Bertha, as she said these words, bowed with a degree of hauteur which no one had ever seen her assume, and, taking M. de Bois's arm, approached her aunt with a troubled countenance. Before the Countess de Gramont could ask the cause of her evident disquietude, she said,—

"I wish we could go home, aunt: I am wearied to death. I cannot enjoy anything to-night. And that horrid Lady Vivian has made me so angry, talking of Madeleine as her humble companion! Such impertinence! Surely you would never permit anything of the kind?"

"Never! I do not wonder you were indignant. But do you really wish to go?"

"Oh, yes. I am stifling here. I never was at such a dull ball. Pray, pray take me home!"

Her aunt could not refuse a request so vehemently urged, and begged M. de Bois to seek Maurice. Fearing that Madame de Tremazan would be mortified by their early departure, the countess took an opportunity to leave the ballroom, accompanied by her niece and son, without attracting the observation of the hostess. M. de Bois joined them in the antechamber, with the intelligence that Maurice was nowhere to be found. After a second search, and half an hour's delay, the carriage started without him.

As soon as they reached the chateau, Bertha bade her aunt good-night, and hastened to Madeleine's chamber. Madeleine, who did not anticipate her speedy return, and had not heard her light foot upon the floor, was sitting beside a small table, her head supported by her hands, and bent over some object which she contemplated with intense interest. At the sound of Bertha's voice she hastily closed the lids of a couple of ancient-looking caskets, which stood before her, and rose from her seat.

"Is it you, Bertha? How soon you have returned!"

"Yes; I was glad to get away. The ball was wretchedly stupid; and, after that disagreeable Lady Vivian irritated me by talking of you, I could not stay. She seemed to have the audacity to expect that you would become her humble companion. You! our noble, doubly noble Madeleine, the humble companion of any one, but especially of such a coarse person as Lady Vivian! It was unendurable."

"It is very possible that Count Damoreau assured her I would accept the proposition she made me through him," was Madeleine's calm reply.

"But you never could have entertained it for a moment?"

"No. There is the answer I have just written to Count Damoreau. You may read it."

Bertha glanced over the letter approvingly. As she laid it upon the table, she noticed the caskets.

"What are these, Madeleine?—jewel-cases?"

"They were my mother's diamonds. They have been in the family, I can hardly tell you for how many generations."

"Do let me see them."

Bertha opened one of the cases. A necklace, brooch, and ear-rings of brilliants sparkled within. The precious stones emitted a clear lustre which would have caused a connoisseur at once to pronounce them of the first water; but their setting was quaint and old-fashioned. The necklace was composed of diamonds fleur-de-lis, divided by emerald shamrock-leaves. A single fleur-de-lis, surrounded by the emerald shamrock, formed the brooch and ear-rings.

"Some of your ancestors must have come from the emerald isle: so, at least, we may infer from this shamrock."

"Yes, my great-great-great-grandfather married the beautiful Lady Katrine Nugent, and these were her bridal jewels. You see that the shamrock of Erin is mingled with the fleur-de-lis of France."

Bertha unclosed the other case. It held a bracelet and a tiara-shaped comb. The shamrock and lily were blended as in the necklace.

"These diamonds are very lustrous," said Bertha, clasping the bracelet admiringly upon her delicate wrist. "But what are you doing with them, and at this time of night?"

"Looking at them," answered Madeleine, with some hesitation. "I have not seen them before for years."

"You shall wear them for your bridal parure, Madeleine."

Madeleine tried to laugh.

"Then I should carry my whole fortune on my back; all that remains of my ancient house I should bear, snail-fashion, upon my head and shoulders. No, little dreamer, of two facts you may rest assured: one is that I shall never wear these jewels; the other that I never shall be a bride. Come, let me undress you; your blue eyes are so sleepy they are growing gray as the heavens at twilight."

The Chateau de Tremazan was seven miles from his father's mansion, but Maurice, after his abrupt exit from the conservatory, walked leisurely home. The next morning, before the count had risen, his son entered the room, in travelling attire, to make the communication that he had ordered the carriage to drive him to Rennes, in time to meet the early train that started for Paris. He trusted his father would offer no objection, and would make the traveller's apologies to the ladies of the household, for avoiding the pain of leave-taking. Count Tristan approved of the journey; and, a few moments later, Maurice leaped into the coach, glancing eagerly up at a window, surrounded by a framework of jasmine vines; but no face looked forth; no hand waved a farewell and filled the vernal frame with a living picture.

