Valentine (28 page)

Bénédict could not shut his eyes to the fact that, when he was apart from her, he formed a thousand audacious schemes; he persisted in grasping at new hopes. He said to himself that Valentine no longer had the right to refuse him anything; but as soon as he found himself once more under the influence of her pure glance, of her dignified and gentle manners, he stopped short, completely subjugated, and deemed himself fortunate to obtain the faintest indications of friendship.

Meanwhile, their situation became constantly more hazardous. To throw their real feelings off the scent, they treated each other like intimate friends; this was an additional imprudence, for even the chaste Valentine could not deceive herself. In order to make their interviews less stormy, Louise, who tortured her brain to devise some means, conceived the idea of music. She
was something of an accompanist, and Bénédict sang beautifully. This put the finishing touch to the perils by which they were encompassed. To placid and untroubled minds music may seem a pleasing art, a frivolous and innocent amusement; to impassioned souls it is the source of all poetic feeling, the expression of every strong passion. It was thus that Bénédict understood it. He knew that the human voice, modulated by the heart, is the swiftest, the most forcible instrument of the feelings ; that it appeals to the intelligence of others more powerfully than when it is cooled by the developments of ordinary speech. Thought, in the guise of melody, is noble, poetic and beautiful.

Valentine, recently subjected to the trial of a very violent attack of hysteria, was still subject at certain hours to a sort of feverish excitement. Those hours Bénédict passed in her company, and he frequently sang to her. Valentine would shiver from head to foot; all her blood collected in her heart and her brain ; she alternated between devouring heat and deadly cold. She pressed her hands against her heart to keep it from bursting through its walls, for it throbbed so fiercely at certain tones from Bénédict's chest and his heart. When he sang, he was handsome, in spite of, or rather because of, the mutilation of his forehead. He loved Valentine passionately, and had proved it beyond question. Was not that enough to embellish him a little in her eyes. And, then, his eyes were marvellously brilliant. When he sat at the piano, in the semi-darkness, she could see them gleaming like two stars. When, in the uncertain glimmer of twilight, she looked upon that broad, white forehead, heightened in effect by the abundant masses of black hair, that flashing eye and that long, pale face, whose features, seen indistinctly in the shadow,
appeared in a thousand strange aspects, Valentine was frightened: it seemed to her that she saw in him the bleeding spectre of the man who had loved her; and if he sang in a hollow, melancholy voice some fragment of Zingarelli's
Romeo,
she felt so moved by superstitious fear that she shuddered and drew closer to her sister.

These scenes of silent and restrained passion took place in the pavilion in the park, to which she had sent her piano, and where Louise and Bénédict, after a time, passed every evening with her. During the summer evenings Valentine adopted the custom of having no light, so that Bénédict might not detect the violent emotion which often took possession of her. Bénédict would sing something from memory; then they would walk a little in the park or sit by the window, talking and inhaling the pleasant odor of the wet foliage after a shower, or they would go to look at the moon from the top of the hill. That life would have been delightful if it could have lasted, but Valentine knew full well, from the stings of remorse, that it had already lasted too long.

Louise did not leave them for an instant. This constant watch on Valentine seemed to her a duty, but that duty often became a heavy burden to her; for she realized that it was largely influenced by her own jealousy, and she suffered all the torture of a noble heart at strife with honorable sentiments.

One evening, when Bénédict seemed to her more animated than usual, his ardent glances and the tone of his voice when he spoke of Valentine caused her such pain that she withdrew, discouraged by her suffering and by the rôle she was playing. She went out to meditate alone in the park. Bénédict's heart beat frantically when he saw that he was alone with Valentine. She tried to speak on indifferent subjects, but her voice
trembled. Afraid of herself, she was silent for a few moments, then asked him to sing; but his voice produced a still more violent effect on her nerves, and she left the room, leaving him alone at the piano. Bénédict was piqued, and continued to sing. Meanwhile, Valentine had seated herself under the trees on the terrace, a few steps from the open window. Bénédict's voice had a softer, more caressing sound, as it was borne to her ears by the fragrant evening breeze, amid the rustling leaves. All about her was fragrance and melody. She hid her face in her hands, and allowed her tears to flow, yielding to one of the most irresistible fascinations that ever woman faced. Bénédict ceased to sing, and she hardly noticed it, so completely under the spell was she. He walked to the window and saw her.

