"Besides," she added, with a ferocity of which only a bad woman is
capable, "your lover is drowned, and the old marquis is dead. God is
just; we are avenged."

The words of St. Jean, "There will be rejoicing at La Verberie," rung
in Valentine's ears, as she saw the countess's eyes sparkle with wicked
joy.

This was too much for the unfortunate girl.

For half an hour she had been exerting all of her strength to bear this
cruel violence from her mother; but her physical endurance was not equal
to the task. She turned pale, and with half-closed eyes tried to seize a
table, as she felt herself falling; but her head fell against a bracket,
and with bleeding forehead she dropped at her mother's feet.

The cold-hearted countess felt no revival of maternal love, as she
looked at her daughter's lifeless form. Her vanity was wounded, but
no other emotion disturbed her. Hers was a heart so full of anger and
hatred that there was no room for any nobler sentiment.

She rang the bell; and the affrighted servants, who were trembling in
the passage at the loud and angry tones of that voice, of which they all
stood in terror, came running in.

"Carry mademoiselle to her room," she ordered: "lock her up, and bring
me the key."

The countess intended keeping Valentine a close prisoner for a long
time.

She well knew the mischievous, gossiping propensities of country people,
who, from mere idleness, indulge in limitless scandal. A poor fallen
girl must either leave the country, or drink to the very dregs the
chalice of premeditated humiliations, heaped up and offered her by her
neighbors. Each clown delights in casting a stone at her.

The plans of the countess were destined to be disconcerted.

The servants came to tell her that Valentine was restored to
consciousness, but seemed to be very ill.

She replied that she would not listen to such absurdities, that it was
all affectation; but Mihonne insisted upon her going up and judging for
herself. She unwillingly went to her daughter's room, and saw that her
life was in danger.

The countess betrayed no apprehension, but sent to Tarascon for Dr.
Raget, who was the oracle of the neighborhood; he was with the Marquis
of Clameran when he died.

Dr. Raget was one of those men who leave a blessed memory, which lives
long after they have left this world.

Intelligent, noble-hearted, and wealthy, he devoted his life to his art;
going from the mansions of the rich to the hovels