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.