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Suddenly Valentine’s ear detected a dull, prolonged sound like the rumbling of a carriage. She left the road and took a path which led in the direction of that sound, which constantly grew louder, but changed its nature. If Valentine could have looked through the mass of flowering apple trees through which the moonbeams forced their way, she would have seen at a little distance the white, silvery line of the river rushing into a mill pond. But the increasing coolness of the air and a delicious odor of mint disclosed to her the proximity of the Indre, She concluded that she had gone considerably astray; but she decided to descend the stream, hoping soon to find a mill or a cottage where she could ask her way. She came at last to an old barn, standing all by itself and without lights, which she supposed to be inhabited because of the barking of a dog shut up in the yard. She called in vain, no one stirred. She rode her horse up to the gate and knocked with the steel knob of her riding-crop. A plaintive bleating answered her; it was a sheep-fold. And in that region, as there are no wolves or thieves, there are no shepherds either. Valentine rode on.

Her horse, as if he shared the disheartened feeling which had taken possession of her, slackened his pace to a careless walk. From time to time he struck his shoe against a stone, making the sparks fly, or thrust his thirsty mouth toward the tender little shoots of the young elms.

Suddenly, in the silence of that deserted spot, over those fields which had never heard any other melody than the whistle of some idle child, or the hoarse, obscene ditty of a belated miller; suddenly, with the murmuring of the stream and the sighing of the breeze was blended a pure, sweet, fascinating voice, a man’s voice, as fresh and strong as the note of a hautboy. It was singing a ballad of the province, very simple and slow and sad, as they all are. But with what feeling it sang! Certainly it could not be a villager who had the art of emitting and modulating his notes in that way. Nor was it a professional singer who paid no heed to aught save purity of rhythm, without regard to system or to ornamentation. It was someone “who felt music, but did not know it; or, if he did know it, he was the greatest singer on earth, for he seemed not to know it, and his melody, like the voice of the elements, soared heavenward without any other poesy than that of sentiment.

“If,” thought Valentine, “in a virgin forest, far from works of art, far from the lamps of the orchestra and reminiscences of Rossini, among those mountain firs where the foot of man has never left its imprint, Manfred’s ideal creations should awake to new life, they would sing like that.”

She had let her reins fall; her horse was browsing along the edge of the path; Valentine was no longer afraid; she was under the spell of that mysterious music, and her emotion was so pleasant that it did not occur to her to be astonished to hear it in that place and at that hour.

The singing ceased. Valentine thought that she had been dreaming; but it began again not so far away, and each moment brought it more distinctly to the fair amazon’s ear; then it ceased again and she could hear nothing but the trot of a horse. By the heavy, lumbering way in which it just grazed the ground, it was easy to determine that it was a peasant’s horse.

Valentine felt a thrill of fear at the thought that she was about to find herself, in that solitary spot, face to face with a man who might prove to be a drunken clown; for was it really he who had been singing, or had his approach put the melodious sylph to flight? However, it was better to accost him than to pass the night in the fields. Valentine reflected that, in case of an attempted insult, her horse had better legs than the one approaching her, and, seeking to feign a self-assurance which she did not possess, she rode straight toward him.

“Who goes there? “ called a manly voice.

“Valentine de Raimbault,” replied the girl, who was not, perhaps, altogether devoid of pride in the possession of the most honored name in the province.

There was nothing ridiculous in that little touch of vanity, since the name owed all the esteem in which it was held to the virtues and gallantry of her father.

“Mademoiselle de Raimbault! all alone in this place!” rejoined the horseman. “Where is Monsieur de Lansac, pray? Has he fallen from his horse? Is he dead?”

“No, thank Heaven!” said Valentine, reassured by that voice, which she thought that she recognized.

“But if I am not mistaken, monsieur, your name is Bénédict, and we danced together to-day?”

