Valentine (15 page)

And then, as they returned to the farm by a long circuit through the meadows, all three women walking in front of him, he reflected a little. He said to himself that of all the mad things he could possibly do, the most wretched, the most fatal to his future repose would be to fall in love with Mademoiselle de Raimbault. But did he love her ?

“No !” said Bénédict, with a shrug, “I am not such a fool; I am not in love with her. I love her to-day, as I loved her yesterday, with a purely brotherly, placid affection.”

He closed his eyes to all the rest, and, summoned by a glance from Valentine, quickened his pace and went to her side, resolved to enjoy the charm which she had the art of diffusing all about her, and in which there
could be no danger.

The heat was so intense that those three delicate women were obliged to sit down to rest. They sat in the shade in a little ravine through which a small brook had once flowed into the river. It had run dry only a little while before, and an abundant crop of osiers and wild flowers was growing in the damp ground. Bénédict, staggering under the weight of his nets, which were weighted with lead, threw himself on the ground a few steps from them. But in a few minutes they were all grouped about him, for all three of them loved him: Louise with fervent gratitude because of Valentine,
Valentine—at least, so she believed—because of Louise, and Athénaïs on her own account.

But they were no sooner seated beside him, alleging that there was more shade there, than Bénédict moved nearer to Valentine on the pretext that the sun was creeping in on the other side. He had put the fish in his handkerchief, and was wiping his forehead with his cravat.

“That must be pleasant,” said Valentine, in a jesting tone; “ a silk cravat! I should as lief wipe my face with, a handful of these holly leaves.”

“If you were more humane, you would take pity on me instead of criticizing me,” retorted Bénédict.

“Will you have my fichu ?” said Valentine. “I have nothing else to offer you.”

Bénédict held out his hand without speaking. Valentine untied the kerchief she wore about her neck.

“Here, here's my handkerchief,” said Athénaïs, hastily, tossing him a tiny square of lawn, embroidered and trimmed with lace.

“Your handkerchief isn't good for anything,” rejoined Bénédict, seizing Valentine's before she had thought of taking it back.

He did not deign even to pick up his cousin's, which fell on the grass beside him. Athénaïs, wounded to the quick, rose and sullenly walked back toward the farmhouse. Louise, who understood her chagrin, ran after her to console her, to show her how utterly absurd her jealousy was; and, meanwhile, Bénédict and Valentine, who had noticed nothing, were left alone in the ravine, within two feet of each other, Valentine seated and pretending to play with the wild flowers, Bénédict reclining, pressing that burning neckerchief to his brow, to his neck, to his breast, and gazing at Valentine with a look whose flame she felt but dared not meet.

She sat thus under the spell of that electric current which, at her age and Bénédict's, with hearts so inexperienced, imaginations so timid, and senses whose ardor nothing has blunted, possesses such magical power I They did not speak ; they dared not exchange a smile or a word. Valentine was as if fascinated, Bénédict forgot himself in an impetuous flood of happiness ; and, when Louise's voice called them, they regretfully left that spot, where their hearts had spoken secretly but forcibly to each other.

Louise came to meet them.

“Athénaïs is angry,” she said. “You treat her cruelly, Bénédict ; you are not generous. Tell him so, Valentine, darling. Urge him to show more appreciation of his cousin's affection.”

Valentine was conscious of a cold sensation about her heart. She could not understand in the least the extraordinary grief that took possession of her at that thought. However, she soon mastered her agitation, and, looking at Bénédict in surprise, said to him in the innocent candor of her heart :

“Have you grieved Athénaïs ? I didn't notice it. What did you say to her, pray ?”

“Oh ! nothing,” said Bénédict, with a shrug ; “she is foolish !”

“No, she is not foolish,” said Louise, severely, “but you are cruel and unjust. Bénédict, my friend, do not ruin this day, such a lovely day to me, by a fresh blunder. Our young friend's grief spoils my happiness and Valentine's.”

“That is true, ‘‘ said Valentine, putting her arm through Bénédict's in imitation of Louise, who was dragging him along on the other side. “Let us go and overtake the poor child, and if you have really treated her badly,
make up to her for it, so that we may all be happy today.”

