were the projects and hopes of the lovers? Alas! they projected nothing, they hoped for nothing.
Blindly, thoughtlessly, almost fearlessly, they abandoned themselves to the dangerous happiness of a daily rendezvous; regardless of the storm that must erelong burst over their devoted heads, they revelled in their present bliss.
Is not every sincere passion thus? Passion subsists upon itself and in itself; and the very things which ought to extinguish it, absence and obstacles, only make it burn more fiercely. It is exclusive and undisturbed; reflects neither of the past nor of the future; excepting the present, it sees and cares for nothing.
Moreover, Valentine and Gaston believed everyone ignorant of their secret.
They had always been so cautious! they had kept such strict watch! They had flattered themselves that their conduct had been a masterpiece of dissimulation and prudence.
Valentine had fixed upon the hour when she was certain her mother would not miss her. Gaston had never confided to anyone, not even to his brother Louis. They never breathed each other’s name. They denied themselves a last sweet word, a last kiss, when they felt it would be more safe.
Poor blind lovers! As if anything could be concealed from the idle curiosity of country gossips; from the slanderous and ever-watchful enemies who are incessantly on the lookout for some new bit of tittle-tattle, good or bad, which they improve upon, and eagerly spread far and near.
They believed their secret well kept, whereas it had long since been made public; the story of their love, the particulars of their rendezvous, were topics of conversation throughout the neighborhood.
Sometimes, at dusk, they would see a bark gliding along the water, near the shore, and would say to each other:
“It is a belated fisherman, returning home.”
They were mistaken. The boat contained malicious spies, who delighted in having discovered them, and hastened to report, with a thousand false additions, the result of their expedition.
One dreary November evening, Gaston was awakened to the true state of affairs. The Rhone was so swollen by heavy rains that an inundation was daily expected. To attempt to swim across this impetuous torrent, would be tempting God. Therefore Gaston went to Tarascon, intending to cross the bridge there, and walk along the bank to the usual place of meeting at La Verberie. Valentine expected him at eleven o’clock.
Whenever Gaston went to Tarascon, he dined with a relative living there; but on this occasion a strange fatality led him to accompany a friend to the hotel of the “Three Emperors.”
After dinner, they went not the Cafe Simon, their usual resort, but to the little cafe in the market-place, where the fairs were held.
The small dining-hall was filled with young men. Gaston and his friend called for a bottle of beer, and began to play billiards.
After they had been playing a short time, Gaston’s attention was attracted by peals of laughter from a party at the other end of the room.
From this moment, preoccupied by this continued laughter, of which he was evidently the subject, he knocked the balls carelessly in every direction. His conduct surprised his friend, who said to him:
“What is the matter? You are missing the simplest shots.”
“It is nothing.”
The game went on a while longer, when Gaston suddenly turned as white as a sheet, and, throwing down his cue, strode toward the table which was occupied by five young men, playing dominoes and drinking wine.
He addressed the eldest of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, with fierce-looking eyes, and a heavy black mustache, named Jules Lazet.
“Repeat, if you dare,” he said, in a voice trembling with passion, “the remark you just now made!”
“I certainly will repeat it,” said Lazet, calmly. “I said, and I say it again, that a nobleman’s daughter is no better than a mechanic’s daughter; that virtue does not always accompany a titled name.”
“You mentioned a particular name!”
Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would exasperate Gaston, and that from words they would come to blows.
“I did,” he said, with an insolent smile: “I mentioned the name of the pretty little fairy of La Verberie.”
All the coffee-drinkers, and even two travelling agents who were dining in the cafe, rose and surrounded the two young men.
The provoking looks, the murmurs, or rather shouts, which welcomed him as he walked up to Lazet, proved to Gaston that he was surrounded by enemies.
The wickedness and evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing their fruit. Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely among the people of Provence.
Gaston de Clameran was not a man to yield, even if his foes were a hundred, instead of fifteen or twenty.
“No one but a coward,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, which the pervading silence rendered almost startling, “no one but a contemptible coward would be infamous enough to calumniate a young girl who has neither father nor brother to defend her honor.”
“If she has no father or brother,” sneered Lazet, “she has her lovers, and that suffices.”
The insulting words, “her lovers,” enraged Gaston beyond control; he slapped Lazet violently in the face.
Everyone in the cafe simultaneously uttered a cry of terror. Lazet’s violence of character, his herculean strength and undaunted courage, were well known. He sprang across the table between them, and seized Gaston by the throat. Then arose a scene of excitement and confusion. Clameran’s friend, attempting to assist him, was knocked down with billiard-cues, and kicked under a table.
Equally strong and agile, Gaston and Lazet struggled for some minutes without either gaining an advantage.
Lazet, as loyal as he was courageous, would not accept assistance from his friends. He continually called out:
“Keep away; let me fight it out alone!”
But the others were too excited to remain inactive spectators of the scene.
“A quilt!” cried one of them, “a quilt to make the marquis jump!”
Five or six young men now rushed upon Gaston, and separated him from Lazet. Some tried to throw him down, others to trip him up.
He defended himself with the energy of despair, exhibiting in his furious struggles a strength of which he himself had not been conscious. He struck right and left as he showered fierce epithets upon his adversaries for being twelve against one.
He was endeavoring to get around the billiard-table so as to be near the door, and had almost succeeded, when an exultant cry arose:
“Here is the quilt! the quilt!” they cried.
“Put him in the quilt, the pretty fairy’s lover!”
Gaston heard
