Valentine knew that she would have difficulty in returning to breakfast. She would have to walk a league before reaching the bridge, and it was another league thence to Clameran; in all she must walk four leagues.
She set forth at a rapid pace. The consciousness of performing an extraordinary action, the feverish anxiety of peril incurred, increased her haste. She forgot that she had worn herself out weeping all night; that this fictitious strength could not last.
In spite of her efforts, it was after eight o’clock when she reached the long avenue leading to the main entrance of the chateau of Clameran.
She had only proceeded a few steps, when she saw old St. Jean coming down the path.
She stopped and waited for him; he hastened his steps at sight of her, as if having something to tell her.
He was very much excited, and his eyes were swollen with weeping.
To Valentine’s surprise, he did not take off his hat to bow, and when he came up to her, he said, rudely:
“Are you going up to the chateau, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.”
“If you are going after M. Gaston,” said the servant, with an insolent sneer, “you are taking useless trouble. M. the count is dead, mademoiselle; he sacrificed himself for the sake of a worthless woman.”