Maurice looked up, as if about to speak, but hesitated, dubious what reply would be advisable.

The count went on.

"Maurice, your grandmother and I have this matter deeply at heart. Besides, Bertha loves you; you cannot treat her affection with disdain. Promise me that you will at once have an understanding with her, and let this matter be settled. It must not be delayed any longer. Why do you not reply?"

"Yes,—you are right. I ought to have an understanding with her,—I will have!" replied Maurice, still in a brown study.

"That is well; and let it be as soon as possible,—to-day, or to-morrow at the latest,—before this ball takes place,—before you meet the Marchioness de Fleury again."

Maurice answered, hastily, "You need not fear that I desire any delay. You have put an idea into my head which would make suspense intolerable. I will speak to her without loss of time. And now will you allow me to wish you good-morning? My horse has been saddled for an hour."

Saying this, he walked toward the stable and called to Gustave, who at once appeared, leading the horse. The viscount vaulted upon its back, and, starting off at full gallop, in a few moments was out of sight.

His father was mystified, doubtful of the real feelings of Maurice, and uncertain what course he meant to pursue, but well assured that he would keep his word; and, if he did, it would be impossible for him to introduce this delicate subject without compromising himself,—nay, without positively offering himself to Bertha. The very mention of such a theme would be a proposal; and, with this consolatory reflection, he returned to the chateau.

As he passed the drawing-room, he caught a glimpse of Bertha, sitting at his mother's feet. The latter was holding both of the young girl's hands, and talking to her earnestly. Bertha's countenance wore an expression of maidenly confusion and perplexity which, even if the count had not been aware of his mother's intentions, would have betrayed the nature of her discourse.



CHAPTER V.

HEART-BEATS.

Maurice must have found his equestrian exercise particularly agreeable upon that day, for he returned to the chateau so late that no one saw him again until the family assembled at dinner.

Bertha was unusually silent and distrait, not a single smile rippled her slumbering dimples, and she answered at random. She did not once address Maurice, to whom she usually prattled in a strain of merry badinage, and he evinced the same constraint toward her.

As soon as the ladies rose from table, Madeleine retired to her own chamber. Her preparations for the morrow demanded all her time. The count retreated to the library. Maurice and Bertha were on the point of finding themselves tete-a-tete, for the countess just remembered that she had a note to write, when her little plot to leave the cousins together was frustrated by the entrance of the Marquis de Lasalles.

The clouds suddenly melted from Bertha's countenance when the dull old nobleman was announced. She greeted him with an air of undisguised relief, as though she had been happily reprieved from an impending calamity. The lively warmth of her salutation attracted the marquis to her side, and he remained fascinated to the spot for the rest of the evening. The countess was too thoroughly well-bred to allow herself to look annoyed, or, even in secret, to acknowledge that she wished the marquis elsewhere; but she was disconcerted, and puzzled by the unaccountable change in Bertha's deportment.

So passed the evening.

The next morning, when Bertha appeared at breakfast, every one, Maurice perhaps excepted, remarked that she seemed weary and dispirited. Her brilliant complexion had lost something of its wonted lustre; her usually clear blue eyes looked heavy and shadowed; her rosy mouth had a half-sorrowful, half-fretful expression. It was evident that some nightmare preyed upon her mind, and had broken the childlike sound sleeping that generally visited her pillow. When the ball that was to take place that evening was mentioned, she brightened a little, but quickly sank back into her musing mood.

"You must give me some assistance this morning, Bertha," said Madeleine, as she poured a few drops of almond oil into a tiny cup. "Your task shall be to gather, during your morning walk, this little basket full of the greenest and most perfect ivy leaves you can find, and bring them to the chalet. Then, if you feel inclined to aid me further, I will show you how to impart an emerald brilliancy to every leaf by a touch of this oil and a few delicate manipulations."

"I suspect you are inventing something very novel and tasteful," remarked Bertha, with more indifference than was natural to her.

"You shall judge by and by," replied Madeleine, as she left the room, with the cup in her hand.

She carried it, with her work, to a dilapidated summer-house, embowered by venerable trees. Madeleine's taste had given a picturesque aspect to this old chalet, and concealed or beautified the ravages of time. With the assistance of Baptiste, she had planted vines which flung over the outer walls a green drapery, intermingled with roses, honeysuckle, and jasmine; and, within doors, a few chairs, a well-worn sofa, a table, and footstool gave to the rustic apartment an appearance of habitableness and comfort. This was Madeleine's favorite resort when the weather was fine, and not a few of the magic achievements of her "fairy fingers" had been created in that romantic and secluded locality. There was glamour, perhaps, in the sylvan retreat, that acted like inspiration upon hands and brain.

Bertha usually flitted about her as she worked, wandering in and out, now and then sitting down for a few moments, and reading aloud, by fits and starts, or occasionally taking up a needle and making futile efforts to busy herself with the womanly implement, but always restless, and generally abandoning her attempt after a brief trial; for Bertha frankly confessed that she admired industry in her cousin without being able to practise it in her own person.

This morning, however, Madeleine sat alone; the fleecy tarlatan, that rolled in misty whiteness around her, gradually assuming the shape of female attire. Bettina had been despatched to Rennes on the day previous to procure this material for Bertha's ball-costume, and had not returned until late in the evening; yet the dress was cut out and fitted before Madeleine closed her eyes that night. The first auroral ray of light that stole into her chamber the next day fell upon the lithe figure of the young girl folding tucks that were to be made in the skirt, measuring distances, placing pins here and there for guides; and, as the dawn broke, she sat down unwearily, and sent her needle in and out of the transparent fabric with a rapidity of motion marvellous to behold.

After a time, the rickety door of the chalet was unceremoniously pushed open, and old Baptiste entered. He deposited a basket filled with ivy leaves upon the table, and said that Mademoiselle Bertha desired him to gather and deliver them to Mademoiselle Madeleine.

"Has she not taken her usual walk this morning, then?" asked Madeleine, in surprise.

"No, mademoiselle; Mademoiselle Bertha only came to me as I was weeding the flower-beds, and immediately went back to the chateau. Have I brought mademoiselle enough ivy?"

"Quite sufficient, thank you; but I did not mean to consume your time, my good Baptiste. I thought Mademoiselle Bertha would take pleasure in selecting the ivy herself."

"Mademoiselle Madeleine knows how glad I always am to serve her," answered Baptiste.

For another hour Madeleine sat alone, singing, in a soft murmur, as she sewed, while

"Her soul was singing at a work apart Behind the walls of sense."

The sound of a manly step upon the pathway silenced her plaintive melody. The next moment the vines, that formed a verdant curtain about the otherwise unprotected casement, were gently drawn back, and a face appeared at the window.

"I thought I should find you here on this bright morning, Mademoiselle Madeleine. May I en—en—enter?" asked Gaston de Bois, speaking with so much ease that his only stammer came upon the last word.

"If you please."

"A noble slave of the needle," he continued, still looking in at the window. "The daughter of a duke, with the talents of a dressmaker! Where will ge—ge—genius next take up her abode?"

"Genius—since you are pleased to apply that sublime appellation to my poor capacities for wielding the most familiar and harmless weapon of my sex—is no respecter of persons, as you see. You are an early visitor to-day, M. de Bois. Of course, you are on your way to the chateau?"

"I have let—let—letters for the count. He intrusted me yes—es—esterday with a package to take with me to the Chateau de Tremazan, where I was engaged to pass the evening, and I have brought him the replies. But before I play the postman, let me come in and talk to you, since you are the only person I can ever manage to talk to at all."

"Come in then, and welcome."

Gaston accepted the invitation with alacrity. He took a seat, and, regarding her work, remarked, "This must be for to-night's ball; is it your own dress?"

"Mine? All these tucks for a dress of mine? No, indeed, it is Bertha's, and I hope she will like the toilet I have planned; each tuck will be surmounted by a garland of ivy, left open at the front, and fastened where it breaks off, on either side, with blush roses. Then among her luxuriant curls a few sprigs of ivy must float, and perhaps a rose peep out. You may expect to see her looking very beautiful to-night."

M. de Bois sighed, and remained silent for a moment. Then he resumed the conversation by asking, "And the dress will be ready in time?"

"Before it is needed, I trust, for it is now well advanced. Fortunately my aunt's dress was completed last night. But it was not new,—only a fresh combination of materials that had already been employed. Yet she was kind enough to be highly pleased."

"Well she might be! You are always wor—wor—working for the good of the whole family."

"What other return can I make for the good I have received?" replied Madeleine, with emotion. "Can I ever forget that, when I was left alone in the world, without refuge, without friends, almost without bread, my great-aunt extended to me her protection, supplied all my wants, virtually adopted me as her own child? Can I offer her too much gratitude in return? Can I lavish upon her too much love? No one knows how well I love her and all that is hers! How well I love that dwelling which received the homeless orphan! People call the old chateau dreary and gloomy; to me it is a palace; its very walls are dear. I love the trees that yield me their shade,—the parks that you no doubt think a wilderness,—the rough, unweeded walks which I tread daily in search of flowers,—this ruined summer-house, where I have passed hours of delicious calm,—all the now familiar objects that I first saw through my tears, before they were dried by the hand of affection; and I reflect with joy that probably I shall never quit the Heaven-provided home which has been granted me. I have been so very happy here."

"Real—eal—eally?" asked Gaston, doubtingly. "I fancied sometimes, when I saw the Countess and Count Tristan so—so—so severe to you, that"—

"Have they not the right to find fault with me when I fail to please them? That is only what I expect, and ought to bear patiently. I will not pretend to say that sometimes, when I have been misunderstood, and my best efforts have failed to bring about results that gratify them,—I will not say that my heart does not swell as though it would burst; but I console myself by reflecting that some far off, future day will come to make amends for all, and bring me full revenge."

