erward killed at Lutzen, but unfortunately not in the French ranks.

In 1815, the countess came back to France. But while the Marquis de
Clameran returned to comparative ease, she could obtain nothing from
royal munificence, but the small estate and chateau of La Verberie.

It is true that the chateau of La Verberie would have contented most
people; but the countess never ceased to complain of her unmerited
poverty, as she called it.

The pretty chateau was more modest in appearance than the manor of the
Clamerans; but it was equally comfortable, and much better regulated by
its proud mistress.

It was built in the middle of a beautiful park, one of the wonders of
that part of the country. It reached from the Beaucaire road to the
river-bank, a marvel of beauty, with its superb old oaks, yoke-elms, and
lovely groves, its meadow, and clear stream of water winding in among
the trees.

The countess had but one child--a lovely girl of eighteen, named
Valentine; fair, slender, and graceful, with large, soft eyes, beautiful
enough to make the stone saints of the village church thrill in their
niches, when she knelt piously at their feet.

The renown of her great beauty, carried on the rapid waters of the
Rhone, was spread far and wide.

Often the bargemen and the robust wagoners, driving their powerful
horses along the road, would stop to gaze with admiration upon Valentine
seated under some grand old tree on the banks of the river, absorbed in
her book.

At a distance her white dress and flowing tresses made her seem a
mysterious spirit from another world, these honest people said; they
thought it a good omen when they caught a glimpse of her as they passed
up the river. All along between Arles and Valence she was spoken of as
the "lovely fairy" of La Verberie.

If M. de Clameran detested the countess, Mme. de la Verberie execrated
the marquis. If he nicknamed her "the witch," she never called him
anything but "the old gander."

And yet they should have agreed, for at heart they cherished the same
opinions, with different ways of viewing them.

He considered himself a philosopher, scoffed at everything, and had an
excellent digestion. She nursed her rancor, and grew yellow and thin
from rage and envy.

Nevertheless, they might have spent many pleasant evenings together,
for, after all, they were neighbors. From Clameran could be seen
Valentine's greyhound running about the park of La Verberie; from La
Verberi