The salon was on the ground floor; he leaped through the window and sat down at her feet. As she did not speak, he feared that she was ill, and ventured gently to remove her hands. Then he saw her tears, and uttered a cry of surprise and triumph. Valentine, overwhelmed with shame, tried to hide her face against her lover's breast. How happened it that their lips met ? Valentine tried to protect herself; Bénédict had not the strength of mind to obey. Before Louise had joined them, they had exchanged twenty oaths of love, twenty fervent kisses. Louise, where were you then ?

From that moment the danger became imminent. Bénédict was so happy that he was proud of his happiness, and began to despise danger. He scoffed at destiny, and said to himself that with Valentine's love he could overcome all obstacles. The pride of triumph made him overbold ; he would not listen to Louise's scruples. Moreover, he was free from the species of dependence upon her to which her nursing and her devotion had subjected him. Since he had completely recovered, Louise had been living at the farm, and at night they went separately to join Valentine at the pavilion. It happened several times that Louise arrived considerably later than he; sometimes, too, it happened that Louise could not go at all, and Bénédict passed long evenings alone with Valentine. The next day, when Louise questioned her sister, it was always easy to divine from her confusion the nature of the interview she had had with her lover ; for it was impossible that Valentine's secret could be a secret to Louise any longer ; she was too much interested in detecting it not to have succeeded long before. Nothing more was lacking to her unhappiness, and it was intensified by the feeling that she was incapable of applying any remedy. Louise felt that her weakness would cause Valentine's ruin. If she had had no other motive than her interest in her sister, she would not have hesitated to open her eyes to the perils of her situation; but, devoured by jealousy as she was, and retaining none the less all her pride, she preferred to imperil Valentine's happiness
rather than yield to a feeling which brought the blush of shame to her cheeks. There was some selfishness in her unselfishness.

She determined to return to Paris in order to put an end to the torture she was undergoing, without having fixed upon any plan to save her sister. She simply resolved to inform her of her approaching departure; and one evening, when Bénédict took his leave, instead of going down with him, she told Valentine that she wanted to speak with her a moment. Her words offended Bénédict; he was constantly beset by the idea that Louise, stung by remorse, desired to injure him in Valentine's eyes. That idea served to embitter him still more against that generous and self-sacrificing woman, and made him bear the burden of gratitude to her grudgingly and angrily.

“Sister,” said Louise, “the time has come when I must leave you. I cannot stay away from my boy any longer. You do not need me any more, and I am going to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” cried Valentine, in dismay. “You are going to leave me, to leave me all alone, Louise ? Why, what will become of me ?”

“Aren't you well again ? aren't you happy and free, Valentine ? What good can your poor Louise do you now ?”

“O sister, dear sister !” said Valentine, throwing her arms about her. “You shall not leave me ! You have no idea of my unhappiness and the perils by which I am surrounded. If you leave me, I am lost.”

Louise sadly held her peace. The idea of listening to Valentine's confession was mortally repugnant to her; and yet she dared not refuse. Valentine, her face flushed with shame, could not make up her mind to speak. Her sister's cold and cruel silence caused her blood to stand
still with fear. At last she overcame her repugnance, and said in a trembling tone :

“Well, Louise, won't you stay with me, when I tell you that without you I am lost ?”

That word, twice repeated, bore in Louise's ears a meaning which irritated her in spite of herself.

“Lost!” she retorted bitterly ; “ you say you are
lost!
Valentine ?”

“O sister!” said Valentine, hurt by the eagerness with which Louise seized upon the idea ; “God has protected me thus far. He is my witness that I have not voluntarily given way to any sentiment, taken any step inconsistent with my duty.”

