XIV
Cold and white as a marble statue, Valentine stood on the bank of theriver, watching the frail bark which was carrying her lover away. Itflew along the Rhone like a bird in a tempest, and after a few secondsappeared like a black speck in the midst of the heavy fog which floatedover the water, then was lost to view.
Now that Gaston was gone, Valentine had no motive for concealing herdespair; she wrung her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break. Allher forced calmness, her bravery and hopefulness, were gone. She feltcrushed and lost, as if the sharp pain in her heart was the forerunnerof the torture in store for her; as if that swiftly gliding bark hadcarried off the better part of herself.
While Gaston treasured in the bottom of his heart a ray of hope, shefelt there was nothing to look forward to but shame and sorrow.
The horrible facts which stared her in the face convinced her thathappiness in this life was over; the future was worse than blank. Shewept and shuddered at the prospect.
She slowly retraced her footsteps through the friendly little gate whichhad so often admitted poor Gaston; and, as she closed it behind her,she seemed to be placing an impassable barrier between herself andhappiness.
Before entering, Valentine walked around the chateau, and looked up atthe windows of her mother's chamber.
They were brilliantly lighted, as usual at this hour, for Mme. de laVerberie passed half the night in reading, and slept till late in theday.
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 situnder trees for hours at a time, without restriction.
But on this night Valentine feared being seen. She would be called uponto explain the torn, muddy condition of her dress, and what answer couldshe give?
Fortunately she could reach her room without meeting anyone.
She needed solitude in order to collect her thoughts, and to pray forstrength to bear the heavy burden of her sorrows, and to withstand theangry 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, shethought, as she slipped the sparkling gem on her finger; but her motherwould 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 sacreddeposit in her bureau.
When she thought of going to Clameran, to inform the old marquis of themiraculous preservation of his son's life, her heart sank.
Blinded by his passion, Gaston did not think, when he requested thisservice, 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 foran instant to break her promise by sending another, or by delaying to goherself.
At sunrise she dressed herself.
When the bell was ringing for early mass, she thought it a good time tostart on her errand.
The servants were all up, and one of them named Mihonne, who alwayswaited on Valentine, was scrubbing the vestibule.
"If mother asks for me," said Valentine to the girl, "tell her I havegone to early mass."
She often went to church at this hour, so there was nothing to be fearedthus 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 wasanother league thence to Clameran; in all she must walk four leagues.
She set forth at a rapid pace. The consciousness of performing anextraordinary action, the feverish anxiety of peril incurred, increasedher 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 thelong avenue leading to the main entrance of the chateau of Clameran.
She had only proceeded a few steps, when she saw old St. Jean comingdown 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 hecame 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 aninsolent 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, wasbewildered at her composure.
"I am going to the chateau," she said, quietly, "to speak to themarquis."
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 ofthe La Verberies. And now he saw in Valentine the woman who had causedthe death of the marquis whom he had served for forty years, and ofGaston whom he worshipped.
"I will tell you how he died," said the bitter old man. "Yesterdayevening, when those hounds came and told the marquis that his eldestson 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 hislips; not one word did he utter. We put him to bed, and M. Louisgalloped 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 heuttered were, 'Father and son the same day; there will be rejoicing atLa Verberie.'"
Valentine might have soothed the sorrow of the faithful servant, bytelling 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 ofpoor St. Jean.
"You! You would dare take such a step, Mlle. de la Verberie? What! wouldyou presume to appear before him after what has happened? I will neverallow it! And you had best, moreover, take my advice, and return home atonce. I will not answer for the tongues of the servants here, when theysee you."
And, without waiting for an answer, he hurried away.
What could Valentine do? Humiliated and miserable, she could onlywearily drag her aching limbs back the way she had so rapidly come earlythat 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 poorgirl was obliged to keep her eyes fastened to the ground in orderto escape the insulting looks and mocking salutations with which thegossips passed her.
When Valentine reached La Verberie, she found Mihonne waiting for her.
"Ah, mademoiselle," she said, "make haste, and go in the house. Madamehad a visitor this morning, and ever since she left has been cryingout for you. Hurry; and take care what you say to her, for she is in aviolent 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 ourmothers and wives nowadays certainly have not such ready hands and quicktongues, and are sometimes, at
least, elegant in manner, and choice intheir language.
