“How should I know, Auguste?”

  “Yes; he could not bear to look the other officers in the face; he told me that he considered himself, from his weakness and folly, to have been the murderer of his child, that he felt himself despicable, and could not longer remain with the regiment. As soon as the regiment arrived at Lyons, he sent in his retirement, and has ever since been living at Pau, in the south of France, upon his half-pay and the other property which he possesses.”

  “My poor father!” exclaimed I, bursting into tears.

  “As for me, you know that I obtained leave to quit the regiment, and have ever since been in the 51st of the line. I have obtained my grade of lieutenant. I have seen my father but once since I parted with him at Paris. He is much altered, and his hair is grey.”

  “Is he comfortable where he is, Auguste?”

  “Yes, Valerie; I think that he did wisely, for it was ruinous travelling about with so many children. He is comfortable, and, I believe, as happy as he can be. Oh, if he did but know that you were alive, it would add ten years to his life.”

  “He shall know it, my dear Auguste,” exclaimed I, as the tears coursed down my cheeks. “I feel now that I was very selfish in consenting to Madame d’Albret’s proposal, but I was hardly in my senses at the time.”

  “I cannot wonder at your taking the step, nor can I blame you. Your life was one of torture, and it was torture to others to see what you underwent.”

  “I pity my father, for weak as he was, the punishment has been too severe.”

  “But you will make him happy now, and he will rejoice in his old days.”

  “And now, Auguste, tell me about Nicolas — he never liked me, but I forgive him — how is he?”

  “He is, I believe, well; but he has left his home.”

  “Left home!”

  “You know how kind your mother was to him — I may say, how she doted upon him. Well, one day he announced his intention of going to Italy, with a friend he had picked up, who belonged to Naples. His mother was frantic at the idea, but he actually laughed at her, and behaved in a very unfeeling manner. Your mother was cut to the heart, and has never got over it; but, Valerie, the children who are spoiled by indulgence, always turn out the most ungrateful.”

  “Have you heard of him since?”

  “Yes; he wrote to me, telling me that he was leading an orchestra in some small town, and advancing rapidly — you know his talent for music — but not one line has he ever written to his mother.”

  “Ah, me!” sighed I, “and that is all the return she has for her indulgence to him. Now tell me about Clara.”

  “She is well married, and lives at Tours: her husband is an employé, but I don’t exactly know what.”

  “And Sophie and Elisée?”

  “Are both well, and promise to grow up fine girls, but not so handsome as you are, Valerie. It was the wonderful improvement in your person that made me doubt for a moment when I first saw you.”

  “And dear little Pierre, that I used to pinch that I might get out of the house, poor fellow?”

  “Is a fine boy, and makes his father very melancholy, and his mother very angry, by talking about you.”

  “And now, Auguste, one more question. On what terms are my father and mother, and how does she conduct herself?”

  “My father treats her with ceremony and politeness, but not with affection. She has tried every means to resume her empire over him, but finds it impossible, and she has now turned dévote. They sleep in separate rooms, and he is very harsh and severe to her at times, when the fit comes on him. Indeed, Valerie, if you sought revenge, which I know you do not do, you have had sufficient, for her brow is wrinkled with care and mortification.”

  “But do you think she is sorry for what she has done?”

  “I regret to say I do not. I think she is sorry for the consequences, but that her animosity against you would be greater than ever if she knew that you were alive, and if you were again in her power she would wreak double vengeance. Many things have occurred to confirm me in this belief. You have overthrown her power, which she never will forgive; and, as for her religion, I have no faith in that.”

  “It is then as I feared, Auguste; and if I make known my existence to my father, it must be concealed from my mother.”

  “I agree with you that it will be best; for there is no saying to what point the vengeance of an unnatural mother may be carried. But let us quit this subject, for the present at least, and now tell me more about yourself.”

  “I will — but there is Lionel’s knock: so I must defer it till another opportunity. Dear Auguste, give me one more kiss, while we are alone.”

  Chapter Twelve.

