The salver bore a pitcher of admirably prepared chocolate, made by Madeleine herself, a plate carefully covered with a napkin, containing a delicate species of Normandy cake, to which the countess had been particularly partial in Brittany (Madeleine had remembered the recipe), and a dish of enormous strawberries, served, according to the French custom, with their stems. It occurred to Bertha, for the first time, that perhaps there was a cipher upon Madeleine's plate which would betray from whence it came; she examined a spoon before she ventured to present the tray to her aunt. The silver only bore the letter "M." Bertha, considerably relieved, but still flurried by the peril she had just escaped, placed a small table before Madame de Gramont, then poured out and handed her the chocolate in silence, fearing to provoke some question.

The countess, who was growing faint again, gladly accepted the nourishing beverage, and even ate several cakes. She seemed to enjoy them, for it was long since she had spoken in so pleasant a tone as when she remarked,—

"These cakes remind me of our noble old chateau; one would hardly suppose that they would be found in America."

Bertha suspected who had made the cakes, and, to draw her aunt's attention away from them, said,—

"What delicious strawberries! And how fragrant they are!"

The countess took one by the stem, and dipped it in the sugar, but with a disparaging look. It was large and juicy, and possessed a rich flavor and an aromatic odor which French strawberries can seldom boast; but the countess would not have admitted the superiority even of American fruit over that of her own country, and after tasting a few of the strawberries returned to the cake which reminded her of her forsaken home.

How fared it with Count Tristan during the fortnight in which he had not seen his august mother? Under judicious and tender care, he had steadily, rapidly improved. His mental faculties had been sufficiently restored for him to recognize every one around him, but his memory was still clouded, and his thoughts sadly confused. He had partially recovered his articulation, though his speech continued to be thick and at times unintelligible. His limbs also had been partly freed from the thraldom of paralysis, but were still heavy and numb, as though they had long worn chains. He clung to Madeleine more eagerly than ever, and seemed to be disturbed and uncomfortable except when she was near him. He had a vague consciousness that she was the medium through which all good flowed in to him, and often repeated, as he held her hand,—

"You,—you—yes, you, Madeleine, you saved us all! Good angel—good angel!"

That her ministry in the sick-room was so grateful to the sufferer was not surprising; for a gentle, efficient hand which knows precisely how to make a pillow yield the best support,—a low, soft, yet encouraging voice,—a cheerful, yet sympathizing face,—a soundless step,—garments that never rustle,—movements that make no noise,—are among the chief blessings to an invalid.

The count seemed less happy at the sight of his son; his mind was haunted by an undefined fear that there was something Maurice would learn which would make him shrink from his father,—which would disgrace both; the sufferer had quite forgotten that the discovery he dreaded had already been made. When he looked at Maurice he often muttered the words,—

"Unincumbered,—no mortgage,—of course it's all right,—power of attorney untouched,—leave all to me!"

At other times he would plead, in broken sentences, for pardon, and denounce himself as a villain who had ruined his only son.

It was a somewhat singular coincidence that the very morning the countess had risen and dressed for the first time for a fortnight, Count Tristan appeared to be so much more restless than usual that Madeleine suggested he should be conducted to her boudoir. Maurice assisted him to rise, enveloped him in a comfortable robe de chambre, and, with the help of Robert, led him to that pleasant, peace-breathing apartment, where she had arranged an easy-chair with pillows, had opened the doors of the conservatory to admit the odorous air, and had shaded the windows that the light might be softened to an invalid's eyes.

He smiled placidly and gratefully as he looked toward the flowers, and stretched out his hand to Madeleine. She took her place on a low seat, her little sewing-chair, and, unbidden, sang some of the wild, old strains to which he had often listened in the ancient chateau. The sigh he heaved was one of pleasure, as though his heart felt too full, but not of care. Madeleine sang on, ballad after ballad, for she could not pause while he appeared to be so calmly happy, and her voice only died away as she felt the hand that clasped hers relax its hold, and, looking up, she found that her patient was gently slumbering.

Maurice had sat listening and gazing as one spellbound, but Madeleine roused him by saying,—

"It is long past your usual hour for visiting your grandmother. Had you not better go? I think it likely your father will sleep some time. The change of scene and the fresh air have lulled him into a tranquil slumber."

"And your voice had nothing to do with his rest?" asked Maurice, tenderly.

"Any old crone's would serve as well for a lullaby," she answered, playfully. "Now go, and be sure you find out whether the countess liked the chocolate and those Normandy cakes."



CHAPTER XLIII.

OUTGENERALLED.

Madame de Gramont welcomed Maurice that morning with more animation than she had evinced during her illness. He did not anticipate finding her in the drawing-room; and was even more surprised to see her not in an invalid's deshabille, but dressed for visitors; not reclining, but sitting up almost as stiffly as in the days of her grandeur. He congratulated her upon her convalescence with mingled warmth and astonishment.

"Thank you, I am quite well," she replied; though her colorless lips and wan, sunken face solemnly contradicted the words. "How is your father?" This question was asked apparently with newly-awakened anxiety; for of late she had made no inquiries, but listened in silence to Maurice's daily report, and turned sullenly from him as though he were responsible for its unfavorable nature.

He now answered in an unusually cheerful tone,—

"My father is better, much better, to-day; improving fast, I think."

Some of the old triumphant light flashed out of the countess' black eyes as she ejaculated,—

"Thank God! Then he can be brought here at once!"

Maurice perceived his mistake too late. He had not foreseen that the countess would have drawn this conclusion from the intelligence just communicated.

"My dear grandmother, you cannot think of desiring to remove my father at present?"

"Cannot think of it? What other thought fills my mind night and day? He must be removed from that house. I say must, the very instant his life would not be perilled by the attempt. Better that it should have been placed in jeopardy than that he should have remained there thus long."

"We will talk of this when he is more decidedly convalescent," returned Maurice, perceiving that some generalship must be employed to protect his father. "I will let you know how he progresses, and we will make all the necessary arrangements for his change of abode in due season."

The countess was too shrewd not to see through this answer, and she was quite competent to return Maurice's move by generalship of her own; for, in the battle of life, it is the tactics of womanhood that oftenest win the day. She allowed the conversation to drop; and Maurice secretly rejoiced at her having, as he supposed, yielded the point. He chatted awhile with Bertha; then his eyes chanced to fall upon the salver which Madeleine had prepared. It called to mind her request.

"What have you here? Chocolate? Did you find it well made?"

The countess took no notice of the inquiry.

"These are very fine strawberries," persisted Maurice. "Did you enjoy them? And these cakes,"—he tasted one,—"used to be favorites of yours."

The countess checked a rising sigh; for her aversion to betraying even a passing emotion was insuperable. "They reminded me of Brittany," she said, involuntarily.

"You liked them, then? They are to your taste?" questioned her grandson, hoping to be able to tell Madeleine that her labors had been rewarded.

But the countess answered coldly,—

"I find very little in this country, even though the object be imported, which is to my taste."

She did not open her lips again until Maurice was taking his leave. Then she said,—

"Has your father's physician been to see him to-day?"

"No; he had not come when I left, though it was past his usual hour."

"Let him know that I wish to see him," ordered the countess.

Had Maurice suspected her object he would not have replied so cordially,—

"I am truly glad that you will accept medical aid at last. You look very feeble."

The countess considered such a suggestion an insult; and drew herself up as she replied,—

"You are mistaken. I am far from feeble. Feebleness does not belong to my race. My strength does not forsake me readily; it will last while I last. Still you may inform your father's physician that I desire to see him."

"I will send him to you at once. You shall certainly see him to-day."

"Thank you."

These two words were spoken dryly by the countess, and with an emphasis which might have struck Maurice and caused him to suspect her intentions and possibly to frustrate them, had he not been so thoroughly convinced that her own state required medical care, and had he not known that her stoical fortitude made it easier for her to suffer than to admit that she could suffer.

Maurice found Madeleine where he had left her. The count had just awakened, much refreshed. He was softly stroking her head and saying with the same indistinct utterance, "Good angel! good angel!"

At the sight of Maurice the old troubled look passed again over his face, and he whispered hoarsely,—

"He shall never know. Never, never let him know. It would kill me! kill me!"

Maurice had told Madeleine how much better he had found his grandmother, and was giving her the gratifying intelligence that Madame de Gramont had said the cakes reminded her of Brittany (the highest praise possible for her to bestow on anything), when the doctor entered.

His patient, he said, had made marvellous progress; but that was owing, in a great measure, to admirable nursing; and he nodded approvingly to Madeleine.

"If physicians had only at their disposal a train of well-informed, efficient, conscientious nurses to distribute among their patients, medical services might be of some use in the world; but, as it is, we might make a new application of the old proverb, that God sends us dinners, and the devil sends us cooks who make the dinners valueless; a physician gives his orders and prescriptions, and a careless nurse renders them null."

Dr. Bayard was not a man who dealt in compliments, even in a modified form; he was sagacious, abrupt, straightforward, and at times spoke his mind rather sharply. He had been impressed by Madeleine's unremitting care of his patient, and, in declaring that the count's convalescence was, in a large degree, due to her prudence and vigilance, he simply said what he thought.

"I am glad to see you have removed your charge to this room," he continued. "Change of scene and of air is always good, when practicable. I recommend a short drive to-morrow. I never keep an invalid imprisoned one hour longer than is necessary."

Maurice delivered his grandmother's message; and Dr. Bayard promised to call upon her before his return home. The claims upon his time, however, were so numerous that it was evening before he reached Brown's hotel. The countess would not, even to herself have admitted that she could be subject to such an unaristocratic sensation as impatience; but we are unable to hit upon any other word to express the state of unquiet anxiety with which she awaited his coming.

