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They were young men of the same class as Bénédict, but had not his superior education, which they were inclined to look upon as a cause of reproach rather than as an advantage. Several of them were not without aspirations to the hand of Athénaïs.

“A fine prize!” cried one who had mounted a hillock to watch for the carriages; “it’s Mademoiselle Lhéry, the beauty of the Black Valley.”

“Gently, Simonneau! she belongs to me; I have been courting her for a year. By right of priority, if you please!”

The one who spoke thus was a tall, sturdy fellow with a black eye, copper-colored skin and broad shoulders; he was the son of the richest cattle-dealer in the province.

“That’s all very well, Pierre Blutty,” said the first speaker, “ but her intended is with her.”

“What’s that! her intended?” cried all the rest.

“To be sure; Cousin Bénédict.”

“Ah! Bénédict, the lawyer, the fine talker, the scholar!”

“Oh! Père Lhéry ‘ll give him gold crowns enough to make something good of him.”

“He’s going to marry her?”

“He’s going to marry her.”

“Oh! but he hasn’t done it yet!”

“The parents are set on it, the girl’s set on it; it would be devilish strange if the man should refuse.”

“We mustn’t stand that, you fellows,” cried Georges Moret. “On my soul, we should have a fine neighbor, shouldn’t we? What mighty airs the spitter of Greek would put on! That fellow get the prettiest girl and the prettiest dowry? No, may God strike me dumb rather!”

“The little one’s a flirt; the pale gawk”—that was the name they gave Bénédict—“isn’t handsome, neither is he a lady’s man. It’s our place to prevent this match. I say, comrades, the luckiest one of us will treat all the others on his wedding day. But first of all we must learn what to expect about Bénédict’s pretensions.”

As he spoke, Pierre Blutty walked into the middle of the road, seized the horse’s bridle, and having forced the animal to halt, presented his respects and his invitation to the young woman. Bénédict was desirous to atone for his unjust treatment of her; moreover, although he was not anxious to dispute possession of her with numerous rivals, he was very glad to mortify them a little. So he leaned against the front of the carriage in such a way as to conceal Athénaïs from them.

“Messieurs, my cousin thanks you with all her heart,” he said to them; “but you will allow me to have the first contra-dance. She has just promised me; you are a little late.”

And, without waiting for a second invitation, he lashed the horse and drove into the village, raising clouds of dust.

Athénaïs did not anticipate such pleasure. On the day before, and again that morning, Bénédict, as he did not wish to dance with her, had pretended that he had sprained his ankle, and could not walk without limping. When she saw him walking by her side, with a determined air, her heart leaped for joy; for, not only would it have been humiliating to the self-esteem of so pretty a girl not to open the dance with her fiancé, but Athénaïs really loved Bénédict. She instinctively realized all his superiority to herself, and as there is always a goodly share of vanity in love, she was flattered by the thought that she was destined to belong to a man who was better educated than any of those in her circle. So that she was really dazzling with bloom and animation; and her costume, which Bénédict had criticized so severely, seemed charming to less refined tastes. The women turned green with jealousy, and the men proclaimed Athénaïs Lhéry the queen of the ball.

But toward evening that brilliant star paled before the purer and more radiant light of Mademoiselle de Raimbault.

As he heard that name passing from mouth to mouth, Bénédict, impelled by curiosity, followed the crowds of admirers who thronged her path. In order to see her, he was compelled to mount a pedestal of unhewn stone, on which stood a cross held in great veneration in the village. That act of impiety—of thoughtlessness rather—caused everyone to look at him, and, as Mademoiselle de Raimbault’s eyes followed the same direction as those of the multitude, he had an unobstructed full-face view of her. He did not like her face. He had imagined a sallow, dark, passionate, mobile, Spanish type of woman, and he was unwilling to accept any other. Mademoiselle Valentine did not realize his ideal; she was fair, tall, rosy, placid, admirably beautiful in every respect. She had none of those defects with which Bénédict’s unhealthy brain had fallen in love at sight of those works of art wherein the brush, by making ugliness poetic, has made it more attractive than beauty itself. Moreover, Mademoiselle de Raimbault had a mild but true dignity of manner which was too imposing to attract at first sight. In the curve of her profile, in the fineness of her hair, in the graceful bend of her neck, in the breadth of her wide shoulders, there were a thousand reminders of the court of Louis XIV. One felt that nothing less than a long line of ancestors could have produced that combination of pure and noble features, all those almost regal graces, which revealed themselves one by one, like those of a swan basking in the sunshine with majestic languor.

