Valentine (11 page)

Valentine was sorely tempted to rush out into the park, open a little gate by which the path ran, and hold out a greedy hand for the letter which she fancied that she could already see in Bénédict's. That would be decidedly imprudent. But a more praiseworthy motive than the danger detained her—the fear of disobeying twice over by going to meet an adventure which she could not avoid.

So she determined to await a second signal before going down, and soon a great uproar of dogs barking savagely at one another awoke all the echoes of the courtyard. Bénédict had set his dog on those belonging to the château, in order to make known his arrival in the noisiest possible way.

Valentine went down at once. Her instinct led her to divine that Bénédict would preferably pay his respects to the marchioness, as being more approachable. So she joined her grandmother, who was accustomed to take her siesta on the couch in the salon, and, having gently awakened her, made some excuse for sitting with her.

A few minutes later, a servant entered and announced that Monsieur Lhéry's nephew desired to present his respects and his game to the marchioness.

“I can do very well without his respects,” the marchioness replied, “ but his game is welcome. Show him in.”

*
Shepherdess Solange, list ye, The lark in the fields is calling.

At sight of that young man, whose accomplice she knew herself to be, and whom she was about to assist to deliver a secret message to her under her grandmother's eyes, Valentine had a pang of remorse. She felt that she was blushing, and the crimson of her cheeks was reflected on Bénédict's.

“Ah ! so it's you, my boy,” said the marchioness, displaying her short, plump leg on the sofa, with the charming manners of the time of Louis XV. “Glad to see you. How is everybody at the farm ? Good Mère Lhéry, and the pretty little cousin, and everybody?”

Then, paying no heed to the reply, she plunged her hand in the game-bag which Gabriel removed from his shoulder.

“Ah ! this is really a fine lot of game ! Did you kill it ? They say that you let Trigaud poach a little on our land. But this is enough to absolve you.”

“This,” said Bénédict, taking from his bosom a little live titmouse, “I caught in the net, by chance. As it's a rare species, I thought that mademoiselle, being interested in natural history, might like to add it to her collection.”

As he passed the little creature to Valentine, he pretended to have much difficulty in putting it into her fingers without allowing it to escape. He took advantage of that moment to hand her the letter. Valentine went to a window, as if to examine the bird more closely, and hid the paper in her pocket.

“You must be very warm, my dear fellow ?” said the marchioness. “Pray go to the servants' quarters and get something to drink.”

Valentine saw the disdainful smile that curled Bénédict's lip.

“Perhaps monsieur would prefer a glass of pomegranate water ?” she said hastily.

And she took up the carafe, which was on a small table behind her grandmother and herself, and poured out the water for her guest. Bénédict thanked her with a glance, and, passing behind the sofa, took it from her overjoyed to be allowed to touch the glass which Valentine's white hand offered him.

The marchioness had a slight attack of coughing, during which he said rapidly to Valentine :

“What answer shall I carry back to the request contained in this letter ?”

“Whatever it may be, the answer is
yes,”
said Valentine, terrified by such audacity.

Bénédict glanced gravely about that sumptuous and spacious salon, at the limpid mirrors, the polished floor, the thousand and one refinements of luxury, even the uses of which were still unknown at the farm. This was not the first time that he had entered the homes of the wealthy, and his heart was very far from being filled with envious longing for all those baubles of fortune, as Athénaïs's would have been. But he could not help noticing one thing which had never before made such a profound impression on him ; that is, that society had placed tremendous obstacles between Mademoiselle de Raimbault and himself.

“Luckily,” he thought, “I can take the risk of seeing her without having to suffer for it. I shall never fall in love with her.”

“Well, my dear, won't you go to the piano and continue the song you began for me just now ?”

That was an ingenious falsehood on the old marchioness's part, intended as a hint to Bénédict that it was time for him to retire
to the servants' quarters.

