“Good-evening, Valentine,” said a well-known voice.
“Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw the cause of my delay.”
“Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were so intimate with her.”
“Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?”
“No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls telling your secrets to each other.”
“We were having a confidential conversation,” returned Valentine; “she was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to think of marrying M. d’Epinay.”
“Dear Valentine!”
“That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed between me and Eugenie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections were fixed.”
“Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.”
“It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.”
“No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot understand how any man can really love her.”
“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.”
“No; but tell me — it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle Danglars” —
“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,” interrupted Valentine.
“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each other.”
“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of excitement. But return to your question.”
“Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf on account of loving another?”
“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugenie.”
“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling.”
“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security.”
“Come, what did she say?”
“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”
“Ah, you see” —
“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine.
“Nothing,” replied Maximilian.
“Then why did you smile?”
“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine.”
“Do you want me to go away?”
“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak.”
“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together.”
“Ma foi,” said Maximilian, in consternation.
“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.”
“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to separate us at last.”