LITMIR.BIZ

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is not enough to support a lady respectably,” she said after a pause. “Everything is so dear in this section of the country! But with six thousand francs—yes, six thousand francs would make me happy!”

      The young man thought that her demands were becoming excessive, but with the generosity of an ardent lover he said:

      “The son-in-law of whom we are speaking cannot be very devoted to Mlle. Valentine, if the paltry sum of two thousand francs were objected to for an instant.”

      “You promise too much!” muttered the countess.

      “The imaginary son-in-law,” she finally added, “must be an honorable man who will fulfil his promises. I have my daughter’s happiness too much at heart to give her to a man who did not produce—what do you call them?—securities, guarantees.”

      “Decidedly,” thought Fauvel with mortification, “we are making a bargain and sale.”

      Then he said aloud:

      “Of course, your son-in-law would bind himself in the marriage contract to—”

      “Never! monsieur, never! Put such an agreement in the marriage contract! Think of the impropriety of the thing! What would the world say?”

      “Permit me, madame, to suggest that your pension should be mentioned as the interest of a sum acknowledged to have been received from you.”

      “Well, that might do very well; that is very proper.”

      The countess insisted upon taking Andre home in her carriage. During the drive, no definite plan was agreed upon between them; but they understood each other so well, that, when the countess set the young engineer down at his own door, she invited him to dinner the next day, and held out her skinny hand which Andre kissed with devotion, as he thought of the rosy fingers of Valentine.

      When Mme. de la Verberie returned home, the servants were dumb with astonishment at her good-humor: they had not seen her in this happy frame of mind for years.

      And her day’s work was of a nature to elevate her spirits: she had been unexpectedly raised from poverty to affluence. She, who boasted of such proud sentiments, never stopped to think of the infamy of the transaction in which she had been engaged: it seemed quite right in her selfish eyes.

      “A pension of six thousand francs!” she thought, “and a thousand crowns from the estate, that makes nine thousand francs a year! My daughter will live in Paris after she is married, and I can spend the winters with my dear children without expense.”

      At this price, she would have sold, not only one, but three daughters, if she had possessed them.

      But suddenly her blood ran cold at a sudden thought, which crossed her mind.

      “Would Valentine consent?”

      Her anxiety to set her mind at rest sent her straightway to her daughter’s room. She found Valentine reading by the light of a flickering candle.

      “My daughter,” she said abruptly, “an estimable young man has demanded your hand in marriage, and I have promised it to him.”

      On this startling announcement, Valentine started up and clasped her hands.

      “Impossible!” she murmured, “impossible!”

      “Will you be good enough to explain why it is impossible?”

      “Did you tell him, mother, who I am, what I am? Did you confess——”

      “Your past fully? No, thank God, I am not fool enough for that, and I hope you will have the sense to imitate my example, and keep silent on the subject.”

      Although Valentine’s spirit was completely crushed by her mother’s tyranny, her sense of honor made her revolt against this demand.

      “You certainly would not wish me to marry an honest man, mother, without confessing to him everything connected with the past? I could never practise a deception so base.”

      The countess felt very much like flying into a passion; but she knew that threats would be of no avail in this instance, where resistance would be a duty of conscience with her daughter. Instead of commanding, she entreated.

      “Poor child,” she said, “my poor, dear Valentine. If you only knew the dreadful state of our affairs, you would not talk in this heartless way. Your folly commenced our ruin; now it is at its last stage. Do you know that our creditors threaten to drive us away from La Verberie? Then what will become of us, my poor child? Must I in my old age go begging from door to door? We are on the verge of ruin, and this marriage is our only hope of salvation.”

      These tearful entreaties were followed by plausible arguments.

      The fair-spoken countess made use of strange and subtle theories. What she formerly regarded as a monstrous crime, she now spoke of as a peccadillo.

      She could understand, she said, her daughter’s scruples if there were any danger of the past being brought to light; but she had taken such precautions that there was no fear of that.

      Would it make her love her husband any the less? No. Would he be made any happier for hearing that she had loved before? No. Then why say anything about the past?

      Shocked, bewildered, Valentine asked herself if this was really her mother? The haughty woman, who had always been such a worshipper of honor and duty, to contradict every word she had uttered during her life! Valentine could not understand the sudden change.

      But she would have understood it, had she known to what base deeds a mind blunted by selfishness and vanity can lend itself.

      The countess’s subtle arguments and shameful sophistry neither moved nor convinced her; but she had not the courage to resist the tearful entreaties of her mother, who ended by falling on her knees, and with clasped hands imploring her child to save her from worse than death.

      Violently agitated, distracted by a thousand conflicting emotions, daring neither to refuse nor to promise, fearing the consequences of a decision thus forced from her, the unhappy girl begged her mother for a few hours to reflect.

      Mme. de la Verberie dared not refuse this request, and acquiesced.

      “I will leave you, my daughter,” she said, “and I trust your own heart will tell you how to decide between a useless confession and your mother’s salvation.”

      With these words she left the room indignant but hopeful.

      And she had grounds for hope. Placed between two obligations equally sacred, equally binding, but diametrically opposite, Valentine’s troubled mind could no longer clearly discern the path of duty. Could she reduce her mother to want and misery? Could she basely deceive the confidence and love of an honorable man? However she decided, her future life would be one of suffering and remorse.

      Alas! why had she not a wise and kind adviser to point out the right course to pursue, and assist her in struggling against evil influences? Why had she not that gentle, discreet friend who had inspired her with hope and courage in her first dark sorrow—Dr. Raget?

      Formerly the memory of Gaston had been her guiding star: now this far-off memory was nothing but a faint mist—a sort of vanishing dream.

      In romance we meet with heroines of lifelong constancy: real life produces no such miracles.

      For a long time Valentine’s mind had been filled with the image of Gaston. As the hero of her dreams she dwelt fondly on his memory; but the shadows of time had gradually dimmed the brilliancy of her idol, and now only preserved a cold relic, over which she sometimes wept.

      When she arose the next morning, pale and weak from a sleepless, tearful night, she had almost resolved to confess everything to her suitor.

      But when evening came, and she went down to see Andre Fauvel, the presence of her mother’s threatening, supplicating eye destroyed her courage.

      She said to herself, “I will tell him to-morrow.” Then she said, “I will wait

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