Valerie

“I would not be too sure, Count, were I you,” she answered, desirous of paying me off a little for some of the badinage with which I had treated her. “These ladies, with so many strings to their bow—”

It was now my time to exclaim “Caroline!” and I did so not without giving some little emphasis of severity to my tone, for I really thought she was going beyond the limits of propriety, if not of persiflage; and I will do her the justice to say that she felt it herself, for she blushed very much as I spoke, and was at once silent.

The awkwardness of this pause was fortunately broken by the return of Auguste and Lionel at a sharp canter; for the review was now entirely at an end, and they had now for the first moment remembered that, having promised to return in a quarter of an hour, they had suffered two hours or more to elapse, and that we were probably all alone.

Caroline immediately began to rally Lionel and Auguste; the former, with whom she was very intimate, pretty severely, for their want of gallantry in leaving us all alone and unprotected in such a crowd.

“Not the least danger—not the least!” replied Lionel hastily. “Had we not known that, we should have returned long ago.”

“In proof of which no danger, we have been all frightened nearly to death; Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf has been grievously affronted, and I am not sure but she would have been beaten by a French Chevalier d’Industrie, had it not been for the gallantry of the Count de Chavannes.”

And thereupon out came the whole history of Monsieur G—, his horse-whipping, the opportune appearance of Colonel Jervis, and all the curious circumstances of the scene.

I never in my life saw anyone so fearfully excited as Auguste. He turned white as ashes, even to his very lips, while his eyes literally flashed fire, and his frame shivered as if he had been in an ague fit. “Il me le paiera!” he muttered between his hard-set teeth. “Il me le paiera, le scélérat! Ma pauvre soeur—ma pauvre petite Valerie!”

And then he shook the hand of Chavannes with the heartiest and warmest emotion. “I shall never forget this,” he said, in a thick, low voice; “never, never! From this time forth, de Chavannes, we are friends for ever. But I shall never, never, be able to repay you.”

“Nonsense, mon cher, nonsense,” replied Chavannes. “I did nothing—positively nothing at all. I should not have been a man, had I done otherwise.”

This had, however, no effect at all in stopping Auguste’s exclamations and professions of eternal gratitude; nor did he cease until Monsieur de Chavannes said quietly, “Well, well, if you will have it so, say no more about it; and one day or other I will ask a favour of you, which, if granted, will leave me your debtor.”

“If granted!—it is granted,” exclaimed Auguste, impetuously. “What is it?—name it—I say it is granted.”

“Don’t be rash, mon cher,” replied the Count, laughing; “it is no slight boon which I shall ask.”

“Do not be foolish, Auguste,” I interposed; “you are letting your feelings get the better of you, strangely; and, Caroline, if you do not tell the people to drive home, you will keep the Judge waiting dinner—a proceeding to which you know he is by no means partial.”

“You are right, as usual, Valerie; always thoughtful for other people. So we will go home.”

But, just as we were on the point of starting, the groom with the cockade, whom we had seen following Colonel Jervis, trotted up, and, touching his hat, asked, “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but is any one of you the Count de Chavannes?”

“I am,” replied the Count; “what do you want with me, sir?”

“From Colonel Jervis, sir,” replied the man, handing him a visiting card. “The Colonel’s compliments, Count, and he begs you will do him the favour, in case you hear anything more from that fellow, as you horsewhipped, Count, to let him know at Thomas’s at once, for you must not treat him as a gentleman, no how, the Colonel says; and if so be he gives you any trouble, the Colonel can get his flint fixed—the Colonel can!”

“Thank you, my man,” replied the Count; “give my compliments to your master, and I am much obliged for his interest. I shall do myself the honour of waiting on the Colonel to-morrow. Be so good as to tell him so.”

“I will, sir,” said the man; and rode away without another word.

“You see, Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, you must not dream of noticing the fellow as a gentleman,” said the Count.

“Impossible!” Lionel chimed in, almost in the same breath; and all the ladies followed suit with their absolute “Impossible!”

A rapid drive brought us to the Judge’s house at Kew, where we found dinner nearly ready, though not waiting: and the events of the day were the topic, and the Count the hero of the evening.

The next morning, we returned to town—Auguste and myself, I mean; Monsieur de Chavannes having driven up from Kew in his own cabriolet after dinner.

I called, according to my promise, and found Adèle alone, and delighted to see me, and in the highest possible spirits. She was the happiest of women, she said; and Colonel Jervis was everything that she could wish—the kindest, most affectionate of husbands; and all that she now desired, as she declared, was to see me established suitably.

“You had better let matters take their course, Adèle,” I answered. “Though not much of a fatalist, I believe that when a person’s time is to come, it comes. It avails nothing to hurry—nothing to endeavour to retard it. I shall fare, I doubt not, as my friends before me, dear Adèle; and, if I can consult as well for myself as I seem to have done for my friends, I shall do very well. Caroline, by the way, is quite as happy as you declare yourself to be, and I doubt not are; for I like your Colonel amazingly.”

“I am delighted to hear it. He also is charmed with you. But who is the Count de Chavannes, of whom he is so full just now? He says he is the only Frenchman he ever saw worthy to be an Englishman—which, though we may not exactly regard it as a compliment, he considers the greatest thing he can say in any one’s favour. Who is this Count de Chavannes, Valerie?”

I told her, in reply, all that I knew, and that you know, gentle reader, about the Count de Chavannes.

“Et puis?—Et puis?” asked Adèle, laughing.

“Et puis, nothing at all,” I answered.

“No secrets among friends, Valerie,” said Adèle, looking me earnestly in the face; “I had none with you, and you helped me with your advice. Be as frank, at least, with me, if you love me.”

“I do love you dearly, Adèle; and I have no secrets. There is nothing concerning which to have a secret.”

“Nothing?—not this gay and gallant Count?”

“Not even he.”

“And you are not about to become Madame la Comtesse?”

“I am not, indeed.”

“Indeed—in very deed?”

“In very—very deed.”

“Well, I do not understand it. By what Jervis told me, I presumed it was a settled thing.”

“The Colonel was mistaken. There is nothing settled or unsettled.”

“And do you, really, not like him?”

“I really do like him, Adèle, as a very pleasant companion for an hour or two, and as a very perfect gentleman.”

“Yes, he told me all that. But, if you like him so well, why not like him better? Why not love him?”

“I will be plain and true with you, Adèle. I do not choose to consider at all, whether I could or could not, love him. He has never asked me, has never spoken of love to me; and putting it out of the question that it is unmaidenly to love unasked, I am sure it is unwise.”

“I understand, I understand. But he will ask you, that is certain; and, when he does ask, what shall you say?”

“It will be time enough to consider when that time shall come.”

“Another way of saying, ‘I shall say yes!’ But come, Valerie, you must promise me that if you need my assistance, you will call upon me for it. You know that anything I can do for you will be done without a thought but how I best may serve you; and Jervis will do likewise, since he, as I do, considers that under Heaven, we owe our happiness to you.”

“I promise it.”

“Enough; I will ask no more. Now come up to my room, and I will give you Madame d’Albret’s letters, and some pretty presents she has sent you. Do you know, Valerie, nothing could exceed her kindness to us. I believe she repents bitterly her unkindness to you. I cannot repeat the terms of praise and admiration which she applied to you.”

“And do you know, Adèle, that it was her infamous and miserable husband, Monsieur G—, whom the Count horsewhipped this very day, for insulting me?”