She came at last to an old barn, standing all by itself and without lights, which she supposed to be inhabited because of the barking of a dog shut up in the yard. She called in vain, no one stirred. She rode her horse up to the gate and knocked with the steel knob of her riding-crop. A plaintive bleating answered her ; it was a sheep-fold. And in that region, as there are no wolves or thieves, there are no shepherds either. Valentine rode on.

Her horse, as if he shared the disheartened feeling which had taken possession of her, slackened his pace to a careless walk. From time to time he struck his shoe against a stone, making the sparks fly, or thrust his thirsty mouth toward the tender little shoots of the young elms.

Suddenly, in the silence of that deserted spot, over those fields which had never heard any other melody than the whistle of some idle child, or the hoarse, obscene ditty of a belated miller ; suddenly, with the murmuring of the stream and the sighing of the breeze was blended a pure, sweet, fascinating voice, a man’s voice, as fresh and strong as the note of a hautboy. It was singing a ballad of the province, very simple and slow and sad, as they all are. But with what feeling it sang! Certainly it could not be a villager who had the art of emitting and modulating his notes in that way. Nor was it a professional singer who paid no heed to aught save purity of rhythm, without regard to system or to ornamentation. It was someone “who felt music, but did not know it; or, if he did know it, he was the greatest singer on earth, for he seemed not to know it, and his melody, like the voice of the elements, soared heavenward without any other poesy than that of sentiment.

“If,” thought Valentine, “in a virgin forest, far from works of art, far from the lamps of the orchestra and reminiscences of Rossini, among those mountain firs where the foot of man has never left its imprint, Manfred’s ideal creations should awake to new life, they would sing like that.”

She had let her reins fall; her horse was browsing along the edge of the path; Valentine was no longer afraid; she was under the spell of that mysterious music, and her emotion was so pleasant that it did not occur to her to be astonished to hear it in that place and at that hour.

The singing ceased. Valentine thought that she had been dreaming ; but it began again not so far away, and each moment brought it more distinctly to the fair amazon’s ear; then it ceased again and she could hear nothing but the trot of a horse. By the heavy, lumbering way in which it just grazed the ground, it was easy to determine that it was a peasant’s horse.

Valentine felt a thrill of fear at the thought that she was about to find herself, in that solitary spot, face to face with a man who might prove to be a drunken clown ; for was it really he who had been singing, or had his approach put the melodious sylph to flight ? However, it was better to accost him than to pass the night in the fields. Valentine reflected that, in case of an attempted insult, her horse had better legs than the one approaching her, and, seeking to feign a self-assurance which she did not possess, she rode straight toward him.

“Who goes there? “ called a manly voice.

“Valentine de Raimbault,” replied the girl, who was not, perhaps, altogether devoid of pride in the possession of the most honored name in the province.

There was nothing ridiculous in that little touch of vanity, since the name owed all the esteem in which it was held to the virtues and gallantry of her father.

“Mademoiselle de Raimbault! all alone in this place !” rejoined the horseman. “Where is Monsieur de Lansac, pray ? Has he fallen from his horse ? Is he dead ?”

“No, thank Heaven!” said Valentine, reassured by that voice, which she thought that she recognized.

“But if I am not mistaken, monsieur, your name is Bénédict, and we danced together to-day ?”

Bénédict started. It seemed to him that it was not very modest to refer to so delicate an occurrence, the mere thought of which, at that moment and in that solitude, sent the blood rushing back to his heart. But extreme innocence sometimes resembles effrontery. The fact was that Valentine, absorbed by the agitation due to her nocturnal ride, had completely forgotten the episode of the kiss. She was reminded of it by the tone in which Bénédict replied :

“Yes, mademoiselle, I am Bénédict.”

“Very well,” said she, “do me the favor to put me in the right road.”

And she told him how she had gone astray.

“You are a league from the road you should have taken,” he replied, “and to reach it you must pass the farm of Grangeneuve. As I am on my way there, I shall have the honor of serving you as a guide ; perhaps we shall find the calèche waiting for you at the junction of the roads.”

“That is not probable,” said Valentine ; “ my mother saw me ride ahead, and undoubtedly thinks that I shall reach the château before her.”

“In that case, mademoiselle, if you will allow me, I will accompany you to your house. My uncle would be a more suitable escort, of course, but he has not returned from the fête, and I don’t know when he will return.”

Valentine thought sadly of the increased indignation of her mother at such a dénouement ; but, as she was entirely innocent of all the incidents of the day, she accepted Bénédict’s offer with a frankness which enforced esteem. Bénédict was touched by her sweet and simple manners. The very thing that had offended him in her at first, the ease which she owed to her consciousness of the social superiority in which she had been reared, won his respect at last. He found that she bore herself nobly in perfect good faith, without arrogance and without false humility. She was a sort of mean between her mother and grandmother; she knew how to enforce respect without ever inflicting a wound. Bénédict was surprised to find that he no longer felt the timidity, the palpitations which a young man of twenty, brought up away from the world, always feels when alone with a young and beautiful woman. His conclusion was that Mademoiselle de Raimbault, with her placid beauty and her natural sincerity of character, was worthy to inspire a lasting attachment. No thought of love entered his mind with respect to her.

After some questions on both sides concerning the hour, the road, the qualities of their horses, Valentine asked Bénédict if it were he who was singing. Bénédict was aware that he sang exceedingly well, and it was with secret satisfaction that he remembered that he had lifted up his voice in the valley. Nevertheless, with the profound hypocrisy due to self-esteem, he answered carelessly:

“Did you hear anything ? It was I, I fancy, or else the frogs among the reeds.”

Valentine said nothing more.