Bénédict descended from his post at the foot of the cross, and, despite the mutterings of the good women of the village, a score of other young men succeeded one another on that desirable elevation, which enabled them to see and be seen. An hour later, Bénédict found himself being led towards Mesdames de Raimbault. His uncle, who had been talking to them hat in hand, having noticed him at a little distance, had taken him by the arm and presented him to them.

Valentine was sitting on the turf, between her mother, the Comtesse de Raimbault, and her grandmother, the Marquise de Raimbault. Bénédict did not know either of the three ladies, but he had so often heard them spoken of at the farm that he was prepared for the icy and contemptuous nod of the countess and the familiar and affable greeting of the marchioness. It was as if the latter intended, by effusive demonstrations, to make up for her daughter-in-law’s disdainful silence. But in that affectation of popular manners there were traces of a habit of patronizing that was truly feudal.

“What! is that Bénédict?” she cried; “is that the little fellow I saw at his mother’s breast? Good-day, my lad! I am delighted to see you so tall and so well dressed. You look so like your mother that it’s enough to frighten one. By the way, do you know we’re old acquaintances? You’re the godson of my poor son, the general, who was killed at Waterloo. It was I who gave you your first frock; but you can hardly remember that. How long ago was it? You must be at least eighteen?”

“I am twenty-two, madame,” Bénédict replied.

“Sangodémi!” cried the marchioness; “twenty-two already! How time flies! I thought you were about my granddaughter’s age. You dont’t know my granddaughter do you? Here she is; look at her. We know how to get children too, you see! Valentine, say good-evening to Bénédict; he’s honest Lhéry’s nephew, and engaged to your little playmate Athénaïs. Speak to him, my child.”

This apostrophe might be translated thus: “ Inheritress of my name, imitate me; make yourself popular, in order to carry your head safely through future revolutions, as I was shrewd enough to do in past revolutions.”—Nevertheless, Mademoiselle de Raimbault, whether by tact, breeding or sincerity, effaced by her glance and smile all the wrath that the marchioness’s impertinent affability had aroused in Bénédict’s breast. He had looked at her with bold and mocking eyes, for his wounded pride had banished for an instant the natural shyness of his years. But the expression of that lovely face was so gentle and serene, the tones of that voice so melodious and soothing, that the young man lowered his eyes and blushed like a girl.

“Ah! monsieur,” she said, “I can say nothing to you more sincerely than that I love Athénaïs as if she were my sister. Have the kindness to bring her to me; I have been looking for her a long while, but cannot find her. I would like very much to embrace her.”

Bénédict bowed low, and soon returned with his cousin. Athénaïs walked about amid the merry-making, arm-inarm with the nobly-born daughter of the Comtes de Raimbault. Although she pretended to consider it a perfectly natural thing, and although Valentine so understood it, it was impossible for her to conceal the joyful triumph of her pride in the presence of those other women, who envied her while exerting themselves to disparage her. Meanwhile the viol gave the signal for the bourrée. Athénaïs was engaged to dance it with the young man who had stopped her on the road. She begged Mademoiselle de Raimbault to be her vis-à-vis.

“I will wait till I have an invitation,” Valentine replied, with a smile.

“Well, Bénédict,” cried Athénaïs, eagerly, “go and invite mademoiselle.”

