The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
one day left! And Valentine had been unable to let Louis de Clameran know that his brother was still living.
In this extremity she was obliged to confide in Mihonne, and sent her with a letter to Louis.
But the faithful servant had a useless walk.
The chateau of Clameran was deserted; all the servants had been dismissed, and M. Louis, whom they now called the marquis, had gone abroad.
At last they started. Mme. de la Verberie, feeling that she could trust Mihonne, decided to take her along; but first made her sacredly promise eternal secrecy.
It was in a little village near London that the countess, under the assumed name of Mrs. Wilson, took up her abode with her daughter and maid-servant.
She selected England, because she had lived there a long time, and was well acquainted with the manners and habits of the people, and spoke their language as well as she did her own.
She had also kept up her acquaintanceship with some of the English nobility, and often dined and went to the theatre with her friends in London. On these occasions she always took the humiliating precaution of locking up Valentine until she should return.
It was in this sad, solitary house, in the month of May, that the son of Valentine de la Verberie was born. He was taken to the parish priest, and christened Valentin-Raoul Wilson. The countess had prepared everything, and engaged an honest farmer’s wife to adopt the child, bring him up as her own, and, when old enough, have him taught a trade. For doing this the countess paid her five hundred pounds.
Little Raoul was given over to his adopted parent a few hours after his birth.
The good woman thought him the child of an English lady, and there seemed no probability that he would ever discover the secret of his birth.
Restored to consciousness, Valentine asked for her child. She yearned to clasp it to her bosom; she implored to be allowed to hold her babe in her arms for only one minute.
But the cruel countess was pitiless.
“Your child!” she cried, “you must be dreaming; you have no child. You have had brain fever, but no child.”
And as Valentine persisted in saying that she knew the child was alive, and that she must see it, the countess was forced to change her tactics.
“Your child is alive, and shall want for nothing,” she said sharply; “let that suffice; and be thankful that I have so well concealed your disgrace. You must forget what has happened, as you would forget a painful dream. The past must be ignored—wiped out forever. You know me well enough to understand that I will be obeyed.”
The moment had come when Valentine should have asserted her maternal rights, and resisted the countess’s tyranny.
She had the idea, but not the courage to do so.
If, on one side, she saw the dangers of an almost culpable resignation—for she, too, was a mother!—on the other she felt crushed by the consciousness of her guilt.
She sadly yielded; surrendered herself into the hands of a mother whose conduct she refrained from questioning, to escape the painful necessity of condemning it.
But she secretly pined, and inwardly rebelled against her sad disappointment; and thus her recovery was delayed for several months.
Toward the end of July, the countess took her back to La Verberie. This time the mischief-makers and gossips were skilfully deceived. The countess went everywhere, and instituted secret inquiries, but heard no suspicions of the object of her long trip to England. Everyone believed in the visit to the rich uncle.
Only one man, Dr. Raget, knew the truth; and, although Mme. de la Verberie hated him from the bottom of her heart, she did him the justice to feel sure that she had nothing to fear from his indiscretion.
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?
There was a risk in his returning under any circumstances. His disappearance had not ended the terrible affair of Tarascon. He was supposed to be dead; but as there was no positive proof of his death, and his body could not be found, the law was compelled to yield to the clamor of public opinion.
The case was brought before the assize court; and, in default of appearance, Gaston de Clameran was sentenced to several years of close confinement.
As to Louis de Clameran, no one knew positively what had become of him. Some people said he was leading a life of reckless extravagance in Paris.
Informed of these facts by her faithful Mihonne, Valentine became more gloomy and hopeless than ever. Vainly did she question the dreary future; no ray appeared upon the dark horizon of her life.
Her elasticity was gone; and she had finally reached that state of passive resignation peculiar to people who are oppressed and cowed at home.
In this miserable