Bénédict started. It seemed to him that it was not very modest to refer to so delicate an occurrence, the mere thought of which, at that moment and in that solitude, sent the blood rushing back to his heart. But extreme innocence sometimes resembles effrontery. The fact was that Valentine, absorbed by the agitation due to her nocturnal ride, had completely forgotten the episode of the kiss. She was reminded of it by the tone in which Bénédict replied:

“Yes, mademoiselle, I am Bénédict.”

“Very well,” said she, “do me the favor to put me in the right road.”

And she told him how she had gone astray.

“You are a league from the road you should have taken,” he replied, “and to reach it you must pass the farm of Grangeneuve. As I am on my way there, I shall have the honor of serving you as a guide; perhaps we shall find the calèche waiting for you at the junction of the roads.”

“That is not probable,” said Valentine; “ my mother saw me ride ahead, and undoubtedly thinks that I shall reach the château before her.”

“In that case, mademoiselle, if you will allow me, I will accompany you to your house. My uncle would be a more suitable escort, of course, but he has not returned from the fête, and I don’t know when he will return.”

Valentine thought sadly of the increased indignation of her mother at such a dénouement; but, as she was entirely innocent of all the incidents of the day, she accepted Bénédict’s offer with a frankness which enforced esteem. Bénédict was touched by her sweet and simple manners. The very thing that had offended him in her at first, the ease which she owed to her consciousness of the social superiority in which she had been reared, won his respect at last. He found that she bore herself nobly in perfect good faith, without arrogance and without false humility. She was a sort of mean between her mother and grandmother; she knew how to enforce respect without ever inflicting a wound. Bénédict was surprised to find that he no longer felt the timidity, the palpitations which a young man of twenty, brought up away from the world, always feels when alone with a young and beautiful woman. His conclusion was that Mademoiselle de Raimbault, with her placid beauty and her natural sincerity of character, was worthy to inspire a lasting attachment. No thought of love entered his mind with respect to her.

After some questions on both sides concerning the hour, the road, the qualities of their horses, Valentine asked Bénédict if it were he who was singing. Bénédict was aware that he sang exceedingly well, and it was with secret satisfaction that he remembered that he had lifted up his voice in the valley. Nevertheless, with the profound hypocrisy due to self-esteem, he answered carelessly:

“Did you hear anything? It was I, I fancy, or else the frogs among the reeds.”

Valentine said nothing more. She had admired that voice so heartily that she was afraid of saying too much or too little. However, after a pause, she artlessly inquired:

“Where did you learn to sing?”

“If I had any talent in that direction, I should be justified in replying that it cannot be taught; but such a reply would be foolish conceit in me. I took a few lessons in Paris.”

“Music is a fine thing!” said Valentine.

And they passed from music to all the other arts.

“I see that you are very musical,” said Bénédict, in reply to a rather learned observation from her.

“I was taught music as I was taught everything else,” she replied; “that is to say, superficially; but as I had an instinctive liking for that art, I readily grasped it.”

“And doubtless you are a very talented musician?”

“I? I play contra-dances, that is all.”

“You have no voice?”

“A little; I used to sing at one time, and was thought to have some talent, but I gave it up.”

“What! when you love the art?”

“Yes, I devoted myself to painting, which I cared much less for, and in which I was proficient.”

“That is strange!”

“No, in these days we must have a specialty. Our rank and fortune are of no account. In a few years, perhaps, the estate of Raimbault, my patrimony, will again be the property of the State, as it was half a century ago. The education we receive is wretched; they give us the elements of everything, but do not allow us to learn anything thoroughly. They want us to be well educated, but, on the day that we became learned, we should be ridiculous. We are always brought up to be rich, never to be poor. The limited education of our grandmothers was much more valuable; they at least knew how to knit. The Revolution found them women of moderate parts; they spun flax for a living without repugnance. We who have a smattering of English, drawing and music; who make lacquer pictures, water-color screens, velvet flowers and a score of other extravagant trifles of which the sumptuary laws of a republic would forbid the use—what should we do? which of us would stoop without regret to a mechanical trade? For not one in twenty of us knows anything thoroughly. I know but one trade for which we are adapted, and that is the trade of lady’s maid. I realized early in life, from the tales of my grandmother and my mother—two such widely different lives: the Emigration and the Empire, Coblentz and Marie-Louise—that I must protect myself against the misfortunes of the first and the prosperity of the other. And, when I was almost at liberty to follow my own ideas, I suppressed those of my talents which could be of no service to me. I devoted myself to a single one, because I have noticed that, whatever the times and the fashions, a person who does a thing very well can always support herself in society.”

