The Wild Cry of Love

Chapter One 1899-1

Chapter One

1899“You cannot mean it, Beau-père!” Valda exclaimed.

“I do mean it!” the Comte de Merlimont replied. “Your mother and I have talked it over very carefully, Valda, and it really is time we considered your marriage.”

Valda made an exasperated little sound, then said firmly,

“I have no intention, Beau-père, of agreeing to an arranged marriage with a Frenchman I have never seen, who is not in the least interested in me. I intend to marry for love!”

Valda faced her stepfather as she spoke with a defiance that only succeeded in making her look even more attractive than usual.

She was an exceedingly lovely girl, so it was not surprising that both her mother and stepfather were much concerned for her future.

Besides the fact that Valda had the deep red hair beloved of the Viennese, she had blue eyes, which were typically English, and to frame them dark lashes that her father had always averred were owed to some Irish ancestor.

One thing was quite certain, the Comte thought, as he looked at her, she certainly did not look French and, as he already knew, the Frenchmen who had seen her when they were in Paris had been fulsome in their compliments.

But, as if nature had not been generous enough in endowing Valda with a beautiful face, a slim graceful body and an intelligent mind, she was also extremely wealthy.

Her father had left a very large fortune to his only child and the Comte, who was an extremely conscientious man, was not unnaturally worried about his stepdaughter’s future.

“You know as well as I do, Valda,” he said, “that marriages in France are arranged.”

“Then I will not accept a French husband!” Valda asserted sharply.

“And do not imagine that things are very different in England,” the Comte continued, as if she had not spoken. “An English heiress like yourself is always married off to a distinguished aristocrat, who is finding it difficult to keep up his estates.”

“Surely there must be some country in the world where love is considered important?” Valda asked.

There was something wistful in the question and the Comte’s eyes softened as he replied,

“Love is what everyone seeks, Valda. In most cases men and women who enjoy the same tastes and share the same interests find in their marriage a companionship, which deepens into love.”

“You fell in love with my Mama,” Valda pointed out.

“That is true,” the Comte answered, “but she was a widow and not a girl of eighteen, who quite frankly is incapable of knowing her own mind.”

“Why should you think that?” Valda asked and now the defiance was back in her voice.

The Comte smiled.

“You have been brought up very strictly,” he said, “and, although you have travelled a certain amount, you have never done anything on your own.”

“That is not my fault!” Valda retorted.

“I am not suggesting it is a fault,” the Comte replied. “In fact I believe it to have been eminently sensible. But the fact remains that you have never chosen a gown without the help of your mother. You would have no idea of how to travel from here to Paris without a Courier. Do you really imagine therefore that you are capable of choosing wisely the man to whom you will be married for the rest of your life?”

“If I leave the choice to you, how can you possibly know if we will be suited to each other when we are together?” Valda asked. “Suppose I conceived a violent hatred for him?”

“In which case I would obviously not make you marry him, however far the arrangements had proceeded,” the Comte answered. “But I promise you, Valda, because I know you so well, and because I love you, I shall choose a man who has all the qualities that I think desirable in your husband.”

“I cannot believe there are many paragons waiting about for me to fall into their arms!” Valda said sarcastically. “If they are so exceptional, why are they not married already?”

The Comte sighed.

“I am not going to pretend to you, Valda, because you are far too intelligent, that the Nobleman whom I consider for you as a husband will not find your fortune the main attraction. At the same time you are very lovely and I think a man would have to be made of granite not to fall in love with you.”

“But suppose – he does – not?” Valda asked in a very low voice.

She was thinking as she spoke that the average Frenchman had not only a wife but also a mistress.

Her mother and her stepfather would have been horrified if they realised how much Valda knew of the intrigues and affaires de coeur of their friends and acquaintances.

But the servants and even her Governesses had always talked in front of children as if they were deaf and, because Valda was interested she carefully gave no indication, which might have made them suspicious, that she was listening to their gossip.

The Comte de Merlimont and his attractive English wife filled their house in Paris and their various châteaux in France with the gay, sophisticated, brilliant personalities of the Social world.

Valda, being still in the schoolroom, was not allowed to mix with their guests except for an hour a day when she came down to the salon at five o’clock.

It was when they were in London that she and her mother had tea together, English style, but in France the ladies merely sat about chattering or working at their embroidery.

Having greeted Valda in a somewhat condescending manner, they would return to the spicy gossip that had amused them before her entrance.

Valda would listen and store away in her memory the various items that she overheard.

“La Marquise has a new cher ami. He is charming and very attentive, but Madame Boyer is livid! He was her property until la Marquise cast her eyes on him!”

“Have you heard that the Comte de Rougement came home unexpectedly the other night and was furious to find Pierre alone with his wife? One can hardly imagine the Comte as a jealous husband, but perhaps now he knows what other men have suffered where he himself is concerned.”

