Valentine (36 page)

Having thus given vent to her hatred, La Beaujon left Raimbault, rich by reason of the liberality of the family, and revenged for Valentine's kindness to her.

These two letters threw the countess into a terrible rage. She would have had less confidence in the duenna's disclosures had not her daughter's confession, arriving at the same time, seemed a sufficient confirmation of them. Thus Valentine lost all the merit of that naive confession. Madame de Raimbault saw in her simply a miserable creature whose honor was irretrievably stained, and who implored her mother's assistance because she was threatened by her husband's vengeance. This opinion was only too fully confirmed by the rumors which reached her ears from the province every day. The pure happiness of two lovers can never take shelter in rural silence and obscurity without arousing the jealousy and hatred of all who vegetate stupidly in small provincial towns. The spectacle of another person's happiness consumes and withers the provincial. The only thing which enables him to endure his narrow,
wretched life, is the pleasure of stripping his neighbor's life of all love and poetry.

Moreover, Madame de Raimbault, who had been surprised at Monsieur de Lansac's return to Paris, saw him, questioned him, and, although she could obtain no response, understood clearly enough, from his skilfully managed silence and the dignity of his evasive manner, that all ties of affection and confidence between his wife and himself were broken.

Thereupon she wrote Valentine a crushing reply: advised her to seek shelter thenceforth in the protection of that sister whose character was as black as her own, declared that she abandoned her to her degradation, and ended by almost cursing her.

It was true enough that Madame de Raimbault was distressed to see her daughter's life ruined forever ; but there was more wounded pride than maternal affection in her grief. That this was so was proved by the fact that anger triumphed over pity, and she started for England, with the object, she said, of forgetting her griefs, but really to indulge freely in dissipation without running the risk of meeting people who knew of her domestic troubles, and might be disposed to criticize her conduct on that occasion.

Such was the result of the unhappy Valentine's last efforts. Her mother's reply caused her such bitter pain that it overshadowed all her thoughts. She knelt in her oratory, and her affliction found vent in heart-breaking sobs. Then, in the midst of that terrible bitterness of spirit, she felt the need of that trust and hope which are the sustenance of pious souls ; she felt, above all, the craving for affection which consumes the youthful heart. Hated, misunderstood, spurned on all sides, there still remained one place of refuge: Bénédict's heart. Was
that calumniated love so culpable after all ? Into what crime had it led her ?

“O my God!” she cried fervently; “Thou who alone seest the purity of my desires, who alone knowest the innocence of my conduct—wilt not Thou protect me ? Wilt Thou also turn Thy face from me ? Is this love of mine so blameworthy ?”

As she leaned over her
prie-Dieu,
she noticed an object which she had placed upon it as the votive offering of a lover's superstition ; it was the blood-stained handkerchief which Catherine had brought from the house in the ravine on the day of Bénédict's suicide, and which Valentine had at once claimed on learning of the incident. At that crisis the sight of the blood shed for her sake was like a triumphant declaration of love and self-sacrificing devotion, in reply to the insults which she had received from all sides. She seized the handkerchief, put it to her lips, and, plunged in a sea of anguish and rapture, she knelt for a long while, motionless and wrapt in meditation, opening her heart to her trust in Bénédict, and feeling the ardent life which had consumed her being a few days before begin to flow again in her veins.

Bénédict had been very unhappy for a week past. That alleged sickness, of which Louise could give him no details, caused him the keenest anxiety. Such is the selfishness of love that he chose rather to believe that Valentine was ill than to suspect her of a purpose to
avoid him. On that evening, impelled by a vague hope, he prowled about the park for a long time. At last, having obtained possession of a key which was usually in Valentine's keeping, he determined to go to the pavilion. All was silence and solitude in that retreat, lately so filled with joy and confidence and affection. His heart sank ; he went out and ventured into the garden of the château. Since the old marchioness's death, Valentine had dispensed with several servants. So that there were few people in the château. Bénédict met no one as he approached.