Mme. de La Verberie had preserved the manners of the good old times,when grand ladies swore like troopers, and impressed their remarks byslaps in the face.
When Valentine appeared, she was overwhelmed with coarse epithets andviolent abuse.
The countess had been informed of everything, with many gross additionsadded by public scandal. An old dowager, her most intimate friend, hadhurried over early in the morning, to offer her this poisoned dish ofgossip, seasoned with her own pretended condolences.
In this sad affair, Mme. de la Verberie mourned less over her daughter'sloss of reputation, than over the ruin of her own projects--projectsof going to Paris, making a grand marriage for Valentine, and living inluxury 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 timeto forget this scandal.
"You worthless wretch!" cried the countess with fury; "is it thus yourespect the noble traditions of our family? Heretofore it has never beenconsidered necessary to watch the La Verberies; they could take care oftheir honor: but you must take advantage of your liberty to cover ourname with disgrace!"
With a sinking heart, Valentine had foreseen this tirade. She feltthat it was only a just punishment for her conduct. Knowing that theindignation of her mother was just, she meekly hung her head like arepentant 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 athreatening gesture. "Speak! you----"
"What can I say, mother?"
"Say, miserable girl? Say that they lied when they accused a La Verberieof 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 poorgirl.
"Forgive! have mercy! Do you dare to tell me I have not been deceived bythis gossip to-day? Do you have the insolence to stand there and gloryin your shame? Whose blood flows in your veins? You seem to be ignorantthat some faults should be persistently denied, no matter how glaringthe evidence against them. And you are my daughter! Can you notunderstand that an ignominious confession like this should never beforced from a woman by any human power? But no, you have lovers, andunblushingly 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 everoccur to you that your disgrace would kill me? No: I suppose youand your lover have often laughed at my blind confidence; for I hadconfidence in you: I had perfect faith in you. I believed you to beas 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 fightabout you, and kill each other. I intrusted to you the honor ofour name, and what did you do with it? You handed it over to thefirst-comer!"
This was too much for Valentine. The words, "first-comer," woundedher pride more than all the other abuse heaped upon her. She tried toprotest against this unmerited insult.
"Ah, I have made a mistake in supposing this to be the first one," saidthe countess. "Among your many lovers, you choose the heir of our worstenemy, the son of those detested Clamerans. Among all, you select acoward who publicly boasted of your favors; a wretch who tried to avengehimself for the heroism of our ancestors by ruining you and me--an oldwoman 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! Iwould rather see you lower than you are, in the gutter, laid in yourcoffin, than see you the wife of that man!"
Thus the hatred of the countess was expressed very much in the termswhich the old marquis had used to his son.
"Besides," she added, with a ferocity of which only a bad woman iscapable, "your lover is drowned, and the old marquis is dead. God isjust; we are avenged."
The words of St. Jean, "There will be rejoicing at La Verberie," rungin Valentine's ears, as she saw the countess's eyes sparkle with wickedjoy.
This was too much for the unfortunate girl.
For half an hour she had been exerting all of her strength to bear thiscruel violence from her mother; but her physical endurance was not equalto the task. She turned pale, and with half-closed eyes tried to seize atable, 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 shelooked at her daughter's lifeless form. Her vanity was wounded, butno other emotion disturbed her. Hers was a heart so full of anger andhatred that there was no room for any nobler sentiment.
She rang the bell; and the affrighted servants, who were trembling inthe passage at the loud and angry tones of that voice, of which they allstood in terror, came running in.
"Carry mademoiselle to her room," she ordered: "lock her up, and bringme the key."
The countess intended keeping Valentine a close prisoner for a longtime.
She well knew the mischievous, gossiping propensities of country people,who, from mere idleness, indulge in limitless scandal. A poor fallengirl must either leave the country, or drink to the very dregs thechalice of premeditated humiliations, heaped up and offered her by herneighbors. 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 toconsciousness, but seemed to be very ill.
She replied that she would not listen to such absurdities, that it wasall affectation; but Mihonne insisted upon her going up and judging forherself. She unwillingly went to her daughter's room, and saw that herlife 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 Marquisof Clameran when he died.
Dr. Raget was one of those men who leave a blessed memory, which liveslong 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, withoutever accepting remuneration for his services.
At all hours of the night and day, his gray horse and old buggy mightbe seen, with a basket of wine and soup under the seat, for his poorerpatients.
He was a little, bald-headed man of fifty, with a quick, bright eye, andpleasant face.
