Chapter XVI: An Idler's Paradise

It was about three months after M. de Luceval and Madame d'Infreville met in Paris, when the events we are about to relate occurred at a modest villa near the town of Hyeres, in Provence.

This villa, which was decidedly bright and cheerful rather than pretentious in appearance, stood at the foot of a small hill, not more than five hundred yards from the sea. The small garden, half an acre, at the most, in extent, and shaded with tall maples and sycamores, was traversed by a rapid stream that had its source in a neighbouring mountain, and that flowed into the sea, after diffusing a refreshing moisture and coolness through the garden. The villa itself, which was a pretty white house with green shutters, was embowered in a thick grove of immense orange-trees, now in full bloom, which protected it from the scorching rays of the sun. A hawthorn hedge enclosed the garden, which was entered through a small gate set in posts of rough masonry.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, while the sun was shining with a splendour rivalling that of Italy, a travelling carriage, coming from the direction of Hyeres, stopped upon the brow of the hill overlooking the little country-seat, and M. de Luceval, his face pale, and his features drawn with anxiety, got out of the vehicle, and assisted Madame d'Infreville to alight. That lady, after having paused for an instant to look around her, caught sight of the little villa half hidden in the grove of orange-trees, and, pointing to it, exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with emotion:

"That is the house, M. de Luceval."

"Yes, judging from the directions given us, this must be the place. The momentous hour has come. Go, madame. I will wait for you here, though I do not know but it requires more courage to remain here in this agony of suspense than it does to accompany you."

"Still, remember your promise, I entreat you, monsieur. Let me accomplish this painful mission alone. You might not be able to control yourself, and, in spite of the solemn pledge you have given me, you might--But I can not finish. The mere thought of such a thing makes me shudder."

"Do not be alarmed, madame, I shall keep my word, unless--unless--"

"But, monsieur, you have sworn--"

"I shall not forget my oath, madame."

"Let us hope for the best, monsieur. The day for which we have been waiting with so much anxiety for three months has come at last. In an hour the mystery will be solved. We shall know all, and our fate will be decided."

"Yes, yes, our fate will be decided," responded M. de Luceval, gloomily.

"And now _au revoir_. Perhaps I shall not return alone."

But M. de Luceval shook his head gloomily, as Valentine, with a gesture of encouragement, started down a narrow footpath that led straight to the garden gate of the villa.

M. de Luceval, left alone, paced restlessly to and fro, turning every now and then, in spite of himself, to gaze at the pretty dwelling below. Suddenly he paused, his face turned livid, and his eyes gleamed like coals of fire. He had just seen, a little way from the hedge that surrounded the garden, a man clad in a white duck suit, and wearing a big straw hat. In another moment, this man had disappeared among the rocks that bordered the shore.

Running to the carriage, M. de Luceval drew out from under the seat, where he had concealed it from Madame d'Infreville's eyes, a box containing a pair of duelling pistols, and with this box in his hand started in pursuit of the man.

But before he had gone ten yards M. de Luceval paused, reflected a moment, then slowly returned to the carriage, and replaced the box, saying to himself:

"There will be time enough for that by and by. I will keep my oath unless rage and despair should carry me beyond all the bounds of reason and honour."

Then, with his eyes riveted upon the house, M. de Luceval, too, descended the path.

In the meantime, Valentine had reached the gate of the enclosure, and knocked.

A moment afterwards the gate opened, and a woman about fifty years of age, neatly dressed in the Provencal fashion, appeared.

On seeing her, Valentine could not conceal her astonishment.

"What, Madame Reine, you here!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, madame," replied the woman, with a strong Southern accent, and apparently not at all surprised at Valentine's visit. "Will you be good enough to come in?"

Valentine, seeming to repress a question that had risen to her lips, blushed slightly, and stepped inside. The old woman (Madame Reine had been Michel Renaud's nurse, and his only servant, even in his palmy day) closed the gate, and conducted Madame d'Infreville into the dense shade formed by the quincunx of orange-trees, in the centre of which the little white villa stood.

"Is Madame de Luceval here?" inquired Valentine, in a slightly husky voice.

The old nurse paused suddenly, placed her finger on her lip, as if recommending silence on the part of Madame d'Infreville, then motioned her to look a little to the left, in front of her.

Valentine stood as if petrified.

She saw before her two bright-coloured hammocks fastened to the gnarled trunks of some orange-trees. One of the hammocks was empty. Florence was lying in the other. A blue and white striped canopy, suspended over the hammock, swelled like a sail in the fresh sea-breeze and imparted a gentle swinging motion to this airy couch.

Florence, clad in a thin white gown that left her throat and arms bare, was slumbering in an attitude of graceful _abandon_, her pretty head resting upon one dimpled arm, while the gentle breeze toyed caressingly with the soft ringlets that shaded her white brow. Her left arm was hanging out of the hammock, and in the same hand was a big green fan which she had evidently been using when sleep overtook her.

Never had Valentine seen Florence look so beautiful and fresh and young. Her scarlet lips were half parted, her breathing was as gentle and regular as that of an infant, and her features, in their perfect repose, wore an expression of ineffable contentment and happiness.

In the clear waters of the little stream that flowed through the little lawn stood a big basket filled with watermelons, purple figs, and early grapes cooling in the icy flood, in which two carafes, one filled with lemonade of a pale amber hue, the other with ruby-tinted pomegranate juice, were also submerged. Upon the soft grass, near the edge of the stream, and in the shade, were two big armchairs, several straw mats, a number of cushions, and sundry other aids to comfort and _dolce far niente_; and lastly, within easy reach of the armchairs, stood a table upon which a number of books and papers, a Turkish pipe, a number of glasses, and a plate of the small wheaten cakes peculiar to that province were heaped in picturesque confusion. To complete the picture, one could discern through two vistas in the quincunx, on one side, the still, blue waters of the Mediterranean; on the other, the summits of the distant mountains, whose majestic outlines stood out in bold relief against the azure sky.

Valentine, charmed by the scene before her, stood as if spellbound.

A moment more, and Florence's little hand opened slowly. The fan dropped, and, in escaping from the fingers of the sleeper, woke her.