[Ill.u.s.tration: "FLORENCE WAS SLUMBERING IN GRACEFUL ABANDON."]

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 gra.s.s, 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 gla.s.ses, 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.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN CHANGE, UNCHANGED.

On seeing Madame d'Infreville, Florence uttered a cry of joy, and, springing from the hammock, threw her arms around her friend's neck.

"Ah," she exclaimed, kissing Valentine tenderly, her eyes filling with tears, "I was sure that you would come. I have been expecting you for two days, and you know the proverb, 'Happiness comes while one sleeps,'"

she added, smiling and casting a glance at the hammock which she had just quitted, "the proverb of the slothful, but a true one, nevertheless, as you see. But let me take a good look at you," she continued, still holding her friend's hands, but drawing back a step or two. "As beautiful, yes, even more beautiful than ever, I see! Kiss me again, my dear Valentine. Think of it, four years have pa.s.sed since we last saw each other, and what a terrible day that was! But each thing in its own proper time! And first," added Florence, taking her friend by the hand and leading her to the brookside, "as the heat is so overpowering, here are some of the fruits of my garden which I have been cooling for you."

"Thanks, Florence, but I would rather not eat anything now. But now, let me, in my turn, take a good look at you, and tell you--I am no flatterer, though, as you know--how much prettier you have grown. What a colour you have! and how young and, above all, how happy you look!"

"Do you really think so? So much the better, for I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not look happy. But I understand your impatience. You want to talk, and so do I--in fact, I am just dying to! So let us talk, but first sit down--here, in this armchair. Now put this ottoman under your feet, and take this cushion to lean against. One can not make oneself too comfortable, you know."

"You seem to me to have made great progress in your search for comfort, Florence," remarked Valentine, with a constrained smile, more and more surprised at her friend's careless air, though their interview, by reason of existing circ.u.mstances, was really of such a grave nature.

"I have, my dear Valentine. Do you see that little strap attached to the back of the chair?"

"I see it, but have no idea what it is for."

"It is to support the head if one wishes."

And adding example to precept, this nonchalant young woman added:

"Don't you see how comfortable it is? But what is the matter? You are gazing at me with such a surprised, almost chagrined air," said the young woman, suddenly becoming serious. "Well, you are right. You think me indifferent to all your past, and I trust now partially forgotten, trials," added Florence, in a tone of deep feeling. "Far from it! I have sympathised with you in every grief, but this is such a happy, blissful day to me that I do not want to mar it by any unpleasant recollections."

"What, you know--"

"Yes, I have known for more than a year of your imprisonment at Poitou, your subsequent widowhood and poverty, from which you suffered more on your mother's account than on your own. I know, too, how courageously you struggled against adversity. But dear me! this is exactly what I was afraid of!" half sobbed, half laughed the young woman, dashing the tears from her eyes. "And to-day of all days in the world!"

"Florence, my dear friend, I never once doubted your sincere affection."

"Is that really true?"

"It is, indeed. But how did you learn all these particulars in regard to me?"

"Oh, some from this person, some from that! I have been leading such a busy, active life it has brought me in contact with all sorts of people."

"You?"

"Yes, I," responded Florence, with a joyous, almost triumphant air.

"Tell me all about yourself. I know nothing about your life for the past four years, or at least since your separation from M. de Luceval."

"True, M. de Luceval must have told you all about that, and about the strange way in which I managed to make my husband abandon the idea of forcing me to travel against my will, and insisting upon my remaining his wife whether or no."

"And especially how you insisted upon a separation after you learned of your financial ruin. Yes, M. de Luceval told me all about that. He does full justice to your delicacy of feeling."

"The real generosity was on his part. Poor Alexandre! but for his unceasing peregrinations and his Wandering Jew temperament he would be a very nice sort of a man, eh, Valentine?" added Florence, with a mischievous smile. "How fortunate that you met him and that you have seen so much of him during the past three months. You must have learned to appreciate him as he deserves."

"What do you mean?" asked Valentine, looking at her friend with astonishment, and colouring slightly. "Really, Florence, you must be mad."

"I am mad--with happiness. But come, Valentine, let us be as frank with each other now as we have always been in the past. There is a name that you have been impatient and yet afraid to utter ever since your arrival.

It is Michel's name."

"You are right, Florence."

"Well, Valentine, to set your mind at rest, once for all, I beg leave to inform you that Michel is not, and never has been, my lover."

A gleam of hope shone in Valentine's eyes, but an instant afterwards she exclaimed, incredulously:

"But, Florence--"

"You know me. I have never lied to any one in my life. Why should I deceive you? Is not Michel free? Am I not free, also? I repeat that he is not, and that he never has been, my lover. I do not know what may happen in the future, but I am telling you the truth about the present as well as the past. Is it possible, Valentine, that you, who are delicacy itself, do not understand that if I was, or if I had been, Michel's mistress, nothing could be more painful and embarra.s.sing to both you and me than this interview, to which I, at least, have looked forward with such delight?"

"Ah, now I can breathe freely again!" cried Valentine, springing up and embracing her friend effusively. "In spite of the joy I felt at seeing you again, I was conscious of such a dreadful feeling of constraint. I am relieved of a terrible anxiety now."

"A just punishment for having doubted me, my dear. But you ask me to be frank, so I will add that, though Michel and I are not lovers, we adore each other, as much, at least, as two such indolent creatures as ourselves can adore any one."

"So Michel loves me no longer," said Madame d'Infreville, looking searchingly at Florence. "He has forgotten me entirely, then?"

"I think the best way to answer that question is to tell you our story, and--"

"Good Heavens! what was that?" exclaimed Valentine, interrupting her friend.

"What do you mean?" asked Florence, turning her head in the direction in which her friend was looking. "What did you hear?"

"Listen."

The two friends listened breathlessly for several seconds, but the profound stillness was broken by no sound.

"I must have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a crackling sound in the shrubbery."

"It was the wind swaying the branches of that old cedar you see over there. Did you never notice what a peculiar sound evergreens make when the wind blows?" responded Florence, carelessly. Then she added: "And now I have explained this strange phenomenon, Valentine, listen to Michel's story and mine."