Valerie

“Monsieur le Comte de Chavannes,” he said, slowly, “car je vous connais, et vous me connaîtrez aussi, je vous le jure; vous m’avez frappé, vous me rendrez satisfaction, n’est-ce pas?”

“Oh! no, no,” I exclaimed, before he could answer, clasping my hands eagerly together, “oh, no, no! not on my account, I implore you, Monsieur le Comte—no life on my account—above all, not yours!”

He thanked me by one expressive glance, which spoke volumes to my heart, and perhaps read volumes in return, in my pale face and trembling lips, then turned with a calm smile to his late antagonist, and answered him in English. “I do not know in the least, sir, who you are, and I do not suppose that I ever shall know. I chastised you, five minutes since, for insulting this lady most grossly—”

“Lady!” interrupted the ruffian, with a sneer. “Lady. Lady of plea—”

But the Count went on without pausing or seeming to hear him—“which I should have done at all events, whether I had known you or not, and which I shall most assuredly do again, should you think fit to proceed further with your infamies. As for satisfaction, if I should be called upon in a proper way, I shall not refuse it to any person worthy to meet me.”

“Which this person is not, sir,” interposed yet a third voice; and, looking up, I recognised the officer who had bowed to me: “which this person is not, I assure you, and my word is wont to be sufficient in such cases—Lieutenant-Colonel Jervis,”—he added, with a half bow to me,—“late of His Majesty’s – Light Dragoons. This person is the notorious Monsieur G—, who was detected cheating at écarté at the ‘Travellers,’ was a defaulter on the St Leger in the St Patrick’s year, has been warned off every race-course in England, by the Jockey Club, besides being horsewhipped by half the Legs in England. He can get no gentleman to bring you a message, sir; and if he could, you must not meet him.”

Gnashing his teeth with impotent rage, the detected impostor slunk away, while the Count, bowing to Colonel Jervis, replied quietly—

“I thank you very much, Colonel. I am Monsieur de Chavannes; and I have no doubt what you say is perfectly correct. No one but a low ruffian could have behaved as this fellow did. It was, I assure you, no small offence which caused me to strike a blow in the presence of ladies.”

“I saw it, Monsieur le Comte,” answered Jervis, “I saw it from a distance, and was coming up as fast as I could make my horse gallop, when you anticipated me. Then, seeing that I was not wanted, I stood looking on with intense satisfaction; for, upon my word! I never saw a thing better done in my life. No offence, Count, but by the way you use your hands, I think you ought to have been an Englishman rather than a Frenchman, which I suppose from your name—for you have no French accent—you are.”

“I was at school in England, Colonel,” answered the Count, laughing, “and so learned the use of my hands.”

“That accounts for it—that accounts for it—for on my life, I never saw a fellow more handsomely horsewhipped—and I have seen a good many, too. Did you, Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf; for I believe it is you whom I have the honour of addressing?”

“I have been less fortunate than you, Colonel Jervis, for I never saw any one horsewhipped before, and sincerely hope I shall never see another.”

“Don’t say that, my dear lady, don’t say that. I am sure it is a very pretty sight, when it is well and soundly done. Besides it seems ungrateful to the Count.”

“I would not be ungrateful for the world,” I replied; “and I am sure the Count needs no assurance of that fact. I am for ever obliged by his prompt defence of me—but it is nothing more than I should have expected from him.”

“What, that he would fight for you, Valerie?” whispered Caroline, maliciously, in a tone which, perhaps, she did not intend to be overheard; but, if such was her meaning, she missed it, for all present heard her distinctly.

I replied, however, very coolly—

“Yes, Caroline, that he would fight for me, or you, or any lady who was aggrieved or insulted in his presence.”

“Mille graces for your good opinions!” said de Chavannes, with a bow, and a glance that was far more eloquent than words.

“A truce to compliments, if you will not think me impertinent, Count,” said the Colonel; “but I wish to ask this fair lady, if she will pardon me one question; had you ever a friend called—”

“Adèle Chabot!” I interrupted him; “and I shall be most enchanted to hear of her, or better still to see her, as Mrs Jervis.”

“You have anticipated me; that is what I was about to say. We arrived in town last night; and she commissioned me at once to make out your whereabouts for her. The Gironacs told me that you were staying at Kew—”

“Yes, at Judge Selwyn’s. By the way,” I added, a little mischievously, I confess, “allow me to make known to one another, Mrs Charles Selwyn, once Caroline Stanhope, and Colonel Jervis.”

Jervis bowed low, but his cheek and brow burned a little, and he looked sharply at me out of the corner of his eye; but I preserved such a demure face, that he did not quite know whether I was au fait or not.