"Re—re—revenge! You re—re—revenge?" cried Gaston, in astonishment.

"Yes, revenge!" laughed Madeleine. "You see what a vindictive creature I am! And I am positively preparing myself to enjoy this delightful revenge. I will make you the confidant of my secret machinations. This old chateau is lively enough now, and the presence of Bertha and Maurice preserve to my aunt the pleasant memory of her own youth. But by and by Maurice will go forth into the world, and perhaps we shall only see him from time to time, at long intervals. Bertha will marry"—

At these words M. de Bois gave a violent start, and, stammering unintelligibly, rose from his seat, upsetting his chair, walked to the window, brought destruction upon some of Madeleine's vines by pulling them violently aside, to thrust out his head; then strode back, lifted the fallen chair, knocking down another, and with a flushed countenance seated himself again.

Madeleine went on, as if she had not noticed his abrupt movement.

"Solitude and ennui might then oppress the Countess and even Count Tristan, and render their days burdensome. I am laying up a store of materials to enliven these scenes of weariness and loneliness. I have made myself quite a proficient in piquet, that I may pass long evenings playing with the count; I have noted and learned all the old airs that his mother delights to hear, because they remind her of her girlhood, and I will sing them to her when she is solitary and depressed. I will make her forget the absence of the dear ones who must leave such a void in her life; in a thousand ways I will soften the footsteps of age and infirmity as they steal upon her;—that will be the amends time will bring me,—that is the revenge I seek."

"Ah! Mademoiselle Mad—ad—adeleine, you are an angel!"

"So far from an angel," answered Madeleine, gayly, "that you make me feel as though I had laid a snare, by my egotism, to entrap that ill-deserved compliment. Now let us talk about yourself and your own projects. Do you still hold to the resolution you communicated to me in our last conversation?"

"Yes, your advice has decided me."

"I should have been very impertinent if I had ventured to give you advice. I can hardly be taxed with that presumption. We were merely discussing an abstract question,—the use of faculties accorded us, and the best mode of obtaining happiness through their employment; and you chose to apply my general remarks to your particular case."

"You drew a picture which made me feel what a worth—orth—orthless mortal I am, and this incited me to throw off the garment of slothfulness, and put on armor for the battle of life."

"So be it! Now tell us what you have determined upon."

"My unfortunate imped—ed—ediment is my great drawback. Maurice hopes to become a lawyer; but that profession would be out of the ques—es—estion for me who have no power to utter my ideas. I could not enter the army, for what kind of an officer could I make? How should I ever manage to say to a soldier, 'Go and brave death for your coun—oun—ountry'? I should find it easier to do myself than to say it. Some diplomatic position I might possibly fill. As speech, according to Talleyrand, was given to men to disguise their thoughts, a man who st—st—stammers is not in much danger of making known his private medita—a—ations."

"That is ingenious reasoning," replied Madeleine. "I hope something will grow out of it."

"It is grow—ow—ing already. Yesterday, at the Chateau de Tremazan, I had a long interview with the Marquis de Fleury. He expects to be sent as ambassador to the United States. We are old friends. We talked, and I tol—ol—old"—

"You told him your views," said Madeleine, aiding him so quietly and naturally that her assistance was scarcely noticeable. "And what was concluded upon? for your countenance declares that you have concluded upon something. If the marquis goes to America, you will perhaps accompany him?"

"Yes, as sec—sec—sec—"

"As secretary?" cried Madeleine. "That will be an admirable position. But America—ah! it is a long, long distance from Brittany! This is good news for you; but there are two persons to whom it will cause not a little pain."

"To who—o—om?" inquired Gaston, with suppressed agitation.

"To my cousin Bertha, and to me."

"Mademoiselle Ber—er—ertha! Will she heed my absence? She—she—she,—will she?" asked Gaston, confusedly.

"Yes—but take care; if you let me see how deeply that idea affects you, you will fail to play the diplomat in disguising your thoughts, for I shall divine your secret."

"My secret,—what—what secret? What is it you divine? What do you imagine? I mean."

"That you love Bertha,—love her as she deserves to be loved?"

"I? I?" replied M. de Bois, trying to speak calmly; but, finding the attempt in vain, he burst forth: "Yes, it is but too true; I love her with my whole soul; I love her passionately; love her despairingly,—ay, despairingly!"

"And why despairingly?"

"Alas! she is so rich!" he answered, in a tone of chagrin.

"True, she is encumbered with a large and un-encumbered estate."

"A great misfortune for me!" sighed Gaston.

"A misfortune which you cannot help, and which Bertha will never remember when she bestows her heart upon one who is worthy of the gift."

"How can she ever deem me worthy? Even if I succeed in making myself a name,—a position; even if I become all that you have caused me to dream of being,—this dreadful imped—ed—ediment, this stammering which renders me ridiculous in the eyes of every one, in her eyes even, will"—

"Your stammering is only the effect of timidity," answered Madeleine, soothingly. "Believe me, it is nothing more; as you overcome your diffidence and gain self-possession, you will find that it disappears. For instance, you have been talking to me for some time with ease and fluency."

"To you, ah, yes; with you I am always at my ease,—I have always confidence. It is not difficult to talk to one for whom I have so much affection,—so much, and yet not too much."

"That proves fluent speech possible."

"But to any one else, if I venture to open my heart, I hesitate,—I get troubled,—I—I stammer,—I make myself ridic—ic—iculous!"

"Not at all."

"But I do," reiterated Gaston, warmly. "Fancy a man saying to a woman he adores, yet in whose presence he trembles like a school-boy, or a culprit, 'I—I—I—lo—ov—ov—ove you!'"

"The fact is," began Madeleine, laughing good-naturedly.

"There! there!" cried M. de Bois, with a gesture of impatience and discouragement; "the fact is, that you laugh yourself,—you, who are so forbearing!"

"Pardon me; you mistook"—

"You could not help it, I know. It is precisely that which discourages me. And yet it is very odd! I have one method by which I can speak for five minutes at a time without stopping or hesitating."

"Indeed! Why, then, do you not always employ that magical method in society?"

"It would hardly be admissible in polite circles. Would you believe it?—it is very absurd, but so is everything that appertains to us unfortunate tongue-tied wretches."

"Tell me what your method is."

"I—I—I do not dare; you will only laugh at me again."

"No; I promise I will not."

"Well, then, my method is to become very much animated,—to lash myself into a state of high excitement, and to hold forth as though I were making an exordium,—to talk with furious rapidity, using the most forcible expressions, the most emphatic ejaculations! Those unloose my tongue! My words hurl themselves impetuously forward, as zouaves in battle! Only, as you may conceive, this discourse is not of a very classic nature, and hardly suited to the drawing-room,—especially, as I receive great help, and rush on all the faster, for a few interjections that come under the head of—of—of swear—ear—earing!"

"Swearing?" was all Madeleine could say, controlling a strong inclination to merriment.

"Yes, downright swearing; employing strong expletives,—actual oaths! Oh, it helps me more than you can believe. But just imagine the result if I were to harangue Mademoiselle Bertha in this style! She would—would—"

"Would think it very original, and, as she has a joyous temperament, she might laugh immoderately. But she likes originality, and the very oddity of the discourse might impress her deeply. Then, too, she is very sympathetic, and she would probably be touched by the necessity which compelled you to employ such an extraordinary mode of expression."

"Ah, if that were only true!"

"I think it is true."

"Thank you! thank you!"

Madeleine was opening a skein of silk, and, extending it to M. de Bois, she said: "Will you assist me? It is for Bertha I am working. Will you hold this skein? It will save time."

Gaston, well pleased, stretched out his hands. Madeleine adjusted the skein, and commenced winding.

"Besides, who knows?" she went on to say. "It seems to me very possible that the very singularity of such an address might captivate her, and give you a decided advantage over lovers who pressed their suit in hackneyed, stereotyped phrases."

"You think so?"

"I should not be surprised if such were the case, because Bertha has a decided touch of eccentricity in her character."

"If I only dared to think that she had ever given me the faintest evidence of favorable regard!"

"When she sees you embarrassed and hesitating, does she not always finish your sentences?"

"Is it pos—pos—pos—" stammered Gaston.

"Possible?" said Madeleine. "Yes, I have observed that she invariably does so if she imagines herself unnoticed. I have besides remarked a certain expression on her transparent countenance when we talked of you, and she has dropped a word, now and then,"—

"What—what—what words? But no, you are mocking me cruelly! It cannot be that she ever thinks of me! I have too powerful a rival."

"A rival! what rival?" asked Madeleine, in genuine astonishment.

"The Viscount Maurice."

The silken thread snapped in Madeleine's hand.

"You have broken the thread," remarked M. de Bois; "I hope it was not owing to my awkward hold—old—olding."

"No, no," answered Madeleine, hurriedly, and taking the skein out of his hand, but tangling it inextricably as she tried to draw out the threads.

"You—you—you—think my cousin Maurice loves Bertha?" she asked, hardly aware of the pointedness of her own question.

"I do not exactly say that; but how will it be possible for him to help loving her? Good gracious, Mademoiselle Madeleine! what have I said to affect you? How pale you have become!"

Madeleine struggled to appear composed, but the hands that held the snarled skein trembled, and no effort of will could force the retreating blood back to her face.

"Nothing—you have said nothing,—you are quite right, I—I—I dare say."

"Why, you are just as troubled and embarrassed as I was just now."