He was announced at last.

At that hour in the day, it was not unnatural for Dr. Bayard to be in a great hurry to get home to his dinner; and consequently his manners were even more blunt and informal than usual. Without losing a minute, he took a seat in front of the lady whom he supposed to be his patient, looked scrutinizingly into her face and said,—

"Well, and what's the matter? A touch of fever, I suspect. We shall soon bring that under."

Without further ceremony he placed his fingers on her wrist.

The countess drew her hand away, as though something loathsome had dared to pollute her; and the bright red fever spot on either cheek deepened into the crimson of wrath.

"Sir, I am perfectly well. I did not send for you to ask your advice concerning myself."

Dr. Bayard drew back his chair an inch or two, but made no apology.

"I am the mother of Count Tristan de Gramont whom you are attending."

Dr. Bayard bowed.

"I hear that he is much better."

"Much better," was the physician's laconic reply.

"It would no longer be dangerous for him to be removed from his present most unfit abode," the countess asserted rather than interrogated.

Dr. Bayard, in answering the queries of patients, or those of their families, did not follow the practice of physicians in general, but adhered to the exact truth. He replied, "It would not be dangerous, madame, but it would be unwise,—confounded folly, I might say. He is very comfortable where he is, and he has capital care. I do not believe there is such another nurse as Mademoiselle Melanie in Christendom."

If fiery arrows ever flash from human eyes, as some who have felt their wound declare they do, such darts flew fast and thick from the eyes of the countess as she regarded him.

"Sir, it is not a question of nurses. A mother is the fittest person to watch beside her son."

Dr. Bayard differed with her, but did not give her the benefit of his private opinion.

"As Count Tristan is in a state to be removed, I will give orders to have him brought here to-morrow. I suppose it is too late to-night?" observed the countess.

"I have already said that I do not see the necessity of his being moved at all, until he is perfectly restored," persisted the doctor.

"It is enough that I see it!" remarked the countess, frigidly. "I believe my inquiries only extended to asking your medical opinion as to the danger not the propriety of moving my son."

"Then I have nothing more to say," replied the physician, rising. "I have already stated that his removal, if advisable in other respects, would not be dangerous. Allow me to wish you good-evening."

Though Dr. Bayard's visit had highly irritated Madame de Gramont, exultation prevailed over all other emotions.

Bertha had been present during the interview, and albeit she was filled with grief at the prospect of Madeleine's sorrow and mortification, she had not the moral courage to remonstrate.

The countess was up betimes on the morrow. It may be that her strength had really returned; it may be that excitement supplied its place; but there was no recurrence of the feebleness which she had not been able wholly to conceal on the day previous. Before Bertha was dressed for breakfast her aunt had sent to borrow her writing-desk (having no correspondents, the countess did not travel with one of her own), and Bertha experienced a heart-sickening foreboding at the request. When she entered the drawing-room, Madame de Gramont was writing slowly and elaborately, as though she were preparing some document which was to pass into the hands of critical judges; but she never wrote in any other manner. A hasty, impulsive, dashing off of words and ideas would have lacked dignity. The whole character of the haughty lady might easily have been read in the stiff but elegant hand, the formal and carefully constructed phrases, the icy tenor of her simplest missive.

She folded the note, told Bertha where to find her seal with the de Gramont arms, impressed it carefully upon the melted wax, desired Bertha to ring the bell, and bade her send the note at once to Maurice. The countess could not have stooped to name to the servant the residence of the mantua-maker.

Though Madame de Gramont expected that her command would be instantly obeyed, she was too little used to attend to household matters, or bestow a thought upon the comfort of others, to give any orders concerning her son's room, or even to reflect that additional care in its preparation was needed for an invalid.

Count Tristan had passed the best night with which he had been favored since his attack. He had slept so uninterruptedly that Gaston and Mrs. Lawkins (whose turn it was to replace Madeleine and Maurice) had followed the invalid's example and travelled with him to the kingdom of Morpheus.

In the morning he expressed a desire to rise. The first words he uttered showed that his articulation was clearer. Madeleine had arranged the pillows in his arm-chair and placed it where he could look into the conservatory. He walked into the boudoir supported only by Maurice. There was a rare amount of stamina, a wondrously recuperative power in the de Gramont constitution, as was manifested both by mother and son.

When the count was comfortably seated, Madeleine placed before him a little table with his breakfast so neatly arranged that merely to look at it gave one an appetite. She served him herself, and the tranquil pleasure he felt in receiving what he ate from her hands was unmistakable. His own hands were still weak and numb, and she cut up the delicate broiled chicken, and broke the bread, disposed his napkin carefully, and then steadied the cup of chocolate which he tried to carry to his lips. Maurice stood watching her, just as he always did; for it was difficult for him to remove his eyes from her face when she was present, though, in truth, when she was absent he saw her before him hardly less distinctly.

The trio was thus agreeably occupied when the note of the countess was placed in the hands of Maurice. His consternation vented itself in an irrepressible groan, which made Madeleine and the count look up.

The latter trembled with alarm, and, his haunting fear coming back, he asked, in a terrified tone,—

"What has happened? What do they want? What would they make you believe? No harm of me,—you wont! you wont! Here's Madeleine will make all right!"

"Do not trouble yourself," said Madeleine, soothingly; "there are no business matters to fret you now."

Her sweet, quieting voice, or the assurance, calmed him, and he repeated once more, for the thousandth time, "Good angel! good angel!"

"It is a note from my grandmother," said Maurice, biting his lips. "She has seen Dr. Bayard, and insists on carrying out certain views of hers, and she informs me that she has his permission to do so."

Madeleine had not nerved herself against this blow; it fell heavily upon her; she could not at once resign the precious privilege of ministering to her afflicted relative; and she could not hope that the countess would allow her to approach him if he were removed to the hotel.

"Surely she will not be so cruel! It will harm him,—it will retard his recovery."

"I will see her, at once, and try what argument and remonstrance can do," replied Maurice.

And he set forth on his difficult mission.

A moment's reflection convinced Madeleine that if the countess had received the doctor's consent, she would prove inexorable. There was no resource but to submit as patiently as possible. Count Tristan must be reconciled to the change, and to effect that was the task now before her. She tried to break the news gently; she told him his mother had not seen him of late because she had been ill; and now, hearing he was so much better, she desired him to return to the hotel that he might be nearer to her.

The count answered peevishly, "No—no,—I'll not go! I'm better here,—better with you, my good angel!"

"But if Madame de Gramont is determined," said Madeleine, "I have no right, no power to resist her authority."

"Can I not stay? Let me stay!" he pleaded, pathetically.

"I would be only too thankful if you could; but you know the wishes of the countess cannot be disregarded."

"I cannot go! It will kill me if I go back! I am better here. I'm safe with you! I'll not go!"

He seemed so much distressed that Madeleine dismissed the subject by saying, "Maurice has gone to see his grandmother; we need not torment ourselves until he returns."

The count was easily satisfied, and the remembrance of his trouble soon faded from his mind. Madeleine asked him if she should sing, and he nodded a pleased assent. She could not give voice to any but the saddest melodies, for a sorrowful presentiment that she would never sing to him again, filled her mind. She continued to charm away his cares by the witchery of her accents until Maurice returned. The result of his advocacy was quickly told. The countess was inflexible, and awaited her son.



CHAPTER XLIV.

A CHANGE.

The strongest heart will sometimes betray that it is overtaxed through the pressure of a sorrow which appears trivial contrasted with the stupendous burdens it has borne unflinchingly; the firmest spirit is sometimes crushed at last, by the weight of a moral "feather" that breaks the back of endurance. Madeleine's courage proved insufficient to encounter calmly this new trial. She could not see that poor, wretched, brain-shattered sufferer, that proud man bowed to the dust, clinging to her with such a strange, perplexed, yet steady grasp, and know that she could no longer tend, amuse, and soothe him! Her composure was forsaking her, and she could only hurriedly whisper to Maurice,—

"I will pack your father's clothes; make him comprehend that we have no alternative; reconcile him if you can. Since he must go, it had better be at once; the countess is no doubt anxiously expecting him."

She passed into the count's room, gathered together all his wearing apparel, and knelt down beside his trunk. Her heart swelled as though it would burst; she bowed her head upon the trunk she was about to open, and sobbed aloud!

Madeleine's tears were not like Bertha's,—mere summer rain which sprang to her eyes with every passing emotion, and fell in sun-broken showers that freshened and brightened her own spirit. Madeleine seldom wept, and when the tears came, they sprang up from the very depth of her true heart, in a hot, bitter current which was less like the bubbling of a fountain than the lava bursting from a volcano. It is ever thus with powerful, yet self-controlled natures, and Madeleine's equanimity in the midst of trials which would have prostrated others, was not a lack of keen, quick sensibility, but an evidence of the supremacy she had gained by discipline over her passions.

Madeleine wept and wept, forgetting the work before her, the time that was passing, the necessity for action! All the tears that she might have shed during the last few weeks, if it were her nature to weep as most women weep, now rushed forth in one passionate torrent. She did not hear a step approaching; she was hardly conscious of the encircling arm that raised her from the ground, nor was she startled by the voice that said,—

"Madeleine! my own Madeleine! Is it you sobbing thus?"

"I feel this! O Maurice, I feel this! My aunt has never had power to make me feel so much since that day in the little chalet when my eyes were opened,—when she cast me off, and I stood alone in the world."

"Ah Madeleine, dearest and best beloved, if you had only loved me then,—if I could only have taught you to love me,—you would not have stood alone! I should have battled against every sorrow that could come near you; or, at least, have borne it with you. O Madeleine, why could you not love me?"