The intelligence of his sudden departure was received differently by the three ladies. The countess was inclined to be displeased that he had foregone the ceremony of an adieu. Any shortcoming in the payment of the full amount of deference, which she considered her due, was a great offence. Of late, Maurice had several times wounded her upon this tender point, and her sensitiveness was thereby increased.

Bertha was loud in her lamentations over the disappearance of her cousin. Her deep chagrin revived the hopes of Count Tristan and his mother, and awakened the welcome suggestion, that he, in reality, held a tenderer place in her heart than she had ever admitted to herself.

Madeleine's face instinctively brightened when she heard that Maurice was gone; his departure smoothed away a difficulty from the path she was about to tread. Count Tristan watched her closely, and was perplexed by the gleam of genuine satisfaction that illumined her countenance. For the first time he was half deceived into the belief that the passion of Maurice was unrequited. He had been puzzled in what manner to interpret Madeleine's determined rejection of her cousin. He was unable to comprehend a purity of motive which his narrow mind was equally incapable of experiencing. He finally attributed her conduct partly to a dread of her aunt's and his own displeasure, partly to a desire to render herself more highly valued by Maurice, and to gain a firmer hold upon his affections.

M. de Bois was an early visitor on the day after the ball, but never had he seemed more ill at ease, or found more difficulty in controlling his restless nervousness, or in expressing himself intelligibly. When he heard that Maurice was on his way to Paris, he dashed down an antique vase by his sudden movement of vexation, and, in stooping to gather the fractured china, upset the stand upon which it had stood. This manifestation of awkwardness, of course, increased his mal-aise; and, although the countess remained as unmoved as though she wholly ignored the accident, he could not recover his equanimity. Madeleine left the drawing-room with the fragments of the vase in her hand, and did not return. After a prolonged and unsatisfactory visit, M. de Bois took his leave.

As he issued from the chateau, Baptiste dropped his spade and followed him, keeping at a short distance behind, until he neared the gate; then the old gardener approached, looking cautiously around to see that he was not observed, stealthily held out a note, whispering, "Mademoiselle Madeleine bade me give this to monsieur," turned on his heel, and walked away as rapidly as though he feared to be pursued.

The note contained these words:—

"A friend in my great emergency is indispensable to me. I have no friend in whom I can confide but you. I shall be at the little chalet to-morrow morning, at five o'clock.

"MADELEINE M. DE GRAMONT."

A radiant change passed over the shadowed features of Gaston de Bois, as he read these lines. That one so self-reliant as Madeleine proffered him her confidence, trusted him, appealed to him for aid, was surely enough to raise him in his own esteem; and he almost forgot the recent mortification caused by an unfortunate awkwardness and miserable diffidence, which seemed the haunting demons of his existence.

Impatience chased all slumber from his eyes that night, and the dawn had scarcely broken when he hastened to the chalet to await the coming of Madeleine. The appointed time had just arrived, as the watch he constantly consulted informed him, when she entered the summer-house. Their interview, occupied but half an hour; but, when M. de Bois left the chalet, his countenance wore an expression of earnestness, responsibility, and composure, totally opposite to its usual characteristics.

Madeleine, as she tripped back through the dew, smiled with moist eyes,—a smile of gratitude rather than of pleasure. More than once she drew a long breath, as though some heavy pressure had been lifted from her breast; and, as she dashed away the tears that gathered in her eyes, she seemed eagerly looking into the distance, as though a mist had rolled from before her steps, and she now saw her way clearly. All was silent in the chateau, and she reached her chamber unperceived.

That day passed as usual, and another, and another. Madeleine never once alluded to the determination which she had announced to her aunt as unalterable, and the countess was satisfied that her niece had spoken under the influence of excitement, without any fixed purpose; and gradually dismissed from her mind the fear that her dependent relative would take some rash and dignity-compromising step.

Bertha had not forgotten that Madeleine had declared the Chateau de Gramont was no longer her home; but as the latter went through the daily routine of her wonted avocations as though they were always to continue, and as no change was apparent in her manner, save that she was more silent and meditative, and her once ready smiles grew rarer, Bertha, also, was lulled into the belief that her cousin had abandoned her intention.