Valentine's oratory was in a small tower in the most deserted part of the building. A small spiral staircase, a relic of the old buildings on whose ruins the new manor-house had been built, led down from her bedroom to the oratory, and from the oratory to the garden. The window, which was arched at the top and surmounted by ornamentation in the Italian Renaissance style, overlooked a clump of trees whose tops were at that moment reddened by the rays of the setting sun. The day had been extremely hot; the lightning flashed silently on the violet horizon; the atmosphere was rare, and seemed charged with electricity. It was one of those summer evenings when one finds difficulty in breathing, when one's nerves are in a state of extraordinary tension, when one suffers from a nameless pain which one longs to be able to relieve by tears.

When he reached the foot of the clump of trees in front of the tower, Valentine glanced uneasily at the window of the oratory. The stained glass blazed in the sunlight. Bénédict had been trying for a long time to discover something behind that gleaming mirror, when it was suddenly opened by a woman's hand, and a face appeared and disappeared.

Bénédict climbed an old yew, and hidden by its drooping black branches, reached a sufficient height from the ground to look through the window. He distinctly saw Valentine on her knees, with her fair hair half-loosened, falling carelessly over her shoulders and gilded by the last beams of the sun. Her cheeks were flushed, her unconstrained attitude was instinct with grace and innocence. She was pressing against her heart and kissing passionately the blood-stained handkerchief for which Bénédict had searched so anxiously after his suicide, and which he recognized at once in her hands.

Thereupon, Bénédict, after a fearful glance about the deserted garden, having but to put out his hand to reach the window, could not resist the temptation. He grasped the carved balustrade, and swung himself off, at the risk of his life, from the branch on which he sat.

Valentine shrieked at the sight of a dark figure against the brilliant sky; but, when she recognized him, her terror changed its character.

“O heaven !” she exclaimed, “ do you dare to pursue me even here ?”

“Do you turn me away ?” rejoined Bénédict. “Look ! I am only twenty feet from the ground ; tell me to let go the balustrade, and I obey.”

“Great God !” cried Valentine, terrified beyond words when she realized his position, “ come in, come in ! you frighten me to death.”

He jumped into the oratory, and Valentine, who had seized his coat lest he should fall, embraced him in an involuntary outburst of joy when she saw that he was safe.

At that moment everything was forgotten, both the resistance which Valentine had meditated so long, and the reproaches which Bénédict had resolved to heap upon
her. That week of separation, under such melancholy conditions, had seemed to them like a century. The young man yielded to his frantic joy, straining Valentine to his heart, for he had feared to find her dying, and he found her lovelier and more loving than ever.

At last he remembered all that he had suffered during their separation ; he accused her of being false and cruel.

“Listen,” said Valentine, excitedly, leading him before her Madonna. “I took an oath never to see you again, because I imagined that I could not do it without crime. Now, swear to me that you will help me to be true to my duty; swear it before God—before this image, the emblem of purity; reassure me, give me back the confidence I have lost. Bénédict, you are loyal at heart, you would not do a sacrilegious thing. Tell me, do you feel stronger than I am ?”

Bénédict turned pale, and recoiled from her in dismay. He had a truly chivalrous sense of honor, and he preferred the misery of losing Valentine to the crime of betraying her.

“Why, you are calling upon me to make a vow, Valentine !” he cried. “Do you think that I have the heroism to make it or to keep it, unprepared as I am ?”

“What! have you not been prepared for fifteen months ? Those solemn promises you made one evening in my sister's presence, and which you have kept so loyally thus far——”

“Yes, Valentine, I have had the courage to do it, and, perhaps, I shall have the courage to renew those promises. But do not ask me to do anything to-day; I am too excited ; my oaths would be worth nothing. All that has happened lately has banished the calmness which my heart owed to you. And then, Valentine, imprudent creature! you tell me that you are afraid! Why do
you tell me that ? I should not have had the presumption to think it. You were strong when I thought you were strong; why ask of me now the strength which you have not ? Where shall I seek it ? Adieu ; I will go to prepare myself to obey you. But swear to me that you will not avoid me any more, for you see the effect of such treatment on me; it kills me; it does away with all the results of my past virtue.”

