Valentine (17 page)

“How do you know ?”

“As you know it yourself. Our acquaintance with Valentine dates from about the same time, I believe.”

“But you forget that she is dependent on a vain and pitiless mother, and a social circle which is no less vain and pitiless ; that she is engaged to Monsieur de Lansac ; in a word, that she cannot break the bonds which bind her to her duties without bringing upon herself the maledictions of her family and the contempt of her caste, and without destroying her repose forever.”

“How can I fail to know all that ?”

“Well, then, what in heaven's name do you expect from her madness or your own ?”

“From hers, nothing; from my own, everything.”

“Ah! you think that you can conquer destiny solely by the force of your character ! Is that it ? I have sometimes heard you develop that utopian theory, but be sure, Bénédict, that you would not succeed, even though you were more than man. From this moment I openly oppose your projects; I would rather give up seeing my sister than furnish you with opportunities and means to endanger her future.”

“Oh ! what fierce opposition !” retorted Bénédict, with a smile which had a most painful effect on Louise. “Be calm, my dear sister. You gave me permission, you almost ordered me to call you so, when we did not know Valentine. If you would have given your consent, I would have claimed the right to call you by a still sweeter name. My restless heart would have been anchored, and Valentine might have passed through my life without making any impression upon it; but you would not have it; you spurned vows which, now that I think of them in cold blood, must have seemed very
absurd to you. You pushed me with your foot into this sea of uncertainty and tempests. I attempt to follow a beautiful star which shines upon me. What does it matter to you ?”

“What does it matter to me, when my sister's welfare is at stake—my sister to whom I am almost a mother!”

“Oh! you are very young to be her mother!” said Bénédict, with a suggestion of irony. “But listen, Louise. I am almost inclined to believe that you manifest all this alarm in order to make fun of me, and in that case you must confess that I have borne the raillery very well for quite a long time.”

“What do you mean ?”

“It is impossible that you should think that your sister is in any danger from me, when you know so well from your own experience that I am not dangerous at all. Your terror is very strange, and you apparently consider Valentine's common sense very weak, since you are so terrified by the blows I may aim at it. Have no fear, my dear Louise; you gave me a lesson not long ago for which I am grateful to you, and which I shall be able to profit by, it may be. I shall no longer take the risk of laying at the feet of such a woman as Valentine or Louise the homage of a heart like mine. I shall not again be mad enough to believe that to touch a woman's heart it is enough to love her with all the fervor of a brain of twenty years; that, to efface in her eyes difference of rank and to hush the outcry of false shame in her heart, it is enough to be devoted to her body and soul, blood and honor. No, no, all that is as nothing in the eyes of a woman. I am a peasant's son ; I am horribly ugly, ridiculous to the last degree. I have no right to expect to be loved. Only a poor affected bourgeoise like
Athénaïs could think of stooping so low as to take me, for lack of a better man hereabout.”

“Bénédict!” cried Louise, hotly, “all this is cruel mockery, I can see plainly enough. You mean to reproach me bitterly. Oh ! you are very unjust. You refuse to understand my position ; you do not consider that, if I had listened to you, I should have been guilty of shameful conduct to your family. You do not give me credit for the virtuous determination which may have been necessary on my part in order to make me seem so cold to you. Oh ! you will not understand anything !”

Poor Louise hid her face in her hands, alarmed lest she had said too much. Bénédict, amazed beyond measure, scrutinized her closely. Her breast was heaving, a burning flush was visible on her brow despite her efforts to conceal it. Bénédict realized that she loved him.

He paused, irresolute, trembling, overwhelmed. He put out his hand to take Louise's. He was afraid of being too ardent; he was afraid of being too cold. Louise, Valentine—which of the two should he love ?

When Louise, alarmed by his silence, timidly raised her head, Bénédict was no longer beside her.

But no sooner was Bénédict alone than, suddenly freed from the emotion which had possessed him, he was surprised that it had been so intense, and could explain it only by attributing it to a feeling of gratified self-esteem.
In truth, that youth, who was ugly enough to frighten one, as the Marquise de Raimbault said, who was so enthusiastic in praise of others and so sceptical of his own merits, found himself in a strange position. Loved by three women at once, the least fair of whom would have filled any other man's heart with pride, he had much difficulty in combating the gusts of vanity which rose within him. It was a severe trial for his good sense, and he realized it. To resist it, he set himself to think of Valentine, that one of the three as to whom he felt the least certainty, and who must necessarily be the first to disabuse him. He knew nothing of her love, except by those sympathetic revelations which rarely deceive lovers. But, even if it had really taken root in the young countess's heart, it would surely be stifled at its birth, as soon as it betrayed its presence to her. Bénédict said all this to himself in order to triumph over the demon of pride; and he did triumph, for which, it may be, he was entitled to some credit at his age.

