Valerie

“He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him.”

“Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf, you are une enfant. I will no longer trouble myself with looking out for a husband for you. You shall die a sour old maid,” and Monsieur Gironac left the room, pretending to be in a passion.

A few days after the meeting with Count de Chavannes, Lionel made his appearance. My heart beat quick as I welcomed him.

“He is here,” said he, anticipating my question, “but I called just to know when we should come, and whether I was to say any thing to him before he came.”

“No, no, tell him nothing—bring him here directly—how long will it be before you return?”

“Not half an hour; I am at my old lodgings in Suffolk Street, so good-bye for the present,” and Lionel walked away again.

Monsieur and Madame Gironac were both out, and would not return for an hour or two. I thought the half hour would never pass, but it did at last, and they knocked at the door. Lionel entered, followed by my brother Auguste. I was surprised at his having grown so tall and handsome.

“Madame Gironac is not at home, mademoiselle,” said Lionel.

“No, Monsieur Lionel.”

“Allow me to present to you Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf, a lieutenant in the service of his Majesty the King of the French.”

Auguste bowed, and, as I returned the salute, looked earnestly at me and started.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” said he, coming up to me, and speaking in a tremulous voice, “but—yes, you must be Valerie.”

“Yes, dear Auguste,” cried I, opening my arms.

He rushed to me and covered me with kisses, and then staggering to a chair, sat down and wept. So did I, and so did Lionel, for sympathy and company.

“Why did you conceal this from me, Lionel?” said he after a time; “see how you have unmanned me.”

“I only obeyed orders, Auguste,” replied Lionel; “but, now that I have executed my commission, I will leave you together, for you must have much to say to each other. I will join you at dinner-time.”

Lionel went out and left us together; we renewed our embraces, and after we were more composed, entered into explanations. I told him my history in as few words as possible, promising to enter into details afterwards, and then I inquired about the family. Auguste replied, “I will begin from the time of your disappearance. No one certainly had any suspicion of Madame d’Albret having spirited you away; indeed, she was, as you know, constantly at the barracks till my father left, and expressed her conviction that you had destroyed yourself. The outcry against your mother was universal; she dared not show herself, and your father was in a state to excite compassion. Four or five times a day did he take his melancholy walk down to the Morgue to ascertain if your body was found. He became so melancholy, morose, and irritable, that people were afraid lest he would destroy himself. He never went home to your mother but there was a scene of reproaches on his part, and defence on hers, that was a scandal to the barracks. All her power over him ceased from that time, and has ceased for ever since, and perhaps you know that he has retired.”

“How should I know, Auguste?”

“Yes; he could not bear to look the other officers in the face; he told me that he considered himself, from his weakness and folly, to have been the murderer of his child, that he felt himself despicable, and could not longer remain with the regiment. As soon as the regiment arrived at Lyons, he sent in his retirement, and has ever since been living at Pau, in the south of France, upon his half-pay and the other property which he possesses.”

“My poor father!” exclaimed I, bursting into tears.

“As for me, you know that I obtained leave to quit the regiment, and have ever since been in the 51st of the line. I have obtained my grade of lieutenant. I have seen my father but once since I parted with him at Paris. He is much altered, and his hair is grey.”

“Is he comfortable where he is, Auguste?”

“Yes, Valerie; I think that he did wisely, for it was ruinous travelling about with so many children. He is comfortable, and, I believe, as happy as he can be. Oh, if he did but know that you were alive, it would add ten years to his life.”

“He shall know it, my dear Auguste,” exclaimed I, as the tears coursed down my cheeks. “I feel now that I was very selfish in consenting to Madame d’Albret’s proposal, but I was hardly in my senses at the time.”

“I cannot wonder at your taking the step, nor can I blame you. Your life was one of torture, and it was torture to others to see what you underwent.”

“I pity my father, for weak as he was, the punishment has been too severe.”

“But you will make him happy now, and he will rejoice in his old days.”

“And now, Auguste, tell me about Nicolas—he never liked me, but I forgive him—how is he?”

“He is, I believe, well; but he has left his home.”

“Left home!”

“You know how kind your mother was to him—I may say, how she doted upon him. Well, one day he announced his intention of going to Italy, with a friend he had picked up, who belonged to Naples. His mother was frantic at the idea, but he actually laughed at her, and behaved in a very unfeeling manner. Your mother was cut to the heart, and has never got over it; but, Valerie, the children who are spoiled by indulgence, always turn out the most ungrateful.”

“Have you heard of him since?”

“Yes; he wrote to me, telling me that he was leading an orchestra in some small town, and advancing rapidly—you know his talent for music—but not one line has he ever written to his mother.”

“Ah, me!” sighed I, “and that is all the return she has for her indulgence to him. Now tell me about Clara.”

“She is well married, and lives at Tours: her husband is an employé, but I don’t exactly know what.”

“And Sophie and Elisée?”

“Are both well, and promise to grow up fine girls, but not so handsome as you are, Valerie. It was the wonderful improvement in your person that made me doubt for a moment when I first saw you.”

“And dear little Pierre, that I used to pinch that I might get out of the house, poor fellow?”

“Is a fine boy, and makes his father very melancholy, and his mother very angry, by talking about you.”

“And now, Auguste, one more question. On what terms are my father and mother, and how does she conduct herself?”

“My father treats her with ceremony and politeness, but not with affection. She has tried every means to resume her empire over him, but finds it impossible, and she has now turned dévote. They sleep in separate rooms, and he is very harsh and severe to her at times, when the fit comes on him. Indeed, Valerie, if you sought revenge, which I know you do not do, you have had sufficient, for her brow is wrinkled with care and mortification.”

“But do you think she is sorry for what she has done?”

“I regret to say I do not. I think she is sorry for the consequences, but that her animosity against you would be greater than ever if she knew that you were alive, and if you were again in her power she would wreak double vengeance. Many things have occurred to confirm me in this belief. You have overthrown her power, which she never will forgive; and, as for her religion, I have no faith in that.”

“It is then as I feared, Auguste; and if I make known my existence to my father, it must be concealed from my mother.”

“I agree with you that it will be best; for there is no saying to what point the vengeance of an unnatural mother may be carried. But let us quit this subject, for the present at least, and now tell me more about yourself.”

“I will—but there is Lionel’s knock: so I must defer it till another opportunity. Dear Auguste, give me one more kiss, while we are alone.”

Chapter Twelve

In a few minutes after Lionel’s return, which he had considerably postponed, until Monsieur Gironac’s dinner hour had all but arrived, my good host first, and then kind, merry little madame, made their appearance, and a little while was consumed in introductions, exclamations, admirations, and congratulations, all tinctured not a little by that national vivacity, which other folks are in the habit of calling extravagance, and which, as my readers well know already, the good Gironacs had by no means got rid of, even in the course of a long séjour in the matter-of-fact metropolis of England.

Fortunately, my friends were for the most part, au fait to the leading circumstances of my life, so that little explanation was needed.

And more fortunately yet, like tide and time, dinner waits for no man; nor have I ever observed, in all my adventurous life, that the sympathy of the most sentimental, the grief of the most woe-begone, or the joy of the happiest, ever induces them to neglect the summons of the dinner-bell, and the calls of the responsive appetite.