She was sitting at twilight, in the parlor, miserable and trembling,
anxious to unburden her mind, and yet frightened at the very thought of
doing so, when Andre entered. Seeing that she was agitated, he pressed
her hand, and gently begged her to tell him the cause of her sorrow.

"Am I not your best friend," he said, "and ought I not to be the
confidant of your troubles, if you have any? Why these tears, my
darling?"

Now was the time for her to confess, and throw herself upon his
generosity. But her trembling lips refused to open when she thought of
his pain and anguish, and the anger of her mother, which would be caused
by the few words she would utter. She felt that it was too late; and,
bursting into tears, she cried out, "I am afraid--What shall I do?"

Imagining that she was merely disturbed by the vague fears experienced
by most young girls when about to marry, he tried, with tender, loving
words, to console and reassure her, promising to shield her from every
care and sorrow, if she would only trust to his devoted love. But what
was his surprise to find that his affectionate words only increased her
distress; she buried her face in her hands, and wept as if her heart
would break.

While she was thus summoning her courage, and he was entreating her
confidence, Mme. de la Verberie came hurrying into the room for them to
sign the contract.

The opportunity was lost; Andre Fauvel was left in ignorance.

The next day, a lovely spring morning, Andre Fauvel and Valentine de la
Verberie were married at the village church.

Early in the morning, the chateau was filled with the bride's friends,
who came, according to custom, to assist at her wedding toilet.

Valentine forced herself to appear calm, even smiling; but her face was
whiter than her veil; her heart was torn by remorse. She felt as though
the sad truth were written upon her brow; and this pure white dress was
a bitter irony, a galling humiliation.

She shuddered when her most intimate school-mate placed the wreath of
orange-blossoms upon her head. These emblems of purity seemed to burn
her like a band of red-hot iron. One of the wire stems of the flowers
scratched her forehead, and a drop of blood fell upon her snowy robe.

What an evil omen! Valentine was near fainting when she thought of the
past and the future connected by this bloody sign of woe.

But presages are deceitful, as it proved with Valentine; for she became
a happy woman and a loving