"I? nonsense! I'm—I'm—I'm only—only—"

"And you stammer,—you actually stammer almost as badly as I do!" exclaimed Gaston, in exultation. "Ah, Mademoiselle Madeleine! I have betrayed to you my secret,—you have discovered yours to me!"

"Monsieur de Bois, I implore you, do not speak another word on this subject! Enough that, if I had a secret, there is no one in the world to whom I would sooner confide it."

"Why, then, do you now wish to hide from me the preference with which you honor your cousin?"

Madeleine replied, in a tremulous tone, "You do not know how deep a wound you are probing, how heavy a grief you"—

"Why should it be a grief? What obstacle impedes your union?"

"An insurmountable obstacle,—one that exists in my own heart."

"How can that be, since that heart is his?"

"Those to whom I owe everything," replied Madeleine, "cherish the anticipation that Maurice will make a brilliant marriage. Even if my cousin looked upon me with partial eyes, could I rob my benefactors of that dearest hope? Could I repay all their benefits to me by causing them such a cruel disappointment? I could never be so ungrateful,—so guilty,—so inhuman. Therefore, I say, the obstacle lies in my own heart: that heart revolts at the very contemplation of such an act. I pray you never to speak to me again on this subject; and give me your word that no one shall ever know what I have just confided to you,—I mean what you suspect—what you suspect, it may be, erroneously!"

"I promise you on the honor of a gentleman."

"Thank you."

A step was heard on the path leading to the summer-house.

Gaston looked towards the open door and said, "It is the count."

At the same moment he withdrew to the window.

Madeleine, who had risen, resumed her seat, and, as she plied her needle, half buried her agitated face in the white drapery which lay in her lap.

The count entered with downcast eyes, and flung himself into a chair. He had not perceived that any one was present. Madeleine found it difficult to command her voice, yet could not allow him to remain unaware that he was not alone.

After a brief interval, she said, in a tolerably quiet tone, "I am afraid you have not chosen a very comfortable seat. I told Baptiste to remove that chair, for its legs are giving signs of the infirmities of age."

At the sound of her voice the count glanced at her over his shoulder, and said, brusquely, "What are you doing there?"

"Playing Penelope, as usual."

The count returned harshly, "Always absorbed in some feminine frippery, just as if"—

"Just as if I were a woman!" answered Madeleine, forcing a laugh.

"A woman in your position should find some less frivolous employment."

Madeleine replied, in a tone of badinage that would have disarmed most men, "How cruelly my cousin pretends to treat me! He actually makes believe to scold me when I am occupied with the interests of his family,—when I am literally shedding my blood in their behalf!" she added playfully, holding towards him the white dress upon which a slight red stain was visible; for the needle grasped by her trembling hands had pricked her.

"Good heavens, Madeleine! when will you lay aside those intolerable airs and graces which you invariably assume, and which would be very charming in a young girl of sixteen,—a girl like Bertha; but, in a woman who has arrived at your years,—a woman of twenty-one,—become ridiculous affectation?"

M. de Bois, enraged at the injustice of this rebuke, could control himself no longer, and came forward with a lowering visage. The count turned towards him in surprise.

"Ah, M. de Bois, I was not aware of your presence. I must have interrupted a tete-a-tete. You perceive, I am, now and then, obliged to chide."

Gaston answered only by a bow, though his features wore an expression which the count would not have been well pleased to see if he had interpreted aright.

"But," continued the latter, "we are most apt to chide those whom we love best, as you are aware."

"I am a—a—ware," began M. de Bois, trying to calm his indignation, yet experiencing a strong desire to adopt his new method of speaking fluently by using strong interjections.

The count changed the subject by asking, "Did you deliver the letters, of which you had the goodness to take charge, to the Count Damoreau, Madame de Nervac, and Monsieur de Bonneville?"

"Our relatives!" exclaimed Madeleine, unreflectingly. "Have you forgotten that you will see them to-night at the ball? But I beg pardon; perhaps you had something very important to write about."

"It was very important," answered the count, dryly.

"I im—im—imagined so," remarked M. de Bois, "by the sensation the letters created. Madame de Nervac turned pale, and the Count Damoreau turned red, and M. de Bonneville gnawed his nails as he was reading."

"Had they the kindness to send answers by you, as I requested?"

"Yes, the object of my early vi—vi—visit was to deliver them. I heard Mademoiselle Madeleine singing as I passed the chalet, and paused to pay my respects."

He drew forth three letters, and placed them in the count's hand.

The latter seized them eagerly, and seemed inclined to break the seals at once, but changed his mind, and putting them in his pocket, said, "Shall I have the pleasure of your company to the chateau?"

M. de Bois could not well refuse.

He left the chalet with the count, but, after taking a few steps, apologized for being obliged to return in search of a glove he had dropped. He went back alone. Madeleine was occupied with her needle as when he left her. There were no traces of tears upon her cheeks; there was no flush, no expression of anger or mortification upon her serene countenance.

M. de Bois regarded her a moment in surprise, for he had expected to find her weeping, or looking vexed, or, at all events, in a state of excitement.

"Is the count often in such an amiable temper?" he asked.

"No; pray, do not imagine that; he is evidently troubled to-day. You saw how preoccupied he was. Something has gone wrong, something annoys him. He did not mean to be harsh."

"And you can excuse him? Well, then I cannot! I felt as though I must speak when he rated you so unreasonably. And, if I had spoken, I should certainly have had my tongue loosened by swearing; perhaps I shall yet"—

"Pray, M. de Bois," urged Madeleine, "do not try to defend me, or allude to what you unfortunately heard. It will only make my position more trying."

"So I fear; but I have something to say to you. You have given me good counsels; you must listen to some I have to give you in return,—but not now. You are going to the ball to-night?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Perhaps I may find an opportunity of talking to you there."

Saying these words, he picked up the glove, and hastened to rejoin the count, who was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to remark the length of his friend's absence.



CHAPTER VI.

UNMASKING.

Madeleine, left alone in the old chalet, remained for some time absorbed in her work, which progressed rapidly. The ivy leaves were dexterously polished, and a graceful garland laid above every tuck of the transparent white dress. The last leafy band was nearly completed, when the door again creaked upon its rusty hinges, and the young girl, looking up, beheld Maurice.

"Is not Bertha here?" he asked, in a tone that sounded very unlike his usual cheerful voice. "I came to seek her, and felt sure she must be with you."

"I have not seen her since early morning," answered Madeleine. "She promised to bring me this basket full of ivy leaves, but sent Baptiste instead."

"I looked for her in the library, the boudoir, the drawing-room, and the garden, before I came here," Maurice continued, in the same grave tone. "She has disappeared just at the moment when I have made up my mind to have an understanding without further delay."

Madeleine's speaking countenance betrayed her surprise, for it seemed strange that Maurice should desire an especial interview with his cousin, whom he saw at all hours; and stranger still that he appeared to be so much disturbed.

"How serious you look, Maurice! Are you troubled? Has anything occurred to cause you unhappiness?"

"I can have no disguises from you, Madeleine. I am thoroughly sick at heart. In the first place, my father and my grandmother have violently opposed my determination to embark in an honorable and useful career of life;—that threw a cloud over me almost from the hour I entered the chateau. I tried to forget my disappointment for the moment, that no shadow might fall upon your birthday happiness; besides, I clung to the hope that I might yet convince them of the propriety, the policy, the actual necessity of the step I propose to take. My father, yesterday, stunned me with a piece of intelligence which renders me wretched, yet forces me to act. I have given him my promise; there is no retreat. I must bring this matter to a climax, be the sequence what it may; and yet I dread to make the very first movement."

"I am too dull to read the riddle of the sphinx, and your words are as enigmatical. I have not begun to find their clew," replied Madeleine, pausing in the garland she was forming, and letting the ivy drop unnoticed around her.

The first impulse of Maurice was to gather the fallen leaves; the second prompted him gently to force the dress, she was so tastefully adorning, out of her hands, and toss it upon the table.

"I see your task is nearly completed, and Bertha's toilet for the ball will be sufficiently picturesque to cause the Marchioness de Fleury to die of envy; can you not, therefore, rest from your labors, good fairy dressmaker, and talk awhile with me? I need consolation,—I need advice,—and you alone can give me both."

"I?" Madeleine spoke that single word tremulously, and a faint flush passed over her soft, pale face.

"You, Madeleine, you, and you only!"

"There is Bertha, at last," she exclaimed, rising hastily, and approaching the door. "Do you not see her blue dress yonder through the trees? Bertha! Bertha!" and, leaving Maurice, she went forth to meet Bertha.

"Where have you hidden yourself all the morning, little truant? Why! what has happened to distress you? Your eyes look as though you had been weeping. Dear Bertha! what ails you?"

"I could not bear it any longer," almost sobbed Bertha, laying her head upon her cousin's shoulder. "I could not help coming to you, though I wanted to act entirely upon my own responsibility, and I had determined not even to consult you, for I am always fearful of getting you into trouble with my aunt."

Madeleine was so completely mystified that she could only murmur half to herself, "More enigmas! What can they mean?"

Then, passing her arm around Bertha's slender waist, they walked to the summer-house. The position of Bertha's head caused her bright ringlets completely to veil her face, and it was not until after she entered the chalet, and shook the blinding locks from before her eyes, that she saw Maurice. She drew back with a movement of vexation and confusion never before evinced at his presence,—clung to Madeleine as though for protection, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears.

"Maurice came here expecting to find you with me," observed Madeleine. "He wanted to speak to you."

"Did he?—yes, I know he did. I know what he is going to say; I kept out of his way on purpose, until I could make up my mind about it all; I mean, I thought it best to postpone; but it does not matter,—I would rather have it over; no,—I don't mean that,—I mean"—

Bertha's perturbation rendered any clearer expression of her meaning out of the question.

