tlessly, almost fearlessly, they abandoned themselves to
the dangerous happiness of a daily rendezvous; regardless of the storm
that must erelong burst over their devoted heads, they revelled in their
present bliss.

Is not every sincere passion thus? Passion subsists upon itself and in
itself; and the very things which ought to extinguish it, absence
and obstacles, only make it burn more fiercely. It is exclusive and
undisturbed; reflects neither of the past nor of the future; excepting
the present, it sees and cares for nothing.

Moreover, Valentine and Gaston believed everyone ignorant of their
secret.

They had always been so cautious! they had kept such strict watch! They
had flattered themselves that their conduct had been a masterpiece of
dissimulation and prudence.

Valentine had fixed upon the hour when she was certain her mother would
not miss her. Gaston had never confided to anyone, not even to his
brother Louis. They never breathed each other's name. They denied
themselves a last sweet word, a last kiss, when they felt it would be
more safe.

Poor blind lovers! As if anything could be concealed from the idle
curiosity of country gossips; from the slanderous and ever-watchful
enemies who are incessantly on the lookout for some new bit of
tittle-tattle, good or bad, which they improve upon, and eagerly spread
far and near.

They believed their secret well kept, whereas it had long since
been made public; the story of their love, the particulars of their
rendezvous, were topics of conversation throughout the neighborhood.

Sometimes, at dusk, they would see a bark gliding along the water, near
the shore, and would say to each other:

"It is a belated fisherman, returning home."

They were mistaken. The boat contained malicious spies, who delighted
in having discovered them, and hastened to report, with a thousand false
additions, the result of their expedition.

One dreary November evening, Gaston was awakened to the true state of
affairs. The Rhone was so swollen by heavy rains that an inundation was
daily expected. To attempt to swim across this impetuous torrent, would
be tempting God. Therefore Gaston went to Tarascon, intending to cross
the bridge there, and walk along the bank to the usual place of meeting
at La Verberie. Valentine expected him at eleven o'clock.

Whenever Gaston went to Tarascon, he dined with a relative living there;
but on this occasion a strange fatality led him to acco