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 and mocking salutations with which the gossips passed her.
When Valentine reached La Verberie, she found Mihonne waiting for her.
"Ah, mademoiselle," she said, "make haste, and go in the house. Madame had a visitor this morning, and ever since she left has been crying out for you. Hurry; and take care what you say to her, for she is in a violent passion."
Much has been said in favor of the patriarchal manners of our ancestors.
Their manners may have been patriarchal years and years ago; but our mothers and wives nowadays certainly have not such ready hands and quick tongues, and are sometimes, at least, elegant in manner, and choice in their language.
Mme. de La Verberie had preserved the manners of the good old times, when grand ladies swore like troopers, and impressed their remarks by slaps in the face.
When Valentine appeared, she was overwhelmed with coarse epithets and violent abuse.
The countess had been informed of everything, with many gross additions added by public scandal. An old dowager, her most intimate friend, had hurried over early in the morning, to offer her this poisoned dish of gossip, seasoned with her own pretended condolences.
In this sad affair, Mme. de la Verberie mourned less over her daughter's loss of reputation, than over the ruin of her own projects --projects of going to Paris, making a grand marriage for Valentine, and living in luxury the rest of her days.
A young girl so compromised would not find it easy to get a husband. It would now be necessary to keep her two years longer in the country, before introducing her into Parisian society. The world must have time to forget this scandal.
"You worthless wretch!" cried the countess with fury; "is it thus you respect the noble traditions of our family? Heretofore it has never been considered necessary to watch the La Verberies; they could take care of their honor: but you must take advantage of your liberty to cover our name with disgrace!"
With a sinking heart, Valentine had foreseen this tirade. She felt that it was only a just punishment for her conduct. Knowing that the indignation of her mother was just, she meekly hung her head like a repentant sinner at the bar of justice.
But this submissive silence only exasperated the angry countess.
"Why do you not answer me?" she screamed with flashing eyes and a threatening gesture. "Speak! you----"
"What can I say, mother?"
"Say, miserable girl? Say that they lied when they accused a La Verberie of disgracing her name! Speak: defend yourself!"
Valentine mournfully shook her head, but said nothing.
"It is true, then?" shrieked the countess, beside herself with rage; "what they said is true?"
"Forgive me, mother: have mercy! I am so miserable!" moaned the poor girl.
"Forgive! have mercy! Do you dare to tell me I have not been deceived by this gossip today? Do you have the insolence to stand there and glory in your shame? Whose blood flows in your veins? You seem to be ignorant that some faults should be persistently denied, no matter how glaring the evidence against them. And you are my daughter! Can you not understand that an ignominious confession like this should never be forced from a woman by any human power? But no, you have lovers, and unblushingly avow it. Why not run over the town and tell everybody? Boast of it, glory in it: it would be something new!"
"Alas! you are pitiless, mother!"
"Did you ever have any pity on me, my dutiful daughter? Did it ever occur to you that your disgrace would kill me? No: I suppose you and your lover have often laughed at my blind confidence; for I had confidence in you: I had perfect faith in you. I believed you to be as innocent as when you lay in your cradle. And it has come to this: drunken men make a jest of your name in a billiard-room, then fight about you, and kill each other. I intrusted to you the honor of our name, and what did you do with it? You handed it over to the first- comer!"
This was too much for Valentine. The words, "first-comer," wounded her pride more than all the other abuse heaped upon her. She tried to protest against this unmerited insult.
"Ah, I have made a mistake in supposing this to be the first one," said the countess. "Among your many lovers, you choose the heir of our worst enemy, the son of those detested Clamerans. Among all, you select a coward who publicly boasted of your favors; a wretch who tried to avenge himself for the heroism of our ancestors by ruining you and me--an old woman and a child!"
"No, mother, you do him wrong. He loved me, and hopes for your consent."
"Wants to marry you, does he? Never, never shall that come to pass! I would rather see you lower than you are, in the gutter, laid in your coffin, than see you the wife of that man!"
Thus the hatred of the countess was expressed very much in the terms which the old marquis had used to his son.
"Besides," she added, with a ferocity of which only a bad woman is capable, "your lover is drowned, and the old marquis is dead. God is just; we are avenged."
The words of St. Jean, "There will be rejoicing at La Verberie," rung in Valentine's ears, as she saw the countess's eyes sparkle with wicked joy.
This was too much for the unfortunate girl.
