She had admired that voice so heartily that she was afraid of saying too much or too little. However, after a pause, she artlessly inquired :

“Where did you learn to sing ?”

“If I had any talent in that direction, I should be justified in replying that it cannot be taught; but such a reply would be foolish conceit in me. I took a few lessons in Paris.”

“Music is a fine thing !” said Valentine.

And they passed from music to all the other arts.

“I see that you are very musical,” said Bénédict, in reply to a rather learned observation from her.

“I was taught music as I was taught everything else,” she replied ; “that is to say, superficially; but as I had an instinctive liking for that art, I readily grasped it.”

“And doubtless you are a very talented musician ?”

“I ? I play contra-dances, that is all.”

“You have no voice ?”

“A little ; I used to sing at one time, and was thought to have some talent, but I gave it up.”

“What! when you love the art ?”

“Yes, I devoted myself to painting, which I cared much less for, and in which I was proficient.”

“That is strange!”

“No, in these days we must have a specialty. Our rank and fortune are of no account. In a few years, perhaps, the estate of Raimbault, my patrimony, will again be the property of the State, as it was half a century ago. The education we receive is wretched ; they give us the elements of everything, but do not allow us to learn anything thoroughly. They want us to be well educated, but, on the day that we became learned, we should be ridiculous. We are always brought up to be rich, never to be poor. The limited education of our grandmothers was much more valuable; they at least knew how to knit. The Revolution found them women of moderate parts; they spun flax for a living without repugnance. We who have a smattering of English, drawing and music ; who make lacquer pictures, water-color screens, velvet flowers and a score of other extravagant trifles of which the sumptuary laws of a republic would forbid the use—what should we do ? which of us would stoop without regret to a mechanical trade ? For not one in twenty of us knows anything thoroughly. I know but one trade for which we are adapted, and that is the trade of lady’s maid. I realized early in life, from the tales of my grandmother and my mother—two such widely different lives: the Emigration and the Empire, Coblentz and Marie-Louise—that I must protect myself against the misfortunes of the first and the prosperity of the other. And, when I was almost at liberty to follow my own ideas, I suppressed those of my talents which could be of no service to me. I devoted myself to a single one, because I have noticed that, whatever the times and the fashions, a person who does a thing very well can always support herself in society.”

“Then you think that painting will be less neglected than music in the Spartan régime which you anticipate, since you have deliberately adopted it as against your real vocation ?”

“Perhaps so ; but that is not the question. As a profession, music would not have suited me. It puts a woman too much in evidence ; it draws her onto the stage or into salons ; it makes her an actress, or an upper servant to whom the education of a provincial young lady is entrusted. Painting gives one more liberty; it allows one to lead a more retired life, and the pleasures it procures become doubly precious in solitude. I think that you will no longer disapprove of my choice.—But let us ride a little faster, I beg; my mother is probably waiting anxiously for me.”

Bénédict, full of approbation and admiration of the young woman’s good sense, flattered by the trustful way in which she revealed her thoughts and her character to him, quickened his pace regretfully. But, as the farm-house of Grangeneuve displayed its great white gable in the moonlight, a sudden thought passed through his mind. He halted abruptly, and, engrossed by that agitating thought, mechanically put out his hand to stop Valentine’s horse.

“What does this mean ?” she said, drawing rein; “isn’t this the way?”

Bénédict was profoundly embarrassed. But he suddenly recovered his courage.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “ what I have to say to you causes me great anxiety, because I am not at all sure how you will receive it, coming from me. It is the first time in my life that I have ever spoken to you, and heaven is my witness that I shall leave you with the utmost veneration. But this may be the only, the last time that I shall have this good fortune; and if what I have to say offends you, it will be easy for you never to look again on the face of a man who will have had the misfortune to displease you.”

This solemn exordium alarmed Valentine no less than it surprised her. At all times Bénédict had a peculiarly remarkable face. His mind had the same tinge of singularity ; she had noticed it in the talk they had just had together. That superior musical talent, those features of which it was impossible to grasp the predominant expression, that mind, so cultivated yet sceptical on every subject, combined to make him a strange creature in the eyes of Valentine, who had never before come so closely in contact with a young man of a different class from her own. Thus the species of preface he had delivered terrified her. Although she was an entire stranger to self-conceit, she feared a declaration, and had not sufficient presence of mind to say a single word in reply.

“I see that I frighten you, mademoiselle,” Bénédict continued. “It is because, in the delicate position in which chance has placed me, I have not enough wit or familiarity with the ways of society to make myself understood by a hint.”

These words increased Valentine’s dismay and terror.

“Monsieur,” said she, “I do not think that you can have anything to say to me to which I can listen, after the admission you have just made of your embarrassment.