by George Sand
Louise, observing an expression of gloom on every face, proposed a fishing party in the Indre before dinner. Valentine, who had an instinctive feeling that she had been unfair to Athénaïs, affectionately passed her arm through hers, and started to run with her across the field. Warm-hearted and sincere creature that she was, she succeeded in scattering the clouds that had gathered in the girl’s heart. Bénédict, dressed in his blouse and carrying his net, followed them with Louise, and the four soon reached the banks of the river, lined with lotus and soapwort.
Bénédict threw the net. He was strong and dexterous. In bodily exercises he displayed the power, the courage and the rustic grace of the peasant. They were qualities which Athénaïs did not appreciate at their true value, being shared by all the men about her ; but Valentine marvelled at them as at supernatural things, and readily accorded to Bénédict superiority in one respect to all the men whom she knew. She was frightened to see him venture on a rotten willow which overhung the water and crumbled under his feet ; and when she saw him escape, by a vigorous leap, what seemed a certain fall, and coolly and adroitly land on small level spots which it seemed the rushes and grass must hide from him, she felt her heart beat with an indefinable emotion, as always happens when we see a perilous or difficult undertaking bravely performed.
After catching a few trout, Louise and Valentine pouncing with childish glee on the dripping net and seizing the booty with shouts of joy, while Athénaïs, fearing to soil her fingers, or harboring a grudge against her cousin, sulkily concealed herself in the shadow of the alders, Bénédict, exhausted with the heat, sat on a roughly-hewn ash-tree which was thrown from bank to bank by way of bridge. Scattered over the bright green grass by the river, the three women employed themselves in different ways. Athénaïs gathered flowers, Louise tossed leaves into the stream with a melancholy air, and Valentine, being less accustomed to the fresh air and sunshine and walking, dozed gently, concealed as she supposed by the tall river-grass. Her eyes, after wandering for a long while over the rippling surface of the water and a sunbeam that stole through the branches, fell by chance upon Bénédict, whom she discovered about ten yards in front of her, seated on the springy bridge with his legs hanging down.
Bénédict was not absolutely without beauty. His complexion was of a bilious pallor, his long eyes were of no color, but his forehead was very high and extremely smooth. By virtue of a power inherent in men endowed with some mental force, the eye became gradually accustomed to the shortcomings of his face and saw only its beauties. This is true of some ugly faces, and was noticeably true of Bénédict’s. His smooth, sallow skin gave an impression of tranquillity which inspired a sort of instinctive respect for that mind whose impulses were betrayed by no outward alteration of his features. His eyes, in which the colorless pupils swam in a sea of white vitreous humor, had a vague and mysterious expression which could not fail to arouse the curiosity of every observer. But they would have driven Lavater to despair with all his learning ; they seemed to read the eyes of others to their lowest depths, and their immobility was positively metallic when they had occasion to be suspicious of an impertinent examination. A woman, when she was beautiful, could not endure their gleam ; an enemy could not detect any sign of weakness in them. He was a man whom one could look at at any time and never find him below his own level; it was a face which could allow the thoughts to wander without being made ugly thereby, as so many faces are. No woman could view him with indifference, and, if the lips sometimes decried him, the imagination did not readily lose the impression he made upon it; no one could meet him for the first time without following him with the eye as long as possible ; no artist could look at him without admiration for his singular countenance, and without longing to reproduce it.
When Valentine looked at him, he was absorbed in one of those profound reveries which seemed of frequent occurrence with him. The shadow of the foliage above him gave a greenish tinge to his broad forehead, his eyes were fixed intently on the water and seemed to see nothing. The fact is that they did see to perfection Valentine’s face reflected in the motionless stream. He took keen pleasure in that contemplation, the object of which vanished whenever a faint breeze ruffled the surface of the mirror; then the charming image gradually took shape again, uncertain and vague at first, and in due time became placid and lovely against the crystalline background. Bénédict was not thinking ; he was gazing, he was happy, and it was at such moments that he was handsome.
