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.  Good-day.”

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 suffering.

Perhaps, discovering the uselessness of her sacrifice, of her courage, and her devotion to what she had considered her duty, she regretted not having followed him.  What had become of him?  Might he not have contrived to 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 to return a rich man before the lapse of three years.  Would he ever return?