For one instant Madeleine was tempted to throw herself in his arms and confess all. The high resolves of years of self-denial were on the verge of being broken in one weak moment; but the very peril, the very temptation calmed her suddenly. She brushed away her tears, and, gently withdrawing the hand Maurice held, said, in broken accents,—

"I have caused you too much pain in other days, Maurice. I should not have added more by allowing you to witness my weakness. Help me to be strong; for you see I have sore need of help."

"All that I can offer, Madeleine, you reject," said Maurice, reproachfully. "My heart and life are yours, and you fling them from you."

"Maurice, my cousin, my best friend, spare me! I have no right to listen to this language."

"But the right to hear it from the lips of another," retorted Maurice bitterly.

"Be generous, Maurice. For pity's sake, do not speak on that subject."

There was so much anguish depicted in Madeleine's face that Maurice was conscience-stricken by the conviction that his rashly selfish words had caused her additional pain.

"This is a poor return, Madeleine, for all the good you have done my father,—all the good you have done me,—you have done us all. You see what a selfish brute I am! My very love for you, which should shield you from all suffering, has, through that fatal selfishness, added to your sorrow. Can you pardon me?"

"When you wrong me, Maurice, I will; but that day has yet to come. Leave me for a few moments, and I will complete what I have to do here and join you."

Maurice complied, but slowly and reluctantly, and looking back as he left the room.

Madeleine wept no more; she bathed her face and smoothed her disordered hair, and then collected all the articles scattered about, placed them carefully in the trunk, shut it and locked it, looked about to see that nothing was forgotten, ordered her carriage, and with a composed mien entered the little boudoir.

Maurice must have used some potent argument with his father which reconciled him to his change of habitation, or made him comprehend that resistance was useless, for when Robert announced that the carriage was at the door, and Madeleine brought the count's coat to exchange for his dressing-gown, he allowed her to assist him, only repeating the term of affection so often on his lips.

The count was ready, and Madeleine signed to Maurice not to linger. He gave his arm to his father, and they passed through the entry. Madeleine preceded them; she opened the street door herself; father and son passed out, but without bidding her adieu. The steps of the carriage were let down; just as Maurice was assisting his father to ascend them, the count drew back with native politeness and said,—

"Madeleine first."

Madeleine was still standing in the doorway ready to wave her handkerchief as the carriage drove off.

"Come, Madeleine, come! come! We are waiting for you!" cried the count.

Maurice expostulated in vain; his father insisted that Madeleine should go with them.

"Only get into the carriage, my dear father, while I speak with her."

"Get in before a lady? No—no! We are not backwoodsmen,—are we? Come, Madeleine, come!"

Madeleine saw that argument would not avail with the count; his mind was not sufficiently clear; it only had glimpses of reason which allowed him to comprehend by fits and starts.

Ever quick of decision, she said cheerfully, "Yes, in one moment," and withdrew; but before Maurice had divined her intention, returned, wearing her bonnet and shawl, and sprang into the carriage.

"Drive into the country," was Madeleine's order to the coachman.

Maurice looked at her with inquiring surprise.

"Dr. Bayard said a drive would do your father good. We can first take a short drive, then return, and go to the hotel."

Count Tristan looked happy. The motion of the carriage was agreeable to him, and the fresh air revived him; he gazed eagerly out of the window as though the commonest objects had caught the charm of novelty. His pleasure was of brief duration; for when they had driven about a mile, prudence suggested to Madeleine that it would be well to return before the patient became fatigued. She pulled the check-cord, and herself gave the order, "To Brown's hotel."

Count Tristan paid no attention to the command. The hotel was quickly reached; the carriage stopped; Maurice descended and handed out his father.

"Let me hear good news of you," said Madeleine to Count Tristan, encouragingly, and kept her seat.

Leaning heavily on his son's arm, the count mounted the hotel steps, but he did not comprehend Madeleine's words as an adieu, and turned to speak to her, thinking she was beside him. The coachman was closing the carriage-door preparatory to driving away.

"Madeleine! Madeleine!" cried out the count, stretching his hand imploringly toward her. "Madeleine, come! come!"

Madeleine perceived that Maurice was remonstrating with his father, and trying to lead him on, but that the count would not move, and still cried out, "Come! come!" in a voice of piteous entreaty.

Curious strangers began to collect; Madeleine knew that if the scene continued even a few moments, a crowd would gather, and all manner of inquiries be made of her coachman, the hotel-keepers, the servants. She leaped out of the carriage, hastened to the count's side, and said,—

"I will go upstairs with you; the assistance of Maurice may not be sufficient; lean on my arm also."

And Count Tristan did lean upon her, for his limbs were too feeble to ascend a long flight without difficulty.

The door of the countess's salon was but a few paces from the top of the stair. Madeleine paused, took the count's hand affectionately in hers, and pressed it several times to her lips, saying,—

"Now I must bid you adieu. It would not be agreeable to the countess to see me. She would think my coming with you impertinent. You will not force me to bear the pain of seeing her displeasure? Bid me adieu and let me go!"

The count, easily swayed by her persuasive voice, and inspired with a vague dread of his mother's anger, kissed her forehead, and did not remonstrate, but stood still and watched her gliding swiftly down the stairs.

Maurice had whispered to her, "I will be with you as soon as possible, Madeleine. Be brave, for my sake!"

The countess had only betrayed her anxious expectancy by changing her usual seat to one where she could watch the door, and by looking up eagerly every time it opened. When, at last, Maurice entered, supporting Count Tristan, there was a gleam of mingled joy and triumph in his mother's eye. It was doubtful whether the triumph of having compelled obedience to her commands, and of having wrested her son from Madeleine, did not surpass the joy she experienced in beholding that son once again.

From her greeting, a stranger would hardly have imagined that when she saw him last his life was in imminent peril, and that she had rushed from his presence overcome by grief and mortification. She now received him as though she had cheated herself into the belief that she was doing the honors in her ancestral chateau, and that his brief absence had no graver origin than some ordinary pleasure party.

"Welcome, my son, welcome!" said she, kissing him on either cheek. "We have missed you greatly; you are thrice welcome for this brief separation."

Count Tristan returned her salutation, but looked strangely uncomfortable, as though the atmosphere oppressed and chilled him.

"Dear cousin Tristan, I am so glad to see you better; you will soon be quite well again," said Bertha, embracing him far more warmly than his mother had done.

The countess made no allusion to his illness; she preferred wholly to forget the past.

Maurice led his father to an arm-chair, and asked Bertha to bring a pillow. Under Madeleine's tuition Maurice had become quite expert in promoting an invalid's comfort, and yet he now failed to arrange the pillow satisfactorily. Perhaps his father's chair was not easy, or the one to which he was accustomed was more commodious, or Maurice was more clumsy than usual; for though Bertha also lent her aid, the count kept repeating, fretfully,—

"It's not right,—it does not support my shoulders! You can't do it! Leave it alone! Leave it alone!"

They desisted, and sat down beside him.

The countess had no faculty of starting conversation, and Bertha's merry tongue had of late lost its volubility; she had so often irritated her aunt by her remarks that she had become afraid to speak. Maurice was too sad to be otherwise than taciturn. Thus the reunited little family sat in solemn silence. Count Tristan looked around him drearily for a while, and then having for a moment lost recollection of what had just taken place, exclaimed disconsolately,—

"Where is Madeleine?"

These unfortunate words roused the countess. She rose up as loftily as in her proudest, most unchastened days, and approaching him, asked, in a rebuking voice,—

"For whom do you inquire, my son? Am I to understand that a mother's presence is not all-sufficient for her own child? Is not hers the place by his side? If that place has been, for a season, usurped, should he not rejoice that she to whom it legitimately belongs occupies it once more?"

The count looked awed, and did not attempt to reply. Maurice perceived that he must exert himself to shield his father from as much discomfort as could be warded off, and inquired, without directly addressing either the countess or Bertha,—

"Is my father's room prepared for him? But I suppose that it is. His drive must have fatigued him, and I think he would like to retire."

The countess disclaimed any knowledge of the state of the apartment, signifying that she was not in the habit of occupying herself with matters of this nature. Bertha was equally ignorant, but said she would go and see. Maurice prevented her by going himself.

The room looked as though it had not been entered since the day when he had packed up his father's clothes to move them to Madeleine's, and that was more than a fortnight ago. There was some delay in getting a chambermaid; servants are always busy, yet never to be had in an American hotel; after several ineffectual attempts, he obtained the services of an Irish girl; and he induced Adolphine to lend her aid, that the room might be aired, swept, and put in order more rapidly. Adolphine was rather a hinderance to the bustling Irish help, for a Parisian lady's-maid knows one especial business, and knows nothing else, however simple; she is an instrument that plays but one tune, and she boasts of her speciality as a virtue. In something more than an hour Adolphine announced that the apartment of M. le Comte was in readiness.

Count Tristan was very willing to retire, and after Maurice had played the valet without assistance, his father seemed disposed to sleep, and Maurice closed the blinds and sat down quietly until he perceived that the invalid had fallen into a deep slumber. Henceforth he was to watch beside him, when watching was needed, alone! Those blessed nights, shorter and sweeter than the happiest dreams, when he had sat in the pale light, with that beautiful face beaming opposite to him,—that soft voice sounding melodiously in his ears,—they were gone, never to return!

