Valentine (38 page)

“See the impudence of the hussy!” cried Blutty,
gnawing his nails. “Ah ! I might have known it would end like this. That popinjay! he gulls all the women with his soft talk. He paid court to Mademoiselle Louise and my wife at the same time, before we were married. Since then, everybody knows that he's had the cheek to court Madame de Lansac. But she's an honest and respectable woman. She refused to see him, and swore that he should never set foot in the farm-house while she was there. I know that for a fact! I heard her tell her sister so the day she came to live at our house. And now, for lack of something better, my gentleman condescends to come back to my wife ! For that matter, who can tell me that they haven't had an understanding for a long while ? Why was she so set on going to the château every evening these last few months, against my will ? It was because she saw him there. And there's a damned park there where they walked together all they wanted to. Twenty thousand devils ! I'll have my revenge ! Now that the park's closed, they meet in the woods ; that's clear enough ! Do I know what goes on at night ? But damnation ! here I am ; we'll see whether Satan will protect his skin this time. I will show them that Pierre Blutty isn't to be insulted with impunity.”

“If you want anybody to help you, you know I'm your man,” rejoined Simonneau.

The two friends shook hands and walked in the direction of the farm together.

Meanwhile, Athénaïs had pleaded so warmly for Bénédict ; she had urged the cause of love with such ingenuous zeal; above all, she had depicted so eloquently his melancholy, his broken health, his pallor, his wearing anxiety; she had described him as so submissive and so fearful of offending her, that poor, weak Valentine had
allowed her resolution to be shaken. Indeed, in her secret heart, she had been very glad to have him solicit his recall, for to her, likewise, the days seemed very long and her resolution very cruel.

Ere long the only subject of discussion was the difficulty of meeting.

“I am compelled,” said Valentine, “to hide from this love as from a crime! Some enemy, whom I do not know, but who is evidently watching me very closely, has succeeded in making trouble between my mother and me. I am trying now to obtain her forgiveness, for who else is left for me to lean upon ? And if I compromise myself by some fresh imprudence, she will learn of it, and I can no longer hope to move her. So that I cannot go to the meadow with you.”

“No, of course not,” said Athénaïs; “but he might come here.”

“Can you think of such a thing?” said Valentine. “Not only has your husband often expressed himself in very hostile terms in regard to Bénédict's coming here, so that his presence at the farm might cause a quarrel in your family, but nothing could be more certain to compromise me than such a step on his part after two years have passed since he came here. His visit would be noticed and discussed as an important event, and no one could doubt that I was the cause of it.”

“That is all very well,” said Athénaïs, “ but what is to prevent his coming after dark, when he won't be seen ? It is late in the autumn and the days are short. It is pitch dark at eight o'clock ; at nine everybody is abed; my husband, who doesn't sleep quite so soundly as the others, is away. If Bénédict should be at the orchard door at half-past nine, say—if I should let him in, if you and he should talk together in the lower room an hour
or two, and then he should go home about eleven, before moonrise—just tell me what there would be so difficult and dangerous about it ?”

Valentine raised many objections. Athénaïs persisted, implored, even shed tears, and declared that her refusal would kill Bénédict. She carried the day at last. The next day, she ran off to the meadow in triumph, and carried the good news.

That same evening Bénédict, armed with his protectress's instructions, and being perfectly familiar with the premises, was admitted to the room where Valentine was, and passed two hours with her. He succeeded, during that interview, in re-establishing his empire over her. He set her mind at rest concerning the future, swore to renounce every pleasure that would cause her a pang of regret, wept with love and joy at her feet and left her, happy to see that she was calmer and more confident, after obtaining a second appointment for the next night.

But, during the next day, Blutty and Simonneau arrived at the farm. Blutty artfully concealed his rage, and watched his wife closely. She did not go to the meadow; it was no longer necessary; and, besides, she was afraid of being followed.