The servant fortunately found him at home; and he was soon standingat Valentine's bed-side, with a grave, perplexed look upon his usuallycheerful face.
Endowed with profound perspicacity, quickened by practice, he studiedValentine and her mother alternately; and the penetrating gaze whichhe fastened on the old countess so disconcerted her that she felt herwrinkled 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 fewminutes."
The countess dared not resist the authority of a man of Dr. Raget'scharacter, and retired to the next room, apparently calm, but in realitydisturbed by the most gloomy forebodings.
At the end of half an hour--it seemed a century--the doctor entered theroom where she was waiting. He, who had witnessed so much sufferingand misery all his life, was agitated and nervous after talking withValentine.
"Well," said the countess, "what is the matter?"
"Summon all your courage, madame," he answered sadly, "and be preparedto grant indulgence and pardon to your suffering child. Mlle. Valentinewill soon become a mother."
"T
he worthless creature! I feared as much."
The doctor was shocked at this dreadful expression of the countess'seye. 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 ideaof destroying this child which would be a living proof of Valentine'ssin.
Feeling that her evil intention was divined, the proud woman's eyes fellbeneath 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 doesnot 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 daughteris serious, but not dangerous. Excitement and distress of mind haveunstrung her nerves, and she now has a high fever; but I hope by greatcare 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 notin danger?"
"No, madame," answered Dr. Raget with cutting irony, "your maternaltenderness need not be alarmed. All the poor child needs is rest ofmind, which you alone can give her. A few kind words from you will doher more good than all of my prescriptions. But remember, madame,that the least shock or nervous excitement will produce the most fatalconsequences."
"I am aware of that," said the hypocritical countess, "and shall be verycareful. I must confess that I was unable to control my anger upon firsthearing your announcement."
"But now that the first shock is over, madame, being a mother and aChristian, you will do your duty. My duty is to save your daughter andher child. I will call to-morrow."
Mme. de la Verberie had no idea of having the doctor go off in thisway. She called him back, and, without reflecting that she was betrayingherself, cried out:
"Do you pretend to say, monsieur, that you will prevent my taking everymeans to conceal this terrible misfortune that has fallen upon me? Doyou wish our shame to be made public, to make me the laughing-stock ofthe neighborhood?"
The doctor reflected without answering; the condition of affairs wasgrave.
"No, madame," he finally said; "I cannot prevent your leaving LaVerberie: that would be overstepping my powers. But it is my duty tohold you to account for the child. You are at liberty to go where youplease; but you must give me proof of the child's living, or at leastthat no attempts have been made against its life."
After uttering these threatening words he left the house, and it was ingood time; for the countess was choking with suppressed rage.
"Insolent upstart!" she said, "to presume to dictate to a woman of myrank! Ah, if I were not completely at his mercy!"
But she was at his mercy, and she knew well enough that it would besafest to obey.
She stamped her foot with anger, as she thought that all her ambitiousplans were dashed to the ground.
No more hopes of luxury, of a millionaire son-in-law, of splendidcarriages, rich dresses, and charming card-parties where she could losemoney all night without disturbing her mind.
She would have to die as she had lived, neglected and poor; and thisfuture life of deprivation would be harder to bear than the past,because she no longer had bright prospects to look forward to. It was acruel 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 towardher daughter one of those implacable hatreds which, instead of beingquenched, are strengthened by time.
She wished she could see Valentine lying dead before her; above allwould she like the accursed infant to come to grief.
But the doctor's threatening look was still before her, and she darednot attempt her wicked plans. She even forced herself to go and say afew forgiving words to Valentine, and then left her to the care of thefaithful Mihonne.
Poor Valentine! she prayed that death might kindly end her sufferings.She had neither the moral nor physical courage to fight against herfate, but hopelessly sank beneath the first blow, and made no attempt torally herself.
She was, however, getting better. She felt that dull, heavy sensationwhich always follows violent mental or physical suffering; she was stillable to reflect, and thought:
"Well, it is over; my mother knows everything. I no longer have heranger 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; andshe wished him to escape at any price of suffering to herself. Even nowshe did not regret having followed the dictates of duty, and remained athome.
The only thought which distressed her was Gaston's danger. Had hesucceeded in embarking? How would she find out? The doctor had allowedher to get up; but she was not well enough to go out, and she did notknow when she should be able to walk as far as Pere Menoul's cabin.