For half an hour she had been exerting all of her strength to bear this cruel violence from her mother; but her physical endurance was not equal to the task. She turned pale, and with half-closed eyes tried to seize a table, as she felt herself falling; but her head fell against a bracket, and with bleeding forehead she dropped at her mother's feet.
The cold-hearted countess felt no revival of maternal love, as she looked at her daughter's lifeless form. Her vanity was wounded, but no other emotion disturbed her. Hers was a heart so full of anger and hatred that there was no room for any nobler sentiment.
She rang the bell; and the affrighted servants, who were trembling in the passage at the loud and angry tones of that voice, of which they all stood in terror, came running in.
"Carry mademoiselle to her room," she ordered: "lock her up, and bring me the key."
The countess intended keeping Valentine a close prisoner for a long time.
She well knew the mischievous, gossiping propensities of country people, who, from mere idleness, indulge in limitless scandal. A poor fallen girl must either leave the country, or drink to the very dregs the chalice of premeditated humiliations, heaped up and offered her by her neighbors. Each clown delights in casting a stone at her.
The plans of the countess were destined to be disconcerted.
The servants came to tell her that Valentine was restored to consciousness, but seemed to be very ill.
She replied that she would not listen to such absurdities, that it was all affectation; but Mihonne insisted upon her going up and judging for herself. She unwillingly went to her daughter's room, and saw that her life was in danger.
The countess betrayed no apprehension, but sent to Tarascon for Dr. Raget, who was the oracle of the neighborhood; he was with the Marquis of Clameran when he died.
Dr. Raget was one of those men who leave a blessed memory, which lives long after they have left this world.
Intelligent, noble-hearted, and wealthy, he devoted his life to his art; going from the mansions of the rich to the hovels of the poor, without ever accepting remuneration for his services.
At all hours of the night and day, his gray horse and old buggy might be seen, with a basket of wine and soup under the seat, for his poorer patients.
He was a little, bald-headed man of fifty, with a quick, bright eye, and pleasant face.
The servant fortunately found him at home; and he was soon standing at Valentine's bedside, with a grave, perplexed look upon his usually cheerful face.
Endowed with profound perspicacity, quickened by practice, he studied Valentine and her mother alternately; and the penetrating gaze which he fastened on the old countess so disconcerted her that she felt her wrinkled face turning very red.
"This child is very ill," he abruptly said.
Mme. de la Verberie made no reply.
"I desire," continued the doctor, "to remain alone with her for a few minutes."
The countess dared not resist the authority of a man of Dr. Raget's character, and retired to the next room, apparently calm, but in reality disturbed by the most gloomy forebodings.
At the end of half an hour--it seemed a century--the doctor entered the room where she was waiting. He, who had witnessed so much suffering and misery all his life, was agitated and nervous after talking with Valentine.
"Well," said the countess, "what is the matter?"
"Summon all your courage, madame," he answered sadly, "and be prepared to grant indulgence and pardon to your suffering child. Mlle. Valentine will soon become a mother."
"The worthless creature! I feared as much."
The doctor was shocked at this dreadful expression of the countess's eye. He laid his hand on her arm, and gave her a penetrating look, beneath which she instantly quailed.
The doctor's suspicions were correct. A dreadful idea had flashed across Mme. de la Verberie's mind--the idea of destroying this child which would be a living proof of Valentine's sin.
Feeling that her evil intention was divined, the proud woman's eyes fell beneath the doctor's obstinate gaze.
"I do not understand you, Dr. Raget," she murmured.
"But I understand you, madame; and I simply tell you that a crime does not obliterate a fault."
"Doctor!"
"I merely say what I think, madame. If I am mistaken in my impression, so much the better for you. At present, the condition of your daughter is serious, but not dangerous. Excitement and distress of mind have unstrung her nerves, and she now has a high fever; but I hope by great care and good nursing that she will soon recover."
The countess saw that the good doctor's suspicions were not dissipated; so she thought she would try affectionate anxiety, and said:
"At least, doctor, you can assure me that the dear child's life is not in danger?"
"No, madame," answered Dr. Raget with cutting irony, "your maternal tenderness need not be alarmed. All the poor child needs is rest of mind, which you alone can give her. A few kind words from you will do her more good than all of my prescriptions. But remember, madame, that the least shock or nervous excitement will produce the most fatal consequences."
"I am aware of that," said the hypocritical countess, "and shall be very careful. I must confess that I was unable to control my anger upon first hearing your announcement."