Blutty reconnoitred his position with all the adroitness of which he was capable ; and it is true enough that the peasant does not lack adroitness, when one of the dense chords of his organ of sensibility is set in motion. While assuming a well-feigned air of indifference, he kept his eyes and ears on the alert all day. First he heard a ploughman say to his comrade that Charmette, the great yellow watch-dog at the farm, had barked incessantly from half-past nine till midnight. Then he walked in the orchard and saw that the loose stones on top of the
wall had been disturbed in one place. But a surer indication was afforded by several marks of boot-heels in the smooth clay of the ditch. Now, no one at the farm wore boots; the only kinds of footwear known there were wooden clogs and hobnailed shoes with three rows of nails.

Thereupon, Blutty's last doubts vanished. In order to make sure of seizing his enemy, he had to restrain his wrath and his grief; and, toward nightfall, he kissed his wife with much warmth, and told her he was going to pass the night at a farm of Simonneau's half a league away. The grape harvest was just finished; Simonneau, who was one of the last to get in his crop, needed help that night to watch and hold in check the fermentation in his vats. This fable did not arouse suspicion in any mind ; Athénaïs was too conscious of her innocence to be alarmed by her husband's plans.

So he left the farm for his friend's house, and, brandishing fiercely one of the heavy iron forks used in the country to load the hay on the wagons, he waited for night with agonizing impatience. To give him courage and presence of mind, Simonneau plied him with drink.

The clock struck seven. It was a cold, gloomy evening. The wind howled through the thatched roof of the cottage, and the brook, swollen by the rains of the preceding days, filled the ravine with its monotonous plaintive murmur. Bénédict was preparing to leave his young
friend, and was beginning, as on the night before, to invent a fable concerning the necessity of his going out at such an hour, when Valentin interrupted him.

“Why do you deceive me ?” he said suddenly, tossing upon the table with an air of decision the book which he held in his hand. “You are going to the farm.”

Bénédict, petrified with surprise, could think of nothing to reply.

“Well, my friend,” said the young man, with concentrated bitterness, “go and be happy; you deserve it better than I. If anything can lessen my suffering, it is having you for a rival.”

Bénédict fell from the clouds. Men have little perspicacity in making discoveries of this sort; and then, too, his own sorrow had engrossed him so entirely for a long time past that he could not well notice the irruption of love into the heart of that child whose guardian he was. Bewildered by what he had heard, he imagined that Valentin was in love with his aunt, and his blood stood still with amazement and grief.

“My friend,” said Valentin, throwing himself into a chair with an air of hopeless discouragement, “I wound you, I irritate you, I grieve you, perhaps ! I love you so dearly, and yet I am obliged to fight against the hatred which I feel for you sometimes! Beware of me, Bénédict; there are days when I am tempted to murder you!”

“Unhappy child!” cried Bénédict, seizing his arm roughly; “you dare to cherish such a sentiment for her whom you should respect as your mother!”

“As my mother!” he rejoined with a sad smile ; “ she would be a very young mother !”

“Great God !” exclaimed Bénédict in great dismay, “what will Valentine say ?”

“Valentine ! What does it matter to her ? Indeed, why didn't she foresee what would happen ? Why did she allow us to be together every evening before her eyes ? and you yourself, why do you take me for a confidant and witness of your love ? For you do love her ; I am sure of it now. Last night I followed you; you went to the farm, and I don't imagine that you went there with so much secrecy to see my mother or my aunt. Why should you hide if you went to see them ?”

“Great heaven ! what do you mean ?” cried Bénédict, relieved of a terrible weight. “Do you think that I am in love with my cousin ?”

“Who wouldn't be?” replied the young man, with ingenuous enthusiasm.

“Come here, my boy,” said Bénédict, embracing him warmly. “Can you believe a friend's word ? Very good; I swear to you, on my honor, that I have never loved Athénaïs and never shall love her. Are you satisfied now ?”

“Can it be true?” cried Valentin, kissing him rapturously; “but, if it is true, why are you going to the farm ?”

