The poor countess strove to cast from her memory the scenes of weeping and despair brought about by her long resistance.
At last came an awful night when her mother, pale and dying, threw herself at her daughter's feet.

Jeanne could save Chaverny's life by yielding; she yielded.

It was night.

The count, arriving bloody from the battlefield was there; all was ready, the priest, the altar, the torches! Jeanne belonged henceforth to misery.

Scarcely had she time to say to her young cousin who was set at liberty:-- "Georges, if you love me, never see me again!" She heard the departing steps of her lover, whom, in truth, she never saw again; but in the depths of her heart she still kept sacred his last look which returned perpetually in her dreams and illumined them.