Count Tristan fell into no such error. Madeleine's preoccupied mien, her unwonted reserve, the tender sadness with which she sometimes gazed around her, as though bidding farewell to dear, familiar objects, assured him that she had not spoken lightly, and that her threat would be carried into execution at no distant period. Well was it for her that he had come to this satisfactory conclusion, for it spared her further persecution at his hands.

On the fourth morning after the departure of Maurice, Bertha entered Madeleine's chamber, according to her custom,—for the young maidens always descended to breakfast together. Her room was empty.

"She has not waited for me to-day," thought Bertha, hurrying down, and expecting to find Madeleine in the breakfast-room.

The countess and her son were at table, but Madeleine was not there.

"Has Madeleine breakfasted?" inquired Bertha, cutting short her morning salutations.

The answer was in the negative.

"Have you not seen her?" she asked.

"No, not this morning," replied the countess.

"I suppose she is taking an early walk," continued Bertha. "It seems odd that she does not come back, for she is never late."

Bertha seated herself, but the coffee remained untasted before her; and her head was constantly turned towards the window which commanded a view of the garden and park. Gustave passed, and she cried out to him,—

"Gustave, have you seen Mademoiselle Madeleine, this morning?"

"No, mademoiselle."

"Why, where can she be?" exclaimed Bertha, impatiently. "If you will excuse me, aunt, I will go in search of her. Since she has not broken her fast yet, we will breakfast together, as usual." And away darted Bertha into the garden.

The countess had not attached any importance to Madeleine's absence, and resumed the conversation with her son.

Through Count Tristan's mind the suspicion at once had flashed that Madeleine was gone, and he chuckled inwardly at the verification of his own unspoken predictions. A quarter of an hour passed, and then he beheld Bertha coming rapidly from the direction of the chalet. He felt no surprise in observing that she was alone. The windows of the breakfast-room opened to the ground, and she entered by one of them,—her face crimsoned, her fair hair unbound and floating over her shoulders, for she had been running.

"I cannot find Madeleine!" she faltered out. "It is very strange! She is not in the chalet, nor in the garden. I have called until I am hoarse. I picked up this handkerchief in the chalet,—it is marked 'G. de Bois,' yet it is three days since M. de Bois was here; and Madeleine and I have spent every morning since then at the chalet. When could M. de Bois have dropped this handkerchief there?"

The count took the handkerchief from her hand, and examined the mark without comment: he could not trust his voice at that moment.

"I presume Madeleine will be here presently, to account for herself," remarked the countess, not apparently discomposed. "Take your breakfast, Bertha; there is no need of your fasting until she chooses to make her appearance."

Bertha obediently sat down, sipped her coffee for a few moments, and then, declaring that she wanted nothing more, left the room and returned to Madeleine's apartment. It was in perfect order, but so it was always; the bed was made, but Madeleine was in the habit of making her own bed; there was no sign of change. Bertha opened the wardrobe,—the dresses Madeleine usually wore were hanging within; she wandered about the room, examining every nook and corner, hardly conscious of what she was doing,—what she expected to find or to miss. All at once she remarked that a few books, which were favorites of Madeleine and once belonged to her father, had been removed from the table; but what of that?—they had probably been placed somewhere else. Continuing her almost purposeless search, Bertha now drew out the drawers of the bureau: they usually held Madeleine's linen; they were empty! In violent agitation the kneeling girl sprang to her feet; her undefined fear was taking shape. She ran to the antechamber and looked for a little trunk which had come to the chateau with Madeleine: it was no longer there!

Bertha darted down the stair and rushed into her aunt's presence, sobbing out in agony of grief,—"She has gone! Madeleine has gone! I know she has gone, and she will never, never return to us! Her dresses are there; everything you have given her is there; she has only taken with her what she had when she came to the chateau, and she has surely gone!"

Count Tristan pretended to laugh at Bertha's fears, and maintained that Madeleine would presently walk in, and feel very much flattered by the sensation she had created, and by her cousin's lamentations over her supposed flight; adding, jocosely, that it was not easy for a young lady to disappear in that dramatic manner, except from the pages of a novel.

The countess, who began to be alarmed, desired her son to ring the bell. Gustave appeared in answer, and, after being closely questioned, was desired to summon the other domestics. Bettina and Elise promptly obeyed the command. Their answers were precisely the same as those of Gustave: they had not seen Madeleine; they could not imagine where she was.

"Baptiste,—where is he?" asked the countess.

Baptiste was in the garden.

