so gaston and valentine rode alone to the sea.
they went at first through deep lanes, scarcely wide enough to ride abreast, where they lost sight of their goal, then, mounting a rise of sandy turf, came on it spread gloriously before them. a fresh breeze was blowing off the land, and the water was of a hundred vivid, changing hues—the clearest green, purple that was almost rose, and blue that was more than the blue of heaven. it was flecked with myriad little tips of foam that looked like sea-birds, for ever vanishing and reappearing, and the offshore wind ran over it in sudden violent caresses. far out, it was the colour of a distant wood of hyacinths.
they checked their horses. valentine drew a long breath before the pulsating wonder of it, the freedom and the joy. she stretched out her hand in silence to her husband, and he took it as simply; so they sat on their horses hand in hand like two children at their first sight of the ocean.
then he suggested their going down to the shore, and they went down among the shelving dunes, their horses’ hoofs sinking deep in the loose blown sand. at the verge were the stem and ribs of an abandoned boat, conveniently embedded there, to which they could tether their horses, and gaston, dismounting, did so and held out his arms to her. but zéphyr whinnied after them; sand and rotting timbers pleased him not.
down here, on the shore itself, the sandhills gave some shelter, and they could walk in comfort, especially when they went nearer to the water where the sand was firm and ribbed. despite the offshore wind, the curling waves shook off from their edges a breeze of their own, the essence of the sea. clinging to her husband’s arm, valentine leant her head against his shoulder and half closed her eyes.
“here,” he said softly, looking down at her, “here one forgets wars and anxieties, the past and the future—everything but the present. we were right to come.”
the breeze of the sea’s own seemed to freshen. down here one could not see in the same way as from the verge above the whole extent of that moving field of rapture, all the rainbow thoughts that ran over its surface, but one was nearer to its incommunicable magic.
“you will be cold, my darling. let us walk along by the waves.”
the little seas, tumbling in foam at their feet, bending in mock homage before them, racing slily to entrap them, laughed their undying laugh whose meaning the heart of man is not deep enough to seize. starfish, fluted shells, trails of seaweed, all their careless treasures were displayed there. . . . they would laugh with just the same fresh joy to-morrow . . . when gaston would be here no longer . . . o, terrible, that eternal youth and indifference!
“gaston,” she said, gripping his arm more closely, “you are not going alone to la jonchère, surely? you spoke of sending the young men back.”
“no, my heart,” said he, putting his hand over hers. “i am not going alone. m. du ménars and another officer will meet me to-morrow on the road, with an escort as well. when we meet i shall send my aides-de-camp back to the clos-aux-grives. that was all i meant.”
a few paces more, and he added, “unless i take one of them with me to la jonchère in order to use him as a messenger to you. which of them, in that case, would you rather have as mercury?”
why did he ask her that? she forgot the sea and glanced at him, but he was looking at the waves.
she answered as she would have answered in any case. “i would rather have roland. he is a charming boy . . . i was already fond of him at mirabel.” if gaston meant to tell her without being asked, which was her great hope, she would make it as easy as possible for him. she paused, and went on lightly, “mme de la vergne, however, might prefer her own son. as for marthe . . . well, i know roland’s mind at least on that matter.”
her husband stopped in his walk. “valentine,” he said, turning his head towards her, “i have something to tell you about roland.”
she stopped too, and loosed his arm. for a moment her heart seemed to pause also. he had paled a little, his voice was very grave and not free from difficulty, but he did not try to escape her gaze. on the contrary he looked straight at her.
(“i have something to tell you about roland!” echoed the waves, laughing.)
and then valentine de trélan knew that she wanted to spare him the explicit avowal, because she saw how much it would cost him to utter to her face what was, by implication, an insult to her—though an insult twenty years old.
“i guessed it, gaston,” she said, very quietly. “but i hoped that you would tell me. it is right that i should know . . . but i want to learn nothing further . . . i only wished it not to lie, unspoken, between us. . . . now we need never speak of it again, save as it affects the boy himself.”
“i hate that you should know it,” he said with emotion. “and yet i hated even more to keep you in ignorance. i thought, too, that you might guess, and that was worse . . . valentine, valentine, i cannot wish it undone, because i love him . . . but if only i need not have given you this pain!”
yet he was suffering more than she; she knew that. once again, as in the arbour this morning, it came to her as strange that she should feel it so little. and, only eager for the moment to allay the deep distress in his eyes and voice, she put her hands on his arm. “it does not pain me now, gaston. no, no, believe me! i am speaking the truth! it is so long ago, in that other life which we have forgotten. why remember it now, in this?”
he caught her hands and raised them to his lips. “generous! generous!” he murmured. “why must i choose to-day to wound you so?”
“but you have chosen the right day, the right place!” she cried. the vanishing of the dread that he might not tell her had almost irradiated her. “the . . . the past—see, it can be forgotten, as a pebble would be, cast into those great waters . . . and that there is no pain now—i love him, too. will not that convince you, my husband?”
perhaps it did. he bowed his forehead silently upon her hands as he held them.
“but as for guessing,” she went on, “—o gaston, my very dear, it is over now—as for guessing, the first moment that i saw him, lying in the garden at mirabel, i was startled . . . but i thought it was imagination. and i grew so fond of him in those few days, innocent and gallant as he was. yet i put the idea away at once because . . . because he had not your eyes . . . and now, after all . . .” she stopped; speech was suddenly failing her. “o gaston,” she said in a breaking whisper, “gaston, if only he had mine!”
and pulling her hands away she put them before her own face, weeping.