“You know, grandmamma, I hardly ever sing,” Valentine replied; “ but as you are so fond of good music, if you want to give yourself a very great pleasure, ask monsieur to sing.”

“Do you mean it ? But what do you know about it, my child ?” queried the marchioness.

“Athénaïs told me,” replied Valentine, lowering her eyes.

“Very well, if it's true, my boy, give me that pleasure,” said the marchioness. “Regale me with some little village ballad; it will give me a rest from Rossini, whom I don't understand in the least.”

“I shall accompany you if you wish,” said Valentine shyly to the young man.

Bénédict was more than a little perturbed at the thought that his voice might attract the overbearing countess to the salon. But he was even more moved by Valentine's efforts to detain him and to make him sit down; for the marchioness, despite her affectation of popular manners, had not been able to make up her mind to offer her farmer's nephew a chair.

The piano was open. Valentine seated herself at it, after drawing another chair beside her own. Bénédict, to show that he had not noticed the affront he had received, preferred to sing standing.

At the first notes Valentine flushed, then turned pale, tears came to her eyes; gradually she became calm, her fingers followed the singing, and her ear drank it in with zest.

The marchioness listened with pleasure at first. Then, as she was always restless, and could not remain in one place, she left the room, returned, and went out again.

“This tune,” said Valentine, when she and Bénédict were alone for a moment, “is the one my sister used to like best to sing to me when I was a child and made her sit down on top of the hill to hear the echoes repeat it. I have never forgotten it, and I almost cried just now when you began it.”

“I sang it purposely,” said Bénédict; “it was as if I were speaking to you in the name of Louise.”

The countess entered the room as that name died on Bénédict's lips. At sight of her daughter's têite-à-tête with a strange man, she glared at them with gleaming, wonderstruck eyes. At first she did not recognize Bénédict, at whom she had hardly glanced at the fête, and her surprise petrified her where she stood. Then, when she remembered the impudent rascal who had dared to put his lips to her daughter's cheeks, she stepped forward, pale and trembling, trying to speak, but prevented by a sudden choking sensation in her throat. Luckily, a laughable incident preserved Bénédict from the explosion. The countess's beautiful greyhound had superciliously walked up to Bénédict's hunting dog, who had unceremoniously thrown himself on the floor under the piano, all covered with dust, and panting. Perdreau, a sensible and patient beast, allowed himself to be sniffed at from head to foot, and contented himself by replying to his host's disdainful advances by the silent display of a long row of white teeth. But when the greyhound, domineering and discourteous, became actually insulting, Perdreau, who had never put up with an affront, and who had held his own against three bulldogs a moment before, stood erect, and threw his slender adversary to
the floor with a blow of his head. The greyhound took refuge at his mistress's feet, uttering shrill cries. That was an opportunity for Bénédict, who saw that the countess was fairly beside herself, to rush out of the room, making a pretence of taking Perdreau away and whipping him, whereas in his heart he was sincerely grateful to him for his disregard of the proprieties.

As he went out, escorted by the yelping of the greyhound, the growling of his own dog, and the countess's frantic exclamations, he met the marchioness, who, astonished by the uproar, asked him what it meant.

“My dog has strangled madame's,” he replied, with a piteous expression, as he hurried away.

He returned to the farm with an abundant store of contempt and hatred for the nobility, and indulging in a titter at the thought of his adventure. But he was ashamed of himself when he remembered how much more bitter affronts he had anticipated, and how he had plumed himself upon his ironical sangfroid when he left Louise a few hours before. Gradually all the absurdity of the scene seemed to centre about the countess, and he arrived at the farm in high spirits. His story made Athénaïs laugh till she cried. Louise wept when she learned how Valentine had received her message and that she had recognized the ballad Bénédict sang. But Bénédict did not talk about his visit to the château before Père Lhéry. His uncle was not the man to be amused by a joke which might cause the loss of three thousand francs profit every year.

“What does all this mean ?” queried the marchioness as she entered the salon.