“I saw Jacques last week. He was with that fascinating creature from the Folies Bergère. They say he has set her up in style in the Rue St. Honoré, with a carriage and a pair of horses the envy of all Paris. He is lucky he can afford it!”

At first such information seemed meaningless, but gradually the stories fitted like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle into a picture of Society, which was supplemented by some of the books Valda read.

Her mother or her Governesses would not have approved of these books, but she found them in her stepfather’s sitting room and took them up to her bedroom to read at night after her lights had been put out and she was supposed to be asleep.

She read about love and, as she grew older and it was time for her to enter the Social world, she told herself that it was love she would seek from a man.

Because she was extremely fond of her stepfather and he and her mother were so happy together, it had never struck Valda that a time might come when he would suggest that she should marry, in the approved French fashion, a man chosen for her because they each had something to contribute to the union.

Now she thought that her large fortune would ensure that her stepfather would look first among the Marquises of ancient families or perhaps someone like the Comte des Baux whose antecedents went back far into the history of France.

It was living in Provence that had convinced Valda more than anything else that she must marry for love.

She had been excited and thrilled when she first learnt about the mighty Knights of Les Baux, who had fought in the Crusades and later became poets and troubadours.

Their Royal alliances spread from the houses of Provence, Barcelona, Poland, Savoy and England and they claimed descent from Balthazar, King of the East.

Les Comtes des Baux were one of the most powerful noble families that Europe had ever seen and, whenever she could do so, Valda would visit the ruins of Les Baux.

The ghosts that were said to haunt the shattered ramparts were those of men who loved or hated violently and fought to the death.

Valda would think of the Knights riding out in their silver armour, plumes in their helmets, their pennants fluttering in the breeze.

At the Courts of Love, of which Les Baux was the most famous, it was from the poetry and songs of the Troubadours of Provence that lyric poetry sprang, and to Valda they expressed all that she desired for herself.

“Romance! Love! Beauty!”

It was something she knew she would never find from a man who was interested in her only because she was rich and in whom she was supposed to be interested merely because he had a title.

She walked to the window to stand looking out over the exquisite view that lay before her.

Provence in the early summer was even more lovely than at any other time of the year, and from the Comte’s château, which lay between Les Baux and Arles, stretched rolling green plains interspersed with high dark cypress trees, fields red with crimson poppies and the distant horizon deepening to blue against the sunlit sky.

“Will you not trust me, Valda, to do what is best for you?” her stepfather asked, a beguiling note in his voice.

A handsome man, he had been noted for his love affairs, which were usually of short duration, before he fell head-over-heels in love with the widow of Sir Edward Burke.

He had been visiting England and after they had been introduced at a dinner party, it was doubtful if the Comte from that moment was aware that any other woman existed.

Lady Burke was lovely, but in a completely different manner from her daughter.

She was typically Dresden china English, pink, white and gold, with classical features and a sweetness that endeared her to everyone with whom she came in contact.

It was from her father that Valda had inherited her red hair and her fiery temperament, for Sir Edward had been an exceptional, and in some ways a controversial, personality.

Now it was her father in Valda that made her say firmly,

“Whatever you may say, Beau-père, I will not be married off as if I was a package handed over the counter of a shop!”

“You intend to be an old maid?” the Comte asked sharply.

“Of course not!” Valda replied. “I want to marry eventually, but first I want to live a little.”

“That is a dangerous philosophy for an unmarried girl,” the Comte said severely.

Valda looked at him and then she laughed.

“I know exactly what is worrying you, Beau-père,” she said. “You and Mama are fussing over your one wee chick. You think I shall get into trouble like the de Villiers girl who ran away with a married man, or Hortense de Poinier, who set up her own studio in Montmartre. But I promise you, I will do neither of those things!”

“Hortense de Poinier at least has quite considerable talent,” the Comte remarked.

“Inferring I have none?” Valda flashed.

“I did not say that,” he replied. “You have many talents, Valda, but they are not particularly saleable ones. Not that there is any need, thank goodness, for you to earn your living, but if you had to, I assure you it is not as easy as it sounds!”

Valda walked across the salon, moving with a grace that was notably lacking in some of her contemporaries.

“You are very plausible, Beau-père,” she said. “Whatever I say, it is like putting up a target for you to shoot down. At the same time we still get back to the main bone of contention – that you wish to choose my husband for me and I have no intention of marrying anyone I don’t choose myself!”

“Then I will tell you what I think we should do,” the Comte said. “We must invite the young men we think most suitable here to meet you. You did in fact meet one of those we are considering when we were recently in Paris.”

Valda thought for a moment.

“Can you possibly mean the Marquis d’Artigny?” she enquired.