At that very moment Madeleine herself was haunted by the same reflections. When she drove home alone, and reentered her house, how desolate and dreary it appeared! How empty and lonely seemed those apartments so lately occupied by the ones nearest of kin and dearest to her heart! She wandered through the rooms, up and down, up and down, with restless feet, pondering upon the singular events of the last few weeks; she had not before had leisure to dwell upon them. Was it indeed true that her roof had sheltered Count Tristan de Gramont?—Count Tristan de Gramont, whose persecutions in other days, had driven her from his own roof, and whose hatred had embittered and blighted her life? And had he learned to depend upon her? to love her? To talk to her, even when his mind wandered, of gratitude, as though that emotion was ever uppermost in her presence? And Maurice, her dear cousin,—Maurice, the beloved of her soul, who must never know that he was all in all to her,—had he been her guest for more than two weeks? And had she been permitted the joy of promoting his comfort in a thousand little, unnoted, womanly ways? Had he sat at her table? Had they watched together, night and day, by his father's bed?—talking through the night hours, unwearied when the morning broke, unwilling to welcome the first rays of the sun, because their sweet, inexhaustible converse came to an end? Had they shared the happiness of ameliorating Count Tristan's melancholy state, and seeing him daily improve? And now it was all over: she must resume her old course of life, her temporarily laid aside labors! To muse too long upon departed happiness would unfit her for those. Even the sad joy of recollection was denied her.

She sent for Mrs. Lawkins and directed everything to be restored to its usual order. The draperies in the entry were to be taken down;—no, let them remain; Madeleine had been accustomed to see that portion of the house divided from the rest; let them stay. In passing through the drawing-room she noticed Maurice's trunk, which he had not thought of packing. Though it gave her many a pang, because she was forced to realize more keenly that he was surely gone, it was also with a sense of pleasure that she collected together the articles belonging to him and packed them carefully. Hers was a nature peculiarly susceptible to the pure delight of serving, aiding, sparing trouble to those whom she loved. The meanest household drudgery, the severest labor, the most prosaic making and mending, would have gained a charm and been idealized into pleasures, if they contributed to the well-being of those dear to her; but, when performed for the one more precious than all others, they became positive joys.

She left Mrs. Lawkins busied in the arrangement of the apartments, and went upstairs to the workroom, which she had not entered for nearly three weeks. She had not seen any of her employees, except Ruth, and Mademoiselle Victorine, since they all had learned her rank. Her unexpected appearance created a great commotion. No one but Ruth had expected to behold her in that apartment again. The women all rose respectfully; but an unwonted restraint checked the expression of gratification which her presence ever imparted. Madeleine smilingly bade them to be seated; then passed around the table and spoke to every needle-woman in turn, inquiring after the personal health of each, or asking questions about her family,—for she knew the histories of all; and then learning particulars concerning the work that had been done, and the work in hand.

The obsequiousness of Mademoiselle Victorine was perfectly overwhelming, yet she experienced no little disappointment. She had made up her mind that since Mademoiselle Melanie was known to be Mademoiselle de Gramont, she would never again be able to appear among her workwomen, even to superintend their labors, and a large portion of the resigned power must be delegated to the accomplished forewoman. Ruth Thornton, Madeleine's favorite, as Victorine considered her, was in the way; but what were a French woman's wits worth if they could not devise some method of removing a dangerous rival?

Madeleine lingered long enough to be au courant to the present state of affairs, and she found that the business of the establishment had so much increased during her seclusion, that every day, a host of orders had to be declined. This overwhelming influx of patronage was partially attributable to the reports circulated concerning Mademoiselle Melanie's romantic history, and also to the strong desire of the public (a democratic public) to secure the honor of procuring habiliments from the establishment of a dress-maker whose father was a duke.

Madeleine had taken a seat near Ruth, and was listening to Mademoiselle Victorine's histories and suggestions, when Robert made known that Monsieur Maurice de Gramont begged to see Mademoiselle Melanie.

Maurice had left his father as soon as he slept; he was impatient to return to Madeleine. He was tortured by the remembrance of her burst of grief, and her bitter words. The forced composure by which they were succeeded could not hide from him the deep wound she had received. Though the period which had elapsed since his father was conducted from Madeleine's house was so brief, the rooms, grown familiar to Maurice, already wore a different aspect; he actually felt hurt that Madeleine could have made the change thus rapidly. Men are so unreasonable! Maurice resembled his sex in that particular. Then, too, he found his trunk packed, and he knew by whose hand that duty had been performed. Doubtless, he was grateful? Not in the least! It seemed to him that Madeleine was in too much haste to remove the last vestige of his sojourn near her. When she entered the drawing-room he was standing contemplating the neatly filled trunk, and was cruel enough to say,—

"You used your old magic to make ready for us, Madeleine, and you have used it again to efface all our footprints here. I can hardly persuade myself that I occupied this room."

Madeleine felt the implied reproach; but without answering the unmerited rebuke, she asked, "Is your father doing well?"

"He is sleeping at this moment; but it is very evident that he is going to have a sorrowful time; he will miss you so much; and my grandmother is as cold and hard as though her illness had petrified her more completely than ever."

That was another observation to which Madeleine could find no reply. Without essaying to make an appropriate answer, she said, "It will never do to let the whole burden of nursing your father devolve on you, Maurice; you will be broken down. May I plan for you? You need an experienced garde malade. It would be difficult, at short notice, to procure any so reliable, and so well versed in the duties of a nurse as Mrs. Lawkins. Then, too, your father is accustomed to see her near him; and a familiar face will be more welcome than a stranger's. Do you think it would be wrong to engage her without your grandmother's knowing that she had been in my employment?"

"I have no scruples on that head," returned Maurice; "but there are others which I cannot readily get over. She is your house-keeper, and I have heard you say she was very valuable to you. I know that it is exceedingly difficult to obtain good domestics in this country; you cannot replace her at once. How can you spare her?"

"Easily,—easily; do not talk of that. I will speak to her and she will go to you to-morrow morning. Meantime, I advise you to inform the countess that a nurse is coming. One charge more: your father is so much better that instead of wearing yourself out by sitting up with him, it would be wiser to have a sofa, upon which you could take rest, placed beside his bed. M. de Bois will gladly take his turn in watching, but after a few nights, I think Count Tristan will need no one but Mrs. Lawkins."

"Ah, Madeleine"—

Madeleine interrupted him. "One word about the delicacies which you cannot readily procure in a hotel, and which it would deprive me of a great happiness if I could not send. As the countess is now up, and might see and recognize Robert, I will order him to deliver the salver to the waiter who attends upon your rooms. Would it not be advisable to say a few words to this man to prevent any inadvertent remark in the presence of your grandmother?"

"Well thought of. How do you keep your wits so thoroughly about you, Madeleine? How do you manage to remember everything that should be remembered, and at the right moment?"

"If I do,—though I am not disposed to admit that such is the case,—it is simply through the habit of taking the trouble to think at all, to reflect quietly upon what would be best, what is most needed,—a very simple process."

"And, like a great many other simple but important processes, rare just because it is so simple," remarked Maurice, with great justice.

During this conversation Maurice and Madeleine had been standing where she found him on entering the room; but he had not resolution to tear himself quickly away, and said,—

"Let me sit a little while in your boudoir, and talk to you, Madeleine. I have not been able to reconcile myself so quickly to my own change of abode as you seem to have done to our departure from yours."

Was it not surprising that such a noble-minded man as Maurice could make an observation so ungracious, so ungenerous, and one which in his heart he knew was so unjust, to the woman he loved? Yet it would be difficult to find a lover who is incapable of doing the same. Why is it that men, even the best, are at times stirred by an irresistible prompting, themselves, to wound the being whom they would shield from all harm dealt by others with chivalric devotion? Let a woman commit the slightest action that can, by ingenious torturing, be interpreted into a moment's want of consideration for the feelings of her lover, and all his admiration, his tenderness, his reverence, will not prevent his being cruel enough to stab her with some passing word that strikes as sharply as a dagger.

"You think me a true philosopher, then?" replied Madeleine, gravely. But she added, in a lower and less firm tone, while a soft humility filled her mild eyes, "Do you think I am reconciled, Maurice?"

"Do you not think I am a heartless, senseless brute to have grieved you? Do not look so sorrowful! You make me hate myself! Ah, you did well not to trust your happiness to my keeping; I was not a fit guardian."

It was far harder for Madeleine to hear him say that than to listen to an undeserved reproach; but she led the way to her boudoir without replying, and for the next hour Maurice sat beside her, and they conversed without any jarring note breaking the harmony of their communion.



CHAPTER XLV.

REPARATION.

Maurice, with as much nonchalance as he could assume, informed his grandmother that he had engaged a garde malade to assist in the care of his father. When good Mrs. Lawkins made her appearance the next morning, looking as plump, rosy and "comfortable" as English nurses (and house-keepers) are wont to look, the countess merely bestowed upon her a passing glance and then took no further notice of her presence. It never occurred to Madame de Gramont to inquire into the fitness of this person for her position and duties. Besides, the countess seldom addressed a "hireling," except to utter a command or a rebuke. Maurice was greatly relieved when he perceived his grandmother's perfect indifference to the individual whom he had selected. Mrs. Lawkins had been thrown "into a flutter" by Madeleine's cautions and the prospect of being obliged to parry a series of cross-questions; but the reception she received quickly restored her equanimity. Count Tristan was sitting near his mother; the worthy house-keeper made her obeisance to both in silence, then turned to Maurice for directions.

"You have brought your trunk with you?" inquired the latter.

"I left it in the entry, sir."

The count looked up at the sound of that voice. Immediately recognizing one whose association in his mind with Madeleine struck the chord which vibrated most readily, he exclaimed, in a piteous tone, "Madeleine! Madeleine! Why don't she come? Wont Madeleine come soon?"

