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      The countess saw all these struggles, but was not made uneasy by them.

      She knew by experience that, when a painful duty is put off, it is never performed.

      There was some excuse for Valentine in the horror of her situation. Perhaps, unknown to herself, she felt a faint hope arise within her. Any marriage, even an unhappy one, offered the prospect of a change, of a new life, a relief from the insupportable suffering she was now enduring.

      Sometimes, in her ignorance of human life, she imagined that time and close intimacy would take it easier for her to confess her terrible fault; that it would be the most natural thing in the world for Andre to pardon her, and insist upon marrying her, since he loved her so deeply.

      That he sincerely loved her, she knew full well. It was not the impetuous passion of Gaston, with its excitements and terrors, but a calm, steady affection, more lasting than the intoxicating love of Gaston was ever likely to be. She felt a sort of blissful rest in its legitimacy and constancy.

      Thus Valentine gradually became accustomed to Andre’s soothing presence, and was surprised into feeling very happy at the constant delicate attentions and looks of affection that he lavished upon her. She did not feel any love for him yet; but a separation would have distressed her deeply.

      During the courtship the countess’s conduct was a masterpiece.

      She suddenly ceased to importune her daughter, and with tearful resignation said she would not attempt to influence her decision, that her happy settlement in life was the only anxiety that weighed upon her mind.

      But she went about the house sighing and groaning as if she were upon the eve of starving to death. She also made arrangements to be tormented by the bailiffs. Attachments and notices to quit poured in at La Verberie, which she would show to Valentine and, with tears in her eyes, say:

      “God grant we may not be driven from the home of our ancestors before your marriage, my darling!”

      Knowing that her presence was sufficient to freeze any confession on her daughter’s lips, she never left her alone with Andre.

      “Once married,” she thought, “they can settle the matter to suit themselves. I shall not then be disturbed by it.”

      She was as impatient as Andre, and hastened the preparations for the wedding. She gave Valentine no opportunity for reflection. She kept her constantly busy, either in driving to town to purchase some article of dress, or in paying visits.

      At last the eve of the wedding-day found her anxious and oppressed with fear lest something should prevent the consummation of her hopes and labors. She was like a gambler who had ventured his last stake.

      On this night, for the first time, Valentine found herself alone with the man who was to become her husband.

      She was sitting at twilight, in the parlor, miserable and trembling, anxious to unburden her mind, and yet frightened at the very thought of doing so, when Andre entered. Seeing that she was agitated, he pressed her hand, and gently begged her to tell him the cause of her sorrow.

      “Am I not your best friend,” he said, “and ought I not to be the confidant of your troubles, if you have any? Why these tears, my darling?”

      Now was the time for her to confess, and throw herself upon his generosity. But her trembling lips refused to open when she thought of his pain and anguish, and the anger of her mother, which would be caused by the few words she would utter. She felt that it was too late; and, bursting into tears, she cried out, “I am afraid—What shall I do?”

      Imagining that she was merely disturbed by the vague fears experienced by most young girls when about to marry, he tried, with tender, loving words, to console and reassure her, promising to shield her from every care and sorrow, if she would only trust to his devoted love. But what was his surprise to find that his affectionate words only increased her distress; she buried her face in her hands, and wept as if her heart would break.

      While she was thus summoning her courage, and he was entreating her confidence, Mme. de la Verberie came hurrying into the room for them to sign the contract.

      The opportunity was lost; Andre Fauvel was left in ignorance.

      The next day, a lovely spring morning, Andre Fauvel and Valentine de la Verberie were married at the village church.

      Early in the morning, the chateau was filled with the bride’s friends, who came, according to custom, to assist at her wedding toilet.

      Valentine forced herself to appear calm, even smiling; but her face was whiter than her veil; her heart was torn by remorse. She felt as though the sad truth were written upon her brow; and this pure white dress was a bitter irony, a galling humiliation.

      She shuddered when her most intimate school-mate placed the wreath of orange-blossoms upon her head. These emblems of purity seemed to burn her like a band of red-hot iron. One of the wire stems of the flowers scratched her forehead, and a drop of blood fell upon her snowy robe.

      What an evil omen! Valentine was near fainting when she thought of the past and the future connected by this bloody sign of woe.

      But presages are deceitful, as it proved with Valentine; for she became a happy woman and a loving wife.

      Yes, at the end of her first year of married life, she confessed to herself that her happiness would be complete if she could only forget the terrible past.

      Andre adored her. He had been wonderfully successful in his business affairs; he wished to be immensely rich, not for himself, but for the sake of his beloved wife, whom he would surround with every luxury. He thought her the most beautiful woman in Paris, and determined that she should be the most superbly dressed.

      Eighteen months after her marriage, Madame Fauvel presented her husband with a son. But neither this child, nor a second son born a year later, could make her forget the first one of all, the poor, forsaken babe who had been thrown upon strangers, mercenaries, who valued the money, but not the child for whom it was paid.

      She would look at her two sons, surrounded by every luxury which money could give, and murmur to herself:

      “Who knows if the abandoned one has bread to eat?”

      If she only knew where he was: if she only dared inquire! But she was afraid.

      Sometimes she would be uneasy about Gaston’s jewels, constantly fearing that their hiding-place would be discovered. Then she would think, “I may as well be tranquil; misfortune has forgotten me.”

      Poor, deluded woman! Misfortune is a visitor who sometimes delays his visits, but always comes in the end.

      XV

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      Louis de Clameran, the second son of the marquis, was one of those self-controlled men who, beneath a cool, careless manner, conceal a fiery temperament, and ungovernable passions.

      All sorts of extravagant ideas had begun to ferment in his disordered brain, long before the occurrence which decided the destiny of the Clameran family.

      Apparently occupied in the pursuit of pleasure, this precocious hypocrite longed for a larger field in which to indulge his evil inclinations, secretly cursing the stern necessity which chained him down to this dreary country life, and the old chateau, which to him was more gloomy than a prison, and as lifeless as the grave.

      This existence, dragged out in the country and the small neighboring towns, was too monotonous for his restless nature. The paternal authority, though so gently expressed, exasperated his rebellious temper. He thirsted for independence, riches, excitement, and all the unknown pleasures that pall upon the senses simultaneously with their attainment.

      Louis did not love his father, and he hated his brother Gaston.

      The old marquis, in his culpable

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