  In a few minutes after Lionel’s return, which he had considerably postponed, until Monsieur Gironac’s dinner hour had all but arrived, my good host first, and then kind, merry little madame, made their appearance, and a little while was consumed in introductions, exclamations, admirations, and congratulations, all tinctured not a little by that national vivacity, which other folks are in the habit of calling extravagance, and which, as my readers well know already, the good Gironacs had by no means got rid of, even in the course of a long séjour in the matter-of-fact metropolis of England.

  Fortunately, my friends were for the most part, au fait to the leading circumstances of my life, so that little explanation was needed.

  And more fortunately yet, like tide and time, dinner waits for no man; nor have I ever observed, in all my adventurous life, that the sympathy of the most sentimental, the grief of the most woe-begone, or the joy of the happiest, ever induces them to neglect the summons of the dinner-bell, and the calls of the responsive appetite.

  In the midst of the delight of madame, at having at last to receive the brother of cette chère Valerie, and that brother, too, si bel homme et brave officier, et d’une ressemblance si parfaite à la charmante soeur, dinner was luckily announced; and the torrent-tide of madame’s hospitality was cut short, by her husband’s declaration that we were all, like himself, dying of hunger; and that not a word more must be spoken, touching sympathies or sentiments, until we had partaken of something nutritious de quoi soutenir l’épuisement des emotions si déchirantes.

  Madame laughed, declared that he was un barbare, un malheureux sans grandeur de l’âme, and taking possession of Auguste, led him away into the dining-room: where, though she told me afterwards that she was au comble de désespoir at having to sit us down to so everyday a meal, we found an excellent dinner, and spent a very pleasant hour, until coffee was served; when, with it, not a little to my surprise, nor very much to my delight, Monsieur de Chavannes made his appearance.

  There was a quizzical look on Monsieur Gironac’s face, and a roguish twinkle in his eye, which led me to believe that what was really a matter of surprise to me, was none to my worthy host; for the Count de Chavannes had never visited the house before, in the evening; nor, from what I had understood, was he on terms of particular intimacy with the Gironacs.

  I was foolish enough to be, at first, a little put out at this; and, having manifested some slight embarrassment on his first entrance, which I learned afterwards, did not escape his eye, though he was far too well-bred to show it, I made the matter worse by calling my pride to my aid, incited thereto by Madame Gironac’s glance and smile at my blushing confusion, and certainly in no respect contributed to the gaiety of the evening. Nothing, however, I must admit, could have been more gentlemanly or in better taste, than the whole demeanour of Monsieur de Chavannes, and I could not help feeling this, and comparing it mentally with the inferior bearing of others I had seen, even in the midst of my fit of hauteur and frigidity.

  He neither immediately withdrew himself on learning that my brother, whom I had not seen for many years, had but just arrived as any half-bred person would have done under the like circumstances, with an awkward apology for his presence, tending only to make every one else more awkward yet; nor made set speeches, nor foolish compliments, on a subject too important for such trifling.

  He did not trouble me with any attentions, which he perceived would be at that moment distasteful, but exhibited the most marked desire to cultivate the acquaintance of Auguste, to whom he showed a degree of deference, though himself somewhat the senior, as to a military man, that flattered his esprit de corps, mingled with a sort of frank cordiality, which except from countryman to countryman in a foreign land, would perhaps have been a little overdone: but, under the actual circumstances, it could not have been improved.

  For the short time he remained, he conversed well, and wittily; yet with a strain of fancy and feeling, blended with his wit, which rendered it singularly original and attractive; and perfectly succeeded, though I know not whether he intended it or not, in directing the attention of the company from my altered and somewhat unamiable mood.

  Among other things I remember, that in the course of conversation, while tendering some civilities to Auguste, the use of his riding horses, his cabriolet, or his services in showing him some of the lions of London, he observed that Monsieur de Chatenoeuf must not consider such an offer impertinent on his part, since he believed, if our genealogy were properly traced, some sort of cousinship could be established; as more than one of the De Chavannes had intermarried in old times with the Chatenoeufs of Gascony, when both the families, like their native provinces, had been acting in alliance with the English Plantagenets, against the French kings of the house of Valois.