Maurice, Bertha, and Mrs. Lawkins were filled with consternation at these words, which they imagined must arouse the suspicions of the countess; but she had not condescended to waste sufficient attention upon the domestic her son had hired to perceive that Count Tristan's ejaculations had any connection with her presence. The disdainful lady's eyes sparkled with anger at the unexpected mention of one whose name she desired never more to hear. She drew her chair close to Count Tristan's and said in harsh accents,—

"I trust, my son, that you have no wish ungratified? When your mother is by your side, whom else can you desire?"

Count Tristan was too easily cowed by her manner to venture a reply, even if his disordered intellect could have suggested any appropriate answer.

"I rejoice at your restoration to me," continued his mother; "and the filial duty I have the right to expect prompts me to believe that you also rejoice at our reunion."

The invalid looked very far from rejoicing; but the countess solaced herself by interpreting his silence into an affirmative.

From that time he never breathed Madeleine's name in his mother's presence; but those who watched beside him, often heard it murmured when he slept, or just as he wakened, before full consciousness was restored.

From the day that he returned to the hotel, he sank into a state of deep dejection. He would sit or lie for hours with his eyes wide open, without apparently seeing or hearing what passed around him, while an expression of despair overshadowed his deeply furrowed countenance.

The manifest weakness of his brain was a severer trial to Madame de Gramont than his enfeebled bodily condition; but she dealt with it as with her other trials; she would not acknowledge to herself the existence of his mental malady; she refused to admit that he lacked power to reason, at the very moment when she was exerting the species of authority she would have employed to keep an unreasoning child in check. The idea that it would be well to divert his mind, and render the hours less tedious, never occurred to her, or, if it did, she was totally at a loss to suggest any means of pleasantly whiling away the time. Her own health had not wholly recovered from its recent shock; the slow fever still lingered in her veins, but the daily routine of her life was as unchanged as though her strength had been unimpaired.

Dr. Bayard had ordered his patient to drive out every day, and the countess considered it her duty to accompany him. The pillows which Mrs. Lawkins carefully placed for the support of the invalid were almost as much needed by his mother; but she sat erect, and drew herself away from them, as though the merest approach to a reclining posture would have been a lapse from dignity. The count no longer gazed out of the window with that calm look of enjoyment which Maurice and Madeleine had remarked; he usually closed his eyes, or fixed them on his son, sitting opposite, with a mournfully appealing look, which seemed to ask,—

"Can no help come to me? Will it always be thus?"

Week after week passed on. Maurice, in spite of his unremitting attention to his father, found time to pay daily visits to Madeleine.

She no longer made her appearance in the exhibition-rooms, or saw the ladies who came to her establishment, upon business; but when Count Tristan was removed she had no gracious plea for excusing herself to those who called as visitors. She received them with graceful ease and dignified composure. Not one of them had courage or inclination to make the faintest allusion to the past, or to their acquaintance with her as "Mademoiselle Melanie." It was Mademoiselle de Gramont in whose presence they sat. Even Madame de Fleury had too much perception to venture to ask her advice upon questions of the deepest interest,—namely, the most becoming shapes for new attire, the selection of colors, the choice of appropriate trimmings, or some equally important matter which engrossed that troubled lady's thoughts, and caused her many wakeful nights.

After Count Tristan and Maurice returned to the hotel, Bertha escaped from imprisonment. When she informed her aunt that she was suffering from want of fresh air, the countess requested her to accompany Count Tristan and herself upon their daily drive; but Bertha maintained that driving would do her no good; she detested a close carriage; she wanted more active exercise,—she would take a brisk walk with her maid. Madame de Gramont would assuredly have mounted guard over her niece in person, were it not that the fatigue experienced even after a couple of hours' driving, admonished her that she lacked the strength for pedestrianism. Bertha was allowed to go forth attended only by Adolphine. Her walk always lay in one direction, and that was toward the residence of Madeleine; and, strange to say, she never failed to encounter M. de Bois, who was always going the same way! These invigorating promenades had a marvellous effect in restoring Bertha's faded color and vanished spirits; and in the small, sad circle of which the stern-visaged Countess de Gramont formed the centre, there was, at least, one radiant face.

About this time the quiet monotony of Maurice's life was broken by a letter from his partner, Mr. Lorrillard. This gentleman had only recently learned from Mr. Emerson the painful circumstances which had taken place in connection with the loan made to the Viscount de Gramont at Mr. Lorrillard's suggestion. Mr. Lorrillard prided himself upon being too good a judge of character and upon having studied that of Maurice too thoroughly, not to feel confident that some satisfactory explanation could be given to occurrences which wore a very dubious aspect. He wrote kindly, yet frankly, to Maurice, requesting to know whether the account of the transaction which he had received was thoroughly correct, and more than hinting his certainty that all the facts had not been brought to light. Maurice was sorely perplexed; but, in spite of his strong desire to shield his father, he finally decided that Mr. Lorrillard was entitled to a full explanation, and that his own position would never be endurable while a suspicion shadowed his name. He despatched Mr. Lorrillard the following letter.

"My dear Sir:—

"I cannot but be touched by the confidence you repose in me. I do not thank you less because you have done me the common justice which is due from one man to another. When I received the loan from Mr. Emerson, I as firmly believed that the security I gave him was unquestionable, as he did. I had been led to think that the power of attorney in my father's hands had not been used. I was mistaken. I pass over Mr. Emerson's proceedings, which, however severe, were authorized by the light in which he viewed my conduct. The ten thousand dollars he loaned me were, at once, repaid him by the generosity of one of my relatives, Mademoiselle Madeleine de Gramont, whose debtor I remain. My father's dangerous illness has detained me in Washington. The instant he is sufficiently convalescent I purpose returning to Charleston to resume my professional duties.

"I am, my dear sir, "Yours, very truly, "MAURICE DE GRAMONT."

Mr. Lorrillard was highly gratified by the simple, ingenuous, yet manly tone of this letter, and well pleased to find his impressions correct. He immediately despatched an epistle to Mr. Emerson which convinced the latter that he could only conciliate a valued friend by making every possible reparation.

A few days later Maurice was surprised by Mr. Emerson's card. He could not converse with him in the presence of Count Tristan and Madame de Gramont, and was obliged to receive him in the general drawing-room of the hotel.

When Maurice entered, Mr. Emerson extended his hand and said, with an air of frankness,—

"I am a just man, M. de Gramont, and I came to make you an apology. My friend, Mr. Lorrillard, has convinced me that I ought to have paused before I yielded to the conviction that one whom he esteemed so highly had wilfully taken advantage of my credulity. I am now convinced that you were not aware that your property was mortgaged, and I come to tell you so."

"You have again made me your debtor," replied Maurice, not a little gratified. "I give you my word, as a gentleman, that I had not the remotest suspicion the property in question was encumbered. I have no right to complain of the severity of your treatment; it was justifiable under the circumstances."

"Hardly," replied the other. "But I shall esteem it a privilege to make all the reparation in my power. Of course you are aware that the railroad mentioned passes through your property, and that the estate has already doubled its former value? I came here to say that I am ready not only to loan you the ten thousand dollars you originally requested me to advance, but a larger sum, if you so desire."

What a sensation of thankfulness and relief those words caused Maurice! He would not only be enabled to repay Madeleine the amount she had so generously loaned, but he would be in a situation to meet the heavy expenses which his father and grandmother were daily incurring! Count de Gramont had never given his son entire confidence, and the latter was not aware of the exact state of the count's affairs; but Maurice had too much cause to believe that they were in a ruinous condition. He had only recently become acquainted with the mortifying fact that, from the time his father left the Chateau de Gramont, Bertha had been the banker of the whole party.

"I will meet your offer as frankly as it is made," answered Maurice, after a moment's reflection. "If you feel justified in loaning me fifteen thousand dollars, instead of ten, upon the former security, I will esteem it a great favor."

"Willingly; come to my office to-day, at any hour you please, and we will settle the matter. Make haste, for I must write to Lorrillard by this evening's mail, and I desire to inform him, in answer to his somewhat caustic letter, that I have made the amende honorable."



CHAPTER XLVI.

A MISHAP.

Madeleine was accustomed to see Maurice at a certain hour every day, and looked forward to that period with such joyous expectation that a sense of disquiet, amounting to positive pain, took possession of her mind when the time passed without his making his appearance. She could not help reflecting how sad and long the days would grow when she could no more listen for his welcome step, and feel her heart bounding at the sight of his handsome countenance; and yet such days must come, and must be borne with the rest of life's burdens.

That was his ring at the bell,—those were his firm, rapid steps! His face glowed so brightly when he entered the little boudoir that Madeleine exclaimed,—

"Your father must be much better! You carry the news written in shining characters in your eyes."

Maurice related what had passed between himself and Mr. Emerson, to whom he had just paid the promised visit, and concluded by saying,—

"Now, dearest Madeleine, I am enabled to repay your most opportune loan, but not able to tell you from what misery and disgrace you saved me."

He laid a check upon the table as he spoke.

Madeleine was silent, and looked uncomfortable. Maurice went on,—

"You cannot conceive my happiness at being so unexpectedly able to pay this debt, though that of gratitude must ever remain uncancelled."

"At least, Maurice, I will not deprive you of the happiness, since it is one; and perhaps you will be more pleased when you know that this money will enable me to make the last payment upon this house, which will now become wholly mine. It has grown more dear to me than I imagined it could ever become,—more dear through the guests whom it has sheltered, and the associations with which it is filled. I never thought of making it mine with so much joy."

"You will remain here then? You will continue your occupation?" asked Maurice.

"Yes, undoubtedly."

