LITMIR.BIZ

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father remained a quarter of an hour with me, consoling me and blaming himself, and promising that in future he would see me done justice to. I heard him without reply. The tears started in my eyes at his kind expressions, but I felt there was no security for his adhering to all he promised, and I trembled as I thought so. He left me and went out. My mother, who had been watching, as soon as she saw that he had left the house, hastened downstairs from her room, and came into the one where I was sitting alone.

      “So, mademoiselle,” said she, panting, and apparently striving to contain herself, “my power in this house is gone for ever, and all through you. Ha, ha, ha! we shall see, we shall see. D’ye hear me, creature?” continued she, with her clenched hand close to my face. “No, not yet,” said she, after a pause, and then she left the room.

      If my father’s kindness had somewhat staggered my resolution, this conduct of my mother’s confirmed it. I felt that she was right in what she said, and that in a month she would regain her sway, and drive me to desperation. During the whole of that day I made no reply to anything that was said to me by my brothers and sisters, who came in by stealth to see me. In this I followed the advice of Madame d’Albret, and at the same time my own feelings and inclinations. The servants who offered me dinner, and coaxed me to take some nourishment, could not get any answer from me, and at last one of them, who was a kind-hearted girl, burst out into tears, crying that mademoiselle was folle. My father did not come home to dinner; my mother remained in her room till he came in in the evening, and then he went up to her. It wanted but half-an-hour of the time that I had agreed to meet Madame d’Albret. I waited that time, during which I heard sounds of high altercation above stairs. I was quite alone, for my mother had prevented the children coming to me, and as the clock struck, I dropped my veil over my face and quietly walking out of the house, made for the rendezvous agreed.

      I found the fiacre with Madame d’Albret waiting for me, and stepping into it, I was in a few minutes safely lodged in her splendid comfortable apartments. Madame d’Albret put me in a little cabinet inside of her own room, so that no one, except one servant whom she could trust, knew of my being on the premises. There I was left to recover from my bruises, and regain, if possible, my good looks. On the following day she repaired to the barracks, and remained with her sister till the evening, when she returned, and came up to me.

      “All has happened as I wished,” said she, as she took off her bonnet; “you are nowhere to be found, and they have not the least suspicion that you are here. When you were first missed, they thought you had returned to the colonel’s, and your father did not think it advisable to make inquiry until the next morning, when to his surprise he learnt that you had never been there. The dismounted hussar, who was sentry during the evening, was then examined; and he replied, that about half-past eight o’clock, a young person, who by her figure he presumed to be Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf, had gone out of the gates, but that she had a thick veil over her face, and he could not see it. When your father and the colonel had interrogated the man and dismissed him, my poor sister burst into tears and said, ‘Alas! alas! then she has kept her word, and has thrown herself into the Seine. Oh, Monsieur Allarde, my sister said you would incur a heavy responsibility by sending that poor girl back, and now it has proved but too true: poor dear Valerie!’ Your father and the colonel were almost as much distressed as my sister, and it was just at that time that I came in.

      “‘Sister,’ cried Madame Allarde to me, ‘Valerie has left the barracks.’

      “‘What!’ exclaimed I, ‘When? oh my fear was too true!’ said I, clasping my hands and then taking out my handkerchief, I covered my face and sobbed. I tell you, Valerie, that nothing but my affection for you would have induced me to be so deceitful, but under the circumstances I hope I was justified. My assumed grief and distress quite removed any suspicion of your being here, and shortly afterwards the colonel made a sign to your father, and they both left the barracks; I have no doubt they went down to the Morgue, to ascertain if their fears had already been proved correct.”

      “What is the Morgue, madame?” said I.

      “Do you not know, my child? It is a small building by the side of the Seine, where all bodies which are found in the river are laid out for the examination of the friends of those who are missing. Below the bridges there is a large strong net laid across, which receives all the bodies as they are swept away by the tide; that is, it receives many, if not most of them, but some are never found again.”

      Madame Allarde did not fail to return to the barracks on the next day, and found that a general excitement prevailed, not only among the officers but the men. My supposed suicide had been made known. My father had visited the Morgue a second time, and the police had been on the search without success. My mother dared not even show herself at the window of her apartments, and found herself avoided even by her own children. As for my father, he was half mad, and never met her but to load her with reproaches, and to curse his own folly in having so long submitted to her imperious will.

      “At all events, one good has arisen from your supposed death, Valerie,” said Madame d’Albret, “which is, that your father has completely resumed his authority, and I do not think will ever yield it up again.”

      “My poor father,” replied I, shedding tears, “I feel for him.”

      “He is certainly to be pitied,” replied Madame d’Albret, “but it is his own conscience which must be his greatest tormentor. He was selfish enough not to feel for you during your years of persecution, and rather than have his own comforts invaded by domestic brawls for a short period, he allowed you to be sacrificed. But observe, Valerie, if you have still a wish to return to your parents, it is not too late. The regiment does not leave Paris till next Thursday.”

      “Oh, no, no,” cried I, “my mother would kill me; don’t mention that again, madame,” continued I, trembling.

      “I will not, my child, for to tell you the truth, you would not appear in so favourable a light, if you were now to return. You have caused much grief to my sister and husband, and they would not receive you with cordiality after having thus trifled with their feelings. It would also be a victory for your mother; and I doubt not but that in a short time she would again recover that power which for the present she has lost. You never can be happy in your family after what has passed, and I think that what has been done is for the best. Your father can well spare one child out of fourteen, having little more than a long sword for their support. Your supposed death will be the cause of your father retaining his lawful authority, and preventing any of the remaining children receiving such injustice as you have done; and remorse will check, if it does not humanise your mother, and I trust that the latter will be the case. I had well weighed all this in my mind, my dear Valerie, before I made the proposal, and I consider still that for your sake and for the sake of others, it is better that you should be the sacrifice. Nevertheless, I repeat, consult your own feelings, and if you repent the step which you have taken, there is yet time for you to return.”

      “My dear madame, return I never will, unless I am taken by force. All I feel is, that I should like that my father’s bitter anguish was assuaged by his knowledge of my being still in existence.”

      “And so should I, Valerie, were it possible that the communication could be made, and the same happy results be arrived at; but that cannot be, unless it should please Heaven to summon your mother, and then you might safely inform your father of your existence.”

      “You are right, madame.”

      “Yes, I think I am, Valerie; for, after all, your father duly deserves his severe penance, which is, to visit the Morgue every day; but painful as is the remedy, it is necessary for the cure.”

      “Yes, madame,” replied I, sobbing, “all you say is true, but still I cannot help weeping and pitying my poor father; not that it alters my determination, but I cannot command my feelings.”

      “Your feelings do you honour, Valerie, and I do not blame you for your grief. Do not, however, indulge it to excess, for that is turning a virtue into a failing.”

      There were still three days remaining previous to the departure of the regiment for Lyons. I was sorely distressed during this time. I pictured to myself my father’s remorse, and would gladly have

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