“Ah, I have made a mistake in supposing this to be the first one,” said the countess. “Among your many lovers, you choose the heir of our worst enemy, the son of those detested Clamerans. Among all, you select a coward who publicly boasted of your favors; a wretch who tried to avenge himself for the heroism of our ancestors by ruining you and me—an old woman and a child!”
“No, mother, you do him wrong. He loved me, and hopes for your consent.”
“Wants to marry you, does he? Never, never shall that come to pass! I would rather see you lower than you are, in the gutter, laid in your coffin, than see you the wife of that man!”
Thus the hatred of the countess was expressed very much in the terms which the old marquis had used to his son.
“Besides,” she added, with a ferocity of which only a bad woman is capable, “your lover is drowned, and the old marquis is dead. God is just; we are avenged.”
The words of St. Jean, “There will be rejoicing at La Verberie,” rung in Valentine’s ears, as she saw the countess’s eyes sparkle with wicked joy.
This was too much for the unfortunate girl.
For half an hour she had been exerting all of her strength to bear this cruel violence from her mother; but her physical endurance was not equal to the task. She turned pale, and with half-closed eyes tried to seize a table, as she felt herself falling; but her head fell against a bracket, and with bleeding forehead she dropped at her mother’s feet.
The cold-hearted countess felt no revival of maternal love, as she looked at her daughter’s lifeless form. Her vanity was wounded, but no other emotion disturbed her. Hers was a heart so full of anger and hatred that there was no room for any nobler sentiment.
She rang the bell; and the affrighted servants, who were trembling in the passage at the loud and angry tones of that voice, of which they all stood in terror, came running in.