“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.