Shortly afterwards, Auguste observed that I seemed dull and tired, and Madame Gironac followed suit by saying that it was no wonder if the excitement and interest created by the unexpected arrival of so dear a brother had proved too much for my nerves.
Thereupon, after promising to return early in the morning, so that we might have a long talk about the past, and a long consultation about the future, Lionel and Auguste bade us good-night also; but not before Lionel had said to me as he was taking leave, “I think, Mademoiselle, that it will be no more than proper, that I should drive down to Kew, to-morrow morning, and wait upon Judge Selwyn, who has always been so kind to me—have you any message for him?”
“Oh! yes. I beg you will tell him that Auguste has come, and that I request he will let me know when we may wait on him?—”
“And the answer will be, Mademoiselle, his waiting upon you. Is that what you desire?—”
“I only desire what I state—to know when and how we may see him, for I know very little of Auguste’s heart, if he does not wish to return thanks to one who, except our dear friends here, has been poor Valerie’s surest confidant and protector. But you will find the Judge’s family increased since you saw him. His son has persuaded my pretty little friend, Caroline Stanhope, to become his wife, and she is living with the Judge’s family at present.”
Lionel expressed his surprise and pleasure at the news, but I thought at the moment that the pleasure was not real, though I have since had reason to believe that the gravity which came over his face as he spoke, was the gravity of thought, rather than that, as I fancied at the time, of disappointment.
Nothing more passed worthy of record, and, after shaking hands with Lionel, and kissing my long-lost brother, I was left alone with the Gironacs, half expectant of a playful scolding.
“Well, Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf,” began Monsieur, as soon as the gentlemen had left us, “is it because you have found out that you have got a handsome brother, that you are determined to drive all other handsome young men au désespoir?—or is it that you wish to break the heart especially of this pauvre Monsieur de Chavannes, that you have treated us all with an air si hautaine, si hautaine, that if you had been the Queen of France, it could not have been colder?”
“I told you once before, Monsieur Gironac,” I replied, “that your Count de Chavannes does not care a straw how I treat him, or with what air. And if he did, I do not.—He is simply a civil, agreeable gentleman, who looks upon me as he would upon any other young lady, whom he is glad to talk to when she is in the humour to talk; and whom, when she is not, he leaves to herself, as all well-bred men do. But, I repeat, I do not care enough about him, to think for one moment, whether he is hautaine or not. And he feels just the same about me, I am certain.”
“What brings him here then, eh?—where he never came before to-night? not for the beaux yeux of Madame, I believe,” with a quizzical bow to his wife, “or for the grand esprit of myself. I have an eye, I tell you, as well as other people, and I can see one petit peu.”