Madeleine took up the dress, which Maurice had flung upon the table, and said, "When you return to the house, Bertha, will you not come to my room and try on your dress? It is just completed."

"Stay, stay, Madeleine!" exclaimed Bertha and Maurice together.

"You see, we both desire you to stay," added Maurice; "therefore you cannot refuse. We have no secrets from you,—have we, Bertha?"

"I had none until yesterday; but my aunt is inclined to be so severe with Madeleine, that I feared I might make mischief by taking her into my confidence. Do not go, Madeleine. Sit down, for you must stay. If you go, I will go with you; and Maurice wants to speak to me,—I mean, I want to speak to him,—that is to say, he intends to"—

Madeleine resumed her seat.

"Since you so tyrannically insist upon my remaining, I will finish this garland while you are having your mysterious explanation."

Maurice approached Bertha with a hesitation which had some slight touch of awkwardness. Feeling that it was easier to induce her to break the ice than to take the first step upon this delicate ground himself, he remarked, "You wanted to speak to me; what did you desire to say, my dear little cousin?"

Bertha looked up innocently into his face, as though she was scanning his features for the first time.

"What my aunt says is all very true. You are exceedingly handsome; I never denied it, except in jest; and you are decidedly agreeable, except now and then; and you have a noble heart,—I never doubted it; and a fine intellect,—though I do not know much about that; and any woman might be proud of you,—that is, I dare say most women would."

"And I have a little cousin who is an adroit flatterer, and who is herself beautiful enough for a Hebe, and whose fascinations are sufficiently potent to captivate any reasonable or unreasonable man."

"Oh! but that is not to the point. I did not mean that we should exchange compliments. What I want to say is that such an attractive and agreeable young man as you are will naturally find hosts of young girls, who would any of them be proud to be chosen as his wife."

"And you, with your grace and beauty, your lovable character, and your large fortune, will have suitors innumerable, from among whom you may readily select one who will be worthy of you."

"But that is not to the point either! I told my aunt that I was not insensible to all your claims to admiration. I assure you I did you ample justice!"

"You were very kind and complimentary, little cousin; but I said as much of you to my father. I gave him to understand that I acknowledged you to be one of the most charming beings in the world, and that I thought the man to whom you gave your hand would be the happiest of mortals, and that I did not believe that man could value you more as a wife than I should as a sister."

"A sister! A sister! Oh! I am so glad!—a sister? You do not really love me, then?"

"Have I said that?"

"You have said the same thing, and I am overjoyed! I can never thank you half enough!"

"You do not love me then?" asked Maurice.

"I love you with all my heart! I never loved you half as well as at this moment!—that is as—as—a brother; for you love me as a sister, while my aunt declared you hoped to make me your wife,—that you were crazily in love with me, and that if I refused you, I should ruin all your future prospects, for the blow would almost kill you. I cannot tell you how chagrined I was at the deplorable prospect. And it's all a mistake,—is it not?"

"My father assured me that you had formed the most flattering attachment for me. Is that a mistake also?" inquired Maurice, skilfully avoiding the rudeness of a direct reply to her question.

"Oh! I never cared a straw for you except as the dearest cousin in the world!"

"But why," asked Maurice, resuming his usual gay tone of raillery, "why, if I am the incomparable being you pretend to think me, why are you so particularly averse to becoming my wife? What do you say to that? I should like to have an explanatory answer, little cousin; or else you must take back all your compliments."

"Not one of them!" replied Bertha, merrily. "I am so charmed with you at this moment that I feel inclined to double their number. Yet there is a reason why I should have refused you, even if you had offered yourself to me."

"Is it because you like somebody else better?"

"No, no," answered Bertha, hastily; "how can you suggest such an idea? But I suppose you do so because that is your reason for desiring to refuse my hand?"

"I shall be obliged to think my suggestion correct, unless you tell me why you are so glad to escape becoming my wife."

"It was because," said Bertha, approaching her rosy mouth to his ear, and speaking in a low tone, "because there is another woman, who is far more worthy of you, who would make you a better wife than I could, and who—who does not exactly hate you."

"Another woman?"

"Hush! do not speak so loudly. There is nothing in the world I desire so much as to see that other woman happy; for there is no one I love half so well."

"The garland is finished!" Madeleine broke in, starting up abruptly, for she had caught the whispered words. "Come, Bertha, we must hasten back to the chateau. I must try on your dress immediately."

"Oh, since it is finished, we have plenty of time," said Bertha. "It is quite early in the day yet, and Maurice and I are deeply interested in our conversation. We were never before such fast friends and devoted cousins."

"Never," replied Maurice.

"But the dress may need some alteration," persisted Madeleine. "Pray, pray come!"

She spoke almost imploringly, and in an excited tone, which the mere trying on of a dress did not warrant.

"Oh, you dear despot! I suppose you must be obeyed."

Bertha snatched the ivy-garlanded dress, and bounded away. Madeleine would have followed, but Maurice seized her hand detainingly.

"One moment, Madeleine,—grant me one moment!"

"Not now. Bertha will be waiting for me!" And she made an effort to free her imprisoned hand.

"You shall tell her that you were taken captive, and she will forgive you, if it be only for the sake of your jailer. There's vanity for you!"

"But my arrangements for this evening are not all completed. It is growing late, Maurice; I entreat you to release me; I cannot remain—I must go!"

"Not until I have spoken to you. The time has come when you must hear me."

Madeleine felt that there was no escape, and, forcing herself to assume an air of composure, answered, "Speak, then; what can you have to say, Maurice, to which I ought to listen?"

"Must I tell you? Have you not divined? Must I show you my heart? If no responsive pulse in your own has revealed to you what is passing in mine, I am truly unfortunate,—I have been deceived indeed!"

"Maurice, Maurice! for the love of Heaven"—

"You do well to say for the love of Heaven; for I love Heaven all the better for loving a being who bears the impress of Heaven's own glorious hand! Yes, Madeleine, ever loved,—loved from the first hour we met."

The rustling of silk interrupted his sentence. Madeleine tremblingly withdrew her hand. The Countess de Gramont stood before them! Her tall figure dilated until it seemed to shut out all the sunlight beyond; her countenance grew ashy with suppressed rage; her black eyes shot out glances that pierced like arrows; not a sound issued from her tightly-compressed lips.

Maurice, recovering himself, tried to assume an unconcerned air, and stooped to gather some of the ivy leaves scattered around him. Madeleine bowed her head as a culprit who has no defence to make, and no hope of concealment to cling to as a last refuge.

The countess broke the painful silence, speaking in a hollow, scornful tone: "I am here at an unfortunate moment, it seems!"

There was no reply.

"Perhaps I ought to apologize for disturbing you," she continued, sarcastically.

"Not at all—not at all," said Maurice, who felt that it was his duty to answer and shield Madeleine, as far as possible, from his grandmother's displeasure.

"Why, then, is Madeleine covered with confusion? Why did she so quickly withdraw her hand? How—how came it clasped in yours?"

"Is she not my cousin?" answered Maurice, evasively. "Have I no right to show her affection? Must I renounce the ties of blood?"

"It is not you, Maurice, whom I blame," said the countess, trying to speak less sternly. "It is Madeleine, who should not have permitted this unmeet familiarity. I well know by what arts she has lured you to forget yourself. The fault lies with her."

For the first time the countess beheld a flash of indignation in the eyes Madeleine lifted from the ground.

"Madame—aunt!" she began.

The countess would not permit her to proceed.

"I know what I say! You have too much tact and quickness not to have comprehended our hopes in regard to Maurice and Bertha; and it has not escaped my notice that you have sought, by every artful manoeuvre in your power, to frustrate those hopes."

"I?" ejaculated Madeleine, aghast at the charge, and too much bewildered to be able to utter a denial.

"Yes, you! Have you not sought to fascinate Maurice by every species of wily coquetry? Have you not"—

"Grandmother!" cried Maurice, furiously.

"Be silent, Maurice,—it is Madeleine to whom I am addressing my remarks, and her own conscience tells her their justice."

"Aunt, if ever by word, or look, or thought"—

"Oh! it was all done in the most apparently artless, natural, purposeless manner! But the same end was always kept steadily in view. What I have witnessed this morning convinces me of your aims. Your movements were so skilfully managed that they scarcely seemed open to suspicion. The most specious coquetry has governed all your actions. You were always attired more simply than any one else; but by this very simplicity you thought to render yourself remarkable, and attract a larger share of attention. You always pretended to shun observation, that you might be brought into more positive notice. You affected to avoid Maurice, that he might feel tempted to follow you,—that he might be lured to seek you when you were alone, as you were a moment ago,—that he might"—

Maurice could restrain his ire no longer. He broke forth with vehemence,—"Grandmother, I cannot listen to this injustice. I cannot see Madeleine so cruelly insulted. Were it my mother herself who spoke, I would not stand by and see her trample thus upon an innocent and defenceless heart."

Madeleine turned to Maurice beseechingly. "Do not utter such words to one whom you are bound to address with reverence;—do not, or you will render my sufferings unendurable!"

"Your sufferings?" exclaimed the countess, catching at a word that seemed to imply a reproof, which galled the more because she knew it was deserved. "Your sufferings? That is a fitting expression to drop from your lips! I had the right to believe that, far from causing you suffering, I had put an end to your suffering when I threw open my doors to admit you."

"You misunderstood me, aunt. I did not intend to say"—

"You have said enough to prove that you add ingratitude to your other sins. And, since you talk of sufferings, I will beg you to remember the sufferings you have brought upon us,—you, who, in return for all you have received at my hands, have caused my very grandson to treat me with disrespect, for the first time in his life. Your sufferings? I can well conceive that she who creates so much affliction in the house that has sheltered her,—she who so treacherously pierces the hearts that have opened to yield her a place,—she who has played the viper warmed upon almost a mother's bosom,—she may well have sufferings to wail over!"