This noble pride in herself, which Valentine was still entitled to feel, put the finishing touch to the bitterness of her who had once given way too blindly to her passions. Always easily wounded, because her past life was marred by an ineffaceable stain, she felt something very like hatred for Valentine's superior virtue. For an instant, affection, compassion, generosity, all the nobler sentiments ceased to exist in her heart; she could think of no better way to avenge herself than to humiliate Valentine.

“What are you talking about then ?” she said harshly. “What danger are you exposed to ? I don't understand what you mean.”

There was a sharp tone in her voice which hurt Valentine ; she had never seen her in this mood. She was silent a moment or two, and gazed at her in surprise. In the dim light of a candle which was burning on the piano at the end of the room, she fancied that she saw on her sister's features an expression which she had never before seen on them. Her eyebrows were contracted, her lips bloodless and compressed; her stern, unfeeling
eye was fastened pitilessly on Valentine's face. Valentine, bewildered, involuntarily moved her chair away, and, trembling from head to foot, tried to find some explanation of the cold contempt with which her sister was treating her for the first time in her life. But she would have imagined every conceivable reason rather than the true one. Meek and pious as she was, she was inspired at that moment by all the heroism which the true spirit of religion imparts to women, and, throwing herself at her sister's feet, she hid her face, streaming with tears, upon her knee.

“You are right in humiliating me thus,” she said ; “ I have deserved it, and fifteen years of virtue entitle you to rebuke my vain and imprudent youth. Scold me, despise me, but have pity on my repentance and my fears. Protect me, Louise, save me ; you can do it, for you know all!”

“Hush !” cried Louise, overwhelmed by her sister's behavior, and yielding instantly to the noble sentiments which formed the real foundation of her character ; “ rise, Valentine, my sister, my child ; do not kneel at my feet like this. I am the one who should be at your feet; I am the contemptible creature, who should ask you, you angel from heaven, to make my peace with God ! Alas! Valentine, I know your suffering only too well; but why confide it to me, miserable wretch that I am, who can afford you no protection, and who have no right to advise you ?”

“You can advise me and protect me, Louise,” replied Valentine, embracing her effusively. “Haven't you the experience which gives strength and good sense ? That man must go away from here, or I must go myself. We must not see each other again, for every day it grows worse, and the return to God becomes harder and harder.
Ah ! just now I was boasting ! I feel that my heart is very guilty.”

The bitter tears that Valentine shed broke Louise's heart.

“Alas!” she said, pale and dismayed, “then it is really as bad as I feared ! You, too, are unhappy forever !”

“Forever ?” echoed Valentine, in alarm. “With the determination to be cured, and with God's help——”

“One is never cured !” rejoined Louise, in a gloomy tone, clasping her hands over her sad and desolate heart.

Then she rose and paced the floor excitedly, halting now and then in front of Valentine to speak to her in a broken voice.

“Why ask me for advice—me of all people? Who am I, to comfort and cure ? What! you come to me for the heroism which conquers the passions, and the virtues which keep society intact; to me, unhappy wretch, whom passion has withered and whom society has cursed and cast out ? Where, pray, should I go for what is not in me, in order to give it to you ? Apply to the women whom the world esteems ; apply to your mother! She is irreproachable. No one was able to say positively whether my lover was or was not hers at the same time. She was so prudent! And when my father, her husband, killed that man who had betrayed his friendship, she clapped her hands ; and the world saw how she triumphed, she had so much strength of character and pride ! Those are the women who can overcome a passion or be cured of it!”

Valentine, horrified by what she had heard, tried to interrupt her; but, impelled by a sort of frenzy, she continued :

“Women like me succumb and are ruined forever!
Women like you, Valentine, must pray and fight; they must seek strength in themselves, not ask it of others. Advice! advice! What advice could I give you which you could not perfectly well give yourself ? Strength to follow it is what you must find. Do you think that I am stronger than you ? No, Valentine, I am not. You know very well what my life has been, with what unconquerable passions I was born; you know to what they led me!”