She hoped that this good work would bring down the blessings of God upon her.

The day of the little orphan’s arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten thousand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.

The banker amused himself by increasing this ten thousand francs in the most marvellous ways.  He, who never ventured upon a rash speculation with his own money, always invested it in the most hazardous schemes, and was always so successful, that at the end of fifteen years the ten thousand francs had become half a million.

People were right when they said that the Fauvel family were to be envied.

Time had dulled the remorse and anxiety of Valentine.  In the genial atmosphere of a happy home, she had found rest, and almost forgetfulness.  She had suffered so much at being compelled to deceive Andre that she hoped she was now at quits with fate.

She began to look forward to the future, and her youth seemed buried in an impenetrable mist, and was, as it were, the memory of a painful dream.

Yes, she believed herself saved, and her very feeling of security made the impending danger more fearful in its shock.

One rainy November day, her husband had gone to Provence on business.  She was sitting, gazing into the bright fire, and thankfully meditating upon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.

Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke the seal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met her terrified eye: 

“MADAME—­Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past to hope for half an hour of your time?

“To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling upon you.

“THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN.”

Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.

Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.

Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that name once so dear—­Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were a strange name which she could not pronounce.  And the eight letters forming the name seemed to shine like the lightning which precedes a clap of thunder.

Ah! she had hoped and believed that the fatal past was atoned for, and buried in oblivion; and now it stood before her, pitiless and threatening.

Poor woman!  As if all human will could prevent what was fated to be!

It was in this hour of security, when she imagined herself pardoned, that the storm was to burst upon the fragile edifice of her happiness, and destroy her every hope.

A long time passed before she could collect her scattered thoughts sufficiently to decide upon a course of conduct.

Then she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened.  This letter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel no apprehension.  Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her.  She could understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whom she had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives to his visit.