Happily the devoted old boatman was intelligent enough to anticipate herwishes.
Hearing that the young lady at the chateau was very ill, he set aboutdevising some means of informing her of her friend's safety. He went toLa Verberie several times on pretended errands, and finally succeeded inseeing Valentine. One of the servants was present, so he could not speakto her; but he made her understand by a significant look that Gaston wasout of danger.
This knowledge contributed more toward Valentine's recovery than all themedicines administered by the doctor, who, after visiting her daily forsix weeks, now pronounced his patient sufficiently strong to bear thefatigues 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 halfof her incoming rents, supposing that the sum thus raised, twenty-fivethousand francs, would suffice for all contingent expenses.
For a fortnight she had been calling on all of her neighbors to bid themfarewell, 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 shudderedwhen, on the evening that the doctor gave her permission to set out, hermother 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 deClameran know that his brother was still living.
In this extremity she was obliged to confide in Mihonne, and sent herwith a letter to Louis.
But the faithful servant had a useless walk.
The chateau of Clameran was deserted; all the servants had beendismissed, and M. Louis, whom they now called the marquis, had goneabroad.
At last they started. Mme. de la Verberie, feeling that she could trustMihonne, decided to take her along; but first made her sacredly promiseeternal secrecy.
It was in a little village near London that the countess, under theassumed name of Mrs. Wilson, took up her abode with her daughter andmaid-servant.
She selected England, because she had lived there a long time, and waswell acquainted with the manners and habits of the people, and spoketheir language as well as she did her own.
She had also kept up her acquaintanceship with some of the Englishnobility, and often dined and went to the theatre with her friends inLondon. On these occasions she always took the humiliating precaution oflocking up Valentine until she should return.
It was in this sad, solitary house, in the month of May, that the sonof Valentine de la Verberie was born. He was taken to the parishpriest, and christened Valentin-Raoul Wilson. The countess had preparedeverything, and engaged an honest farmer's wife to adopt the child,bring him up as her own, and, when old enough, have him ta
ught 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 hisbirth.
The good woman thought him the child of an English lady, and thereseemed no probability that he would ever discover the secret of hisbirth.
Restored to consciousness, Valentine asked for her child. She yearnedto clasp it to her bosom; she implored to be allowed to hold her babe inher arms for only one minute.
But the cruel countess was pitiless.
"Your child!" she cried, "you must be dreaming; you have no child. Youhave 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 yourdisgrace. You must forget what has happened, as you would forget apainful dream. The past must be ignored--wiped out forever. You know mewell enough to understand that I will be obeyed."
The moment had come when Valentine should have asserted her maternalrights, 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 culpableresignation--for she, too, was a mother!--on the other she felt crushedby the consciousness of her guilt.
She sadly yielded; surrendered herself into the hands of a mother whoseconduct she refrained from questioning, to escape the painful necessityof condemning it.
But she secretly pined, and inwardly rebelled against her saddisappointment; 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. Thecountess went everywhere, and instituted secret inquiries, but heard nosuspicions of the object of her long trip to England. Everyone believedin the visit to the rich uncle.
Only one man, Dr. Raget, knew the truth; and, although Mme. de laVerberie hated him from the bottom of her heart, she did him the justiceto 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 officialpapers which she had procured especially for him.
"These will prove to you, monsieur, that the child is living, and wellcared for at a cost that I can ill afford."
"These are perfectly right, madame," he replied, after an attentiveexamination of the papers, "and, if your conscience does not reproachyou, 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 tofind in you an advocate and abettor of misconduct."
"Ah, madame," said the doctor, "it is your place to show kindness to thepoor girl; and if you feel none yourself, you have no right to complainof it in others. What indulgence do you expect from strangers towardyour 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 eternalremorse. Good-day."
The good doctor was mistaken in his idea of Mme. de la Verberie'scharacter. She was utterly incapable of feeling remorse; but shesuffered cruelly when her selfish vanity was wounded, or her comfortdisturbed.
She resumed her luxurious mode of living, but, having disposed of a partof her income, found it difficult to make both ends meet.
This furnished her with an inexhaustible text for complaint; and atevery meal she reproached Valentine so unmercifully, that the poor girlshrank from coming to the table.
She seemed to forget her own command, that the past should be buried inoblivion, and constantly recurred to it for food for her anger; a dayseldom 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 seriesof tortures inflicted with inquisitorial cruelty.
