File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

“Why?”

“Because the Marquis of Clameran died at five o’clock this morning.”

Valentine leaned against a tree to prevent herself from falling.

“Dead!” she gasped.

“Yes,” said St. Jean, fiercely; “yes, dead!”

A faithful servant of the old regime, St. Jean shared all the passions, weaknesses, friendships, and enmities of his master. He had a horror of the La Verberies. And now he saw in Valentine the woman who had caused the death of the marquis whom he had served for forty years, and of Gaston whom he worshipped.

“I will tell you how he died,” said the bitter old man. “Yesterday evening, when those hounds came and told the marquis that his eldest son was dead, he who was as hardy as an oak, and could face any danger, instantly gave way, and dropped as if struck by lightning. I was there. He wildly beat the air with his hands, and fell without opening his lips; not one word did he utter. We put him to bed, and M. Louis galloped into Tarascon for a doctor. But the blow had struck too deeply. When Dr. Raget arrived he said there was no hope.

“At daybreak, the marquis recovered consciousness enough to ask for M. Louis, with whom he remained alone for some minutes. The last words he uttered were, ‘Father and son the same day; there will be rejoicing at La Verberie.’ ”

Valentine might have soothed the sorrow of the faithful servant, by telling him Gaston still lived; but she feared it would be indiscreet, and, unfortunately, said nothing.

“Can I see M. Louis?” she asked after a long silence.

This question seemed to arouse all the anger slumbering in the breast of poor St. Jean.

“You! You would dare take such a step, Mlle. de la Verberie? What! would you presume to appear before him after what has happened? I will never allow it! And you had best, moreover, take my advice, and return home at once. I will not answer for the tongues of the servants here, when they see you.”

And, without waiting for an answer, he hurried away.

What could Valentine do? Humiliated and miserable, she could only wearily drag her aching limbs back the way she had so rapidly come early that morning. On the road, she met many people coming from the town, where they had heard of the events of the previous night; and the poor girl was obliged to keep her eyes fastened to the ground in order to escape the insulting looks and mocking salutations with which the gossips passed her.

When Valentine reached La Verberie, she found Mihonne waiting for her.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” she said, “make haste, and go in the house. Madame had a visitor this morning, and ever since she left has been crying out for you. Hurry; and take care what you say to her, for she is in a violent passion.”

Much has been said in favor of the patriarchal manners of our ancestors.

Their manners may have been patriarchal years and years ago; but our mothers and wives nowadays certainly have not such ready hands and quick tongues, and are sometimes, at least, elegant in manner, and choice in their language.

Mme. de La Verberie had preserved the manners of the good old times, when grand ladies swore like troopers, and impressed their remarks by slaps in the face.

When Valentine appeared, she was overwhelmed with coarse epithets and violent abuse.

The countess had been informed of everything, with many gross additions added by public scandal. An old dowager, her most intimate friend, had hurried over early in the morning, to offer her this poisoned dish of gossip, seasoned with her own pretended condolences.

In this sad affair, Mme. de la Verberie mourned less over her daughter’s loss of reputation, than over the ruin of her own projects⁠—projects of going to Paris, making a grand marriage for Valentine, and living in luxury the rest of her days.

A young girl so compromised would not find it easy to get a husband. It would now be necessary to keep her two years longer in the country, before introducing her into Parisian society. The world must have time to forget this scandal.

“You worthless wretch!” cried the countess with fury; “is it thus you respect the noble traditions of our family? Heretofore it has never been considered necessary to watch the La Verberies; they could take care of their honor: but you must take advantage of your liberty to cover our name with disgrace!”

With a sinking heart, Valentine had foreseen this tirade. She felt that it was only a just punishment for her conduct. Knowing that the indignation of her mother was just, she meekly hung her head like a repentant sinner at the bar of justice.

But this submissive silence only exasperated the angry countess.

“Why do you not answer me?” she screamed with flashing eyes and a threatening gesture. “Speak! you⁠—”

“What can I say, mother?”

“Say, miserable girl? Say that they lied when they accused a La Verberie of disgracing her name! Speak: defend yourself!”

Valentine mournfully shook her head, but said nothing.

“It is true, then?” shrieked the countess, beside herself with rage; “what they said is true?”

“Forgive me, mother: have mercy! I am so miserable!” moaned the poor girl.

“Forgive! have mercy! Do you dare to tell me I have not been deceived by this gossip today? Do you have the insolence to stand there and glory in your shame? Whose blood flows in your veins? You seem to be ignorant that some faults should be persistently denied, no matter how glaring the evidence against them. And you are my daughter! Can you not understand that an ignominious confession like this should never be forced from a woman by any human power? But no, you have lovers, and unblushingly avow it. Why not run over the town and tell everybody? Boast of it, glory in it: it would be something new!”

“Alas! you are pitiless, mother!”

“Did you ever have any pity on me, my dutiful daughter? Did it ever occur to you that your disgrace would kill me? No: I suppose you and your lover have often laughed at my blind