand on his
shoulder, as if to warn him or to protect?
Five minutes went by, perhaps ten! For Nicolette it was an
eternity. Then suddenly grandmama’s voice was heard from way
down the gallery, obviously speaking to Jasmin:
“Why was I not told at once?”
After which there was a pause, and then footsteps along the
corridor: Micheline’s halting dot and carry one, grandmama’s stately
gait.
“I can’t,” Bertrand said and jumped to his feet. “You tell her,
mother.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” Marcelle rejoined soothingly, quite gently as if
she were speaking to a sick child.
“Let me get away somewhere,” he went on, “where she can’t see me
—not just yet—I can’t——”
It was Nicolette who ran to the door which gave on Marcelle’s
bedroom, and threw it open.
 “That’s it, my dear,” Marcelle said, and taking Bertrand’s hand she
led him towards the door. “Nicolette is quite right—go into my
bedroom—I’ll explain to grandmama.”
“Nicolette?” Bertrand murmured and turned his eyes on her, as if
suddenly made aware of her presence. A dark flush spread all over
his face. “I didn’t know she was here.”
The two women exchanged glances. They understood one another.
It meant looking after Bertrand, and, if possible, keeping old
Madame from him for a little while.
Bertrand followed Nicolette into his mother’s room. He did not
speak to her again, but sank into a chair as if he were mortally tired.
She went to a cupboard where a few provisions were always kept for
Marcelle de Ventadour, in case she required them in the night: a
bottle of wine and some cake. Nicolette put these on the table with a
glass and poured out the wine.
“Drink it, Bertrand,” she whispered, “it will please your mother.”
Later she went back to the boudoir. Old Madame was standing in
the middle of the room, and as Nicolette entered she was saying
tartly:
“But why was I not told?”
“I was just on the point of sending Nicolette to you, Madame——”
Marcelle de Ventadour said timidly. Her voice was shaking, her face
flushed and she wandered about the room, restlessly fingering the
draperies. Whereupon the old Comtesse raised her lorgnette and
stared at Nicolette.
“Ah!” she said coldly, “Mademoiselle Deydier has not yet gone?”
“She was just going, Madame,” the younger woman rejoined,
“when——”
“Then you have not yet seen Bertrand?” grandmama broke in.
“No,” Marcelle replied, stammering and flushing, “that is——”
“What do you mean by ‘No, ... that is, ...’?” old Madame retorted
sharply. “Ah ça, my good Marcelle, what is all this mystery? Where is
my grandson?”
“He was here a moment ago, he——”
“And where is M. de Peyron-Bompar?”
 “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.
 CHAPTER XI
GREY DAWN

S 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.
 CHAPTER XII
FATHER

T 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.