Even the memory of Gaston had become a suffering.
Perhaps, discovering the uselessness of her sacrifice, of her courage,and her devotion to what she had considered her duty, she regretted nothaving followed him. What had become of him? Might he not have contrivedto send her a letter, a word to let her know that he was still alive?Perhaps he was not dead. Perhaps he had forgotten her. He had sworn toreturn a rich man before the lapse of three years. Would he ever return?
There was a risk in his returning under any circumstances. Hisdisappearance had not ended the terrible affair of Tarascon. He wassupposed to be dead; but as there was no positive proof of his death,and his body could not be found, the law was compelled to yield to theclamor of public opinion.
The case was brought before the assize court; and, in default ofappearance, Gaston de Clameran was sentenced to several years of closeconfinement.
As to Louis de Clameran, no one knew positively what had become ofhim. Some people said he was leading a life of reckless extravagance inParis.
Informed of these facts by her faithful Mihonne, Valentine becamemore gloomy and hopeless than ever. Vainly did she question the drearyfuture; no ray appeared upon the dark horizon of her life.
Her elasticity was gone; and she had finally reached that state ofpassive resignation peculiar to people who are oppressed and cowed athome.
In this miserable way, passed four years since the fatal evening whenGaston left her.
Mme. de la Verberie had spent these years in constant discomfort. Seeingthat she could not live upon her income, and having too much pride tosell her land, which was so badly managed that it only brought her intwo per cent, she mortgaged her estate in order to raise money only tobe spent as soon as borrowed.
In such matters, it is the first step that costs; and, after having oncecommenced to live upon her capital, the countess made rapid strides inextravagance, saying to herself, "After me, the deluge!" Very much asher neighbor, the late Marquis of Clameran, had managed his affairs, shewas now conducting hers, having but one object in view--her own comfortand pleasure.
She made frequent visits to the neighboring towns of Nimes and Avignon;she sent to Paris for the most elegant toilets, and entertained a greatdeal of company. All the luxury that she had hoped to obtain by theacquisition of a rich son-in-law, she determined to give herself,utterly regardless of the fact that she was reducing her child tobeggary. Great sorrows require consolation!
The summer that she returned from London, she did not hesitate toindulge her fancy for a horse; it was rather old, to be sure, but, whenharnessed to a second-hand carriage bought on credit at Beaucaire, madequite a good appearance.
She would quiet her conscience, which occasionally reproached her forthis constant extravagance, by saying, "I am so unhappy!"
The unhappiness was that this luxury cost her dear, very dear.
After having sold the rest of her rents, the countess first mortgagedthe estate of La Verberie, and then the chateau itself.
In less than four years she owed more than forty thousand francs, andwas unable to pay the interest of her debt.
She was racking her mind to discover some means of escape from herdifficulties, when chance came to her rescue.
For some time a young engineer, employed in surveys along the Rhone, hadmade the village of Beaucaire the centre of his operations.
Being handsome, agreeable, and of
polished manners, he had been warmlywelcomed by the neighboring society, and the countess frequently methim at the houses of her friends where she went to play cards in theevenings.
This young engineer was named Andre Fauvel.
The first time he met Valentine he was struck by her beauty, and afteronce looking into her large, melancholy eyes, his admiration deepenedinto love; a love so earnest and passionate, that he felt that he couldnever be happy without her.
Before being introduced to her, his heart had surrendered itself to hercharms.
He was wealthy; a splendid career was open to him, he was free; and heswore that Valentine should be his.
He confided all his matrimonial plans to an old friend of Mme. de laVerberie, who was as noble as a Montmorency, and as poor as Job.
With the precision of a graduate of the polytechnic school, he hadenumerated all his qualifications for being a model son-in-law.
For a long time the old lady listened to him without interruption;but, when he had finished, she did not hesitate to tell him that hispretensions were presumptuous.
What! he, a man of no pedigree, a Fauvel, a common surveyor, to aspireto the hand of a La Verberie!
After having enumerated all the superior advantages of that superiororder of beings, the nobility, she condescended to take a common-senseview of the case, and said:
"However, you may succeed. The poor countess owes money in everydirection; not a day passes without the bailiffs calling upon her; sothat, you understand, if a rich suitor appeared, and agreed to her termsfor settlements--well, well, there is no knowing what might happen."
