“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 bed-side, with a grave, perplexed look upon his usually cheerful face.