“Very well, Bénédict, I swear it, for it is impossible for me not to trust you when I see you and hear your voice. Good-night; to-morrow we will all meet at the pavilion.”

She offered him her hand ; Bénédict hesitated to touch it. He trembled convulsively. He had barely touched his lips to it when a sort of frenzy swept him off his feet. He strained Valentine to his heart, then pushed her away. At last the violent restraint which he imposed upon his fiery nature having exhausted his strength, he wrung his hands frantically and dropped almost lifeless on the steps of the prie-Dieu.

“Have pity on me,” he cried in anguish, “Thou who didst create Valentine. Recall my soul to Thee ; extinguish this consuming breath which scorches my breast and makes life a torture ; grant me the blessed boon of death.”

He was so pale, such a world of suffering was written in his dull eyes, that Valentine believed that he was really at the point of death. She threw herself on her knees beside him, embraced him frantically, covered him with kisses and tears, and fell exhausted in his arms with stifled cries, when she saw him sink to the floor and throw back his pallid, lifeless face.

At last she recalled him to consciousness, but he was so weak, so prostrated, that she could not send him away
in that condition. Recovering all her energy with the necessity of reviving him, she lifted him and dragged him to her bedroom, where she hastened to brew some tea.

At that moment, the kind-hearted and gentle Valentine became the active, efficient housewife, whose life was devoted to the welfare of others. The panic terror of a passionately loving woman gave place to the solicitude of devoted affection. She forgot where she had taken Bénédict, and what must be taking place in his mind, to think only of attending to his physical needs. The imprudent girl paid no heed to the wild and sombre expression with which he looked about that room which he had entered but once before, at that bed where he had watched her sleeping one whole night, at all that furniture which recalled the most tempestuous crisis and the most profound emotion of his life. Sitting in an easy-chair, with contracted eyebrows and arms hanging at his side, he watched her as she hovered about him mechanically, with no definite idea what she was doing.

When she brought him the calming beverage which she had prepared for him, he rose abruptly and glared at her with such a strange, wild expression that she dropped the cup and stepped back in alarm.

Bénédict threw his arms about her and prevented her from running away.

“Let me go,” she cried; “the tea has burned me horribly.”

She did, in fact, limp as she walked away. He threw himself on his knees and kissed her tiny foot, which was slightly reddened, through the transparent stocking; then almost swooned again; and Valentine, vanquished by pity, by love, and, above all, by fear, did not again tear herself from his arms when he returned to life.

It was a fatal moment, sure to come sooner or later. It is most presumptuous to hope to overcome a passion, when two people see each other every day, and are only twenty years old.

For the first few days, Valentine, swept far beyond and away from her customary field of reflection, did not think of repentance; but the inevitable moment came, and it was unspeakably terrible.

Then Bénédict bitterly deplored a happiness for which he must pay so dear. His sin received the severest punishment that could have been inflicted upon it; he saw Valentine weep and pine away with grief.

As they were both too virtuous to fall asleep unheeding in joys which they had reprobated and fought against so long, their life became a painful burden. Valentine was not capable of bargaining with her conscience. Bénédict loved her too passionately to enjoy a happiness which Valentine no longer shared. Both were too weak, too devoted to each other, too completely under the domination of the impetuous sensations of youth, to force themselves to renounce those remorse-laden joys. They parted with despair at their hearts ; they met again with delirious joy. Their life was a perpetual combat, a storm constantly renewed, a bliss without bounds, and a hell from which there was no issue.

Bénédict accused Valentine of loving him too little—not enough to prefer him to her honor, to her self-esteem ; of being incapable of perfect self-sacrifice; and when these reproaches had driven Valentine to a new display of weakness, when he saw her weeping with despair and yielding to ghastly terrors, he abhorred the happiness he had enjoyed ; he would have given all his blood to wash away the memory of it. At such times he would offer to fly from her; he would swear that he would endure
life in exile; but she no longer had the strength to send him away.