“Oh! a modest cipher, but enough. There is nothing to complain of. If it had been less, I confess I do not know what Alfred would have done. The needs of luxury are so numerous nowadays, and it costs so much to live, my dear lady!”
“Yes, we all know that,” replied the prudent mother. “This is the reason I calculate, and economize, and stint myself every day for the love I bear Rosette. According to my ideas, it is a culpable charity that does not consider one’s own first.”
At the enunciation of this wise maxim, M. Maubars sighed profoundly. At the bottom of his heart he could not help wishing, in the interest of Valentine and Alfred also, that Madame de Guers, his dear old friend, had less tenderness and greatness of soul, less generous
devotion, and a little more worldly prudence and solicitude for the material side of life. Nevertheless, he was careful not to express aloud the secret preoccupations which now and then disquieted him a little; and just then Valentine, leaving the joyous group of dancers, approached him, sweet and charming in her innocent joy and unaffected simplicity. Her steps, delicate and modest, slid silently over the grass, and the golden reflection of the long garlands of light made her muslin dress appear whiter and more transparent, while her brown hair, simply raised and half-crowned with a bouquet of small roses, glittered browner and more lustrous as the tiny lamps threw their rays upon it as she passed. The smile alone of such a charming daughter-in-law could dispel a host of deceptions and fears. In Valentine’s eyes beamed so much candor, love, sweetness, and virtue that in admiring her one forgot the more or less respectable cipher of the promised dowry.
But Valentine did not remain long with the group of talkers seated in the shade; she was looking for Madame de Guers, and ran away promptly when she heard the good old lady had gone into the house.
“Dear mamma, are you ill?” said she, quite distressed when she saw her dear protectress in the little reception-room, carefully wrapped up in a large shawl, pale, trembling slightly, and appearing to suffer.
“Oh! my child, it is nothing; a slight chill—a trifling ailment only. We have had a great deal to do today, and I am tired. Perhaps I took cold sitting so long in the shade of the lindens. Go and dance, my love, for you must replace me and finish the ball. Make my excuses to our guests.”
Valentine obeyed, but she left her
mother sadly, with a secret convulsion of the heart, that dimmed her bright eyes and her radiant smile. Two hours after, when, at last, alone on the step of the dear old house, she had said adieu to her guests and was at liberty to run to the room where Madame de Guers already reposed, she saw clearly that this instinctive fear was a realized fact. The sleep of her adopted mother was agitated and painful, her forehead was burning, her eyes half-open, her breathing difficult and accelerated. For the first time in these fifteen years of peace and happiness passed under the friendly roof of the old house, the heart of the young girl sank for a moment under the weight of an unknown grief—of a mortal anguish. Without thinking of her ball-dress, she knelt down at the foot of the bed, weeping in terror, praying to God, and gently kissing, from time to time, the hand of the sick woman, who, in her feverish sleep, muttered words without meaning. And thus she awaited the day—the new day that was to arise for her, and menace her with danger, grief, terror, and anguish.