"But now that the first shock is over, madame, being a mother and a Christian, you will do your duty. My duty is to save your daughter and her child. I will call to-morrow."
Mme. de la Verberie had no idea of having the doctor go off in this way. She called him back, and, without reflecting that she was betraying herself, cried out:
"Do you pretend to say, monsieur, that you will prevent my taking every means to conceal this terrible misfortune that has fallen upon me? Do you wish our shame to be made public, to make me the laughing- stock of the neighborhood?"
The doctor reflected without answering; the condition of affairs was grave.
"No, madame," he finally said; "I cannot prevent your leaving La Verberie: that would be overstepping my powers. But it is my duty to hold you to account for the child. You are at liberty to go where you please; but you must give me proof of the child's living, or at least that no attempts have been made against its life."
After uttering these threatening words he left the house, and it was in good time; for the countess was choking with suppressed rage.
"Insolent upstart!" she said, "to presume to dictate to a woman of my rank! Ah, if I were not completely at his mercy!"
But she was at his mercy, and she knew well enough that it would be safest to obey.
She stamped her foot with anger, as she thought that all her ambitious plans were dashed to the ground.
No more hopes of luxury, of a millionaire son-in-law, of splendid carriages, rich dresses, and charming card-parties where she could lose money all night without disturbing her mind.
She would have to die as she had lived, neglected and poor; and this future life of deprivation would be harder to bear than the past, because she no longer had bright prospects to look forward to. It was a cruel awakening from her golden dreams.
And it was Valentine who brought this misery upon her.
This reflection aroused all her inherent bitterness, and she felt toward her daughter one of those implacable hatreds which, instead of being quenched, are strengthened by time.
She wished she could see Valentine lying dead before her; above all would she like the accursed infant to come to grief.
But the doctor's threatening look was still before her, and she dared not attempt her wicked plans. She even forced herself to go and say a few forgiving words to Valentine, and then left her to the care of the faithful Mihonne.
Poor Valentine! she prayed that death might kindly end her sufferings. She had neither the moral nor physical courage to fight against her fate, but hopelessly sank beneath the first blow, and made no attempt to rally herself.
She was, however, getting better. She felt that dull, heavy sensation which always follows violent mental or physical suffering; she was still able to reflect, and thought:
"Well, it is over; my mother knows everything. I no longer have her anger to fear, and must trust to time for her forgiveness."
This was the secret which Valentine had refused to reveal to Gaston, because she feared that he would refuse to leave her if he knew it; and she wished him to escape at any price of suffering to herself. Even now she did not regret having followed the dictates of duty, and remained at home.
The only thought which distressed her was Gaston's danger. Had he succeeded in embarking? How would she find out? The doctor had allowed her to get up; but she was not well enough to go out, and she did not know when she should be able to walk as far as Pere Menoul's cabin.
Happily the devoted old boatman was intelligent enough to anticipate her wishes.
Hearing that the young lady at the chateau was very ill, he set about devising some means of informing her of her friend's safety. He went to La Verberie several times on pretended errands, and finally succeeded in seeing Valentine. One of the servants was present, so he could not speak to her; but he made her understand by a significant look that Gaston was out of danger.
This knowledge contributed more toward Valentine's recovery than all the medicines administered by the doctor, who, after visiting her daily for six weeks, now pronounced his patient sufficiently strong to bear the fatigues of a journey.
The countess had waited with the greatest impatience for this decision. In order to prevent any delay, she had already sold at a discount half of her incoming rents, supposing that the sum thus raised, twenty-five thousand francs, would suffice for all contingent expenses.
For a fortnight she had been calling on all of her neighbors to bid them farewell, saying that her daughter had entirely recovered her health, and that she was going to take her to England to visit a rich old uncle, who had repeatedly written for her.
Valentine looked forward to this journey with terror, and shuddered when, on the evening that the doctor gave her permission to set out, her mother came to her room, and said:
"We will start the day after to-morrow."
Only one day left! And Valentine had been unable to let Louis de Clameran know that his brother was still living.
In this extremity she was obliged to confide in Mihonne, and sent her with a letter to Louis.
But the faithful servant had a useless walk.
The chateau of Clameran was deserted; all the servants had been dismissed, and M. Louis, whom they now called the marquis, had gone abroad.
At last they started. Mme. de la Verberie, feeling that she could trust Mihonne, decided to take her along; but first made her sacredly promise eternal secrecy.
It was in a little village near London that the countess, under the assumed name of Mrs. Wilson, took up her abode with her daughter and maid-servant.