Andre Fauvel was young and sentimental: the insinuations of the old ladyseemed to him preposterous.
On reflection, however, when he had studied the character of thenobility in the neighborhood, who were rich in nothing but prejudices,he clearly saw that pecuniary considerations alone would be strongenough to decide the proud Countess de la Verberie to grant him herdaughter's hand.
This certainly ended his hesitations, and he turned his whole attentionto devising a plan for presenting his claim.
He did not find this an easy thing to accomplish. To go in quest of awife with her purchase-money in his hand was repugnant to his feelings,and contrary to his ideas of delicacy. But he had no one to urge hissuit for him on his own merits; so he was compelled to shut his eyes tothe distasteful features of his task, and treat his passion as a matterof business.
The occasion so anxiously awaited, to explain his intentions, soonpresented itself.
One day he entered a hotel at Beaucaire, and, as he sat down to dinner,he saw that Mme. de la Verberie was at the adjoining table. He blusheddeeply, and asked permission to sit at her table, which was granted witha most encouraging smile.
Did the countess suspect the love of the young engineer? Had she beenwarned by her friend?
At any rate, without giving Andre time to gradually approach the subjectweighing on his mind, she began to complain of the hard times, thescarcity of money, and the grasping meanness of the trades-people.
She had come to Beaucaire, indeed, to borrow money, and found every bankand cash-box closed against her; and her lawyer had advised her to sellher land for what it would bring. This made her very angry.
Temper, joined to that secret instinct of the situation of affairs whichis the sixth sense of a woman, loosened her tongue, and made her morecommunicative to this comparative stranger than she had ever been toher bosom friends. She explained to him the horror of her situation,her present needs, her anxiety for the future, and, above all, her greatdistress at not being able to marry off her beloved daughter. If sheonly had a dowry for her child!
Andre listened to these complaints with becoming commiseration, but inreality he was delighted.
Without giving her time to finish her tale, he began to state what hecalled his view of the matter.
He said that, although he sympathized deeply with the countess, he couldnot account for her uneasiness about her daughter.
What? Could she be disturbed at having no dowry for her? Why, the rankand beauty of Mlle. Valentine were a fortune in themselves, of which anyman might be proud.
He knew more than one man who would esteem himself only too happy ifMlle. Valentine would accept his name, and confer upon him the sweetduty of relieving her mother from all anxiety and care. Finally, he didnot think the situation of the countess's affairs nearly so desperate asshe imagined. How much money would be necessary to pay off the mortgagesupon La Verberie? About forty thousand francs, perhaps? Indeed! That wasbut a mere trifle.
Besides, this sum need not be a gift from the son-in-law; if she chose,it might be a loan, because the estate would be his in the end, and intime the land would be double its present value; it would be a pity tosell now. A man, too, worthy of Valentine's love could never let hiswife's mother want for the comforts and luxuries due to a lady of herage, rank, and misfortunes. He would be only too glad to offer her asufficient income, not only to provide comfort, but even luxury.
As Andre spoke, in a tone too earnest to be assumed, it seemed to thecountess that a celestial dew was dropping upon her pecuniary wounds.Her countenance was radiant with joy, her fierce little eyes beamed withthe most encouraging tenderness, her thin lips were wreathed in the mostfriendly smiles.
One thought disturbed the young engineer.
"Does she understand me seriously?" he thought.
She certainly did, as her subsequent remarks proved. He saw that thewould-be sentimental old lady had an eye to business.
"Alas!" she sighed, "La Verberie cannot be saved by forty thousandfrancs; the principal and interest of the debt amount to sixtythousand."
"Oh, either forty or sixty thousand is nothing worth speaking of."
"Four thousand francs is not enough to support a lady respectably,"she said after a pause. "Everything is so dear in this section of thecountry! But with six thousand francs--yes, six thousand francs wouldmake me happy!"
The young man thought that her demands were becoming excessive, but withthe 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 foran instant."
"You promise too much!" muttered the countess.
"The imaginary son-in-law," she finally added, "must be an honorable manwho will fulfil his promises. I have my daughter's happiness too muchat heart to give her to a man who did not produce--what do you callthem?--securities, guarantees."
"Decidedly," thought Fauvel with mortification, "we are making a bargainand sale."