Caroline, to do her justice, behaved exceedingly well. Her character, indeed, which had been quite unformed before her marriage, had gained solidity, and her mind, judgment as well as tone, since her introduction to a family so superior as that of the Selwyns. And she now neither blushed nor tittered, nor, indeed, showed any signs of consciousness, although she gave me a sly pinch, while she was inquiring in her sweetest voice and serenest manner after Adèle, whom she said she had always loved very much, and longed to see her sincerely in her new station, which she was so admirably qualified to fill. “I hear she was vastly admired in Paris, Colonel; and no wonder, for I really think she was the very prettiest creature I ever saw in my life. You are a fortunate man, Colonel Jervis.”

“I am, indeed,” said he, laughing. “Adèle is a very good little creature, and the people were so good-natured as to be very civil to her in Paris, especially your friend Madame d’Albret, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf. Nothing could exceed her attentions to us. We are very much indebted to you for her acquaintance. By the way, Adèle has no end of letters, and presents of all sorts for you from her. When can you come and see Adèle?”

“Where are you staying, Colonel Jervis?”

“At Thomas’s Hotel, in Berkeley Square, at present, until we can find a furnished house for the season. In August we are going down to a little cottage of mine, in the Highlands. And I believe Adèle has some plan for inducing you to come down and bear her company, while I am slaughtering grouse and black cock.”

“Thanks, Colonel, both to you and Adèle. But I do not know how that will be. August is two whole months distant yet, and one never knows what may happen in the course of two months. Do you know I was half thinking of paying a visit to France myself, when my brother who is on a visit to me now, returns to join his regiment.”

“Were you, indeed?” asked de Chavannes, more earnestly than the subject seemed to warrant. “I had not heard of that scheme before. Is it likely to be carried into effect, Mademoiselle?”

“I hardly know. As yet it is little more than a distant dream.”

“But you have not yet answered my question, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf,” said the Colonel. “You have not yet told me when you will come and see Adèle.”

“Oh! pardon me, Colonel. I return to town to-morrow, and I will not lose a moment. Suppose I say at one o’clock to-morrow, or two will be better. Caroline, the Judge was so good as to say that he would let his carriage take me home; I dare say it can drop me at Thomas’s, can it not?”

“Certainly, not, Valerie! There, don’t stare now, or look indignant or surprised. It served you perfectly right; what did you expect me to say? Or why do you ask such silly questions? Of course, it can take you wherever you please, precisely as if it were your own.”

“Then at two o’clock, I will be at Thomas’s to-morrow, Colonel; in the meantime, pray give Adèle my best love.”

“I will, indeed. And now I will intrude upon you no longer, ladies,” he added, raising his hat. “In fact, I owe you many apologies for the liberty I have taken in introducing myself. I hope you will believe I would not have done so under any other circumstances.”

We bowed, and, without any further remarks, he put spurs to his horse and cantered away.

“A very gentlemanly person,” said Caroline, “I think Adèle has done very well for herself.”

“You had better not let Mr Charles Selwyn hear you say so, under all circumstances, or I think that very likely the whipping we were talking about in fun yesterday, will become real cara mia!”

“Nonsense! for shame, you mischievous thing!” said Caroline, blushing a little, but not painfully.

“Who is this Colonel Jervis?” asked the Count de Chavannes. “I was a little puzzled, or rather not a little: for at first none of you seemed to know him; and, after a little while, you all appeared to know him quite well. Pray explain the mystery.”

“He is a very gentlemanly person, Count, as Mrs Selwyn justly observes, and, as you can perceive, a very handsome man. Further than that, he was Colonel of one of his Majesty’s crack regiments, as they call them, and is now on half-pay. He is, moreover, a man of high fashion, and of the first standing in society. And, last of all, which is the secret of the whole, he is the husband of a very charming little Frenchwoman, a particular friend of Caroline’s and mine, one of the prettiest and nicest persons on earth, with whom he ran away some six months since, fancying her to be—”

“Valerie!” exclaimed Caroline, blushing fiery red.

“Caroline!” replied I, quietly.

“What were you going to say?”

“Fancying her to be a very great heiress,” I continued; “but finding her to be a far better thing, a delightful, beautiful, and excellent wife.”

“Happy man!” said de Chavannes, with a half sigh.

“Why do you say so, Count?”

“To have married one for whom you vouch so strongly. Is that any common fortune?”

“It is rather common, Count, just of late I mean,” said Caroline, laughing. “You do not know that among Valerie’s other accomplishments she is the greatest little match-maker in existence. She marries off all her friends as fast—oh! you cannot think how fast.”

“I hope, I mean to say I think,” he corrected himself, not without some little confusion, “that she is not quite so bad as you make her out. She has not yet made any match for herself, I believe. No, no. I don’t believe she is quite so bad.”