Valentine had always heard it said that Bénédict was ugly. According to provincial ideas—in the provinces, as Monsieur Stendhal has wittily said, a handsome man is always stout and redfaced—Bénédict was the most ill-favored of youths. Valentine had never looked closely at him. She had retained in her mind the impression she had received at their first meeting; that impression was unfavorable. Not until the last few moments had she begun to find that there was something inexpressibly charming about him. Absorbed herself in a reverie which had no definite subject, she yielded to that hazardous curiosity which analyzes and compares. She discovered that there was a vast difference between Bénédict and Monsieur de Lansac. She did not ask herself in whose favor that difference was; she simply recognized its existence. As Monsieur de Lansac was handsome, and as she was engaged to him, she was not disturbed as to the result of that imprudent contemplation. It did not occur to her that her fiancé might come out of it vanquished.
And yet that is what happened. Bénédict, pale, fatigued, pensive, with dishevelled hair; Bénédict, dressed in coarse clothes and smeared with mud, with his bare, sunburned neck ; Bénédict, seated in an unstudied attitude amid that lovely verdure, over that lovely stream ; Bénédict, who was gazing at Valentine without Valentine’s knowledge, and smiling with admiration ; Bénédict at that moment was a man ; a man of the fields and of nature, a man whose manly breast could throb with an intense passion, a man forgetful of himself in the contemplation of the fairest of God’s creatures. I know not what magnetic emanations played in the scorching air about him ; I know not what mysterious, vague, involuntary emotions suddenly made the young countess’s pure and ignorant heart beat fast.
Monsieur de Lansac was a dandy endowed with beauty of the conventional type, exceedingly clever, an unexcelled talker, who always laughed at the right moment, and never did anything out of season. There was never a wrinkle on his face any more than in his cravat; one could see that his costume, even to the smallest details, was to him as important and sacred a matter as the most momentous diplomatic discussion. He had never wondered at anything; at all events, he had ceased to wonder, for he had seen the greatest potentates of Europe. He had gazed unmoved at the most exalted leaders of society; he had soared aloft in the highest social spheres ; he had discussed the very existence of nations between dessert and coffee. Valentine had always seen him in society, in full dress, on his guard, exhaling perfumes and making the most of every fraction of an inch of his stature. She had never had a glimpse of the man in him ; at morning and at night Monsieur de Lansac was always the same. He rose a secretary of embassy; he never mused; he never forgot himself so far before any person as to commit the impropriety of reflecting ; he was as impenetrable as Bénédict, but with this difference, that he had nothing to conceal, that he had no will of his own, and that his brain contained nothing except the solemn nonsense of diplomacy. In short, Monsieur de Lansac, a man devoid of generous passion, of mental vigor, already worn out and withered by years of fashionable society, incapable of appreciating Valentine, whom he praised incessantly and never admired, had not, at any time, aroused in her one of those swift, irresistible impulses which transform and enlighten, and lead one impetuously on to a new life.
Imprudent Valentine! She had so little idea what love is, that she believed that she loved her fiancé; not passionately, it is true, but with all her power of loving.
Because that man inspired no passion in her, she fancied that her heart was incapable of passion ; she felt the first thrill of love in th
e shadow of those trees. In that hot, stinging air her blood began to stir; several times, as she looked at Bénédict, she felt a strange flush rise from her heart to her forehead, and the innocent girl did not know what excited her so. She was not alarmed: she was engaged to Monsieur de Lansac, Bénédict was engaged to his cousin. Those were excellent reasons ; but Valentine, being accustomed to look upon her duties as easy to perform, did not dream that a sentiment fatal to those duties might be born in her.
XIV
At first, Bénédict gazed at Valentine’s image calmly enough; gradually, a painful sensation, more prompt in its action and more keen than that which she experienced, forced him to change his position and to try to turn his mind to something else. He took up his net and made another cast, but he could not catch anything; he was distraught. He could not take his eyes from Valentine’s; whether he leaned over the bank or ventured on the loose stones or on the smooth and slippery pebbles in the river-bed, he inevitably met Valentine’s glance, watching him, brooding over him, so to speak, with tender solicitude. Valentine did not know how to dissemble ; she did not consider that on that occasion there was the slightest occasion for her to do so. Bénédict’s heart beat fast beneath that artless and affectionate glance. For the first time he was proud of his strength and his courage. He crossed a dam over which the river was rushing furiously; in three leaps he was on the other bank. He returned ; Valentine’s face was white ; Bénédict’s bosom swelled with pride.
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 marr
y ?”
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.”