Madeleine stood speechless, thunderstruck, by the rude shock of these words. The countess turned from her, and, preparing to leave the chalet, bade Maurice give her his arm. He silently obeyed, casting a look of compassionate tenderness upon Madeleine. But she saw it not; all her vast store of mental strength suddenly melted away! For the first time in her life she was completely crushed, overwhelmed,—hopeless and powerless. For a few moments she remained standing as motionless as one petrified; then, with a heart-broken cry, dropped into a seat, and covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively,—sobbed as though all the sorrows of her life were concentrated in the anguish of that moment, and found vent in that deluge of tears,—that stormy whirlwind of passion! All the clouds in the firmament of her existence, which she had, day after day, dispelled by the internal sunshine of her patient, trustful spirit, culminated and broke in that wild flood. Hope was drowned in that heavy rain; all the flowers that brightened, and the sweet, springing herbs that lent their balm to her weary pilgrimage, were beaten down into the mire of despair. There was no ark, no Ararat; she was alone, without refuge, on the waste of waters.

Her heavy sobs prevented her hearing the entrance of Bertha, and it was only when the arms of the young girl were fondly twined about her, that she became aware of her presence.

"Madeleine, dear, dear Madeleine! What has happened? Why do you weep thus?"

"Do not speak to me, Bertha!" replied Madeleine in a stifled voice. "You cannot, cannot help me; there is no hope left,—none, none! My father has died to me again to day, and I am alone once more!—alone in a desert that has no place of shelter for me, but a grave beneath its swathing sands!"

Her tears gushed forth with redoubled violence.

"Do not treat me so cruelly! Do not cast me off!" pleaded Bertha, as her cousin tried to disengage herself from her encircling arms. "If you are wretched, so am I—because you are! Only tell me the reason for this terrible sorrow. I was awaiting you in your room; but, as you did not come, I felt sure my cousin Maurice had detained you."

At those last words an involuntary cry of intense suffering burst from Madeleine's lips.

"Then I saw my aunt and Maurice returning together, and Maurice appeared to be talking in an excited manner, and my aunt looked blacker than any thunder-cloud. Still you did not come, and I went in search of you. Tell me why I find you thus?—you, who have always borne your griefs with such silent fortitude. What has my aunt said or done to you?"

"She has ceased to love me,—she has ceased to esteem me,—she even repents of the benefits she has conferred upon me."

"No, no, Madeleine; you are mistaken."

"Oh, I am not mistaken,—my eyes are opened at last. The thin, waxen mask of assumed kindness has melted from her face! I am a burden to her,—an encumbrance,—an offence. She only desires to be rid of me!"

"You,—the fairy of good works in her household? What could she do without you? It is only excitement which makes you imagine this."

"I never guessed, never dreamed it before; but I have wilfully deceived myself. Now all is too clear! A thousand recollections rise up to testify to the truth; a thousand suspicions, which I repulsed as unworthy of me and of her, return to convince me; words and looks, coldness and injustice, slights and reproaches start up with frightful vividness, and throw a hideous light upon conduct I never dared to interpret aright."

"What looks? what words? what actions?" asked Bertha, though her heart told her with what a catalogue she could answer her own question.

"They could not be rehearsed in an hour or in a day. But it is not to my aunt alone that my presence is offensive. Cousin Tristan also chafes at the sight of his dependent relative. I have seen it when I took my seat at table; I have seen it when room was made for me in the carriage; I have seen it on numberless occasions. His glances, his accents, his whole demeanor, have seemed to reproach me for the place I occupied, for the garments I wore, for the very bread I ate,—the bread of bitter, bitter charity! And oh!" she groaned, "must this be so still? Must I still accept these bounties, which are begrudged me? Must I still be bowed to the dust by the weight of these charities? Alas! I must, because I have nothing of my own,—because I am nothing of myself!"

"Madeleine! one of these days"—

Madeleine did not heed her. "Oh, my father! my father! To what torturing humiliations you subjected me in bequeathing me nobility with poverty! Well may you have wished that you had been born a peasant! Had I been a peasant's child, I might have lived by, and rejoiced in, honest labor! Had I been the daughter of a mechanic, I might have gained my bread by some useful trade. Had I even been the child of some poor gentleman, I might have earned a livelihood by giving lessons in music, in drawing, by becoming a governess, or teaching in a school. But, the daughter of the Duke de Gramont, it is one of the curses of my noble birth that I must live upon charity,—charity unwillingly doled out and thrown in my face, even when I am receiving it with meekness!"

"But, Madeleine, if you will but listen to me"—

Madeleine went on bitterly. "And I am young yet,—young and strong, and capable of exertion; and I have dared to believe that, while one is young, some of the benefits received could be repaid by the cheerful spirit of youth,—by the performance of needful offices,—by hands ever ready to serve, and a heart ever open to sympathize; but, if I am an encumbrance, an annoyance while I am young, what an intolerable burden I must become when youth passes away! Then I shall either be repulsed with aversion, or sheltered with undisguised reluctance,—forced to remember every moment that the hospitality I receive is an alms! Oh! it is too horrible! Death would be a thousand times preferable."

"And you can forget how dreadful it would be for us, who love you, to lose you?"

"I forget everything, except the misery of my own degraded position! I ask for nothing save that God, in his mercy, will free me from it, I care not how! I look despairingly on all sides, and see no escape! I am bound, hand and foot, by the chains of my own noble birth, and shut within the iron walls of circumstance. I struggle vainly in my captivity; no way of freedom is open to me! And yet I can never again resign myself to passive endurance."

"If you only knew how wretched you make me by talking in this strain!"

"I make you wretched, as I have made all others, by my presence here,—yes, I know it! You see how ungrateful, how selfish misery has rendered me, since I am cruel even to you whose pure love I never doubted."

Before Bertha could make a fresh attempt to console her cousin, Baptiste entered, bearing a letter. He looked dismayed when he beheld Madeleine's face of woe, and Bertha's tearful countenance; but the latter checked his glance of inquiry by asking abruptly what he wanted.

Still regarding Madeleine with an expression of deep concern, he replied, "The valet of Count Damoreau has just left this letter for Mademoiselle Madeleine, and desired that it should be delivered to her at once."

"Very well; that will do."

Bertha took the letter, and motioned to Baptiste to withdraw.

"What can Count Damoreau have to write to you about? Do open the letter and tell me."

"Not now, Bertha. Leave me to myself for a little while. I scarcely know what I am doing or saying. I entreat you to leave me!"

"Madeleine, if I were in trouble, I would not send you from me."

"Go, if you love me! And you—you, at least, do love me!"

"If I love you? I will even leave you to prove that I do; but it is very hard."

Bertha walked slowly away, taking the path that led from the chateau. In a few moments she paused, turned suddenly, and quickened her steps in the opposite direction, prompted by an impulse to seek Maurice and tell him of Madeleine's grief. Perhaps he might have the power to console her.

Count Tristan had been prevented opening the letters which M. de Bois had delivered. When the two gentlemen reached the chateau, several visitors were awaiting the count, and their stay was protracted. The instant his guests took their leave, he hastened to the library, which his mother entered at the same moment. He listened impatiently as she briefly recounted the scene which had taken place in the summer-house.

"The time has come when we must put an end to this madness," answered the count; "and I trust that I hold the means in my hands. These are the replies of Madeleine's relations."

He broke one of the seals, and glanced over the contents of the letter, gnawing his under lip as he read.

"Well, my son, what reply?"

"This letter is from M. de Bonneville. He writes that his chateau is only large enough for his own family,—that it would be a great inconvenience to have any addition to his home circle; and we—I suppose we have not been inconvenienced for the last three years"—

"I am not astonished at such a reply from M. de Bonneville. I expected nothing else. Give me Madame de Nervac's letter. She is a charming woman, whom every one admires and respects, and I know her kindness of heart."

The count handed the letter. His mother opened it, and read,—

"MY DEAR COUSIN:

"Are you not aware that a woman of any tact, who has still some claims to admiration, could hardly commit the absurd faux pas of establishing in her own house, and having always by her side, a person younger and handsomer than herself? To consent to your proposition concerning Madeleine would therefore be a suicidal act"—

"This is insupportable!" ejaculated the count. "It seems that we are to be forced into continuing to bear this burden, though it may bring us to ruin. What insupportable vanity Madame de Nervac betrays! You see what her kindness of heart is worth!"

"There is still one letter to open," remarked his mother, clinging to a faint hope.

"Oh, it will be a repetition of the others,—you may be sure of that!" He tore it open angrily; but, glancing at the first lines, exclaimed, "What do I see? Have we found one reasonable and charitable person at last? The Count Damoreau writes,—

"'A thousand thanks, my dear cousin for the opportunity you afford me of being useful to that lovely and unfortunate relative of ours. I have always regarded her with admiration and affection, and always appreciated the noble generosity which prompted your kindness to the orphan.'"

"The count is a man endowed with most excellent judgment," remarked the countess with complacency.

Her son continued reading the letter,—

"'I am at this moment about to make a number of necessary repairs in my chateau, which will cause me to absent myself for some time. I shall probably spend a year or two on the continent.'"

"So much the better! He will doubtless take Madeleine with him," suggested the countess.