“Then you think that painting will be less neglected than music in the Spartan régime which you anticipate, since you have deliberately adopted it as against your real vocation?”

“Perhaps so; but that is not the question. As a profession, music would not have suited me. It puts a woman too much in evidence; it draws her onto the stage or into salons; it makes her an actress, or an upper servant to whom the education of a provincial young lady is entrusted. Painting gives one more liberty; it allows one to lead a more retired life, and the pleasures it procures become doubly precious in solitude. I think that you will no longer disapprove of my choice.—But let us ride a little faster, I beg; my mother is probably waiting anxiously for me.”

Bénédict, full of approbation and admiration of the young woman’s good sense, flattered by the trustful way in which she revealed her thoughts and her character to him, quickened his pace regretfully. But, as the farm-house of Grangeneuve displayed its great white gable in the moonlight, a sudden thought passed through his mind. He halted abruptly, and, engrossed by that agitating thought, mechanically put out his hand to stop Valentine’s horse.

“What does this mean?” she said, drawing rein; “isn’t this the way?”

Bénédict was profoundly embarrassed. But he suddenly recovered his courage.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “ what I have to say to you causes me great anxiety, because I am not at all sure how you will receive it, coming from me. It is the first time in my life that I have ever spoken to you, and heaven is my witness that I shall leave you with the utmost veneration. But this may be the only, the last time that I shall have this good fortune; and if what I have to say offends you, it will be easy for you never to look again on the face of a man who will have had the misfortune to displease you.”

This solemn exordium alarmed Valentine no less than it surprised her. At all times Bénédict had a peculiarly remarkable face. His mind had the same tinge of singularity; she had noticed it in the talk they had just had together. That superior musical talent, those features of which it was impossible to grasp the predominant expression, that mind, so cultivated yet sceptical on every subject, combined to make him a strange creature in the eyes of Valentine, who had never before come so closely in contact with a young man of a different class from her own. Thus the species of preface he had delivered terrified her. Although she was an entire stranger to self-conceit, she feared a declaration, and had not sufficient presence of mind to say a single word in reply.

“I see that I frighten you, mademoiselle,” Bénédict continued. “It is because, in the delicate position in which chance has placed me, I have not enough wit or familiarity with the ways of society to make myself understood by a hint.”

These words increased Valentine’s dismay and terror.

“Monsieur,” said she, “I do not think that you can have anything to say to me to which I can listen, after the admission you have just made of your embarrassment. As you fear lest you may offend me, I cannot help dreading that I may allow you to commit a gaucherie. Let us stop here, I beg; and, as I know my way now, accept my thanks, and do not trouble yourself to go any farther.”

“I should have expected this reply,” said Bénédict, deeply wounded. “I should at least have counted upon the evidences of sound judgment and sensibility which I observed in Mademoiselle de Raimbault.”

Valentine did not deign to reply. She bowed coldly, and, dismayed at the position in which she found herself, lashed her horse and rode away.

Bénédict looked after her in consternation. Suddenly he struck his forehead angrily with his hand.

“I am a stupid animal,” he cried; “ she doesn’t understand me!”

And, jumping his horse across the ditch, he rode diagonally across the enclosure Valentine was skirting. In three minutes he was in front of her, barring her road. Valentine was so frightened that she almost fell backward.