“I trust, madame, that you will explain it to me,” repeated the countess. “Weren't you here when that man came in ?”

“What
man?”
said the marchioness.

“Monsieur Bénédict,” interposed Valentine, sorely embarrassed, but trying to appear self-possessed. “He brought you some game, mamma; grandmamma asked him to sing, and I played the accompaniment.”

“So he was singing for you, madame ?” said the countess to her mother-in-law. “You were listening to him at a considerable distance, I should say.”

“In the first place,” retorted the old woman, “it wasn't I who asked him to sing, it was Valentine.”

“This is very strange,” cried the countess, with a piercing glance at her daughter.

“I will explain it to you, mamma,” said Valentine, blushing. “My piano is horribly out of tune, as you know; we have no tuner in the neighborhood. This young man is a musician ; he is also a very good piano tuner. I know it from Athénaïs, who has a piano at home, and often has recourse to her cousin's skill.”

“Athénaïs has a piano! this young man a musician ! What extraordinary story are you telling me ?”

“It is perfectly true, madame,” interposed the marchioness. “You are never willing to understand that everybody in France receives some education to-day! Those people are rich; they have bought talents for their children. It is as it should be, it's the fashion; there's nothing to be said. The fellow sings very well, on my word ! I listened to him from the hall with much pleasure. Well, what's the matter ? Do you think that Valentine was in any danger with him when I was within two steps ?”

“Oh ! madame,” said the countess, “ you have a way of interpreting my thoughts——”

“Why, that is because you have such strange thoughts! Here you are all in a fright because you found your
daughter at the piano with a man ! Can a man do any harm when he is busy singing ? You talk as if I had committed a crime in leaving them alone an instant, as if—Great heaven ! you didn't look at the fellow, did you ? He's ugly enough to frighten one !”

“Madame,” rejoined the countess, with great contempt, “ it is very easy to see why you put this construction on my displeasure. As it is impossible for us to agree on certain matters, I address myself to my daughter. I need not tell you, Valentine, that I do not entertain the coarse thoughts which she attributes to me. I know you well enough, my child, to know that a man of that sort is not
a man to you,
and that it is not in his power to compromise you. But I detest any breach of propriety, and I consider that you are far too heedless in that respect. Remember that in society nothing is worse than absurd situations. You are naturally too good-humored, too condescending to your inferiors. Remember that they will not be grateful to you for it, that they will always abuse your good nature, and that those whom you treat best will be the most ungrateful. Trust your mother's experience, and watch yourself more closely. I have already had occasion several times to reprove you for lack of dignity. You will realize the inconvenience of it at some time. Those
creatures
do not understand how far it is permissible for them to go, and that they must stop at a fixed point. That little Athénaïs is disgustingly familiar in her manner toward you. I put up with it because, after all, she is a woman. But I should not be very much flattered to have her fiancé come and accost you with a free-and-easy air in a public place. He is a very ill-bred young man, as all the young men of his class are, and absolutely lacking in tact. Monsieur de Lansac, who is sometimes inclined to play the
liberal a little too much, gave him far too much credit the other day when he spoke of him as a bright fellow. Another man would have left the dance, but he kissed you most cavalierly, my child. I don't blame you for it,” added the countess, seeing that Valentine blushed until she lost countenance. “I know that you suffered sufficiently because of that impertinent performance, and I remind you of it only to prove to you how carefully you must keep the lower classes at a distance.”

During this discourse the marchioness sat in a corner shrugging her shoulders. Valentine, crushed under the weight of her mother's logic, replied in a faltering voice:

“It was only because of the piano, mamma, that I thought—I didn't think of the impropriety——”

“If we go about it in the right way,” said the countess, disarmed by her submission, “there may not be any harm in having him come here. Did you suggest it to him ?”

“I was going to do it, when——”

“In that case we must call him back.”

The countess rang, and asked for Bénédict, but she was told that he was already far up the hill.