"But," persisted Maurice, "do you not look forward to a time when you will have another home?"

"I see no such time in the dim future," she returned. "Perhaps I may become so rich that the temptation to retire will be very great; but as I cannot live unemployed I shall first be obliged to discover some other, wider, and nobler sphere of usefulness."

"But the home I mean," continued Maurice, with an air of desperation, "is the home of another,—the home of one whom you love. Do you not look forward to dwelling in such a home?"

Madeleine's "No" was uttered in a low tone, but one of unmistakable sincerity.

"How can that be?" exclaimed Maurice, at once troubled and relieved.

"Do not try to read the riddle, Maurice. You will be happier in setting it aside as one of life's mysteries which will be revealed in the great day. Will you listen to a new song which I have been learning?"

"Will I listen? Will a hungry beggar gather the crumbs falling from a rich man's table?"

Madeleine laughed and seated herself at the piano. The new song only made Maurice desire to hear some of the old ones, and then other new ones, and she sang on until an unexpected and startling interruption destroyed all the harmony of the hour. But that occurrence we will relate in due season. We must first return to the hotel which Maurice had left before his usual hour, that he might pay a visit to Mr. Emerson previous to calling upon Madeleine.

The palatable delicacies which Madeleine daily sent to the invalids always reached the hotel at an hour when Maurice had promised to be at home. Robert had strict orders to deliver the salver to one of the hotel servants, and never to appear before the countess. This morning, however, the arrival of a large number of travellers had occupied all the domestics; not a waiter was to be found. Robert was anxious to inquire about a silver milk-jug which had not been returned. He carried his salver to the door of Madame de Gramont's drawing-room, though without intending to enter. The door happened to be open; he could see that the room was only occupied by Count Tristan, who was asleep in his arm-chair, and Mrs. Lawkins. She was the person whom he wished to see. The temptation was too great to be resisted. He entered with soundless feet, and placed upon the table a salver bearing a bowl of beef tea, two glasses of calves'-feet jelly, a plate of those Normandy cakes which the countess had so much relished, and a dish of superb white and red raspberries.

Approaching his mouth to Mrs. Lawkins' ear, Robert said, in a whisper,—

"Mrs. Lawkins, I had to come in, for you were just the person I wanted to see. You never sent back the silver milk-pitcher."

"The milk-pitcher?" replied Mrs. Lawkins. "Bless my heart! You don't say so? It's not here! I hope it's not been stolen. It must have got mixed up with the hotel silver and gone downstairs."

"You'll be sure to hunt it up, Mrs. Lawkins. I have said nothing to Mademoiselle Melanie,—Mademoiselle Madeleine, I mean; but I am responsible, as you know, for all her silver, and I can't have what I bring here mislaid; as you were here I thought it was quite safe. How is the poor gentleman?"

"Ah, not so well as he was under Mademoiselle Madeleine's care. I'll see after the silver jug, and keep a sharp look-out for the silver in future."

Robert and Mrs. Lawkins stood with their backs to the door of Madame de Gramont's apartment, which opened into the drawing-room. What was their consternation on finding the countess herself standing in the door-way! Her countenance was perfectly appalling in its white, distorted wrath. She strode toward the two abashed domestics, and cried out, in a voice which broke the count's slumbers, and caused him to sit up in his chair with terror-dilated eyes,—

"Woman! What is the meaning of this? Of whom are you talking? Whose silver is that?" (pointing savagely to the salver.) "And who are you?"

Mrs. Lawkins was dumb.

"Am I to be answered?" demanded the countess, imperiously.

Then she turned to Robert. "Whose silver is that? Whose silver did you say was missing?"

"Mademoiselle de Gramont's," Robert faltered out.

"And Mademoiselle de Gramont has the unparalleled audacity to send her silver here for my use? Do you mean to tell me that this salver and what it contains are from her?"

Robert could not answer.

"Great heaven! that I should endure this! That Madeleine de Gramont should have the insolence to force her bounty by stealth upon me, and that I should not have suspected her at once! Remove that salver out of my sight, and if you ever dare"—

Mrs. Lawkins had now partially recovered her self-possession, and interrupted the countess politely but very firmly,—

"Madame, you will do M. de Gramont great injury. Do you not see that you are exciting him by this violence?"

"Who are you that you dare dictate to me? Leave this house instantly! Were you sent here by Mademoiselle de Gramont to institute an espionage over me and my family? Go and tell your mistress that neither she nor anything that belongs to her shall ever again defile my dwelling! I shall watch better in future! I will not be snared by her low arts, her contemptible impostures!"

Mrs. Lawkins, though she was a mild woman, loved Madeleine too well to hear her mentioned disrespectfully without being roused to indignation; affection for her mistress overcame her awe of the countess, and she replied with feeling,—

"She is the noblest lady that ever walked the earth to bless it! and her only art is the practise of goodness! Those who are turning upon her and reviling her ought to be on their knees before her this blessed moment! Didn't she nurse that poor gentleman night and day, as though he had been her own father? Did she not bear all the slights put upon her by those who are not half as good as she?—yes, that are not worthy to wipe the dust from her holy feet, for all their pride? Didn't it almost break her heart when they forced the poor sick gentleman out of her house, to cage him in this cold, dreary place, where his own mother takes about as much care and notice of him as though he were a Hindoo or a Hottentot!" (Mrs. Lawkins was not strong in comparisons.) "And don't he mourn the night through for Mademoiselle Madeleine, crying out for her to come to him, as, I warrant, he never did for his mother? And isn't that mother murdering him at this very moment?"

"Leave the house! Leave the house!" cried the countess, in a voice that had lost all its commanding dignity, through rage. "Leave the house, I say! Do you dare to stand in my presence after such insolence?"

"Yes, madame I dare!" replied Mrs. Lawkins, coolly. "I am not afraid of a marble figure, even though it has a tongue; and there's not more soul in you than in a piece of marble; there's nothing but stone where your heart should be; but even stone will break with a hard enough blow, and perhaps you will get such a one before you die."

"Go! I say, go!" vociferated the countess, pointing to the door. "Am I to be obeyed?"

"No, madame!" replied Mrs. Lawkins, undaunted. "Not until I receive the orders of M. Maurice de Gramont. He placed me here, and here I shall stay until I have his leave to resign my duties."

Count Tristan had caught his attendant's hand when he conceived the idea that she was to be sent away from him, and when she refused to leave him, he pressed it approvingly.

"I am mistress here!" said the countess, with something of her former grandeur of bearing. "M. Maurice de Gramont has no authority to engage or discharge domestics, or to give any orders that are not mine. I will have none of Mademoiselle de Gramont's spies placed about my person! Go and tell her so, and say that after this last outrage, I will never see her face again. Would that I might never hear her name! She has been my curse,—my misery; she shall never cross my path more!"

The count rose up as if sudden strength were miraculously infused into his limbs; he raised both his arms toward heaven, and wailed out, "O Lord God, bless her! bless her! Madeleine! Good angel! Madeleine!"

The next moment he fell forward senseless and rolled to the ground.

The countess was stupefied;—she could not speak, or stoop, or stir.

The alarmed house-keeper knelt beside him. Robert hastily set down the salver and lent his assistance. They lifted the count and laid him upon the sofa. The instant Mrs. Lawkins saw his face, and the foam issuing from his lips, she exclaimed,—

"It is another fit! It is his second stroke! Lord have mercy upon him! and upon you," she continued, turning to the countess, solemnly; "for, if he dies, so sure as there is a heaven above us, you have killed your own son!"

The countess' look of horror softened the kindly house-keeper, in spite of her just wrath, and she added, "He may recover,—he has great strength. Robert, run quickly for Dr. Bayard."

Then she unfastened the patient's cravat and dashed cold water upon his head, and chafed his hands, while his mother, slowly awakening from her state of stupefaction, drew near, and bent over him. But not a finger did she raise to minister to him; she would not have known what to do, so little were her hands accustomed to ministration,—so seldom had they been stretched out to perform the slightest service for any one, even her own son.

We left Madeleine chasing away all heaviness from the soul of Maurice by her sweet singing. She was still at the piano, and he still hanging over her, when Robert burst into the room. He was a man almost stolid in his quietude, and his hurried entrance, and agitated manner, were sufficient to terrify Maurice and Madeleine before he spoke.

"Mademoiselle, it was my fault! Oh, if I had been more careful to obey your orders it would never have happened!"

His contrition was so deep that he could not proceed.

"Has Madame de Gramont discovered who sent the salver?" asked Madeleine, with an air of vexation.

"That's not the worst, Mademoiselle. The countess has found out how Mrs. Lawkins came there. She overheard us talking about the milk-jug I missed. Madame de Gramont was very violent; she said such things of you, Mademoiselle, that Mrs. Lawkins, who loves you like her own, couldn't stand it, and gave her a bit of her mind, and M. de Gramont was roused up also; he wouldn't hear you spoken against; he took on so it caused him another attack; down he dropped like dead!"

"My father,—he has been seized again, and"—Maurice did not finish his sentence, but caught up his hat.

"I've been for the doctor, sir," said Robert; "he's there by this time."

Maurice was out of the room, and hurrying toward the street door; Madeleine sprang after him.

"Maurice! Maurice! Stay one moment! Oh, if I could be near your father,—if I could see him! My imprudence has been the cause of this last stroke; yet I feel that he would gladly have me near him."

"He would indeed, my best Madeleine; but, my grandmother, alas! I have no hope of moving her."

"If her son were dying," persisted Madeleine, "her heart might be softened. If he asked for me, she might let me come to him; it would soothe him perhaps, and how it would comfort me! I shall be at the hotel nearly as soon as you are. I will wait in my carriage until you come to me and tell me how he is. Perhaps I may be permitted to enter if he asks for me. Do not forget that I am there."

