She knew Andre was too magnanimous to ever allude to her horrible fault, and would use every means to conceal it.  But his domestic happiness would be gone forever.  His chair at the fireside would be left empty; his sons would shun her presence, and every family bond would be severed.

Then again, would peace be preserved by her silence?  Would not Clameran end by betraying her to Andre?

She thought of ending her doubts by suicide; but her death would not silence her implacable enemy, who, not being able to disgrace her while alive, would dishonor her memory.

Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and, during the two days succeeding Louis’s visit, Mme. Fauvel could keep her room under pretence of sickness.

But Madeleine, with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt was troubled by something worse than nervous headache, for which the physician was prescribing all sorts of remedies, with no beneficial effect.

She remembered that this sudden illness dated from the visit of the melancholy looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long time with her aunt.

Madeleine supposed something was weighing upon the miserable woman’s mind, and the second day of her sickness ventured to say: 

“What makes you so sad, dear aunt?  If you will not tell me, do let me bring our good cure to see you.”

With a sharpness foreign to her nature, which was gentleness itself, Mme. Fauvel refused to assent to her niece’s proposition.

What Louis calculated upon happened.

After long reflection, not seeing any issue to her deplorable situation,
Mme. Fauvel determined to yield.

By consenting to everything demanded of her, she had a chance of saving her husband from suffering and disgrace.

She well knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture for herself; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she would be gaining time.  Heaven might at last interpose, and save her from ruin.

In the meantime, M. Fauvel had returned home, and Valentine resumed her accustomed duties.

But she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose smiling presence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and comfort.  She was melancholy, anxious, and at times irritable.

Hearing nothing of Clameran, she expected to see him appear at any moment; trembling at every knock, and turning pale when a strange step was heard to enter, she dared not leave the house, for fear he should come during her absence.

Her agony was like that of a condemned man, who, each day as he wakes from his uneasy slumber, asks himself, “Am I to die to-day?”

Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too prudent to furnish arms which could be used against him, he had a note written, which Mme. Fauvel alone might understand, in which he said that he was quite ill, and unable to call upon her; and hoped she would be so good as to come to his room the next day; she had only to ask for 317, Hotel du Louvre.