So the flowers with which you have strewn your life have borne their fruit—premature fruit, I may say.”

“Madame,” said the marchioness bitterly, “you are ferocious in your anger, I know.”

“I presume, madame, that you call the righteous pride of an insulted mother ferocity ?”

“Who insulted you, in God’s name ?”

“Ah ! you ask me that! You do not think that I was insulted in my daughter’s person, when all the canaille in the province clapped their hands to see her kissed by a peasant, before my eyes, against my will! when they will say to-morrow: ‘We put a stinging affront on the Comtesse de Raimbault!”’

“What exaggeration! what puritanical nonsense! Your daughter dishonored because she was kissed before three thousand people ! A heinous crime indeed ! In my day, madame, and in yours too, I’ll wager, although I agree they didn’t do just that, they did no better. Besides, that fellow is no countryman.”

“He is much worse, madame ; he’s a rich countryman, an enlightened clown.”

“Don’t speak so loud; if you should be overheard!—”

“Oh ! you are always dreaming of the guillotine, you think that it is walking behind you, ready to seize you at the slightest sign of courage or pride. But I will speak low, madame; listen to what I have to say: Have as little to do with Valentine as possible, and don’t forget so soon the results of the other one’s education.”

“Again ! again !” exclaimed the old woman, clasping her hands in distress. “You never miss an opportunity to reawaken that sorrow ! Oh ! let me die in peace, madame ; I am eighty years old.”

“Everybody would like to be as old as that, if it would justify all the vagaries of the heart and the mind. Although you make yourself out to be old and harmless, you still have a very great influence over my daughter and my household. Make that influence serve the common good; cease to set before Valentine that deplorable example, the memory of which is unfortunately alive in her mind.”

“Oh ! there’s no danger! Isn’t Valentine on the eve of being married ? What do you fear after that ? Her errors, if she makes any, will concern nobody but her husband ; our task will be accomplished.”

“Yes, madame, I know that you reason so; I won’t waste my time arguing about your principles ; but, I say again, remove the last trace that still lingers about you of the life that has left a stain on us all.”

“Great God, madame! have you finished ? She of whom you speak is my granddaughter, the daughter of my own son, and Valentine’s only sister. Those are facts which will make me always deplore her fault instead of cursing it. Has she not expiated it cruelly ? Will your implacable hatred pursue her in exile and poverty ? Why this persistence in rasping a wound which will bleed until I have breathed my last ?”

“Madame, listen to what I say : your estimable granddaughter is not so far away as you pretend to believe. I am not your dupe, you see.”

“Great God !” cried the old woman drawing herself up, “what do you mean ? Explain yourself! my child! my poor child ! where is she ? Tell me ; I ask you on my knees !”

Madame de Raimbault, who had pleaded the false in order to ascertain the truth, was satisfied with the pathetically sincere tone with which the marchioness destroyed her suspicions.

“You shall know, madame,” she replied, “but not before I do. I swear that I will soon find out the hiding-place she has chosen in this neighborhood, and will drive her out of it. Wipe away your tears ; here are our people.”

Valentine entered the calèche, but alighted again after putting on over her clothes a blue merino skirt, which took the place of a riding-habit, the latter being too heavy for the season. Monsieur de Lansac offered his hand to assist her to mount a handsome English horse, and the ladies took their places in the calèche ; but as Monsieur de Lansac’s horse was being led out of the village stable, he fell and could not get up. Whether as a result of the heat, or of the quantity of water he had been allowed to drink, he had a violent attack of colic, and was absolutely unable to travel. Monsieur de Lansac was compelled to leave the groom at the inn to look after him, and to take a seat in the carriage.

“Well,” exclaimed the countess, “is Valentine to ride home alone ?”

“Why not ?” said the Comte de Lansac, wishing to spare Valentine the discomfort of a drive of two hours in her angry mother’s company. “Mademoiselle will not be alone if she rides beside the carriage, and we can talk with her perfectly well. Her horse is so clever that I see no objection to leaving him to her guidance.”

“But it is hardly proper,” said the countess, over whom Monsieur de Lansac had acquired great influence.

“Everything is proper in this region, where there is no one to decide what is proper and what is not. At the bend in the road we enter the Black Valley, where we shall not meet a cat. Moreover, it will be so dark ten minutes hence that we shall have no reason to fear that she will be seen.”

This momentous discussion having terminated in Monsieur de Lansac’s favor, the calèche turned into one of the narrow roads of the valley. Valentine followed at a canter, and the darkness deepened.

As they rode farther into the valley the road became narrower. Soon it was impossible for Valentine to ride beside the carriage. For some time she remained behind ; but the inequalities of the ground often compelled the coachman to stop his horses abruptly, and Valentine’s horse took fright every time that the carriage halted almost against his chest. So she took advantage of a place where the ditch was hardly perceptible, to ride ahead, and thereafter proceeded under much pleasanter circumstances, having no fear of accident, and allowing her strong and spirited horse full liberty of action.

The weather was beautiful ; the moon had not risen, so that the road was buried beneath the dark shadows of the trees. From time to time a glow-worm gleamed in the grass, a lizard crawled through the bushes, a hawk-moth buzzed about a moist flower. A warm breeze had sprung up, laden with the odor of vanilla which exhales from fields of beans in flower. Young Valentine, who had been educated by her banished sister, her haughty mother, the nuns at her convent, and her careless and youthful grandmother, one after another, had really received no bringing-up at all. She had made herself what she was, and, for lack of any really sympathetic heart in her family, had acquired a taste for study and meditation. Her naturally calm mind and her sound judgment had preserved her from the errors of society and from those of solitude alike. Absorbed by thoughts as pure and sweet as her heart, she enjoyed to the full that tranquil May evening, so full of chaste delights to a young and poetic soul. Perhaps she thought of her fiancé too, of the man who had first shown her confidence and respect, sentiments so grateful to a heart which esteems itself and has never yet been understood. Valentine did not dream of passion ; she did not share the overbearing eagerness of those young brains which look upon it as an imperious necessity of their organizations.