It would be a sweet, sad comfort to wear the simplest of the rings, she thought, as she slipped the sparkling gem on her finger; but her mother would ask her where it came from. What answer could she give? Alas, none.
She kissed the purse, in memory of Gaston, and then concealed the sacred deposit in her bureau.
When she thought of going to Clameran, to inform the old marquis of the miraculous preservation of his son’s life, her heart sank.
Blinded by his passion, Gaston did not think, when he requested this service, of the obstacles and dangers to be braved in its performance.
But Valentine saw them only too clearly; yet it did not occur to her for an instant to break her promise by sending another, or by delaying to go herself.
At sunrise she dressed herself.
When the bell was ringing for early mass, she thought it a good time to start on her errand.
The servants were all up, and one of them named Mihonne, who always waited on Valentine, was scrubbing the vestibule.
“If mother asks for me,” said Valentine to the girl, “tell her I have gone to early mass.”
She often went to church at this hour, so there was nothing to be feared thus far; Mihonne looked at her sadly, but said nothing.