Did Maurice ever forget her, for a single moment?

As soon as Madeleine's carriage could be brought to the door she followed her cousin.

It was perhaps surprising that she was moved with so much sympathy for one whom she not only had good reason to dislike, but toward whom she had formerly experienced an unconquerable repugnance; but, with spirits chastened and purified, as hers had been, a tenderness is always kindled toward those whom they are permitted to serve. The very office of ministration (the office of angels), softens the heart, and substitutes pity for loathing, the strong inclination to regenerate for the spirit of condemnation. While Madeleine was daily ministering to the count, she found herself becoming attached to him, and, with little effort of volition, she blotted the past from her own memory.

The action of Count Tristan's mind had been peculiar; when the discovery of his dishonorable manoeuvring caused him a shock which planted the first seeds of his present malady,—when he had fallen into the depths of despair,—it was Madeleine's hand that raised him up, that saved him from disgrace, and saved his son from being the innocent participator of that shame. For the first time in his life a strong sense of gratitude was awakened in his breast. Again, it was through Madeleine that the votes of so much importance to him, and which he had believed unattainable, were procured; she stood before him for the second time in the light of a benefactress. He had been seized with apoplexy while conversing with her; when reason was dimly restored, his mind went back to his last conscious thought, and that had been of her,—hence his immediate recognition of her alone. Her patient, gentle, tender care had impressed him with reverence; he was magnetized by her sphere of unselfishness, forgiveness and goodness, and some of the hardnesses of his own nature were melted away.

Count Tristan had practised deception until he had nearly lost all belief in the truth and purity of others,—had apparently grown insensible to all holy influences. Yet the daily contemplation of a character which bore witness to the existence of the most heavenly attributes silently undermined his cold scepticism, and tacitly contradicted and disproved his creed that duplicity and selfishness were universal characteristics of mankind,—a creed usually adopted by him who sees his fellow-men in the mirror which reflects his own image. Madeleine had discovered some small, not yet tightly closed avenue to Count Tristan's soul. Her toiling, pardoning, helping, holy spirit had done more to lift him out of the bondage of his evil passions than could have been affected by any other human agency.



CHAPTER XLVII.

INFLEXIBILITY.

"Oh, you have come at last!" exclaimed the countess, with acrimony, as Maurice opened the door of his father's chamber. Then, pointing to the count, who still lay in a state of unconsciousness, she added, "Do you see what calamities you leave me alone to bear?—you who are the only stay I have left?"

By the aid of Mrs. Lawkins and the servants of the hotel, the count had been removed to his room. When Maurice entered, Mrs. Lawkins was standing on one side of the bed, Dr. Bayard on the other. The countess was pacing up and down the small chamber like a caged lioness.

Her grandson did not reply to her taunt, but addressed the doctor in a tone too low for her to hear. His answer was a dubious movement of the head which augured ill.

Bertha, who chanced to be in her own chamber, writing to her dyspeptic uncle, had only that moment become aware of what had happened. She stole into the count's room, pale with terror, crept up to Maurice, and clung to his arm as she asked, in a frightened tone,—

"Will he die, Maurice? Is it as bad as that?"

"I cannot tell; I have great fears. But see, he is opening his eyes; he looks better."

The senses of the count were returning; the fit had been of brief duration, and hardly as violent as the one with which he had before been attacked. In a short time it was apparent that he was aware of what was passing around him.

Maurice whispered to Bertha: "Madeleine is in her carriage at the door; put on your bonnet and run down to her,—you will not be missed. Tell her that my father is reviving."

Bertha lost no time in obeying, and was soon sitting by Madeleine's side, receiving rather than giving comfort.

Dr. Bayard, whose visits were necessarily brief, was compelled to leave, but he did so with the assurance that he would return speedily.

Count Tristan's eyes wandered about as though in search of some one; they rested but for one instant upon his mother, Maurice, Mrs. Lawkins, and then glanced around him again with an anxious, yearning expression, and he moaned faintly.

Maurice bent over him. "My dear father, is there anything you desire?"

The count moaned again.

"Is there any one you wish to see?" asked Maurice, determined to take a bold stand.

"Mad—Mad—Madeleine!"

The feeble lips of the sufferer formed the word with difficulty, yet it was clearly spoken.

Maurice turned bravely to the countess. "You hear, my grandmother, that my father wishes to see Madeleine; it is not usual to refuse the requests of one in his perilous condition. With your permission I shall at once seek Madeleine and bring her to him."

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" she asked with tyrannous passion. "Or do you think that I have not borne insults enough, that you strive to invent new ones to heap upon me? How can you mention the name of that miserable girl in my hearing? Has she not occasioned me and all my family sufficient wretchedness? Are you mad enough to imagine that I will allow you to bring her here that she may triumph over me in the face of the whole world?"

"My father asks to see her," returned Maurice, adding, in a lower tone, "and he may be on his death-bed."

Madame de Gramont, losing all control over herself, replied savagely, "If he were stretched there a corpse before me,—he, my only son, the only child I ever bore, the pride of my life,—Madeleine de Gramont should not enter these doors to glory over me! I know her arts; I know the hold she has contrived to obtain over him while he was at her mercy. That is at an end! I have him here, and she shall never come near him more,—neither she nor her accomplices!" and she indicated Mrs. Lawkins by a disdainful motion of the hand, as though she feared her meaning might not be sufficiently clear.

Maurice could not yield without another effort; for he perceived, by his father's countenance, that he not only heard the contest, but appealed to him to grant his unspoken wish.

"This is cruel, my grandmother! It is inhuman! You have nothing to urge against Madeleine, who has too nobly proved her devotion to her family, and her respect for your feelings; but if you had real and just cause of complaint, it should be forgotten at this moment. If my father desires to see her, she should be permitted to come to him."

"Do you presume to dictate to me, Maurice de Gramont? Is this one of the lessons you have learned from the mantua-maker? Do you intend to teach me my duty to my own child? I swear to you that Madeleine de Gramont shall never see my son again, while I live! I, his mother, am by his side,—that is sufficient. No one's presence can supersede that of a mother!"

Maurice saw that contention was fruitless; he sat down in silence, but not without noticing the look of compassion which Mrs. Lawkins bestowed upon him. The count had closed his eyes again, but low groans, almost like stifled sobs, burst at intervals from his lips.

The countess essayed to unbend sufficiently to attempt the task of soothing him.

"My son," she said, in the mildest tone she could command, "do you not know that your mother is near you?"

Without unclosing his eyes, he answered, "Yes."

"And her presence under all circumstances," she continued, "should leave nothing to desire. In spite of what Maurice with so little respect and consideration has attempted to make me believe, I know you too well not to be certain that he did you injustice."

No answer; but the countess interpreted her son's silence into acquiescence with her observation, and remarked to Maurice with asperity,—

"I presume you perceive that your father is fully satisfied. It does not interfere with his comfort that you have failed in your attempt. I well know you were instigated by one who hopes to make use of your father's indisposition as the stepping-stone by which she can again mount into favor with her family, and force them into public recognition of her. This is but one of her many cunning stratagems; there are others of which we will talk presently."

She glanced at Mrs. Lawkins, who was arranging the count's pillows, and raising him into a more comfortable position.

Maurice bethought him that it was time to let Madeleine know there was no hope of her obtaining admission to his father. As he left the apartment, the countess followed him into the drawing-room.

"I have something further to say to you, Maurice, and I prefer to speak out of the hearing of that woman. Am I to understand that you were privy to her introduction into this house, and that you were aware that she was a spy of Mademoiselle de Gramont?"

"A spy, madame?"

"Yes, a spy! Why should Mademoiselle de Gramont wish to place her menials here except to institute espionage over my family?"

"Mrs. Lawkins was sent here by Madeleine because she is an efficient nurse,—such a nurse as my father needs and as he could not readily obtain, I brought her here, and I did not do so without knowing her fitness for her office."

"Her chief fitness consists, it appears, in her having been in the employment of the mantua-maker. I have no more to say on this subject, except that the woman must quit the house this evening."

"That is out of the question; she cannot leave until I have found some one to take her place."

"Do you mean to dispute my orders, Maurice de Gramont? I shall not entrust to you the task of dismissing her. I shall myself command her to leave, and that without delay."

"You will do as you please, madame; but may I ask by whom you intend to replace her?"

"Somebody will be found. I will give orders to have another nurse procured. In the mean time, Adolphine can make herself useful."

"Adolphine!" replied Maurice, contemptuously. "A butterfly might turn a mill-wheel as efficiently as Adolphine could take charge of an invalid."

"Be the alternative what it may," replied the countess, peremptorily, "I am unalterable in my determination. That woman sent here by Madeleine de Gramont leaves the house to-day!"

Just then her eye fell upon the salver which Robert had left upon the table when he ran for the doctor; that sight added fresh fuel to her indignation.

"Have you also been aware that Mademoiselle de Gramont carried her audacity so far that she had even ventured secretly to send donations, in the shape of chocolate, beef-tea, cakes, jellies, and fruit, to her family?"

"I am aware," replied Maurice, "that Madeleine's thoughtful kindness prompted her, during your indisposition as well as my father's, to prepare, with her own hands, delicacies which are not to be obtained in a hotel. I was aware that this was her return for the harsh and cruel treatment she had received at the hands of,—of some of her family."

"Mad boy! You are leagued with her against me! This is unendurable! Oh, that I had never been lured to this abominable country! Oh, that I had never known the shame of finding my own grandson sunken so low! But I have borne the very utmost that I can support! Now it shall end! I will return with your father to our old home, that we may die there in peace! If you are not lost to all sense of filial duty, you will not forsake your father, but accompany him to Brittany; he will henceforth need a son!"