“my darling, my darling!” he cried, and strained her in his arms, saying no more than that, beyond speech indeed himself, pierced once more by the memory of his own words at their parting, which came back even now to stab him. but as, with her face covered, she wept upon his heart, he knew that it was not of his unworthy reproach that she was thinking. hers was a deeper and more mysterious pain. it seemed so to throb through her as he held her, there on the sandy shore, that the very waves were full of it; and he could do nothing save hold her more tenderly still, and kiss the yet beautiful hair.
after a little she ceased to sob, and dried her eyes.
“only one thing more,” she said unsteadily. “does roland know?”
“i gave my word to his grandfather that i would not tell him before he was one-and-twenty. i have tried to keep it in the spirit as well as in the letter. i do not think he guesses. what others may guess i do not know.”
“it is plain,” said valentine, “that he worships you. but they all do that, those young men—and with reason.”
they were still standing at the edge of the waves when she put the seal on her forgiveness. for she said, looking at him with her clear eyes, “gaston, when i see him and speak with him i am glad that he is your son!”
later on they sat at the base of the sandhills, and spoke of many things—even of m. de brencourt, so sore a subject to her husband that, till now, valentine had scarcely dared to mention the comte’s name. particularly had this been the case since he had learnt, at the clos-aux-grives, of the lie told at mirabel about his own death. most of the tale of treachery valentine had gleaned, not from gaston at all, but from the abbé chassin. yet it seemed to her a better thing that gaston should say openly now, as with cold passion he did, “he took my hand after i had gone out with him, and yet went on with the worst treason of all! it is impossible for a man to forgive an act so absolutely base!” than that he should nurse his just resentment in secret and never speak of it. but though through the comte de brencourt she had so nearly lost him before ever he was found, though now, realising it afresh, she caught to her breast the arm which the false comrade had pierced, this day and place seemed to spread healing hands even over that madness and treachery. and when she looked at him, holding him thus, the frown went from gaston’s brow, and adding, “at least, then, i will try to forget,” he gave her a long kiss.
but soon, too soon, it was time to return. the wind was dropping; the gulls which had been soaring high on its strength were now beginning to ride on the little waves, or to stalk along by the edge of the tide. the brief hour was over, the hour that seemed more particularly set between the old life and the new, in this place of wild air and rapture, where the years of pain and surmise were forgotten, and the hazard of the sword and what the future might bring yet unweighed. it was time to go.
and as, very close together, the two went slowly along the dry sand at the bottom of the dunes, they saw at a little distance a small patch of colour there—a pool of faint green, touched with blots of pale, swaying yellow that caught and held the sunlight. they came to it.
“flowers even here!” exclaimed valentine.
it was the bride of the waves, the beautiful yellow sea-poppy, that blossoms so late, and is so soon scattered. they both stood and looked down at it, not without wonder, as those who come on a jewel in a dusty place—at the strong, abundant, deeply-cut foliage, silvery green in the sunset, fashioned to defy wind and wave, that had yet given birth to such an ethereal marvel of a flower, whose every petal was a miracle of delicacy, a flower so frail that a breath could put out its cup of light. already the plant at their feet bore the tokens of the passing of many of its blossoms, in the long curving horns, treasures of next year’s promise, which had succeeded the fallen petals.
valentine, who had never seen the horned poppy before, knelt down by it. “how wonderful to bloom so late, and in so inclement a place!” she said. “look how the wind beats on these flowers!”
“and yet they do not fall,” said her husband. “you shall give me one, my dearest heart, for this our second betrothal.”
so she plucked a poppy and held it up to him. it seemed almost to have light in itself, like a fragile golden lamp half enclosed between the open, guarding hands of its leaves. he took it, and bending, kissed the hand that gave it him. next moment, either because it was caught by a puff of wind, or because its brief life was already over, he held nothing in his hand but the stem with its sturdy foliage, and the pistil set within its fringe of orange-yellow stamens. the four lovely shining petals were blown away. one only rested over his heart, caught there on the cross of white and gold.
valentine turned pale. what had suggested to her that this wonder was like their love, so late in blossoming, so little favoured in its surroundings, so exquisite . . . and, perhaps, so short-lived?
“wait, and i will give you another,” she said with a rather forced gaiety. “i will choose a younger flower this time.”
“no, no,” cried gaston de trélan. “i want no other.” and, gently taking off the bright, clinging thing from his breast and closing it in his hand, he stooped and recovered the other three—two from the sand, the fourth from valentine’s habit, and lifted them to his lips. at the base of each pale golden petal was the faintest stain. then he put them carefully, almost reverently away in a little leather case, and replaced it inside his uniform.
“you look quite white, my darling!” he exclaimed, catching sight of her face as she rose. “what is the matter?”
but she would not tell him; she only came for the last time in that place into the strong circle of his arms. her cheek rested where the poppy petal had lain, on the guerdon of valour; against her side she felt the hilt of his sword—a sweet discomfort.
“o gaston, my heart, my only love! it was worth those years—this hour! only, with so much happiness upon me, i think i would rather die to-day.”
“are you afraid?” he asked in a low voice, holding her as if he meant to hold her for ever. “are you afraid, my saint, my strong saint? i am not. this place that we have come to, after such bitter wanderings, shall hold us always now—be sure of it—in life or death!”
and though the yellow poppy shone and shivered at their feet—the sea-poppy that flowers so late and is so soon scattered—she knew that it was true.
