Valentine (37 page)

“Then I should be left alone, given over to my grief !” she would say. “No, do not leave me so, it would kill me ; I cannot live now except by forgetting. As soon as I return to myself, I feel that I am lost; my wits wander, and I should be quite capable of crowning my crimes by suicide. Your presence gives me, at all events, strength to live in forgetfulness of my duties. Let us wait a little longer, and hope and pray. When I am alone, I cannot pray any more ; but with you, hope returns. I imagine that some day I shall find enough courage in my heart to love you without crime. Perhaps you will give me that courage, for you are stronger than I; I am the one who is forever sending you away and calling you back.”

And then would come a wave of overwhelming passion, when hell and its terrors simply made Valentine smile. At such times she was not merely an unbeliever—she was fanatical in her impiety.

“Come,” she would say, “let us defy everything. What does it matter if I destroy my soul ? Let us be happy on earth. Will an eternity of torment be too high a price to pay for the joy of being yours ? I wish I had something more to sacrifice to you. Tell me, don't you know of something I can do to pay my debt to you ?”

“Oh ! if you were always like this ! “ Bénédict would exclaim.

Thus Valentine, naturally calm and reserved, had become passionate to the point of delirium as the result of a combination of pitiless misfortunes and seductions which had developed within her unsuspected powers of resisting and of loving. The longer and more resolute her resistance, the more violent her fall. The more
strength she had mustered to combat passion, the more elements of force and duration did passion find in her.

An event which Valentine had, so to speak, forgotten to anticipate, turned her mind for a moment to other concerns. Monsieur Grapp made his appearance, armed with documents according to whose tenor the château and domain of Raimbault belonged to him, with the exception of a parcel worth about twenty thousand francs, which constituted Madame de Lansac's entire fortune. The estates were immediately offered for sale to the highest bidder, and Valentine was notified to vacate Monsieur Grapp's house within twenty-four hours.

This was a thunderbolt to those who loved her. Never had a heaven-sent disaster caused such consternation in the province. But Valentine felt her misfortune less keenly than she would have done under other circumstances. She reflected in her secret heart that, as Monsieur de Lansac was base enough to make her pay for her dishonor with money, she was out of his debt, so to speak. She regretted only the pavilion, the scene of a happiness that was gone forever; and, having removed the few articles of furniture which she was allowed to take, she accepted temporarily the hospitality of the farm of Grangeneuve, which the Lhérys, by virtue of an arrangement with Grapp, were soon to leave.

Amid the excitement caused by this reversal of her fortunes, Valentine passed several days without seeing Bénédict. The courage with which she endured the blow of financial ruin emboldened her to some extent, and she found herself sufficiently tranquil in mind to renew her efforts to be free.

She wrote to Bénédict:

“I beg you not to try to see me during the next fortnight, which I am to pass with the Lhérys. As you have not been to the farm since Athénaïs was married, you could not appear there now without advertising our relations. However earnestly Madame Lhéry may urge you, regretting as she still does your apparent drifting apart, refuse, unless you wish to make me very unhappy. Adieu ; I do not know what I am going to do; I have a fortnight to consider. When I have decided upon my future course, I will let you know, and you will help me to follow it, whatever it may be.

“V.”

This note alarmed Bénédict beyond words. He fancied that he could read between the lines the same dread decision which he had made Valentine abandon so many times, but which might, perhaps, become inevitable, as the result of so much anguish of mind. Prostrated, crushed beneath the weight of so tempestuous a life and so dismal a future, he gave way to discouragement. He
no longer had even the prospect of suicide to sustain him. In his conscience he was under a binding obligation to Louise's son ; moreover, Valentine was too unhappy for him to think of dealing her that terrible blow on top of all those that fate had dealt her. Now that she was ruined, abandoned, heart-broken with grief and remorse, it was his duty to live, to compel himself to be useful to her, and to watch over her, whether she would or not.