Thereupon, viewing his situation with a glance as keen as could be expected of a man so deeply in love, he said to himself that he must fix his choice upon one of the three, and cut short the painful suspense of the other two. Athénaïs was the first flower which he cast out from that lovely wreath; he believed that she would soon be consoled. The artless threats of vengeance of which he had been the involuntary confidant during the preceding night led him to hope that Georges Simonneau, Pierre Blutty, or Blaise Moret would take it upon himself to unburden his conscience of any remorse so far as she was concerned.

The most reasonable, perhaps the most generous choice would be to take Louise. To bestow a position in society and a happy future on that unfortunate creature,
who had been so cruelly outraged by her family and by public opinion, to make up to her for the harsh chastisement which the past had inflicted upon her, to constitute himself the protector of so unfortunate and so interesting a woman—there was something chivalrous in the idea, which had already tempted Bénédict. Perhaps the love which he had fancied that he felt for Louise had its birth in the somewhat heroic tendency of his temperament. He had seen in it an opportunity for self-sacrifice. His youthful ardor, eager for glory of some sort, challenged public opinion to single combat, like the adventurous knights of old, who hurled defiancé at the giant who held a whole country in dread, in their longing to make men talk of them, even though it were by means of a glorious death.

Louise's refusal, which had offended Bénédict at first, now appeared to him in its true light. Loath to accept so great a sacrifice, and fearing lest she should allow herself to be outdone in generosity, Louise had sought to deprive him of all hope, and she had succeeded perhaps beyond her desire. In all virtue there is some slight hope of reward ; she had no sooner rejected Bénédiet than she suffered bitterly on that account. Now Bénédict realized that, in her rejection of him, there was more real generosity, more profound and delicate affection than in his own conduct. Louise raised herself in his eyes almost above the heroism of which he felt himself to be capable; that was enough to move him deeply and launch him upon a new sea of emotion and desire.

If love were a calculating and reasoning sentiment, like friendship or hatred, Bénédict would have thrown himself at Louise's feet; but the fact that gives it its vast superiority to all other sentiments and proves its divine essence is that it is not born of man's own volition, that
man cannot do with it as he chooses; that he can no more bestow it than take it away by the exertion of his own will; that the human heart surely receives it from on high to be bestowed on the king whom Heaven in its wisdom has chosen ; and, when an energetic heart has once received it, in vain do all human considerations raise their voices to destroy it; it subsists alone, by virtue of its inherent force. All the auxiliaries with which it is provided, or which it attracts rather—friendship, trust, sympathy, even esteem—are simply subordinate allies; it calls them into being, it controls them, it survives them.

Bénédict loved Valentine and not Louise. Why Valentine ? She was less like him; she had fewer of his faults and of his good qualities; she would undoubtedly understand him and appreciate him less—and yet it was she whom he was destined to love, apparently. He began to love in her the qualities which he did not himself possess; he was restless, dissatisfied, inclined to grumble at destiny; Valentine was placid, easily satisfied, pleased with everything. Very good ; was not that in accordance with God's designs ? Was not omnipotent Providence, which rules everywhere in spite of all that men can do, responsible for their coming together ? One was necessary to the other! Bénédict to Valentine, to teach her to know those emotions without which life is incomplete ; Valentine to Bénédict, to bring comfort and repose into a stormy and troubled life. But society stood between them and made their mutual choice absurd, reprehensible, impious. Providence created the admirable order of nature, men have destroyed it; whose is the fault ? Must we part with every ray of sunlight in order to assure the solidity of our walls of ice ?

When he returned to the bench on which he had left
Louise, he found her with her hands hanging listlessly at her sides, eyes fixed on the ground, and face as pale as death. She started when she heard his clothes rustling against the leaves; but when she had looked at him—when she realized that he had taken refuge in his unassailable impenetrability—she awaited in even more agonizing suspense the result of his reflections.