Count Tristan in an altered tone read on,—

"'As I shall travel entirely en garcon, of course it will be impossible for Madeleine to accompany me, but an admirable opportunity presents itself for placing her in a situation that is very suitable. My friend, Lady Vivian, of Edinburgh, who forms one of the party here, is in search of an humble companion. I have spoken to her ladyship concerning Madeleine. She made some slight demur on account of the young lady's attractive person, but finally consented to offer her this situation.'"

"A de Gramont hired out as an humble companion! What an indignity!" ejaculated the countess.

The count continued reading,—

"'I will myself write to Madeleine and apprise her of what I have done, and present the many advantages of such a position.'"

"She must not receive the letter!" said the countess, earnestly. "She is capable of accepting this offer for the sake of wounding us. But Count Damoreau has insulted us grossly. How has he dared to entertain such an offer for a member of our family,—one in whose veins flows the same untainted blood? Why do you not speak, my son? But indignation may well deprive you of speech!"

"I can only say that in some manner we must at once rid ourselves of Madeleine."

"I would rather see her dead than in a situation which disgraced her noble name," answered the countess, violently.

"I quite agree with you," returned the count, with a sardonic look; "but, unfortunately, life and death are not in our hands!"

As he spoke, there was a gleam in his malignant eye, almost murderous. His foot was lifted to crush the worm in his path, and, could he have trodden it out of existence in secret, the deed would have been accomplished with exultation. His hatred for Madeleine had strengthened into a fierce passion as his fears that Maurice loved her threatened to be confirmed. Far from sharing his mother's indignation at the proposal of Count Damoreau, he had made up his mind to force Madeleine into acceptance, if no other presented itself for freeing the chateau from her presence.



CHAPTER VII.

A CRISIS.

Count Tristan was in the heat of argument with his haughty mother, when the door of the library opened, and Madeleine entered. One who had beheld the tempestuous burst of grief, the torrent of tears, the heart-rending despair that convulsed her frame but half an hour before, in the little chalet, would scarcely have recognized the countenance upon which the eyes of the Countess de Gramont and her son were now turned. Not the faintest shadow of that whirlwind of passionate anguish was left upon Madeleine's face, unless it might be traced in the great calm which succeeds a heavy storm; in the death-like pallor which overspread her almost rigid features; in the steady light that shone from her soul-revealing eyes; in the firm outline of her colorless lips; in the look of heroic resolve which imparted to her noble lineaments a higher beauty than they ever before had worn.

She approached Count Tristan with an unfaltering step, holding a letter in her hand. That letter had given a sudden check to her vehement sorrow, and restored her equilibrium.

"I have received this communication from Count Damoreau."

As she spoke, she extended the epistle to the count, who for one instant quailed before her clairvoyant eyes. It seemed as though a prophetic judgment spoke out of their shining depths.

He took the letter mechanically, without opening it. His gaze was riveted, as though by a magnetism too powerful for him to resist, upon her purposeful countenance.

Madeleine went on,—

"Count Damoreau tells me that you and my aunt desire to withdraw your protection from me; that you feel I have sufficiently long enjoyed the shelter of your roof; that you wish to provide me with some other asylum."

There was no hesitation in her voice as she uttered these words. She spoke in a tone rendered clear and quiet by the dignity of self-respect.

"Count Damoreau had no authority to write in such a strain to you," observed the countess, with asperity.

"There is his letter. He informed me that he has the Count Tristan's authority. To prove it, he encloses the letter yesterday delivered to him by M. Gaston de Bois."

Count Tristan was too thoroughly confounded to attempt any reply. He was painfully aware of the unmistakable character of that epistle.

"Count Damoreau announces to me," continued Madeleine, undisturbed, "that he is unable to comply with your request, and extend an invitation for me to join his family circle; and that my other relatives have also declined to accede to a solicitation of yours that they should by turns receive me as an inmate. He adds that his friend, Lady Vivian, is seeking an humble companion to accompany her to Scotland; and he trusts that I will thankfully accept this situation."

"It is an insult,—a deliberate insult to us and you!" broke forth the countess.

Madeleine's lips trembled with a half smile.

"I do not deem it an insult to myself: I am as thankful as Count Damoreau can desire me to be; but I decline his well-intentioned offer."

Count Tristan ground his teeth, and cast upon Madeleine a glance of fury and menacing detestation. Their eyes met, and she returned the look with an expression which simply declared she recognized what was passing in his mind.

"You did right to decline: I should never have permitted you to accept," remarked the countess, in a somewhat softer tone.

She deemed it politic to conciliate Madeleine for the present, fearing that she might be driven to take some humiliating step which would cast a reflection upon her kindred.

"I regret that my son has acted hastily. If you conduct yourself with the propriety which I have the right to demand, you will still find a home in the Chateau de Gramont, and in myself the mother I have ever been to you."

"Mother!" at that word Madeleine's glacial composure melted. "A mother!—oh, my aunt, thank you for that word! You do not know how much good it does me to hear it from your lips! But the Chateau de Gramont can never more be my home. That is settled: I came to tell you so."

"What do you mean?" asked the count, with a gleam of ill-disguised satisfaction.

"I mean that I purpose shortly to quit this mansion, never to return!"

"Then you do intend to accompany Lady Vivian to Scotland?" he inquired.

"You—my niece—a de Gramont—become the humble companion of Lady Vivian!" exclaimed the countess, in wrathful astonishment. "Can you even contemplate such an alternative?"

"No, madame," returned Madeleine, with an emphasis which might have been interpreted into a tone of pride. "I shall not become the humble companion of any lady."

"With whom do you expect to live?" demanded the count.

"I shall live alone."

"Live alone, at your age,—without fortune, without friends? It is impracticable,—impossible!" replied her aunt, decisively.

"I have reached my majority. I shall try to deserve friends. I have some small possession: the family diamonds of my mother still remain to me."

"But your noble name."

"Rest assured that it will never be disgraced by me!"

"I tell you that your project is impossible," maintained the countess, resolutely. "I forbid you to even attempt to put it into execution. I forbid you by the gratitude you owe me. I forbid you in the name of all the kindnesses I have lavished upon you!"

"And do you not see, my aunt, it is because I would still be grateful for these kindnesses that I would go hence? From the moment I learned I was a burden to you, that my presence here was unwelcome, this was no longer my home. If I leave you now, the memory of your goodness only, will dwell in my heart. If I were to remain longer, each day my presence would become more intolerable to you; each day your words and looks would grow colder and harsher; each day I should feel more degraded in my own eyes. You would spoil your own benefactions: I perhaps, might forget them, and be stained with the crime of ingratitude. No, let us now part,—now, while I may still dare to hope that you will think of me with tenderness and regret,—now, while I can yet cherish the recollection of the happy days I have passed beneath your roof. My resolution is taken: it is unalterable. I could not rest here. You will, perhaps, accord me a few days to make needful preparations; then I must bid you farewell."

She turned to quit the room, but encountered Maurice and Bertha, who had entered in time to hear the last sentence.

Bertha, on leaving her cousin, had sought Maurice and told him of Madeleine's prostrating sorrow. They hastened back to the chalet together, but she had disappeared. They were in search of her when they entered the library.

"Bid us farewell, Madeleine?" cried Bertha. "What do you mean? Where are you going? Surely you will never leave us?"

"I must."

"But my aunt will not let you; Cousin Tristan will not let you; Maurice will not let you. Speak to her, some of you, and say that she shall not go."

"Bertha," answered the count, "you do not know all the circumstances which have caused Madeleine to form this resolution; and, if my mother will pardon me for differing with her, I must say, frankly, that I approve of the course Madeleine has chosen. I honor her for it. I think she acts wisely in remaining here no longer!"

Then Maurice came forward boldly, and placing himself beside Madeleine, with an air of manly protection, spoke out,—

"And I agree with you, my father. I honor Madeleine for her resolution. I think she acts wisely in remaining here no longer."

"O Maurice, Maurice! how can you speak so? Don't let her go, unless you want to make me miserable!" pleaded Bertha.

Madeleine's hueless face was overspread with a brilliant glow as she cast upon Maurice one hasty look of gratitude.

"I speak what I mean. Madeleine cannot, without sacrificing her self-respect, accept hospitality which is not freely given,—protection which is unwillingly accorded. She cannot remain here as an inferior,—a dependent; one who is under daily obligation,—who is merely tolerated because she has no other place of refuge. My father, there is only one position in which she can remain in the Chateau de Gramont, and that is as an equal; as its future mistress; as your daughter; as my wife!"

The countess was stricken dumb with rage; and a sudden revulsion of feeling toward the shrinking girl, whose deep blushes she interpreted into a token of exultation, made her almost as willing to drive her forth, no matter whither, as her son himself.

Bertha, with an exclamation of delight, flung her arms joyfully about Madeleine's neck.

"Maurice, are you mad? Do you forget that you are my son?" was all that the count could gasp out, in his indignant amazement.

"It is as your son that I speak; it is as the inheritor of your name,—that name which Madeleine also bears."

"You seem to have forgotten"—began his father.

Maurice interrupted him,—

"I have not forgotten that I have not reached my majority, and that your consent is necessary to render Madeleine my wife."

(Our readers are doubtless aware that the law in France fixes the majority of a young man at twenty-five, and that he has no power to contract marriage or to control property until that period.)

"But, believe me, my father, even if this were not the case, I should not desire to act without your approval, and I know I could never induce Madeleine to forego your consent to our union. But what valid objections can you have? You desired that Bertha should become my wife. Is not Madeleine precisely the same kin to me as Bertha? Is she not as good, as beautiful?"

"Oh, a thousand times better and lovelier!" exclaimed Bertha, with affectionate enthusiasm.

"There is but one difference: she is poor and Bertha is rich. Think you Bertha's fortune could have one feather's weight in deciding my choice? I thank Heaven for teaching me to account it more noble, more honorable, to ask what the woman I would marry is, than to inquire what she has."

