Valentine by George Sand Read Free Book Online Page A

was brewing against her in her mother’s revengeful heart. Monsieur de Lansac, who felt that he wasresponsible for his fiancée’s conduct, desired to spare her the first stinging reproaches, so he offered her his arm, and with her followed Madame de Raimbault at a short distance, while she dragged her mother-in-law away toward the place where the calèche was waiting. Valentine was trembling ; she was afraid of the wrath that was gathering over her head. Monsieur de Lansac, with the dexterous grace characteristic of his ready wit, sought to divert her thoughts, and, affecting to look upon what had happened as the merest trifle, undertook to pacify the countess. Valentine, grateful for the delicate consideration which seemed always to encompass her, without a trace of self-conceit or absurdity, felt a perceptible increase of the sincere affection which her future husband inspired in her.
    Meanwhile the countess, enraged at having no one to quarrel with, attacked her mother-in-law the marchioness. As she did not find her people at the appointed spot, because they did not expect her so soon, she had to walk some distance over a dusty, stony road, a painful trial for feet which had trodden on velvet carpets in the apartments of Joséphine and Marie-Louise. The countess’s wrath waxed hotter ; she almost pushed away the old marchioness, who stumbled at every step and tried to lean on her arm.
    â€œThis is a lovely fête, a charming pleasure party !” said the countess. “It was you who insisted on coming ; you dragged me here against my will. You love the
canaille,
but I detest them. You have had a fine time, haven’t you ? Pray go into ecstasies over the delights of the country ! Don’t you find this heat very agreeable ?”
    â€œYes, yes,” replied the old woman, “I am eighty years old.”
    â€œBut I’m not; I am stifling. And this dust, and these stones that make holes in the soles of your feet! It is all most delightful!”
    â€œBut, my love, is it my fault if it’s hot, if the roads are bad, if you are out of temper ?”
    â€œOut of temper ! you never are, of course, I can understand that, as you pay no attention to anything and let your family act as God pleases. So the flowers with which you have strewn your life have borne their fruit—premature fruit, I may say.”
    â€œMadame,” said the marchioness bitterly, “you are ferocious in your anger, I know.”
    â€œI presume, madame, that you call the righteous pride of an insulted mother ferocity ?”
    â€œWho insulted you, in God’s name ?”
    â€œAh ! you ask me that! You do not think that I was insulted in my daughter’s person, when all the
canaille
in the province clapped their hands to see her kissed by a peasant, before my eyes, against my will! when they will say to-morrow: ‘We put a stinging affront on the Comtesse de Raimbault!”’
    â€œWhat exaggeration! what puritanical nonsense! Your daughter dishonored because she was kissed before three thousand people ! A heinous crime indeed ! In my day, madame, and in yours too, I’ll wager, although I agree they didn’t do just that, they did no better. Besides, that fellow is no countryman.”
    â€œHe is much worse, madame ; he’s a rich countryman, an
enlightened
clown.”
    â€œDon’t speak so loud; if you should be overheard!—”
    â€œOh ! you are always dreaming of the guillotine, you think that it is walking behind you, ready to seize you at the slightest sign of courage or pride. But I will speak low, madame; listen to what I have to say: Haveas little to do with Valentine as possible, and don’t forget so soon the results of
the other one’s
education.”
    â€œAgain ! again !” exclaimed the old woman, clasping her hands in distress. “You never miss an opportunity to reawaken that sorrow ! Oh ! let me die in peace, madame ; I am