She selected England, because she had lived there a long time, and was well acquainted with the manners and habits of the people, and spoke their language as well as she did her own.
She had also kept up her acquaintanceship with some of the English nobility, and often dined and went to the theatre with her friends in London. On these occasions she always took the humiliating precaution of locking up Valentine until she should return.
It was in this sad, solitary house, in the month of May, that the son of Valentine de la Verberie was born. He was taken to the parish priest, and christened Valentin-Raoul Wilson. The countess had prepared everything, and engaged an honest farmer's wife to adopt the child, bring him up as her own, and, when old enough, have him taught a trade. For doing this the countess paid her five hundred pounds.
Little Raoul was given over to his adopted parent a few hours after his birth.
The good woman thought him the child of an English lady, and there seemed no probability that he would ever discover the secret of his birth.
Restored to consciousness, Valentine asked for her child. She yearned to clasp it to her bosom; she implored to be allowed to hold her babe in her arms for only one minute.
But the cruel countess was pitiless.
"Your child!" she cried, "you must be dreaming; you have no child. You have had brain fever, but no child."
And as Valentine persisted in saying that she knew the child was alive, and that she must see it, the countess was forced to change her tactics.
"Your child is alive, and shall want for nothing," she said sharply; "let that suffice; and be thankful that I have so well concealed your disgrace. You must forget what has happened, as you would forget a painful dream. The past must be ignored--wiped out forever. You know me well enough to understand that I will be obeyed."
The moment had come when Valentine should have asserted her maternal rights, and resisted the countess's tyranny.
She had the idea, but not the courage to do so.
If, on one side, she saw the dangers of an almost culpable resignation--for she, too, was a mother!--on the other she felt crushed by the consciousness of her guilt.
She sadly yielded; surrendered herself into the hands of a mother whose conduct she refrained from questioning, to escape the painful necessity of condemning it.
But she secretly pined, and inwardly rebelled against her sad disappointment; and thus her recovery was delayed for several months.
Toward the end of July, the countess took her back to La Verberie. This time the mischief-makers and gossips were skilfully deceived. The countess went everywhere, and instituted secret inquiries, but heard no suspicions of the object of her long trip to England. Everyone believed in the visit to the rich uncle.
Only one man, Dr. Raget, knew the truth; and, although Mme. de la Verberie hated him from the bottom of her heart, she did him the justice to feel sure that she had nothing to fear from his indiscretion.
Her first visit was paid to him.
When she entered the room, she abruptly threw on the table the official papers which she had procured especially for him.
"These will prove to you, monsieur, that the child is living, and well cared for at a cost that I can ill afford."
"These are perfectly right, madame," he replied, after an attentive examination of the papers, "and, if your conscience does not reproach you, of course I have nothing to say."
"My conscience reproaches me with nothing, monsieur."
The old doctor shook his head, and gazing searchingly into her eyes, said:
"Can you say that you have not been harsh, even to cruelty?"
She turned away her head, and, assuming her grand air, answered:
"I have acted as a woman of my rank should act; and I am surprised to find in you an advocate and abettor of misconduct."
"Ah, madame," said the doctor, "it is your place to show kindness to the poor girl; and if you feel none yourself, you have no right to complain of it in others. What indulgence do you expect from strangers toward your unhappy daughter, when you, her mother, are so pitiless?"
This plain-spoken truth offended the countess, and she rose to leave.
"Have you finished what you have to say, Dr. Raget?" she asked, haughtily.
"Yes, madame; I have done. My only object was to spare you eternal remorse. Goodday."
The good doctor was mistaken in his idea of Mme. de la Verberie's character. She was utterly incapable of feeling remorse; but she suffered cruelly when her selfish vanity was wounded, or her comfort disturbed.
She resumed her luxurious mode of living, but, having disposed of a part of her income, found it difficult to make both ends meet.
This furnished her with an inexhaustible text for complaint; and at every meal she reproached Valentine so unmercifully, that the poor girl shrank from coming to the table. She seemed to forget her own command, that the past should be buried in oblivion, and constantly recurred to it for food for her anger; a day seldom passed, that she did not say to Valentine:
"Your conduct has ruined me."
One day her daughter could not refrain from replying:
"I suppose you would have pardoned the fault, had it enriched us."
But these revolts of Valentine were rare, although her life was a series of tortures inflicted with inquisitorial cruelty.
Even the memory of Gaston had become a sufferin