His father made a vain attempt to speak. Maurice went on without noticing the futile effort.

"But this is not all: I dare to hope that Madeleine's heart is mine, while Bertha's is not. My father, you requested that Bertha and I should have an understanding with each other; and we have had one. Bertha has told me that she does not love me. Is it not so, Bertha?"

"I told you that I loved you with all my heart, as the dearest, most delightful cousin in the world!" answered Bertha, naively.

"Just as I love you!" replied Maurice, smiling upon her tenderly. "But, as a lover, you definitely rejected me,—did you not?"

"Oh, yes; just as you refused me. We are perfectly agreed upon that point," she rejoined, with childlike frankness and simplicity.

"For shame, Maurice!" said the countess, in a tone of angry rebuke.

"Grandmother, hear me out. For once my heart must speak, even though it may be silent forever after. I feel that my whole future destiny hangs upon the events of this moment. You love me as a de Gramont should love; you love me with an ambition to see me worthy of my name,—to see that name rendered more lustrous in my person. How far that is possible, my father's decision and yours this hour will determine. I am ardent, impetuous, fond of excitement, reckless at times,—as prone, I fear, to be tempted to vice as to be inspired by virtue. If you withhold your consent to my union with the only woman I can love,—if you drive me to despair,—I am lost! Every pure and lofty aspiration within my nature will be crushed out, and in its place the opposite inclination will spring. I warned you before, when you thwarted the noblest resolution I ever formed. There is yet time to save me from the evil effects of that disappointment, and to spare me the worst results of this. If you grant me Madeleine"—

"Maurice, for pity's sake!" supplicated Madeleine, extending her clasped hands toward him.

Maurice caught the outstretched hands in his, and bent over her with an expression of ineffable love irradiating his countenance.

"Do not speak yet, Madeleine; do not answer until you have heard me,—until you have well comprehended my meaning. You do not know the thousand perils by which a young man is beset in Paris,—the siren lures that are thrown in his way to ensnare his feet, be they disposed to walk ever so warily. You do not know that your holy image, rising up before me, shining upon the path I trod, and beckoning me into the right road when I swerved aside, has alone saved me from falling into that vortex of follies and vices by which men are daily swallowed up, and from which they emerge sullied and debased. You do not know that, while I am here beside you, listening to the sound of your voice, holding your hand, gazing upon your face, I feel like one inspired, who has power to make his life glorious and keep it pure! Madeleine, would you have me great, distinguished? I shall become so if it be your will. Would you have me lift up our noble name? It shall be exalted at your bidding. Would you reign over my soul and keep it stainless? It is under your angel guardianship. Madeleine, best beloved, will you not save me?"

Madeleine only answered with a look which besought Maurice to forbear.

"Is your rhapsody finished at last?" asked Count Tristan, scornfully. "Is any one else to be permitted to speak?"

"It seems there is but one person whose voice is of any importance to your son," sneered the countess, "and that is Madeleine. It is for her to speak; it is for her to accomplish her work of base ingratitude; it is for her to give the last finishing stroke to the fabric she has secretly been laboring to build up for the last three years."

Madeleine—who, when the voice of Maurice was sounding in her ears, had been unable to control the agitation which caused her breast to heave, and her frame to quiver from head to foot, while confusion flung its crimson mantle over her face—grew suddenly calm when she heard these taunts. The same icy, pallid quietude with which, but a few moments before, she entered the library, returned. She withdrew the hands Maurice had clasped in his, lifted her bowed head, and stood erect, preparing to reply.

"Speak!" commanded the count, furiously. "Speak! since we are nothing and nobody here, and you are everything. Since you are sole arbiter in this family, speak!"

Madeleine could not at once command her voice.

The countess, arguing the worst from her silence, cried, with culminating wrath, "Speak, viper! Dart your fangs into the bosom that has sheltered you: it is bared to receive the deadly stroke; it is ready to die of your venom! Nothing remains but for you to strike!"

"Take courage, dearest Madeleine," whispered Bertha. "They will not be angry long. Speak and tell them that you love Maurice as he loves you, and that you will be the happiest of women if you become his wife."

"Well, your answer, Mademoiselle de Gramont?" urged the countess.

"It will be an answer for which I have only the pardon of Maurice to ask," said Madeleine, speaking slowly, but firmly. "Maurice, my cousin, I shall never be able to tell you,—you can never know,—what emotions of thankfulness you have awakened in my soul, nor how unutterably precious your words are to me. Thus much I may say; for the rest, I can never become your wife!"

"You refuse me because my father and my grandmother have compelled you to do so by their reproaches,—their menaces, I might say!" cried Maurice, wholly forgetting his wonted respect in the rush of tumultuous feelings. "This and this only is your reason for consigning me to misery."

The fear that she had awakened unfilial emotions in the bosom of Maurice infused fresh fortitude into Madeleine's spirit.

"No, Maurice, you are wrong. If my aunt and Count Tristan had not uttered one word on the subject, my answer to you would have been the same."

"How can that be possible? How can I have been so deceived? There is only one obstacle which can discourage me, only one which can force me to yield you up, and that is an admission, from your own lips, that your affections are already bestowed,—that your heart is no longer free."

Madeleine, without hesitation, replied in a clear, steady, deliberate tone, looking her cousin full in the face, and not by the faintest sign betraying the poniard which she heroically plunged into her own devoted breast,—

"My affections are bestowed; my heart is no longer free!"

"Madeleine, Madeleine! you do not love Maurice,—you love some one else?" questioned Bertha, in sorrowful astonishment.

Maurice spoke no word. He stood one moment looking at Madeleine as a drowning man might have looked at the ship that could have saved him disappearing in the distance. Then he murmured, hardly conscious of his own words,—

"And I felt sure her heart was mine! O Madeleine! may you never know what you have done!"

"Forgive me if you can, Maurice. Be generous enough to pardon one who has made you suffer. A bright future is before you. The darkness of this hour will gradually fade out of your memory."

"Say, rather, that you have taken from me my future,—withdrawn its guiding star, and left me a rayless and eternal night. But why should I reproach you? What right had I to deem myself worthy of you? You love another. All is spoken in those words: there is nothing more for me to say, except to thank you for not discarding me without making a confession which annihilates all hope."

There was a dignity in his grief more touching than the most passionate outburst would have been. Even his grandmother, in spite of her joy at Madeleine's declaration, was not wholly unmoved as she contemplated him. Count Tristan's exultation broke through all polite disguise,—

"Madeleine has atoned for much of the past by her present conduct; it has restored her in a measure to"—

Madeleine, as far as her gentle nature permitted, experienced an antipathy toward Count Tristan only surpassed by that which he entertained for her. The sound of his voice grated on her ears; his commendation made her doubt the wisdom and purity of her own act; his approval irritated her as no rebuke could have done. Without waiting for him to conclude his sentence, she grasped Bertha's hand, whispering, "I cannot stay here; I am stifling; come with me."

They left the room together, and took their way in silence to Madeleine's chamber. Bertha carefully closed the door, and, drawing her cousin down into a seat, placed herself beside her, and strove to read her countenance.

"Madeleine, is it possible? How mistaken I have been! You do not love our cousin Maurice. Poor Maurice! It is a dreadful blow to him. And you love some one else. But whom? I know of no gentleman who comes here often,—who is on an intimate footing at the chateau,—except"—

A painful suspicion for the first time shot through her mind, and made her pause. Could it be Gaston de Bois whom Madeleine preferred? She always treated him with such marked courtesy. There was no one else,—it must be he! Bertha could not frame the question that hovered about her lips, though to have heard it answered in the negative would have made her heart leap for joy.

Madeleine was too much absorbed by her own reflections to divine those of her cousin.

"At all events," said Bertha, trying to rally and talk cheerfully, though she could not chase that haunting fear from her thoughts, "my aunt is no longer angry with you, and cousin Tristan was well pleased. They will treat you better after this, and your home will be happier."

"My home?" ejaculated Madeleine, in a tone that made Bertha start.

"Yes, yours, until you exchange it for that of the favored lover, of whose name you make such a mystery."

"That will never be!"

"Never? Does he not love you, then? But I know he does,—he must. Every one loves you; no one can help it,—you win all hearts!"

"Count Tristan's, for instance," remarked Madeleine, bitterly.

"Ah, not his, that is true. How wickedly he looked at you when Maurice pictured how dear you were to him! I noticed Cousin Tristan's eyes, and they frightened me. He looked positively fiendish; and when Maurice said"—

To hear those precious words Maurice had spoken,—those words which she could never more forget,—repeated, was beyond Madeleine's powers of endurance: she sprang up, exclaiming, "Do not let us talk of these matters any more to-day, Bertha. It is growing late,—almost six o'clock. It is time for you to dress for dinner. And you have not forgotten the ball to-night?"

"I could not bear to go now. I am sure Maurice will not go; and you,—would you go, even if we did?"

"You will not refuse me a favor, Bertha, though it may cost you some pain to grant it? Go to this ball, and persuade, entreat Maurice to go. If you do not, you will draw down my aunt's displeasure upon me anew, for she will know why you remain at home,—especially as it will be impossible for me to appear in public to-night."

"I would do anything rather than have my aunt displeased with you again; and then there is the beautiful dress you have taken such pains to make."

"I should be very much disappointed if you did not wear it this evening. Now let us prepare for dinner."

As she spoke, Madeleine commenced her own toilet. Bertha stood looking at her as she unbound her long silken hair, and, after smoothing it as carefully as was her wont, rapidly formed the coronal braid, and wound the rich tress about the regal head.