Maurice avoided making a direct reply by saying, "Have the goodness to excuse me, madame; I will return in a few moments."

He descended the stair with slower steps than was his wont when on his way to Madeleine. Bertha was still sitting in the carriage beside her cousin. Maurice read anxious expectation, mingled with some faint hope, in Madeleine's countenance. He entered the carriage before he ventured to speak.

"Your father, Maurice?" she asked eagerly.

"I think he is better; the attack does not appear as severe as the former one must have been."

"Did you speak to your grandmother of me? Did you plead for me, and entreat that she would allow me to go to Count Tristan?"

"She is not to be moved, Madeleine; she is implacable."

"But if your father should desire to see me?" persisted Madeleine.

"He did desire,—he even asked for you,—but my grandmother was inflexible."

"Maurice, I must,—must go to him, if he wishes to see me. I understand his wants so well,—I must, must go to him! Madame de Gramont may treat me as she will; but if he wants me, I must go to him!"

Madeleine was so carried away by her strong impulse to reach one to whom she knew her presence was essential, that she was less reasonable than usual, and it was with some difficulty that Maurice pacified her. But to resign herself to the inevitable, however hard, was one of the first duties of her life, and after awhile her composure was partially restored, and, bidding Bertha and Maurice adieu, she drove home.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE NEW ENGLAND NURSE.

Madeleine, in spite of the positive denial she had received, experienced as strong a desire to be near her afflicted relative as though his yearning for her presence drew her to him by some species of powerful magnetism. The wildest plans careered through her brain. She thought of the days in Paris when she had so successfully assumed the garb of the soeur de bon secours, and kept nightly vigils beside the bed of Maurice. Was there no disguise under which she could make her way to the count? But the doubt that she could elude the countess's scrutinizing eyes,—the certainty of the violent scene which must ensue if Madame de Gramont discovered her,—made her reluctantly relinquish the attempt. Then she clung to the hope that her aunt would not, while Count Tristan lay in so perilous a condition, insist upon discharging Mrs. Lawkins. All uncertainty upon that head was quickly dispelled by the appearance of Mrs. Lawkins herself. The countess had peremptorily repeated her sentence of banishment, and refused to listen to her grandson's entreaties that she might be permitted to remain until a substitute could be procured. To search for that substitute was the sole work left for Madeleine's hands. She despatched the willing housekeeper to make inquiries among her acquaintances, and charged her to spare neither time nor expense. Few Europeans can imagine the difficulty of executing such a commission in America; but the Englishwoman had lived in Washington long enough to know that she had no light labor before her. She was too zealous, however, to return home until she had found a person who was fully qualified to fill her vacant post.

Maurice was sitting beside Madeleine when Mrs. Lawkins returned from her weary peregrinations and made known her success.

"I did not send for the nurse to come here," said Madeleine. "It seemed to me better for you, Maurice, to go and see her and engage her to enter upon her duties to-morrow morning. That will give you an opportunity this evening of preparing the countess for her reception."

Maurice acted upon Madeleine's suggestion, and, after a very brief conversation with Mrs. Gratacap, secured her services.

Mrs. Gratacap belonged to the "Eastern States," albeit the very opposite of oriental in her appearance and characteristics. She was a tall, angular, grave-visaged person, possessing such decided, common-place good sense that she came under the head of that feminine class which Dickens has taught the world to designate as "strong-minded." There was no "stuff and nonsense" about her; she had a due appreciation of her own estimable attributes, as well as a firm conviction of the equality of all mankind, or, more especially, womankind. When she accepted a situation, it was in the conscientious belief that the persons whom she undertook to serve were the indebted party; yet she was a faithful nurse and both understood and liked her vocation. In spite of her masculine bearing toward the rest of the world, she always treated her invalid charges with womanly gentleness.

When Maurice informed his grandmother that he had obtained a new garde malade, the countess at once asked,—

"Are you attempting to introduce another spy of Mademoiselle de Gramont into my dwelling?"

Maurice controlled his indignation and replied, "My cousin Madeleine has never seen this person. I hope she will suit, as I have engaged her for a month, that being the custom here; even if she does not meet all our requirements, we cannot discharge her until that period has elapsed."

"I shall not consent to any such stipulation," answered the countess. "If she does not please me, I shall order her to leave at once."

"The arrangement is already concluded," returned Maurice; "it is the only one I could make, and you cannot but see that it is a matter of honor, as well as of necessity, to abide by the contract."

Maurice evinced tact in his choice of language. The imposing words "honor" and "contract" made an impression upon the countess, and she said no more.

The next day, shortly after the morning meal, the sound of sharp tones echoing through the entry, was followed by the noisy opening of the countess' drawing-room door.

"This is the place, is it?" cried a harsh voice. "I say, boy, bring along that box and dump it down here."

Mrs. Gratacap entered with a bandbox in one hand, and in the other a huge umbrella and huger bundle, while the box (which was a compromise between a trunk and a packing-case) was carried in without further ceremony. Mrs. Gratacap was attired with an exemplary regard for utility; her garments were too short to be soiled by contact with the mud, and disclosed Amazonian feet encased in sturdy boots, to say nothing of respectable ankles protected by gray stockings. Her dress was of a sombre hue and chargeable with no unnecessary amplitude; where it was pulled up at the sides a gray balmoral petticoat was visible; crinoline had been scrupulously renounced (as it should be in a sick-chamber); the coal-skuttle bonnet performed its legitimate duty in shading her face as well as covering her head.

The countess might well look up in stupefied amazement; for she had never before been thrown into communication with humanity so strikingly primitive, and so complacently self-confident.

"This is the nurse of whom I spoke," was Maurice's introduction.

Mrs. Gratacap who had been too busily engaged in looking after her "properties" to perceive the viscount until he spoke, now strode forward, extended her hand, and shook his with good-humored familiarity.

"How d'ye do? How d'ye do, young man? Here I am, you see, punctual to the moment. Told you you could depend on me. Well, and where's the poor dear? And who's this, and who's that?" looking first at the countess and then at Bertha.

Maurice was forced to answer, "That is Madame de Gramont, my grandmother, and this is Mademoiselle de Merrivale, my cousin."

"Ah, very good! How are you, ma'am? Glad to see you, miss!" said Mrs. Gratacap, nodding first to one and then to the other. "Guess we shall get along famously together."

Then, totally unawed by the countess' glacial manner, for Mrs. Gratacap had never dreamed of being afraid of "mortal man," to say nothing of "mortal woman," she disencumbered herself of her bandbox, bundle, and umbrella, deliberately took off the ample hat and tossed it upon the table, sending her shawl to keep it company, walked up to Madame de Gramont, placed a chair immediately in front of her, and sat down.

"Well, and how's the poor dear? It's a pretty bad case, I hear. Never mind,—don't be down in the mouth. I've brought folks through after the nails were ready to be driven into their coffins. Nothing like keeping a stiff upper lip. Your son, isn't he? Dare say he'll do well enough with a little nursing. Let's know when he was taken, and how he's been getting on, and what crinks and cranks he's got. Sick folks always have crumpled ways. Post me up a bit before I go in to him."

The countess's piercing black eyes were fixed upon the voluble nurse with a look of absolute horror, and she never moved her lips.

Maurice came to the rescue.

"My father has been ill nearly a month; he was attacked with apoplexy; he had a second stroke yesterday."

"You don't say so? That's bad! Two strokes, eh? We must look out and prevent a third; that's a dead go; but often it don't come for years. No need of borrowing trouble,—worse than borrowing money."

"Let me show you to my father's apartment," said Maurice, to relieve his grandmother.

"All right,—I'm ready! And then you'll let me see where I am to stow my duds; any corner will do, but I must have a cupboard of a place all to myself; it need only be big enough to swing a cat round in. It isn't much comfort I want, but a hole of my own I always bargain for. Aren't you coming along?" she said, looking back at the countess, who sat still.

Madame de Gramont did not betray that she even suspected these words were addressed to her, nor that she heard those which followed, though they were spoken in a stage-whisper which could hardly escape her ears.

"Is your granny always so glum? We must cheer her up a bit," was Mrs. Gratacap's encouraging comment.

The nurse's high-pitched voice was softened to a lower key when she entered the apartment where Count Tristan lay, and there were genuine compassion and motherly tenderness in her look as she regarded him. She continued to question Maurice until she had learned something of the patient's history,—not from sheer curiosity, but because she always took a deep interest in the invalids placed under her charge, and by becoming acquainted with their peculiarities she could better adapt herself to their necessities.

One word only can express the countess's sensations at the dropping of such a "monstrosity" into the midst of her family circle,—she was appalled! Never had any one ventured to address her with such freedom; never before had she been treated by any one as though she were mere flesh and blood. She had not believed it possible that any one could have the temerity to regard her in the light of equality. One might almost have imagined that the formidable New England nurse had inspired her with dread, for she could not rouse herself, could not gain courage to face the intruder, and, during that day, never once approached her son's chamber. But Mrs. Gratacap, in the most unconscious manner, made repeated invasions into the drawing-room, and even extended her sallies to the countess's own chamber, always upon some plausible pretext,—now to inquire where she could find the sugar, or the spoons, now to beg for a pair of scissors, or to ask where the vinegar-cruet was kept, or to learn how the countess managed about heating bricks, or getting bottles of hot water to warm the patient's feet!

The countess, compelled by these intrusions to address the enemy, and galled by the necessity, said sternly, "Go to the servants and get what is needful."