The awestruck Bénédict consulted Valentine’s face with his eyes. He read in its sweet and innocent expression a wish to accept his invitation. Thereupon he stepped toward her. But the countess, her mother, abruptly seized her arm, saying to her in so loud a tone that Bénédict could hear her:

“My child, I forbid you to dance the bourrée with anyone but Monsieur de Lansac.”

Thereupon, Bénédict noticed for the first time a tall young man with an exceedingly handsome face, on whose arm the countess was leaning, and he remembered that that was the name of Mademoiselle de Raimbault’s fiancé.

He soon understood the cause of her mother’s alarm. At a certain trill executed by the viol before beginning the bourrée, every dancer must, in accordance with immemorial custom, kiss his partner. The Comte de Lansac, being too well bred to take that liberty in public, compromised with the custom of Berri by kissing Valentine’s hand respectfully.

He then tried a few steps forward and back; but realizing at once that he could not catch the rhythm of that dance, in which no stranger to the province can ever acquit himself with credit, he stopped and said to Valentine:

“Now I have done my duty, I have established you here in accordance with your mother’s wish; but I will not spoil your pleasure by my awkwardness. You had a partner all ready just now, allow me to cede my rights to him.—Will you kindly take my place, monsieur?” he said, turning to Bénédict, in a tone of the utmost courtesy. “You will act my part much better than I.”

And as Bénédict, torn between shyness and pride, hesitated to take that place, the most valuable privilege of which had been taken from him, Monsieur de Lansac graciously added:

“You will be sufficiently repaid for the favor I ask you; perhaps, indeed, it is your place to thank me.”

Bénédict did not require much urging; Valentine’s hand was placed with no sign of repugnance in his trembling one. The countess was satisfied with the diplomatic way in which her future son-in-law had arranged the affair. But suddenly the viol player, who was a sly, facetious fellow, like all true artists, interrupted the music of the bourrée and played again, with malicious emphasis, the imperative trill. The new dancer was thereby enjoined to kiss his partner. Bénédict turned pale and lost his self-possession. Père Lhéry, terrified by the wrath which he saw blazing in the countess’s eyes, rushed to the musician and implored him to go on. But the fellow would not listen, enjoyed his triumph amid a chorus of laughter and bravos, and persisted in not resuming the air until after the indispensable formality had been complied with. The other dancers lost patience. Madame de Raimbault prepared to take her daughter away. But Monsieur de Lansac, a man of sense and spirit, realizing the utter absurdity of the scene, went to Bénédict again and said with a slightly sarcastic politeness:

“Well, monsieur, must I authorize you to assume a privilege of which I dared not take advantage? You make your triumph complete.”

Bénédict pressed his trembling lips on the young countess’s soft cheeks. A thrill of pride and pleasure made his pulses throb for an instant; but he noticed that Valentine, although blushing, laughed like a school-girl at the incident. He remembered that she blushed but did not laugh when Monsieur de Lansac kissed her hand. He said to himself that that handsome nobleman, so courteous, so clever, and so sensible, must have won her heart; and he took no further pleasure in dancing with her, although she danced the bourrée marvellously well, with all the self-possession and unconstraint of a village damsel.

But Athénaïs displayed even more charm and coquetry in that dance; her beauty was of a type which is more generally popular. Men of mediocre education love the charms that allure, the eyes that invite, the smile that encourages. The young farmer’s daughter found in her very innocence a source of mischievous and piquant self-assurance. In an instant she was surrounded, and, as it were, kidnapped by her country admirers. Bénédict followed her about the ball for some little time. Then, being displeased to see her leave her mother and mingle with a swarm of young giddy-pates about whom clouds of swains were hovering, he tried to make her understand by signs and glances that she was abandoning herself too freely to her natural forwardness. Athénaïs did not see, or did not choose to see. Bénédict lost his temper, shrugged his shoulders and left the fête. He found his uncle’s man at the inn; he had come on the little gray mare that Bénédict usually rode. He told him to drive Monsieur Lhéry and his family home in the carriage, and, mounting his horse, rode off alone toward Grangeneuve just at nightfall.