“We have failed to understand each other, sister,” said Bénédict, seating himself beside her. “I will try to explain my meaning more clearly.”

That word
sister
dealt Louise a deadly blow; she summoned what strength she could, to conceal her distress and to listen with apparent calmness.

“I am very far from cherishing any grudge against you,” Bénédict began; “on the contrary, I admire the sincerity and kindness with which you continue to treat me despite my madness. I feel that your refusal to listen to me has confirmed my respect and affection for you. Rely upon me as upon the most devoted of your friends, and let me speak to you with all the confidence which a brother owes his sister. Yes, I love Valentine—I love her passionately; and, as Athénaïs well said, not until yesterday did I realize the sentiment she inspires in me. But I love her without hope, aimlessly, with no settled plan. I know that Valentine will not renounce her family for my sake, nor her approaching marriage, nor even, assuming that she was free, the conventional duties which the ideas of her caste may have marked out for her. I have considered in cold blood the impossibility of ever being anything more to her than an obscure and submissive friend, secretly esteemed, perhaps, but never dangerous to her peace of mind. Even if such a paltry, imperceptible creature as I could arouse in Valentine one of those passions which equalize ranks and overcome
obstacles, I would shun her rather than accept sacrifices of which I feel that I am not worthy. All this, Louise, should reassure you to some extent as to the state of my brain.”

“In that case,” said Louise, trembling, “you propose to try to destroy this love, which would be the bane of your life ?”

“No, Louise, no, I would die first,” replied Bénédict, vehemently. “My whole happiness, my whole future, my whole life are bound up in it! Since I have loved Valentine I have been another man ; I feel that I exist. The dark veil which shrouded my destiny is torn away on every side. I am no longer alone on earth ; I am no longer distressed by my nothingness; I feel myself grow greater every hour with this love. Do you not see on my face an expression of tranquillity which must make it more endurable ?”

“I see a self-assurance which terrifies me,” Louise replied. “My friend, you are ruining yourself. These chimeras will wreck your destiny. You will waste your energy in fruitless dreams, and, when the time comes for you ‘to be a man, you will regret to find that you have lost the strength to be one.”

“What do you mean by being a man, Louise ?”

“I mean filling your place in society without being a burden to others.”

“Very good; I can be a man to-morrow, lawyer or porter, musician or ploughman; I have more than one string to my bow.”

“You cannot be any of those things, Bénédict, for within a week any trade whatsoever——”

“Would be a bore to me, I agree; but I shall still have the resource of knocking my brains out if I get tired of life, or of turning beggar if life is very attractive
to me. And, all things considered, I believe I am no longer fit for anything else. The more I have learned, the more disgusted with life I have become. I propose to return now, so far as I can, to my natural state, to the unrefined life of a peasant, his simple ideas and frugality. I have about five hundred francs a year in good land, left by my father, with a thatched-roof cottage. I can live honorably on my own estate, alone, free, contented, idle, without being a burden to anyone.”

“Are you speaking seriously ?”

“Why not ? In the present state of society, the best possible result of the education we receive would be a voluntary return to the brutish state from which we are forced to emerge for twenty years of our life. But listen, Louise. Don't you indulge in any of the same chimerical dreams for me which you blame me for indulging in myself. It is you who urge me to expend my energy in smoke, when you tell me to work in order to be a man like other men ; to devote my youth, my vigils, my fairest hours of happiness and poesy to the earning of the wherewithal to die comfortably in old age, with my feet in a fur muff and my head on a down pillow. And yet that is the aim of all those who are called sensible fellows at my age, and practical men at forty. God bless them ! Let them put forth all their efforts to reach this supreme goal: to be electors in the
grand college,
or municipal councillors, or secretaries of prefecture. Let them fatten cattle and train race-horses for provincial fairs; let them become courtiers or farmhands,
*
slaves of a minister or of a flock of sheep, prefects in their gold livery, or dealers in swine with their belts lined with
pistoles;
and after a whole lifetime of sweat and sharp dealing, dullness or vulgarity, they leave the fruit of all their toil to a kept mistress, a scheming city wanton, or a redfaced serving-maid from Berry, either by their last will, or through the medium of their heirs, who are in haste
to enjoy life,
Such is the practical existence which I see unfolded about me in all its splendor ! Such is the glorious condition of being
a man,
to which all my schoolmates aspire. Frankly, Louise, do you think that I am turning my back on a very charming and glorious existence ?”