“To attend to some business of great importance to Madame de Lansac's future,” replied Bénédict, sorely embarrassed. “As I am obliged to keep out of sight to avoid meeting Blutty, with whom I am on bad terms, and who would have good reason to be offended by my presence in his house, I have to take some precautions about going to see your aunt. Her interests require all my care. It is a matter of money which you would hardly understand. Indeed, what difference does it make to you ? I will tell you about it some time. Now I must go.”

“It's all right,” said Valentin, “I have no questions
to ask you. Your motives cannot be other than noble and generous. But let me go with you, Bénédict.”

“To be sure, part of the way,” he replied.

They left the house together.

“Why that gun ?” said Bénédict, seeing that Valentin had a gun on his shoulder.

“I don't know. I want to go all the way to the farm with you. That Pierre Blutty hates you, I know. If he should meet you, he would do you a bad turn. He is a cowardly brute ; let me escort you. Last night I couldn't go to sleep till you came home. I had horrible dreams; and now that my heart is relieved of that terrible jealousy—now that I might be happy, I feel more depressed than I ever did in my life.”

“I have often told you, Valentin, that you have nerves like a woman's. Poor boy! Your friendship is very sweet to me. I believe that it would make life endurable if everything else should fail me.”

They walked for some time in silence; then they resumed their conversation, which was interrupted every moment. Bénédict felt his heart swell with joy as the moment approached which was to unite him with Valentine. His young companion, whose nature was more clinging and impressionable, struggled under the weight of some indefinable presentiment. Bénédict attempted to point out to him the folly of his love for Athénaïs, and to urge him to combat that hazardous inclination. He drew a gloomy picture of the evils of the passion, and all the while his heart was beating with ardent, joyful throbs which gave the lie to his words.

“Perhaps you are right!” said Valentin. “I believe I am destined to be unhappy. At all events, I believe it tonight ; I feel so blue and oppressed. Come home early, do you hear ? or let me go with you to the orchard.”

“No, my boy, no,” said Bénédict, halting beneath an old willow which stood at a bend in the road. “Go back; I will soon be with you and continue my sermon. Well, what is it ?”

“You must take my gun.”

“What nonsense!”

“Listen; what's that ?”

It was a hoarse, funereal cry above their heads.

“It's a goatsucker,” replied Bénédict. “He's hiding in the rotten trunk of this tree. Do you want a shot at him ? I'll start him up.”

He kicked the tree. The bird flew away in silence. Valentin took aim, but it was too dark to hit him. He disappeared, repeating his sinister cry.

“Bird of evil omen,” exclaimed the boy, “I missed you ! Isn't that the bird the peasants call the
bird of death?”

“Yes,” said Bénédict, indifferently; “they claim that he sings over a man's head an hour before his death. Look out! we were under the tree when he sang !”

Valentin shrugged his shoulders as if he were ashamed of his childish fears. However, he pressed his friend's hand more warmly than usual.

“Come home soon,” he said.

And they parted.

Bénédict entered the orchard noiselessly, and found Valentine at the door of the house.

“I have great news for you,” she said; “but let us not stay in this room ; anybody who comes in may take us by surprise. Athénaïs has let me have her chamber for an hour. Come with me.”

After Blutty's marriage, a pretty chamber on the first floor had been set aside and newly furnished for the newly-married pair. Athénaïs had offered it to her
friend, and had gone to the room of the latter on the floor above to wait until the end of the interview.

Valentine led Bénédict to Athénaïs's room.

At about the same time, Pierre Blutty and Simonneau left the farm-house where they had passed the early evening. They followed, without speaking, a sunken road near the shore of the Indre.

“Sacrebleu!
Pierre, you are not a man,” said Simonneau at last, stopping suddenly. “One would say that you were going to commit a crime. You don't say a word ; you have been as pale and limp as a shroud all day long, and you can hardly walk straight. The deuce ! do you let a woman throw you off the track this way ?”

“It's not so much my love for the woman now,” rejoined Pierre, in a hollow voice, “as it is my hate for the man. That thickens the blood round my heart; and when you say that I'm going to commit a crime, I don't think you're far out of the way.”