"I cannot comprehend you, Madeleine: you are a marvel to me. A couple of hours ago you were almost frantic with grief,—I never saw any one weep so immoderately; and now you are as serene as though nothing had happened. If your lips were not so very, very white, and your eyes had not such a fixed, unnatural look, I could almost think you had forgotten that anything unusual had occurred."

"Forget it yourself, dear, and make ready for dinner."

Bertha obeyed at least part of the injunction, still wondering over Madeleine's incomprehensible placidity.

The young maidens entered the dining-room together. Maurice came in late. The meal passed almost in silence, though the Countess and Count Tristan made unusual efforts to keep up a conversation.

Bertha was right in imagining Maurice had lost all inclination to appear at the ball. When she brought up the subject, he answered impatiently that he did not intend to go. His grandmother heard the remark, and made an especial request that he would change that decision and accompany them. Bertha added her entreaties; but Maurice seemed inclined to rebel, until she whispered,—

"If you stay at home, my aunt will say it is Madeleine's fault, and she will be vexed with her again. Madeleine begged you would spare her this new trial, and bade me entreat you to go."

Maurice looked across the table, for the first time during dinner, and found Madeleine's eyes turned anxiously upon him.

"I will go," he murmured.

His words were addressed rather to her than to Bertha. A scarcely perceptible smile on the lips of the former was his reward.

No comment was made upon Madeleine's determination to remain at home. But the tone of the countess to her niece, when she was officiating as usual at her aunt's toilet, was gentler than she had ever before used. Not the faintest allusion to the events of the morning dropped from the lips of either.

At last the carriage drove from the door, and Madeleine was left alone with her own thoughts. The mask of composure was no longer needed, yet there was no return of the morning's turbulent emotion.

Are not great trials sent to incite us to great exertions, which we might not have the energy, the wit, perhaps the humility, to undertake, but for the spurring sting of that especial grief? Madeleine had resolutely looked her affliction full in the face; had grown familiar with its sternest, saddest features; had bowed before them, and dashed the tears from her eyes, to see more clearly as that sorrow pointed out a path which all her firmness would be taxed in treading,—a path which she had never dreamed existed for her, until it had been opened, hewn through the rocks of circumstance by that day's heavy blows, that hour's piercing anguish.

Her greatest difficulty lay in the necessity of concealing the step she was about to take from her aunt, whose violent opposition would throw a fearful obstacle in the way. It was easier to avoid than to surmount such a barrier; but if it could not be avoided, it must be surmounted. In that decision she could not waver.



CHAPTER VIII.

FLIGHT.

Can there be a more dreary solitude, to a mind writhing under the throes of some new and hidden sorrow, than a brilliant ballroom? The stirring music jars like harshest discord upon the unattuned ear; the glaring lights dazzle the pained vision until utter darkness would seem grateful; the merry voices and careless laughter catch a tone of bitter mockery; the gayly apparelled forms, the faces decked with soulless smiles, are more oppressive than all the apparitions with which a fevered imagination can people the gloomiest seclusion. Maurice soon found the festive scene at the Chateau de Tremazan intolerable, and took refuge in the illuminated conservatory, the doors of which were thrown invitingly open. It was mid-summer, but the flowers had been restored to brighten their winter shelter during the fete. He had thought to find himself alone; but yonder, bending over richly-tinted clusters of azaleas and odorous heliotropes, a group of youthful heads unconcernedly thrust their lifeless chaplets in challenging contrast with nature's living loveliness, while flowing robes recklessly swept their floral imitations against her shrinking originals. In a different state of mind Maurice might not have been struck by the incongruous contact of the painted semblance with the blushing reality; but now it reminded him too keenly that the sphere within which he was bound, a social Ixion upon the petty wheel of conventionalism, was one grand combination of artificial trivialities and senseless shams. Goaded beyond endurance by the reflection, he impatiently made his escape into the open air.

Bertha had never mingled with a gay crowd in so joyless a mood. The presence of the heiress created no little sensation; but good-breeding kept its manifestation within such delicate limits that she was unconscious of its existence. She was not even aware that it was a sign of her own importance when the Marchioness de Fleury glided up to Count Tristan, on whose arm Bertha was leaning, and, in a softly cadenced voice, asked if she had not the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle de Merrivale. In reply, the count presented Bertha. As she returned the courtesy of the marchioness, she could not help remembering the declaration of Maurice, that he had never perused the countenance of the distinguished belle, because his attention was irresistibly riveted upon the wondrous details of her toilet: for Bertha found her own eyes involuntarily wandering over the graceful folds of the amethyst velvet, and the exquisite disposition of the point de Venise by which it was elaborately ornamented; the artistic head-dress in perfect accordance with the costly robe, and the Cleopatra-like drops of pearls which seemed to have been showered over the wearer from brow to foot.

Bertha's eyes were too ingenuous not to betray their occupation; but those of the marchioness seemed only to be looking, with the most complimentary expression of interest, into the face of her new acquaintance, while, in reality, she was scanning Bertha's picturesque attire, and longing to discover by what tasteful fingers it had been contrived; examining the polished ivy intertwined among her bright ringlets, and the half-blown roses just bursting their sheaths in a glossy covert of amber tresses; and wondering that a coiffure with such poetic taste could have existed unknown in Brittany. As the marchioness stood, dropping sweet, meaningless words from her dewy lips, Bertha's hand was claimed by the Duke de Montauban, and she was led to the dance.

She was moving through the quadrille with a languid, unelastic motion, very unlike her usual springing step, when she caught sight of M. de Bois, standing at a short distance, with his face turned toward her. The smile that accompanied her bow of greeting drew him nearer. As the dance ended, and her partner was reconducting her to the countess, M. de Bois overcame his timidity sufficiently to join her.

"Where is Mademoiselle Mad—ad—adeleine?" he inquired. "I have not seen her."

"She is not here. She would not come," sighed Bertha, stopping abruptly, though they had not quite reached her chaperone's side.

"Is she ill? She told me this morning that she would certainly be here. Has anything happened?" asked M. de Bois, speaking as distinctly as though he had never stammered in his life, and throwing off, in his growing excitement, all the awkwardness of his constitutional diffidence.

Bertha could not but remark his anxious expression, and a suspicion, which she had essayed to banish, once more took possession of her mind. But she loved Madeleine with such absolute devotion, that this vague, uncomfortable sensation was quickly displaced by a purer emotion. Glancing at the countess to see that she was not within hearing distance, she disengaged her arm from that of the duke, with a bow which he interpreted into a dismissal, and then, turning eagerly to M. de Bois, recounted to him, in a low, hurried tone, the occurrences of the morning. She fancied she heard words which sounded very like muttered imprecations. He was perhaps putting into practice his new method of loosening his tongue, and doubtless imagined that the emphatic utterances were inaudible.

Bertha went on. "It was a terrible blow to Maurice! He felt so sure until then that Madeleine loved him; so did I. But we were both mistaken. It is plain enough now that she does not."

"What makes it plain? How can you be sure?" asked M. de Bois, becoming more and more disturbed.

"Her own declaration has placed the fact beyond doubt. She even confessed that she loved another."

Her listener did not attempt to conceal his consternation at these words.

"Mademoiselle Madeleine said she loved another! She, who would not stoop to breathe a word which was not the strictest truth,—she told you so? You heard it yourself? You are certain, very certain, Mademoiselle Bertha?"

"I dare say that I ought not to have repeated this to you," replied Bertha, who now experienced some self-reproach at betraying her friend's secret to one whom it, perhaps, so deeply concerned; "but I am very certain that Madeleine distinctly rejected Maurice, and, when he attributed her refusal to his grandmother's and his father's disapproval of his suit, she denied that she was influenced by them, and confessed that her heart was not free,—that she had bestowed it upon another."

"By all that is heroic, she is a noble woman!" exclaimed M. de Bois, fervently. "She has the grandest nature! She is incom-com-com"—

"Incomparable," said Bertha, finishing his sentence, and checking a sigh. "Yes, I never knew any one like her. She has no equal."

"I don't exactly say that. I don't mean that. She is not su-su-superior—to"—

Bertha did not assist him by completing this disjointed phrase, even if she suspected what he desired to say.

At that moment Count Damoreau approached, accompanied by a gaunt, overdressed lady, with harsh and forbidding features.

"Lady Vivian is looking for Mademoiselle de Gramont. Did she not accompany you?" inquired the count.

"She intended to do so, but changed her mind."

"She received a letter from me to-day,—did she not?" continued Count Damoreau.

"Yes, I remember delivering one to her myself, which Baptiste said was brought by your valet."

"Did she not apprise you of its contents?"

"No. I was not present when she opened the letter."

"Then you do not know how she received my proposition?" remarked Lady Vivian, in a grating voice. "I begin to be a little doubtful myself how it will do. Is your cousin as handsome as they say she is?"

"In my eyes she is the most beautiful person in the world," answered Bertha, in a tone of admiration the sincerity of which could not be mistaken.

Lady Vivian looked vexed, and replied, "That's a pity. Beauty is a decided objection in such a position."

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," returned Bertha, with spirit; "but I cannot perceive that my cousin's position renders her beauty objectionable."

"Beauty is very suitable to you, my dear; but for an humble companion"—

"An humble companion? Madeleine is not my aunt's humble companion, nor mine. She is"—

"To become mine, I believe!" rejoined Lady Vivian, brusquely. "And I already begin to regret that I acceded to Count Damoreau's wishes."

"Madeleine your ladyship's humble companion? That she shall never be. O Count Damoreau! how could you have suggested such an idea? I would go on my knees to implore her not to consent! I am sure your ladyship will find yourself mistaken."