When she arose the next morning, pale and weak from a sleepless, tearful night, she had almost resolved to confess everything to her suitor.
But when evening came, and she went down to see Andre Fauvel, the presence of her mother’s threatening, supplicating eye destroyed her courage.
She said to herself, “I will tell him to-morrow.” Then she said, “I will wait another day; one more day can make no difference.”
The countess saw all these struggles, but was not made uneasy by them.
She knew by experience that, when a painful duty is put off, it is never performed.
There was some excuse for Valentine in the horror of her situation. Perhaps, unknown to herself, she felt a faint hope arise within her. Any marriage, even an unhappy one, offered the prospect of a change, of a new life, a relief from the insupportable suffering she was now enduring.
Sometimes, in her ignorance of human life, she imagined that time and close intimacy would take it easier for her to confess her terrible fault; that it would be the most natural thing in the world for Andre to pardon her, and insist upon marrying her, since he loved her so deeply.
That he sincerely loved her, she knew full well. It was not the impetuous passion of Gaston, with its excitements and terrors, but a calm, steady affection, more lasting than the intoxicating love of Gaston was ever likely to be. She felt a sort of blissful rest in its legitimacy and constancy.
Thus Valentine gradually became accustomed to Andre’s soothing presence, and was surprised into feeling very happy at the constant delicate attentions and looks of affection that he lavished upon her. She did not feel any love for him yet; but a separation would have distressed her deeply.
During the courtship the countess’s conduct was a masterpiece.