Louise had conquered at last the foolish passion which had tormented her so long. Her connection with Bénédict, strengthened and purified by her son's presence, had become tranquil and venerable. Her violent disposition had become softened as the result of that great inward victory. It is true that she was entirely ignorant of the calamity of Bénédict's too great happiness with Valentine. She strove to console her sister for her loss of fortune, not knowing that she had met with an irreparable loss—that of her own esteem. So she passed all her time with her, and did not know what fresh anxieties were weighing upon Bénédict.

The youthful and sprightly Athénaïs had suffered personally on account of these recent events; in the first place, because she was sincerely attached to Valentine; and, also, because the closing of the pavilion, with the consequent interruption of their pleasant meetings in the evening, and the sale of the park, oppressed her heart with an indefinable sense of deprivation. She was surprised to find that she could not think of them without a sigh ; she was distressed by the length of the days and the tedium of the evenings.

Evidently something of importance was missing from her life, and Athénaïs, who had just entered her eighteenth year, questioned herself ingenuously on that subject, but dared not answer her own questions. In all
her dreams, however, the noble blond head of young Valentin appeared amid the flower-laden shrubs. She imagined that he chased her over the fields; she saw him, tall and slender and agile as a chamois, jump the hedges to overtake her; she frolicked with him; she joined in his fresh, joyous laughter; then she would blush herself as she saw the blood rise to that innocent brow, as she felt that smooth white hand burn when it touched hers, as she surprised a sigh and melancholy glance from that child whom she could not distrust. Unconsciously she felt all the shy tremors of a dawning love. And when she woke, when she found Pierre Blutty beside her, that boorish peasant, so brutal in love, so utterly without refinement and charm, she felt her heart sink within her, and the tears trembled on her eyelids. Athénaïs had always loved the aristocracy; elevated language, even when it was beyond the scope of her intelligence, seemed to her the most irresistible form of seduction. When Bénédict talked of the arts or the sciences, she listened to him with admiration, because she did not understand him. It was his superiority in that respect to which he owed the fascination he had for a long time had for her. Since she had made up her mind to give him up, young Valentin, with his gentleness, his self-restraint, the feudal dignity of his handsome profile, his aptitude in grasping abstract branches of knowledge, had become in her eyes the type of charming and perfect manhood. She had long been in the habit of expressing openly her predilection for him, but she was beginning to have some hesitation in doing so, for Valentin was growing in most alarming fashion; his glance was becoming as penetrating as flame, and the young farmer's wife felt that the blood rushed to her face whenever she mentioned his name.

Thus the deserted pavilion was a subject of involuntary longing and regret. To be sure, Valentin came sometimes to see his mother and aunt; but the house in the ravine was so far from the farm-house that he could not make that expedition often without considerable interference with his studies, and the first week seemed mortally long to Madame Blutty.

The future was very uncertain. Louise talked of returning to Paris with her son and Valentine. At other times the sisters formed the plan of buying a peasant's small cottage and living in it alone. Blutty, who was still jealous of Bénédict, although he had little reason to be, talked of taking his wife to La Marche, where he owned some property. It was necessary to separate Athénaïs and Valentin by some means or other; she could no longer think of him without regrets which cast a bright light into the recesses of her heart.

One day, the pleasure which she took in walking led her to a meadow a long distance away, which, like a thrifty farmer's wife, she wished to inspect. This meadow adjoined Vavray wood, and the ravine was not far away, on the edge of the wood. Now, it happened that Bénédict and Valentin were walking in that neighborhood ; that the younger man detected the lithe and well-proportioned figure of Madame Blutty against the dark green; and that he climbed the hedge to join her without consulting his mentor. Bénédict joined them, and they talked together for some time.

Thereupon Athénaïs, who still felt for her cousin a remnant of that deep interest which makes a woman's friendship so considerate and so grateful, noticed the ravages which mental distress had wrought in him, especially within the last few days. The alteration of his features alarmed her, and, putting her arm through his,
she insisted upon his telling her frankly the cause of his distress and the state of his health. As she had some suspicion of the truth, she had the delicacy to send Valentin for her umbrella which she had left under a tree.

