ssed the purse, in memory of Gaston, and then concealed the sacred
deposit in her bureau.

When she thought of going to Clameran, to inform the old marquis of the
miraculous preservation of his son's life, her heart sank.

Blinded by his passion, Gaston did not think, when he requested this
service, of the obstacles and dangers to be braved in its performance.

But Valentine saw them only too clearly; yet it did not occur to her for
an instant to break her promise by sending another, or by delaying to go
herself.

At sunrise she dressed herself.

When the bell was ringing for early mass, she thought it a good time to
start on her errand.

The servants were all up, and one of them named Mihonne, who always
waited on Valentine, was scrubbing the vestibule.

"If mother asks for me," said Valentine to the girl, "tell her I have
gone to early mass."

She often went to church at this hour, so there was nothing to be feared
thus far; Mihonne looked at her sadly, but said nothing.

Valentine knew that she would have difficulty in returning to breakfast.
She would have to walk a league before reaching the bridge, and it was
another league thence to Clameran; in all she must walk four leagues.

She set forth at a rapid pace. The consciousness of performing an
extraordinary action, the feverish anxiety of peril incurred, increased
her haste. She forgot that she had worn herself out weeping all night;
that this fictitious strength could not last.

In spite of her efforts, it was after eight o'clock when she reached the
long avenue leading to the main entrance of the chateau of Clameran.

She had only proceeded a few steps, when she saw old St. Jean coming
down the path.

She stopped and waited for him; he hastened his steps at sight of her,
as if having something to tell her.

He was very much excited, and his eyes were swollen with weeping.

To Valentine's surprise, he did not take off his hat to bow, and when he
came up to her, he said, rudely:

"Are you going up to the chateau, mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

"If you are going after M. Gaston," said the servant, with an
insolent sneer, "you are taking useless trouble. M. the count is dead,
mademoiselle; he sacrificed himself for the sake of a worthless woman."

Valentine turned white at this insult, but took no notice of it.
St. Jean, who expected to see her overcome by the dreadful news, was
bewildered at her composure.

"I am going to the chateau," she said, q