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.

She suddenly ceased to importune her daughter, and with tearful resignation said she would not attempt to influence her decision, that her happy settlement in life was the only anxiety that weighed upon her mind.

But she went about the house sighing and groaning as if she were upon the eve of starving to death.  She also made arrangements to be tormented by the bailiffs.  Attachments and notices to quit poured in at La Verberie, which she would show to Valentine and, with tears in her eyes, say: 

“God grant we may not be driven from the home of our ancestors before your marriage, my darling!”

Knowing that her presence was sufficient to freeze any confession on her daughter’s lips, she never left her alone with Andre.

“Once married,” she thought, “they can settle the matter to suit themselves.  I shall not then be disturbed by it.”

She was as impatient as Andre, and hastened the preparations for the wedding.  She gave Valentine no opportunity for reflection.  She kept her constantly busy, either in driving to town to purchase some article of dress, or in paying visits.

At last the eve of the wedding-day found her anxious and oppressed with fear lest something should prevent the consummation of her hopes and labors.  She was like a gambler who had ventured his last stake.

On this night, for the first time, Valentine found herself alone with the man who was to become her husband.

She was sitting at twilight, in the parlor, miserable and trembling, anxious to unburden her mind, and yet frightened at the very thought of doing so, when Andre entered.  Seeing that she was agitated, he pressed her hand, and gently begged her to tell him the cause of her sorrow.

“Am I not your best friend,” he said, “and ought I not to be the confidant of your troubles, if you have any?  Why these tears, my darling?”

Now was the time for her to confess, and throw herself upon his generosity.  But her trembling lips refused to open when she thought of his pain and anguish, and the anger of her mother, which would be caused by the few words she would utter.  She felt that it was too late; and, bursting into tears, she cried out, “I am afraid—­What shall I do?”

Imagining that she was merely disturbed by the vague fears experienced by most young girls when about to marry, he tried, with tender, loving words, to console and reassure her, promising to shield her from every care and sorrow, if she would only trust to his devoted love.  But what was his surprise to find that his affectionate words only increased her distress; she buried her face in her hands, and wept as if her heart would break.