by Susan Barrie
But nevertheless she understood perfectly when Jane looked perturbed by the marquise’s invitation. Jane didn’t want to give herself away, but she couldn’t help it; and she was also anxious about Valentine, for if it was possible for a modern young woman to flag and look sometimes as if the motivating power of her existence had slowed so dangerously that at any moment the repercussions might cause anxiety to those who wished her well, then Valentine was that young woman.
Ever since the night when Jane and Philippe had returned from their day in the country to find her huddled in a chair, the marks of dried tears on her cheeks, although she was mercifully asleep, Jane had known for certain that she had been right from the beginning. Valentine, who had meant to be unlike other girls of her age and keep herself immune from love, had been in love on the very night Jane arrived at the apartment. She had been in some kind of a bemused state that night—and it hadn’t been a happy state, either—and since then the watchful Jane had arrived at her own conclusions.
Philippe had arrived at his own conclusions, too, and they happened to be in entire agreement with Jane’s. Philippe was in a better position to know whether there was even a remote possibility that things might one day sort themselves out for Valentine, but Leon Daudet, like himself, had remained a bachelor until he was slightly past his mid-thirties, and the habit clung. Also, there was Elise Faubourg! It was impossible for one man to read the mind of another, any more than a woman could be quite certain of another woman’s reactions: and over such a delicate matter as an affair of the heart. Philippe, with much experience behind him. hesitated to give a decided opinion.
But he and Jane both thought Valentine should accept the marquise’s invitation. It was a break she badly needed.
“I’m sure she’ll understand if I don’t come with you,” Jane said. “After all, I hardly know her, and she says in her letter that she’s quite alone. I think she would rather just have one of us to break up her peace. You like her, she likes you—so accept her invitation and tell her there was no one who could exercise Fifi, so I had to remain behind.”
Valentine smiled rather wanly.
“Martine, as you know very well, could exercise Fifi.”
“Never mind, darling, you don’t have to mention Martine. And I honestly think the marquise would prefer to have you visit her alone. She’s old and she wasn’t very fit when she left Paris.”
“No, that’s true,” Valentine said slowly. And the fact that the marquise had said that she was alone had made a curious impression on her mind. Why had the old lady so particularly stated that she was “alone”? In order that Valentine would not be afraid to find that Dr. Daudet was visiting his aunt?
The marquise’s summer retreat was about a hundred miles from Paris and not very far from the sea, Valentine thought she could smell the sea when the train set her down at the little wayside station to which a car was to be sent to pick her up. The car arrived, an old-fashioned but exceedingly comfortable limousine with crests on the door panels, and although the day was pleasantly warm, the chauffeur insisted on tucking a light blanket over her knees.
Valentine had seen one or two chateaus of the more dignified order since her arrival in France, but she was hardly prepared for the majestic pile that was the seat of the Marquis de Rullecourt. Surrounded by terraces and encompassed by a moat, with pepper pot towers and an impressive array of windows, it was set against a background of woods and September sky, and by comparison with Chaumont, it was the lordly head of a family that had never even heard of some of the humbler members.
The car sped along a driveway that seemed to wind through woods for at least a couple of miles, and then all the splendor of the great edifice was in sight. Valentine, for a few moments, felt terrified lest the marquise’s “alone” was not meant to be interpreted quite literally; and the fear that she would suddenly find herself in the midst of a gay assemblage of people to whom a house like this was the perfect setting for a smart weekend house party made her wish that she hadn’t come.
Then she knew that her fears were groundless, Alphonse, with whom she was by this time reasonably familiar, received her in the great entrance hall, and the house itself was as silent as a pool. Valentine could almost feel the silence lapping around her as Alphonse led her to his mistress, and no sooner did she catch sight of that mistress than the girl felt as if something frozen around her heart began to melt and tears started to brim over in her eyes.
The marquise held out her arms to her.
“Dear child,” she said, “I would have sent for you long ago, only I didn’t know what to do. Leon said you were looking pale and sadly in need of a change, and I see now that he didn’t exaggerate. You are a mere washed out little ghost of what you were when I saw you last, and I feel I have been guilty of neglect. But I wasn’t sure you would wish to come. You do understand, don’t you, cherie?”
The weekend passed like a dream for Valentine, a peaceful dream in which she wandered with her hostess on the shores of the lake and in green clipped alleys; and she sat with her in flower-smothered arbors overlooking long avenues of graceful garden statuary and sunken rose gardens.
The air was sweet with the perfume of numberless flowers and the salty tang of the sea; the towers of the chateau were reflected in the moat, and the moat itself was a glistening girdle that enclosed them and kept them in an area of magic. Nothing inside that magic circle was quite real, Valentine thought, and nothing disturbing or intrusive could upset the utter harmony of the hours from dawn till dusk and from dusk till dawn.
The marquise had been living there for several weeks now, keeping an eye on the beauties of the place for her son, who was far away. It was one of the marquise’s secret sorrows that she saw so little of her son, and that he was so delicate that it was quite unlikely he would ever marry, and therefore on his death the estates and title and all the dignity of being Marquis of Rullecourt would pass on to some fairly distant kinsman. Leon, to whom she was so much attached, was related on his mother’s side and had no expectation of inheriting.
