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.”

Valentine turned white at this insult, but took no notice of it.  St. Jean, who expected to see her overcome by the dreadful news, was bewildered at her composure.

“I am going to the chateau,” she said, quietly, “to speak to the marquis.”

St. Jean stifled a sob, and said: 

“Then it is not worth while to go any farther.”

“Why?”

“Because the Marquis of Clameran died at five o’clock this morning.”

Valentine leaned against a tree to prevent herself from falling.

“Dead!” she gasped.

“Yes,” said St. Jean, fiercely; “yes, dead!”

A faithful servant of the old regime, St. Jean shared all the passions, weaknesses, friendships, and enmities of his master.  He had a horror of the La Verberies.  And now he saw in Valentine the woman who had caused the death of the marquis whom he had served for forty years, and of Gaston whom he worshipped.

“I will tell you how he died,” said the bitter old man.  “Yesterday evening, when those hounds came and told the marquis that his eldest son was dead, he who was as hardy as an oak, and could face any danger, instantly gave way, and dropped as if struck by lightning.  I was there.  He wildly beat the air with his hands, and fell without opening his lips; not one word did he utter.  We put him to bed, and M. Louis galloped into Tarascon for a doctor.  But the blow had struck too deeply.  When Dr. Raget arrived he said there was no hope.

“At daybreak, the marquis recovered consciousness enough to ask for M. Louis, with whom he remained alone for some minutes.  The last words he uttered were, ’Father and son the same day; there will be rejoicing at La Verberie.’”