Then he said aloud:
"Of course, your son-in-law would bind himself in the marriage contractto--"
"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 asthe 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. Duringthe drive, no definite plan was agreed upon between them; but theyunderstood each other so well, that, when the countess set the youngengineer 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 hethought of the rosy fingers of Valentine.
When Mme. de la Verberie returned home, the servants were dumb withastonishment at her good-humor: they had not seen her in this happyframe of mind for years.
And her day's work was of a nature to elevate her spirits: she had beenunexpectedly raised from poverty to affluence. She, who boasted ofsuch proud sentiments, never stopped to think of the infamy of thetransaction in which she had been engaged: it seemed quite right in herselfish eyes.
"A pension of six thousand francs!" she thought, "and a thousand crownsfrom the estate, that makes nine thousand fra
ncs a year! My daughterwill live in Paris after she is married, and I can spend the winterswith 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 hermind.
"Would Valentine consent?"
Her anxiety to set her mind at rest sent her straightway to herdaughter's room. She found Valentine reading by the light of aflickering candle.
"My daughter," she said abruptly, "an estimable young man has demandedyour hand in marriage, and I have promised it to him."
On this startling announcement, Valentine started up and clasped herhands.
"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 Ihope you will have the sense to imitate my example, and keep silent onthe subject."
Although Valentine's spirit was completely crushed by her mother'styranny, her sense of honor made her revolt against this demand.
"You certainly would not wish me to marry an honest man, mother, withoutconfessing to him everything connected with the past? I could neverpractise a deception so base."
The countess felt very much like flying into a passion; but she knewthat threats would be of no avail in this instance, where resistancewould 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 thedreadful 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 knowthat our creditors threaten to drive us away from La Verberie? Then whatwill become of us, my poor child? Must I in my old age go begging fromdoor to door? We are on the verge of ruin, and this marriage is our onlyhope 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 apeccadillo.
She could understand, she said, her daughter's scruples if there wereany danger of the past being brought to light; but she had taken suchprecautions that there was no fear of that.
Would it make her love her husband any the less? No. Would he be madeany happier for hearing that she had loved before? No. Then why sayanything about the past?
Shocked, bewildered, Valentine asked herself if this was really hermother? The haughty woman, who had always been such a worshipper ofhonor and duty, to contradict every word she had uttered during herlife! Valentine could not understand the sudden change.
But she would have understood it, had she known to what base deeds amind blunted by selfishness and vanity can lend itself.
The countess's subtle arguments and shameful sophistry neither movednor convinced her; but she had not the courage to resist the tearfulentreaties of her mother, who ended by falling on her knees, and withclasped 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 adecision thus forced from her, the unhappy girl begged her mother for afew 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 heartwill tell you how to decide between a useless confession and yourmother's salvation."
With these words she left the room indignant but hopeful.
And she had grounds for hope. Placed between two obligations equallysacred, equally binding, but diametrically opposite, Valentine'stroubled mind could no longer clearly discern the path of duty. Couldshe reduce her mother to want and misery? Could she basely deceive theconfidence and love of an honorable man? However she decided, her futurelife would be one of suffering and remorse.
Alas! why had she not a wise and kind adviser to point out the rightcourse to pursue, and assist her in struggling against evil influences?Why had she not that gentle, discreet friend who had inspired her withhope and courage in her first dark sorrow--Dr. Raget?
Formerly the memory of Gaston had been her guiding star: now thisfar-off memory was nothing but a faint mist--a sort of vanishing dream.
In romance we meet with heroines of lifelong constancy: real lifeproduces no such miracles.
For a long time Valentine's mind had been filled with the image ofGaston. As the hero of her dreams she dwelt fondly on his memory; butthe shadows of time had gradually dimmed the brilliancy of her idol, andnow only preserved a cold relic, over which she sometimes wept.
When she arose the next morning, pale and weak from a sleepless, tearfulnight, she had almost resolved to confess everything to her suitor.
But when evening came, and she went down to see Andre Fauvel, thepresence of her mother's threatening, supplicating eye destroyed hercourage.
She said to herself, "I will tell him to-morrow." Then she said, "I willwait another day; one more day can make no difference."
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 neverperformed.
There was some excuse for Valentine in the horror of her situation.Perhaps, unknown to herself, she felt a faint hope arise within her. Anymarriage, even an unhappy one, offered the prospect of a change, ofa new life, a relief from the insupportable suffering she was nowenduring.