But if she was unhappy about this unalterable situation, and if she sometimes felt she would give a great deal to alter it, the marquise never permitted any of this unhappiness to show in her face. On the contrary, she seemed to be wonderfully complacent and resigned, and as a result of spending many hours in her society Valentine began to feel extraordinarily resigned, too.
Studying her secretly while they sat together in a little silk-lined boudoir in the evenings and played chess, and sometimes piquet, the marquise was relieved to notice how the look of strain was vanishing from Valentine’s face, and that already the change of air had brought color into her cheeks. As a result of the color they seemed to have filled out, and the harebell-blue eyes were less shadow haunted.
On the last evening she said as if she had only suddenly been inspired by an idea, “Why don’t you stay on a little longer, my dear?” She shifted a pawn as if she was giving the move a great deal of thought and then continued, “A weekend is such a tantalizingly short space of time, and I have loved having you so much! I promised Leon that if I could persuade you to stay longer I would...”
She could almost feel Valentine stiffen.
“It is kind of Dr. Daudet to concern himself with my need of a change—or what he imagines to be my need of a change!” the girl said in a frozen voice. “But I am quite capable of recognizing my own needs, and I shall survive very well without his interference.”
“Of course, dear,” the marquise said in her smooth complacent tones. ‘But permit me to add that in return for my promise, he gave me his that you would not be in any way troubled or disturbed during your visit to me. By which, of course, he meant that he would not come near us himself.”
Valentine stared at her. The marquise sounded as if she was stating something completely normal, not anything that had to be explained.
“Ah, my queen!” the old lady exclaimed, making another dexterous move. “Leon told me, of course
, that he has asked you to marry him.”
“He ... t-told you?” Valentine sounded as if she could hardly believe her ears.
“Of course, child. He knows I’ve been dying for him to get married for ages and he also knows I am very fond of you. But I understand perfectly why you refused him. According to your English ideas marriage is the sort of thing one enters into for reasons of love only, and if you cannot love him you cannot marry him. It is a pity, but there it is. No doubt he seems to you considerably older than yourself—a little set in his ways perhaps. Perhaps not altogether easy to get on with ...”
“I never said I thought Dr. Daudet was set in his ways and I have certainly never thought of him as older than myself—at least, not all that much older,” Valentine heard herself saying agitatedly. “And I can’t imagine why you think I think he would be difficult to get on with.”
“Oh, just an idea, my child.” Thoughtfully she fingered another pawn. “Ought I, or oughtn’t I? Let me see ... But where were we? Discussing Leon?” She slid the pawn into place with one of her white ringed hands. “Older women seem to find him interesting, and of course I think he’s very attractive. But I expect, being young, you want to fall in love with someone young and eager and ardent, who will sweep you off your feet and with whom one day, perhaps, you will be very happy. That is, if you haven’t already fallen in love.”
Valentine felt as if the emotion rising up in her slender throat would choke her, or come near to choking her.
“I shall never fall in love again!” she announced, her heart hammering against her ribs, her eyes dark with tragedy. “I didn’t want to fall in love at all, only ... only I couldn’t help it ...”
She met the marquise’s eyes across the ivory chess pieces, and the older woman was clever enough to betray not the smallest amount of surprise. But she did ask mildly, “Do I know him, cherie?” Valentine was appalled because she was certain she had given herself away, but the marquise appeared to be discarding one man after another in an attempt to arrive at a solution.
“It wouldn’t be Philippe, because he, too, is too old, and you would be too sensible to take him seriously. But it could be that young man I invited to my dinner party, a law student who said he had met you before at the Dubonnets’ house. Or that fair young man from England—why, of course, your own countryman—Peter something-or-other ...”
“It’s not Peter, and I do wish, madame, that you wouldn’t ... that you wouldn’t be so interested!” Valentine stammered in a kind of agony. “It’s awfully kind of you, of course, to ... to be so concerned. But ... it’s something I don’t like to think about anymore. I’m ... I’m trying ... trying desperately hard ... to forget it. And, of course, the man!”
“Of course, dear child.” But the marquise’s eyes were brimming with sympathy, and she was comfortably aware that she had not the slightest need to probe anymore. “But how sad that you should be the victim of unrequited love. Now in France, that isn’t the sort of thing that happens often. We marry our girls off to someone we think suitable, and the whole affair is settled—and usually everything works out happily. But you English, who like to have the security and the love and everything! Ah, it is sad!” And she shook her silvery head.
The game was finished in a thoughtful silence on both sides, and then when they sat back to chat before bedtime, the marquise repeated her invitation to remain longer.
“You will stay, my dear? For a week longer? Or for just a few days?”
But Valentine shook her head. She didn’t know why she had to be so definite about it, considering she was dreading the return to Paris, but she had.
“It is kind of you, madame, terribly kind, but I’d honestly rather go back after spending this one delicious weekend with you. Perhaps some other time ...” she ended a little dubiously, because the marquise might not want her another time, and if she did what she had made up her mind to do, she wouldn’t be in France much longer.