Bénédict started when he felt Valentine's arm slipping under his. He unconsciously pressed it against his breast, and ended by holding it there so fast that she could not take it away without showing that she noticed his agitation. It was so much better to pretend to be insensible to the violent throbs with which the young man's bosom rose and fell. Moreover, Louise was hurrying them along toward Athénaïs, who took a malicious pleasure in quickening her pace to prevent their overtaking her. How little the poor girl suspected her fiancé's frame of mind ! Quivering with emotion, drunk with joy between those two sisters, one whom he had loved, the other whom he was in a fair way to love—Louise, who, no longer than the day before, awoke some reminiscences of a love that was hardly dead, and Valentine,who was beginning to intoxicate him with all the fervor of a new passion—Bénédict was not quite sure for which of them his heart yearned, and at times imagined that it was for both—one is so rich in love at twenty! And both were dragging him along so that he might lay at the feet of another woman that pure homage which each of them perhaps regretted that she could not accept. Wretched women ! Wretched state of society when the heart can find no real enjoyment except in total forgetfulness of duty and reason !

At a bend in the road, Bénédict halted abruptly, and, their hands in his, looked at them one after the other—at Louise with affectionate regard, then at Valentine with less assurance and greater warmth.

“So you want me to go and soothe that girl's capricious sensibilities, eh ?” he said. “Very well, I will go to please you, but you will be grateful to me, I trust!”

“Why is it necessary for us to urge you to do a thing that your conscience should dictate to you ?” said Louise.

Bénédict smiled and looked at Valentine.

“Why, yes,” she faltered, confused beyond words, “ isn't she worthy of your affection ? isn't she the woman you are to marry ?”

Bénédict's face lighted up. He dropped Louise's hand, but retained Valentine's a moment longer, pressing it imperceptibly ; and exclaimed, raising his eyes to the sky, as if to record his oath there in presence of those two witnesses :

“Never!”

His glance seemed to say to Louise : “ Never will love for her find its way into a heart where you have reigned ! “—and to Valentine : “ Never ! for you will reign in my heart forever !”

Thereupon he ran after Athénaïs, leaving the two sisters speechless with surprise.

It must be confessed that that word
never
made such an impression on Valentine that it seemed to her that she would fall. Never did such selfish, cruel joy invade by force the sanctuary of a generous heart.

She stood for a moment unable to recover her self-possession ; then, leaning on her sister's arm, never thinking, innocent creature, that the trembling of her body could easily be detected, she asked :

“What does this mean?”

But Louise was so engrossed by her own thoughts that Valentine had to repeat the question twice before she heard it. At last she answered that she did not understand it at all.

Bénédict overtook his cousin in three bounds, and said to her, putting his arm around her waist :

“Are you angry ?”

“No,” the girl replied, in a tone which indicated that she was exceedingly angry.

“You are a child,” said Bénédict; “you are constantly doubting my friendship.”

“Your friendship ?” said Athénaïs, bitterly. “I don't ask you for it.”

“Ah ! so you spurn it, do you ? In that case——”

Bénédict walked a few steps away. Athénaïs, pale as death and hardly able to breathe, dropped on an old willow at the side of the road.

Bénédict at once returned to her. He did not love her enough to care to enter into a discussion with her; he preferred to take advantage of her emotion rather than waste time justifying himself.

“Come, come, cousin,” he said in a stern tone which cowed poor Athénaïs completely, “will you stop being sulky with me ?”

“Am I the one who is sulky, pray ?” she retorted, bursting into tears.

Bénédict stooped and imprinted a kiss on a cool, white neck which the sunshine of the fields had not reddened. The young woman quivered with pleasure and threw herself into her cousin's arms. Bénédict had a painful feeling of discomfort. Athénaïs was unquestionably a very beautiful girl. Moreover, she loved him ; and, believing that she was to be his wife, she artlessly manifested her love. It was very hard for Bénédict to avoid a feeling of gratified self-esteem and a sensation of physical pleasure when she caressed him. But his conscience bade him put aside all thought of a union with that young woman, for he felt that his heart was enchained forever elsewhere.

So he rose hastily and led Athénaïs back toward their
two companions, after kissing her. That was the way that all their quarrels ended. Bénédict, who could not, who did not choose to tell her his thoughts, avoided anything like an explanation, and always succeeded in soothing the credulous Athénaïs by some slight manifestation of affection.

When they joined Louise and Valentine, Bénédict's fiancée threw herself effusively on the neck of the latter. Her easily moved and kindly heart sincerely abjured all hard feeling, and Valentine, as she returned her caresses, was conscious of something like remorse.