  A few words were said, in connexion with this, touching the singularity of the fact, that it would seem as if England had something to do with the associations of the two families; but I do not think the remark was made by De Chavannes, and whatever it was, it was not sufficiently pointed to be in any way offensive or annoying.

  On the whole, hurt as I was in some sort by the idea which had taken hold of me, that the Gironacs, through a false and indelicate idea of advancing my welfare, were endeavouring to promote a liking between myself and the Count, I cannot deny, that the evening on the whole, was a pleasant one, and that, if at first it had been my impression that De Chavannes was agreeable, entertaining, and well-bred, I was now prepared to admit he had excellent taste, and delicate feelings into the bargain.

  Still I felt that I did not like him, or perhaps I should rather say his attentions — though in fact he had paid me none — and was rather relieved when he made his bow and retired.

  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.”

  “I have no doubt you can, Monsieur,” I answered, rather pettishly; “for I suppose you asked him yourself; and, if you did so on my account, I must beg you will omit that proof of kindness in future, for I do not wish to see him.”

  “Oh! Monsieur Gironac, for shame, you have made her very angry with your ridiculous badinage — you have made her angry, really, and I do not wonder. Who ever heard of teasing a young lady about a gentleman she has never seen, only three times, and who has never declared any preference?”

  “Madame,” replied her husband, in great wrath, either real or simulated, “vous êtes une ingrate, — une, — une — words fail me, to express what I think of your enormous and unkind ingratitude. I am homme incompris, and Mademoiselle here — Mademoiselle is either une enfant, or she does not know her own mind. Shall I give the Comte Chavannes his congé, or shall I not? I shall not, — for if she be une enfant, it is fit her friends look after her; if she does not know her own mind, it is good she have some one who do! — voilà tout. Here is why I shall not go congédier monsieur le Comte. Why rather I shall request him to dine with me to-morrow, the next day, the day after. If he do not, I swear by my honour, foi de Gironac, I will dine at home again never more.”

  I could not help laughing at this tirade of the kind-hearted little man, on the strength of which he patted me on the head, and said I was bonne enfant, if I were not si diablement entêtée, and bade me go to bed, and sleep myself into a better humour; a piece of advice which appeared to me so judicious, that I proceeded at once to obey it, and bidding them both a kind good-night, betook myself to my own room to ponder rather than to sleep. And, in truth, I felt that I had need of reflection, for with the return of Auguste, a tide of feelings, which had long lain dormant rather than dead within me had almost overwhelmed me; and the hardness which had its origin in the bitterness of conscious dependence, and which had gained strength from the pride of self-acquired independence, began to thaw in my heart, and to give way to milder and gentler feelings.

  The thoughts of home, the desire for my country, the love for my father who, though weak and almost imbecile, had ever been kind to me in person, the craving affection for my brothers and my sisters, nay! something approaching to pity or regret for the mother who had proved herself but a step-mother towards me, all revived in increased and re-invigorated force.

  By-and-bye, too, I began to feel that I should be very wretched after the parting with my beloved brother at the end of so brief a renewal of love and intimacy; to be aware of what I had scarcely felt before in the self-confidence of the position I had won — that it is a sad and lonely thing to be a sojourner in a foreign land, with no natural friends, no kind kindred on whom to rely in case of sickness or misfortune; — and, to consider, how dark and grave a thing must be solitary old age, and perhaps a solitary death-bed, far from the home of one’s youth, the friends of one’s childhood.

  Then there arose another thought connected with the preceding, by that extraordinary and inexplicable chain, which seems to run through the whole mind of man, linking together things apparently as far asunder as the poles, which have, however, in reality, a kindred origin. That thought was, wherefore should my life be solitary? Why should I stand apart and alone from my race, relying on myself only, and depriving myself, for the sake of a perhaps imaginary independence, of all the endearments of social life, all the sweet ties of family?

  Perhaps, the very presence of my brother had opened my eyes to the truth, that there is no such thing in the world as real independence. To realise that possession, most coveted, and most unattainable, one must be a Robinson Crusoe, alone on his desert island, — a sort of independence which no one, I should think, would practically desire to enjoy.