rightened. This
letter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel no
apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her. She
could understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whom
she had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives to
his visit.

He would come; and finding her the wife of another, the mother of grown
sons, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a few regrets;
she would restore the jewels which she had faithfully kept for him; he
would assure her of his lifelong friendship, and--that would be all.

But one distressing doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal
from Gaston the birth of his son?

To confess was to expose herself to many dangers. It was placing herself
at the mercy of a man--a loyal, honorable man to be sure--confiding
to him not only her own peace, honor, and happiness, but the honor and
happiness of her family, of her noble husband and loving sons.

Still silence would be a crime. She had abandoned her child, denied him
the cares and affection of a mother; and now should she add to her sin
by depriving him of the name and fortune of his father?

She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.

But she had not the courage to meet the glance of her sons. She sent
word that she was not well, and would not be down to dinner. For the
first time in her life she rejoiced at her husband's absence.

Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt's room to see what was the matter;
but Valentine dismissed her, saying she would try to sleep off her
indisposition.

She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide upon
some plan for warding off this impending ruin.

The dreaded morrow came.

She counted the hours until two o'clock. After that, she counted the
minutes.

At half-past two the servant announced:

"M. the Marquis of Clameran."

Mme. Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold. During a long,
sleepless night, she had mentally arranged beforehand every detail of
this painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say.
She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and her
speech ready.

But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold as
marble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, with
a frightened look, silently gazed upon the man who respectfully bowed,
and stood in the middle of the room.

He