Nevertheless, the good humor depicted on Athénaïs's face infected them all three. They soon arrived at the house, laughing and frolicking. Dinner not being ready, Valentine wished to walk about the farm, to visit the sheepfoids, cowsheds and dovecote. Bénédict paid little heed to such matters, yet he would have been glad to have his fiancée display more interest in them. When he saw Mademoiselle de Raimbault go into the stables, run after the young lambs and take them in her arms, fondle all of Madame Lhéry's pets, and even feed with her white hand the great oxen, who gazed at her with a dazed expression, he smiled at a flattering and cruel thought that came into his mind—that Valentine seemed much better fitted than Athénaïs to be his wife ; that there had been a mistake in the distribution of parts, and that Valentine as a cheerful and contented farmer's wife would have made domestic life attractive to him.

“If only she were Madame Lhéry's daughter !” he said to himself, “then I should never have had the ambition to study ; even now I would abandon the empty dream of playing a part in the world. I would joyfully turn peasant. I would lead a useful, practical life ; with Valentine, in the heart of this lovely valley, I would be
poet and ploughman at once : poet to admire her, ploughman to serve her. Ah ! how readily would I forget the buzzing crowds in the cities !”

He indulged in these reflections as he followed Valentine through the barns, where she delighted to inhale the healthy country odor. Suddenly she turned to him and said :

“I really believe that I was born to be a farmer! Oh ! how dearly I should have loved this simple life and these placid everyday occupations ! I would have done everything myself like Madame Lhéry. I would have raised the finest flocks in the province; I would have had beautiful tufted fowls, and goats which I would have taken out to graze in the bushes. If you knew how often in salons, in the midst of brilliant festivities, wearied by the noise of the crowd, I have dreamed that I was a shepherdess sitting under the trees in a field ! But the orchestra would summon me to join the whirl; my dream was a vain hope !”

Bénédict, leaning against a manger, listened with profound emotion, for she had just answered aloud, as if by a sympathetic interchange of ideas, the wishes he had formed under his breath.

They were alone. Bénédict determined to take the risk of pursuing the dream.

“But suppose that it would have been necessary for you to marry a peasant ?” he said.

“In these days of ours,” she replied, “there are no longer any peasants. Do not almost all classes receive the same education ? Is not Athénaïs more talented than I am ? Is not such a man as you, by reason of his attainments, far superior to a woman like me ?”

“Have you none of the prejudices of birth ?” queried Bénédict.

“But I am supposing that I am a farmer's daughter ; in that case I could not have had them.”

“That doesn't follow. Athénaïs was born a farmer's daughter, and she is sorry that she wasn't born a countess.”

“Oh ! how happy I should be if I were in her place !” she said earnestly.

And she leaned pensively against the crib, facing Bénédict, with her eyes fixed on the ground, not dreaming that she had just said things to Bénédict which he would gladly have bought with his blood.

Bénédict was intoxicated for a long time by the wild but flattering dreams to which this conversation gave rise. His reason fell asleep in that delicious silence, and all sorts of joyous and deceitful ideas came to the surface. He fancied himself a master farmer and happy spouse in the Black Valley. He fancied that Valentine was his helpmeet, his housekeeper, his fairest possession. He dreamed wide awake, and two or three times the delusion was so complete that he almost took her in his arms. When the sound of voices warned them of the approach of Louise and Athénaïs, he fled in the opposite direction and hid in a dark corner of the barn behind the bundles of grain. There he wept like a child, like a woman, as he never remembered having wept before. He wept for the dream which had taken him away for an instant from the world, and had given him more joy in a few moments of illusion than he had known in a whole lifetime of reality. When he had wiped away his tears, when he saw Valentine, as lovely and serene as ever, questioning his face with mute anxiety, he was happy again. He said to himself that there was more happiness and glory in being loved, in despite of men and of destiny, than in winning a lawful affection without
trouble or danger. He plunged up to the neck in that deceitful sea of desires and chimerical fancies ; his dream began anew. At table he took his seat beside Valentine; he imagined that she was mistress of his house. As she was delighted to assume the whole burden of the service, she carved, distributed the portions, and took pleasure in making herself useful to all. Bénédict looked at her with a dazed, ecstatic expression. He did not pay her a single one of the customary courteous attentions which constantly recall social conventions and distinctions ; and when he wished to be served with anything, he said, as he passed his plate: