LITMIR.BIZ

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      Cold and white as a marble statue, Valentine stood on the bank of the river, watching the frail bark which was carrying her lover away. It flew along the Rhone like a bird in a tempest, and after a few seconds appeared like a black speck in the midst of the heavy fog which floated over the water, then was lost to view.

      Now that Gaston was gone, Valentine had no motive for concealing her despair; she wrung her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break. All her forced calmness, her bravery and hopefulness, were gone. She felt crushed and lost, as if the sharp pain in her heart was the forerunner of the torture in store for her; as if that swiftly gliding bark had carried off the better part of herself.

      While Gaston treasured in the bottom of his heart a ray of hope, she felt there was nothing to look forward to but shame and sorrow.

      The horrible facts which stared her in the face convinced her that happiness in this life was over; the future was worse than blank. She wept and shuddered at the prospect.

      She slowly retraced her footsteps through the friendly little gate which had so often admitted poor Gaston; and, as she closed it behind her, she seemed to be placing an impassable barrier between herself and happiness.

      Before entering, Valentine walked around the chateau, and looked up at the windows of her mother’s chamber.

      They were brilliantly lighted, as usual at this hour, for Mme. de la Verberie passed half the night in reading, and slept till late in the day.

      Enjoying the comforts of life, which are little costly in the country, the selfish countess disturbed herself very little about her daughter.

      Fearing no danger in their isolation, she left her at perfect liberty; and day and night Valentine might go and come, take long walks, and sit under trees for hours at a time, without restriction.

      But on this night Valentine feared being seen. She would be called upon to explain the torn, muddy condition of her dress, and what answer could she give?

      Fortunately she could reach her room without meeting anyone.

      She needed solitude in order to collect her thoughts, and to pray for strength to bear the heavy burden of her sorrows, and to withstand the angry storm about to burst over her head.

      Seated before her little work-table, she emptied the purse of jewels, and mechanically examined them.

      It would be a sweet, sad comfort to wear the simplest of the rings, she thought, as she slipped the sparkling gem on her finger; but her mother would ask her where it came from. What answer could she give? Alas, none.

      She kissed the purse, in memory of Gaston, and then concealed the sacred deposit in her bureau.

      When she thought of going to Clameran, to inform the old marquis of the miraculous preservation of his son’s life, her heart sank.

      Blinded by his passion, Gaston did not think, when he requested this service, of the obstacles and dangers to be braved in its performance.

      But Valentine saw them only too clearly; yet it did not occur to her for an instant to break her promise by sending another, or by delaying to go herself.

      At sunrise she dressed herself.

      When the bell was ringing for early mass, she thought it a good time to start on her errand.

      The servants were all up, and one of them named Mihonne, who always waited on Valentine, was scrubbing the vestibule.

      “If mother asks for me,” said Valentine to the girl, “tell her I have gone to early mass.”

      She often went to church at this hour, so there was nothing to be feared thus far; Mihonne looked at her sadly, but said nothing.

      Valentine knew that she would have difficulty in returning to breakfast. She would have to walk a league before reaching the bridge, and it was another league thence to Clameran; in all she must walk four leagues.

      She set forth at a rapid pace. The consciousness of performing an extraordinary action, the feverish anxiety of peril incurred, increased her haste. She forgot that she had worn herself out weeping all night; that this fictitious strength could not last.

      In spite of her efforts, it was after eight o’clock when she reached the long avenue leading to the main entrance of the chateau of Clameran.

      She had only proceeded a few steps, when she saw old St. Jean coming down the path.

      She stopped and waited for him; he hastened his steps at sight of her, as if having something to tell her.

      He was very much excited, and his eyes were swollen with weeping.

      To Valentine’s surprise, he did not take off his hat to bow, and when he came up to her, he said, rudely:

      “Are you going up to the chateau, mademoiselle?”

      “Yes.”

      “If you are going after M. Gaston,” said the servant, with an insolent sneer, “you are taking useless trouble. M. the count is dead, mademoiselle; he sacrificed himself for the sake of a worthless woman.”

      Valentine turned white at this insult, but took no notice of it. St. Jean, who expected to see her overcome by the dreadful news, was bewildered at her composure.

      “I am going to the chateau,” she said, quietly, “to speak to the marquis.”

      St. Jean stifled a sob, and said:

      “Then it is not worth while to go any farther.”

      “Why?”

      “Because the Marquis of Clameran died at five o’clock this morning.”

      Valentine leaned against a tree to prevent herself from falling.

      “Dead!” she gasped.

      “Yes,” said St. Jean, fiercely; “yes, dead!”

      A faithful servant of the old regime, St. Jean shared all the passions, weaknesses, friendships, and enmities of his master. He had a horror of the La Verberies. And now he saw in Valentine the woman who had caused the death of the marquis whom he had served for forty years, and of Gaston whom he worshipped.

      “I will tell you how he died,” said the bitter old man. “Yesterday evening, when those hounds came and told the marquis that his eldest son was dead, he who was as hardy as an oak, and could face any danger, instantly gave way, and dropped as if struck by lightning. I was there. He wildly beat the air with his hands, and fell without opening his lips; not one word did he utter. We put him to bed, and M. Louis galloped into Tarascon for a doctor. But the blow had struck too deeply. When Dr. Raget arrived he said there was no hope.

      “At daybreak, the marquis recovered consciousness enough to ask for M. Louis, with whom he remained alone for some minutes. The last words he uttered were, ‘Father and son the same day; there will be rejoicing at La Verberie.’”

      Valentine might have soothed the sorrow of the faithful servant, by telling him Gaston still lived; but she feared it would be indiscreet, and, unfortunately, said nothing.

      “Can I see M. Louis?” she asked after a long silence.

      This question seemed to arouse all the anger slumbering in the breast of poor St. Jean.

      “You! You would dare take such a step, Mlle. de la Verberie? What! would you presume to appear before him after what has happened? I will never allow it! And you had best, moreover, take my advice, and return home at once. I will not answer for the tongues of the servants here, when they see you.”

      And, without waiting for an answer, he hurried away.

      What could Valentine do? Humiliated and miserable, she could only wearily drag her aching limbs back the way she had so rapidly come early that morning. On the road, she met many people coming from the town, where they had heard of the events of the previous night; and the poor girl was obliged to keep her eyes fastened to the ground in order to escape the insulting looks

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