“Of course, my dear, of course,” the marquise said soothingly; and then a tray of hot chocolate was brought in by a silent-footed manservant, and shortly after that they both retired to bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
VALENTINE WAS GLAD when she returned to Paris that she had not been persuaded to stay longer than a weekend. Jane seemed so delighted to see her, and it was plain that she was simply bursting with some news that she wanted to impart at the earliest possible moment.
Valentine looked at her thoughtfully before the news was broken and decided that she knew what it was. There was only one thing, one event in a woman’s life that could give her the strange kind of glow Jane had. It was just as if a lamp had been kindled inside her, and its rays streamed out through every pore of her being. Jane was not like Valentine; she had been married, and happily married, for two years, and this thing that had happened to her now was no new experience. But it was, to judge by externals, a truly satisfying experience.
The only thing Valentine did not guess was all that had happened while she was away.
Philippe did not come around to the apartment that first evening she was back, and Jane broke the news to her while they were sipping their after-dinner coffee in Miss Constantia’s serene gray living room.
“Darling,” Jane began nervously—because, although Valentine looked much better for her weekend visit, she still had that slightly “set apart” look, that withdrawn air of being no longer quite capable of savoring to the full the pleasures or otherwise of her present existence—or for that matter, the pleasures or otherwise of people around her, the look that she had had before she went away. And there was another reason why Jane felt nervous. She was particularly anxious not to hurt Valentine, either as the direct result of her announcement, or as the result of plans that were already laid. “Darling,” she repeated, “you know I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone here, don’t you? At least, not until you have come to some sort of decision about your own future life, by which I mean how long you will remain here at the apartment, and whether you will perhaps go home to England once the lease is up. Of course it’s up to you, darling, but I’ll stay as long as you want me. You know that, don’t you?”
Valentine smiled a little.
“You’ve repeated yourself several times giving me your assurances, so I should know it!” she said.
Jane nodded eagerly.
“Well, I merely wanted you to know—to be sure!”
“I’m quite sure, Jane,” Valentine said quietly. “Now tell me what your news is.”
And then it all came out, bubbling out of Jane like an eager stream. She and Philippe were going to be married, and very soon. Philippe had been shaping his future plans for weeks now, and all at once they had arrived at a stage that looked like fruition. He had been offered the managership of a fruit farm in Rhodesia and he was flying out in another couple of weeks. He and Jane would become husband and wife before he left. Everything was going to be a frantic rush, because they hoped to have a few days’ honeymoon—a week if it was humanly possible—before they had to part, and then Jane would join her husband in Rhodesia as soon as Valentine could spare her.
Valentine looked at Jane with eyes that were suddenly wide and almost unbelieving—not at the news she had received that Jane, who had started off by disapproving of Philippe so strongly that she had given his roses to the concierge, was going to marry him, or that Philippe, whose friends would have been prepared to swear he would remain a bachelor for the rest of his life, was going to marry her. This was something she had hoped for and not believed at all impossible, even in the beginning. But that Jane would be prepared to let him go away from her almost immediately after savoring the bliss of becoming his wife, just because she felt she owed a duty—of friendship, if nothing more—to her, Valentine ... That was something she found it difficult to believe.
“And you really mean that you would let him go? All the way to Zimbabwe Rhodesia, by himself, just because of me? What sort of an inhuman person do you think I am?”
/> “I don’t think you’re an inhuman person at all. poppet,” Jane assured her fondly, slipping down onto the white skin rug before the fireplace, close to Valentine’s chair, and leaning near to her so that she had a good view of her eyes and the expressions that were likely to come and go in them. “But Philippe and I both agreed that you mustn’t be left alone at this particular juncture; and as it is through you that we met we feel we owe you a debt. Once you’ve made your plans—rather more concrete plans than those that exist at present—then I’ll consent to leave you, but not before.”
Valentine gazed at her while something inside her began to expand, and then the expansion seemed to reach the bursting point.
“As if I’d allow you to behave so foolishly!” she said and felt the tears start to stream down her face. “Oh, Jane, I’m so happy for you,” she sobbed helplessly. “I’m so terribly happy for you!”
And kneeling on the rug in front of her and encircling the shaking shoulders with sympathetic arms, Jane sought to stem the flood of tears by bringing a touch of humor to the situation.
“Well, don’t wash me away with your congratulations, or there won’t be any wedding after all. And there’s so much to do before the wedding that I just don’t know how we’re going to get through it, unless I become the Comtesse de Villeneuve in one of your elegant castoffs!” Valentine took a determined grip of herself, and Jane looked at her with far more sympathy and understanding in her eyes than was perhaps good for anyone like Valentine who, with the sudden release of such news, seemed to have come to the end of her own tether, or her own period of bottling up her troubles. “Does it seem real to you?” Jane asked, more for herself to say than because she was in the least impressed with the idea herself. “Me, plain Jane Beverley, to be known in future, after a simple ceremony, as Madame la Comtesse de Villeneuve! Now if it were you who had caught Philippe’s eye ...”
