I now turned to finish my reading, which had been for the moment interrupted.
“Indeed, my dear Valerie,” she concluded her letter, “I have long felt that although we were certainly justified by the circumstances of your situation, in taking the steps we did at that time, we have been hardly pardonable in persisting so long in the maintenance of a falsehood, which has certainly been the cause of great pain and suffering to both your parents, the innocent no less than the guilty. I know that your mother can never forgive me for aiding you in your escape from her authority; but for my part, I am willing to bear her enmity, rather than persist in further concealment, so that you need not in any degree consider me in any steps which you may think it wise or right to take towards revelation and reconciliation. Indeed I think, Valerie, that if it can be done with due regard to your own safety and happiness, you ought to discover yourself to both your parents, and, if possible, even to visit the most unhappy, because the guiltier of the two, before her dissolution, which I really believe to be now very near at hand. Everyone knows so well what you have undergone, that no blame will attach to you in the least degree. Allow me to add, that should you return to France, as I hope you will do, I shall never forgive you if you do not make my house your home.”
This postscript, as will readily be believed, gave me more cause for thought than all the letter beside, and rendered me exceedingly uneasy. If I had felt ill-satisfied before with my condition and my concealment, much more was I now discontented with myself, and unhappy. I was almost resolved to return at all hazards with Auguste; and, indeed, when I consulted with Adèle, she leaned very much towards the same opinion. I would not, however, do anything rashly, but determined to consult not only with my brother, but with the Judge, in whose wisdom I had no less confidence than I had in his friendship and integrity.
Things, however, were destined to occur, which in some degree altered and hastened all my proceedings, for that very evening when the Gironacs had retired, on my beginning to consult Auguste, “Listen to me a moment, before you tell me about your letters from France, or anything about returning, and I entreat you answer me truly, and let no false modesty, or little missish delicacy, prevent your doing so. Many a life has been rendered miserable by such foolishness, I have heard say; and being, as it were, almost alone in the world, as if an only brother with an only sister, to whom, if not to one another, should we speak freely?”
“You need not have made so long a preamble, dear Auguste,” I replied with a smile; “of course, I will answer you; and, when I say that, of course I will answer truly.”
“Well, then, Valerie, do you like this Count de Chavannes?”
“It is an odd question, but—Yes. I do like him.”
“Do you love him, Valerie?”
“Oh! Auguste—that is not fair. Besides, he has never spoken to me of love. He has never—I do not know whether he loves me—I have no reason to believe that he does.”
“No reason!”—he exclaimed, half surprised, half indignant—“no reason! I should think—but never mind—answer me this; if he did love you, do you love him or like him enough to take him for your husband?”