parated for months. But soon, as if by accident, they
happened to be at a certain hour on the banks of the Rhone, and would
sit and gaze across at each other.

Finally, one mild May evening, when Mme. de la Verberie had gone to
Beaucaire, Gaston ventured into the park, and appeared before Valentine.

She was not surprised or indignant. Genuine innocence displays none
of the startled modesty assumed by conventional innocence. It never
occurred to Valentine that she ought to bid Gaston to leave her.

She leaned upon his arm, and strolled up and down the grand old avenue
of oaks. They did not say they loved each other, they felt it; but they
did say that their love was hopeless. They well knew that the inveterate
family feud could never be overcome, and that it would be folly to
attempt it. They swore never, never to forget each other, and tearfully
resolved never to meet again; never, not even once more!

Alas! Valentine was not without excuse. With a timid, loving heart, her
expansive affection was repressed and chilled by a harsh mother. Never
had there been one of those long private talks between the Countess
de la Verberie and Valentine which enabled a good mother to read her
daughter's heart like an open book.

Mme. de la Verberie saw nothing but her daughter's beauty. She was wont
to rub her hands, and say:

"Next winter I will borrow enough money to take the child to Paris, and
I am much mistaken if her beauty does not win her a rich husband who
will release me from poverty."

She called this loving her daughter!

The second meeting was not the last. Gaston dared not trust to a
boatman, so he was obliged to walk a league in order to cross the
bridge. Then he thought it would be shorter to swim the river; but he
could not swim well, and to cross the Rhone where it ran so rapidly was
rash for the most skilful swimmers.

One evening, however, Valentine was startled by seeing him rise out of
the water at her feet.

She made him promise never to attempt this exploit again. He repeated
the feat and the promise the next evening and every successive evening.

As Valentine always imagined he was being drowned in the furious
current, they agreed upon a signal. At the moment of starting, Gaston
would put a light in his window at Clameran, and in fifteen minutes he
would be at his idol's feet.

What were the projects and hopes of the lovers? Alas! they projected
nothing, they hoped for nothing.

Blindly, though