s it not
natural that he should be present at her reentrance into life, since
she loved him? With women, the sentiment of love responds to the most
diverse objects. The ordinary young girl of Zibeline's age, either
before or after her sojourn in a convent, considers that a man of thirty
has arrived at middle age, and that a man of forty is absolutely old.
Should she accept a man of either of these ages, she does it because a
fortune, a title, or high social rank silences her other tastes, and
her ambition does the rest. But, with an exceptional woman, like
Mademoiselle de Vermont, brought up in view of wide horizons, in the
midst of plains cleared by bold pioneers, among whom the most valorous
governed the others, a man like General de Prerolles realized her ideal
all the more, because both their natures presented the same striking
characteristics: carelessness of danger, and frankness carried to
its extremest limit. Therefore, this declaration--to use the common
expression--entirely free from artifice or affectation, charmed Henri
for one reason, yet, on the other hand, redoubled his perplexity. How
could he conciliate his scruples of conscience with the aspirations
of his heart? The problem seemed then as insoluble as when it had been
presented the first time. But Valentine was saved. For the moment that
was the essential point, the only one in question. The involuntary
revelation of her secret had brought the color to her cheeks, the light
to her eyes, a smile to her lips, in spite of the leaden band that
seemed still pressing upon her head. "How you have frightened me!" said
Henri, in a low voice, seating himself on the side of the bed and
taking her hand. "Is that true?" she asked, softly pressing his fingers.
"Hush!" he said, making a movement to enjoin silence. She obeyed, and
they remained a few moments thus. Nevertheless, he reflected that
the account of the accident would soon be spread everywhere, that
Valentine's new friends would hear about it as soon as they arrived at
the race-track that day, and that he could no longer prolong his stay
beside her.

"Are you leaving me so soon?" Valentine murmured, when he said that he
must go.

"I am going to tell my sister and the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy of your
mishap."

"Very well," she replied, as if already she had no other desire than to
follow his wishes.

He gave the necessary orders, and again took his place beside the bed,
awaiting the second visit of the