Sometimes, in her ignorance of human life, she imagined that time andclose intimacy would take it easier for her to confess her terriblefault; that it would be the most natural thing in the world for Andre topardon her, and insist upon marrying her, since he loved her so deeply.
That he sincerely loved her, she knew full well. It was not theimpetuous passion of Gaston, with its excitements and terrors, buta calm, steady affection, more lasting than the intoxicating love ofGaston was ever likely to be. She felt a sort of blissful rest in itslegitimacy and constancy.
Thus Valentine gradually became accustomed to Andre's soothing presence,and was surprised into feeling very happy at the constant delicateattentions and looks of affection that he lavished upon her. She did notfeel any love for him yet; but a separation would have distressed herdeeply.
During the courtship the countess's conduct was a masterpiece.
She suddenly ceased to importune her daughter, and with tearfulresignation said she would not attempt to influence her decision, thather happy settlement in life was the only anxiety that weighed upon hermind.
But she went about the house sighing and groaning as if she were uponthe eve of starving to death. She also made arrangements to be tormentedby the bailiffs. Attachments and notices to quit poured in at LaVerberie, 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 beforeyour marriage, my darling!"
Knowing that her presence was sufficient to freeze any confession on herdaughter's lips, she never left her alone with Andre.
"Once married," she thought, "they can settle the matter to suitthemselves. I shall not then be disturbed by it."
She was as impatient as Andre, and hastened the preparations for thewedding. She gave Valentine no opportunity for reflection. She kept herconstantly busy, either in driving to town to purchase some article ofdress, or in paying visits.
At last the eve of the wedding-day found her anxious and oppressed withfear lest something should prevent the consummation of her hopes andlabors. She was like a gambler who had ventured his last stake.
On this night, for the first time, Valentine found herself alone withthe man who was to become her husband.
She was sitting at twilight, in the parlor, miserable and trembling,anxious to unburden h
er mind, and yet frightened at the very thought ofdoing so, when Andre entered. Seeing that she was agitated, he pressedher 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 theconfidant of your troubles, if you have any? Why these tears, mydarling?"
Now was the time for her to confess, and throw herself upon hisgenerosity. But her trembling lips refused to open when she thought ofhis pain and anguish, and the anger of her mother, which would be causedby 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 experiencedby most young girls when about to marry, he tried, with tender, lovingwords, to console and reassure her, promising to shield her from everycare and sorrow, if she would only trust to his devoted love. But whatwas his surprise to find that his affectionate words only increased herdistress; she buried her face in her hands, and wept as if her heartwould break.
While she was thus summoning her courage, and he was entreating herconfidence, Mme. de la Verberie came hurrying into the room for them tosign the contract.
The opportunity was lost; Andre Fauvel was left in ignorance.
The next day, a lovely spring morning, Andre Fauvel and Valentine de laVerberie 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 waswhiter than her veil; her heart was torn by remorse. She felt as thoughthe sad truth were written upon her brow; and this pure white dress wasa bitter irony, a galling humiliation.
She shuddered when her most intimate school-mate placed the wreath oforange-blossoms upon her head. These emblems of purity seemed to burnher like a band of red-hot iron. One of the wire stems of the flowersscratched her forehead, and a drop of blood fell upon her snowy robe.
What an evil omen! Valentine was near fainting when she thought of thepast and the future connected by this bloody sign of woe.
But presages are deceitful, as it proved with Valentine; for she becamea happy woman and a loving wife.
Yes, at the end of her first year of married life, she confessed toherself that her happiness would be complete if she could only forgetthe terrible past.
Andre adored her. He had been wonderfully successful in his businessaffairs; he wished to be immensely rich, not for himself, but for thesake of his beloved wife, whom he would surround with every luxury. Hethought her the most beautiful woman in Paris, and determined that sheshould be the most superbly dressed.
Eighteen months after her marriage, Madame Fauvel presented her husbandwith 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 whohad been thrown upon strangers, mercenaries, who valued the money, butnot the child for whom it was paid.
She would look at her two sons, surrounded by every luxury which moneycould 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 wasafraid.
Sometimes she would be uneasy about Gaston's jewels, constantly fearingthat their hiding-place would be discovered. Then she would think, "Imay as well be tranquil; misfortune has forgotten me."
Poor, deluded woman! Misfortune is a visitor who sometimes delays hisvisits, but always comes in the end.
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