Bénédict had been forcing himself for so long a time to conceal his suffering from all eyes, that his cousin's affectionate manner was very sweet to him. He could not resist the longing to pour out his heart, and he told her of his attachment to Valentine, his unhappiness in being separated from her, and ended by confessing that he was driven to despair by the fear of losing her forever.

Athénaïs, in her innocence, did not choose to see, in that passion of which she had long been aware, the dubious side, which would have caused a more prudent person to recoil. In the sincerity of her heart, she did not deem Valentine capable of forgetting her principles, and she believed that love to be as pure as her own for Valentin. So she yielded to her sympathetic impulses, and promised that she would urge Valentine to adopt a less harsh course of action than she contemplated.

“I do not know whether I shall succeed,” she said to him with that ingenuous frankness which made her attractive despite her faults; “ but I promise you that I will work as hard for your happiness as for my own. I hope that I may be able to prove to you that I have never ceased to be your friend !”

Bénédict was touched by this outburst of whole-souled affection, and kissed her hand gratefully. Valentin, who was just returning with the umbrella, saw that kiss, and turned so red and so pale in quick succession that Athénaïs noticed it, and was herself confused; but she tried to assume a serious and self-important manner, and said to Bénédict:

“We must meet again to settle this momentous affair. As I am frivolous and awkward, I shall need your guidance. I will come here to walk to-morrow and tell you how I have succeeded. Then we will consider the best way to obtain more. Until to-morrow!”

And she walked rapidly away with a friendly nod to her cousin ; but she was not looking at him when she said the last words.

The next day they had another conference. While Valentin walked on ahead along the wooded path, Athénaïs told her cousin of the failure of her efforts. She had found Valentine absolutely impenetrable. However, she was not discouraged, and for a whole week she tried with all her power to bring the lovers together.

The negotiations did not advance very rapidly. Perhaps the young ambassadress was not sorry to multiply the conferences in the meadow. During the pauses in her conversation with Bénédict, Valentin would pin them and find consolation for his exclusion from the secret in a smile and glance which were worth more than a thousand words. And then, when the cousins had said all that they had to say, Valentin would chase butterflies with Athénaïs, and, as they romped together, would succeed in touching her hand, or brushing against her hair, or stealing a ribbon or a flower. At seventeen, one is still at an age to enjoy Dorat's poetry.

Bénédict, even although his cousin brought him no good news, was happy to hear her talk of Valentine. He questioned Athénaïs as to her most trivial acts ; he made her repeat their conversations word for word. In short, he yielded to the pleasure of being comforted and encouraged, having no presentiment of the deplorable consequences which his innocent relations with his cousin were destined to have.

Meanwhile, Pierre Blutty had gone to La Marche to look after some private business. At the end of the week he returned by way of a village where a fair was being held, and where he stopped for twenty-four hours. There he met his friend Simonneau.

By an unlucky accident, Simonneau had recently become enamored of a buxom herder of geese, whose cottage was on a sunken road within a few steps of the meadow where Bénédict and Athénaïs met. He went there every day, and, from the little round window of a grain-loft, which served as the temple of his rustic amours, he saw Athénaïs and Bénédict strolling back and forth along the path, arm-in-arm. He did not fail to ascribe a criminal purpose to those meetings. He remembered Mademoiselle Lhéry's former love for her cousin; he knew how jealous Pierre Blutty was, and it never occurred to him that a woman could meet a man and talk confidentially with him, unless impelled by sentiments and purposes at odds with marital fidelity.

With his sturdy good sense he determined to warn Pierre Blutty, and he did not fail to do so. The farmer flew into a terrible rage, and would have set off at once to murder his wife and his rival. Simonneau pacified him to some extent by reminding him that perhaps the wrong done him was not so great at it might be.

“On the word of Simonneau,” he said, “I have hardly seen them without Mademoiselle Louise's boy—thirty or forty yards away. He could see them, so I didn't think they could do any great harm, but they could say what they wanted to ; for when he went near them they took pains to send him away. Your wife would pat him gently on the cheek, and tell him to run off, so that they could talk at their ease, I suppose.”