"I am going out,—I will speak to him myself, and also institute further inquiries to satisfy our dear little Bertha; but I warn her that her dreams of a romantic adventure, and the flight of a young lady from an ancient chateau and her natural protectors, will probably meet with a sudden check by Madeleine's walking in from a long ramble."

Thus speaking, the count left Bertha to be consoled by his mother, and went forth in search of Baptiste. Count Tristan well knew that, although the domestics were all warmly attached to Madeleine, the devotion of Baptiste was unsurpassed. The count did not, for one instant, doubt that she had really gone. Some assistance she must have had, and Baptiste's was the aid she would naturally have selected. He chose to interrogate the old man himself, to prevent his giving rather than to extract information from him.

The simple-hearted gardener was not an adept in deception. He was digging among his flower-beds when his master approached him, and it did not escape the nobleman's observation that the spade went into the ground and was drawn out again with increased rapidity as he drew near, and that the head of Baptiste, instead of being lifted to see who was coming, was bent down as though he wished to appear wholly engrossed in his occupation.

"Baptiste?"

"Monsieur?"

The tremulous voice in which that one word was uttered, and his guilty countenance, scarcely raised as he spoke, were enough to convict him.

"Has Mademoiselle Madeleine passed you in walking out, this morning?"

"No, monsieur. I have been very busy, monsieur; these flower-beds are in a terrible state; it is not easy for one pair of hands to keep them even in tolerable order. I have not noticed who passed. I don't generally look about me,—I"—

"Oh, very well; we thought perhaps you might have seen Mademoiselle Madeleine to-day, as she must have walked out; but, as you know nothing at all about her, I will inform the countess and Mademoiselle Bertha."

"I am much obliged to monsieur," replied Baptiste, gratefully.

He could not conceal his thankfulness at escaping the cross-examination which he had anticipated with the dread natural to one wholly unpractised in dissimulation.

"This handkerchief of M. de Bois was found in the chalet," continued the count. "I suppose he sometimes strolls over here in the morning, at an hour too early for visiting; it is very natural, as we are such near neighbors."

"As monsieur says, it would be very natural."

The count had gained all the information that he desired, and without letting Baptiste suspect he had betrayed his secret. That Madeleine had actually fled, that M. de Bois had lent his aid, and that Baptiste had been taken into their confidence, was indubitable.

The count returned to the chateau, and joined his mother, who was making vain attempts to soothe Bertha. The only comfort to which she would listen was the assurance that, if Madeleine had really gone, she would be traced and entreated to return to her former home.

The count now thought it politic to assume an air of the deepest concern.

"I am grieved to bring you such unsatisfactory news; but Baptiste knows nothing,—he has not seen Madeleine. I am very much shocked, but the fear that she has really left us forces itself upon me. I will order my horse and ride over to Rennes. She probably obtained a conveyance last night or this morning to take her there, as it is the nearest town; and then, by railroad or stage-coach, she must have proceeded upon her journey."

"But how could she have obtained a conveyance if none of the servants were in her confidence? She must have walked, though it is five miles; but that cannot be, for she could not have carried her trunk. Some one must have aided her. Oh, who can it be?"

Bertha wiped her streaming eyes with the handkerchief in her hand; it was the handkerchief found in the chalet,—that of Gaston de Bois. It seemed to answer her question. She hesitated for some moments before she could persuade herself to communicate her suspicion; but her strong love for Madeleine, and her desire that she should be restored to them, prevailed. She handed the handkerchief to Count Tristan.

"Before you go to Rennes, will you not return this handkerchief to M. de Bois? As it was picked up in the chalet, he must have been there lately,—possibly this morning. Perhaps he knows something of Madeleine's flight. Oh, he must know!—he must! Make him tell you,—implore him to tell you!"

The count took the handkerchief, saying, "It is an admirable suggestion of yours, my dear Bertha. I will go to M. de Bois at once. Meantime, do not spoil your beautiful eyes with weeping. Never fear,—we will have Madeleine back shortly; and if you will only be consoled, I promise to forgive her all the anxiety she has occasioned us."

Count Tristan found M. de Bois at home, burrowing among musty volumes, which were the daily companions of his solitude. When he received his handkerchief, a violent fit of stammering rendered the words he attempted to utter wholly incomprehensible, and the count made no effort to understand them. He proceeded to inform M. de Bois of Madeleine's sudden disappearance, and of the great unhappiness it had caused, adding that he came to him as a neighbor, to ask his advice concerning the best method of tracking the fugitive.

If M. de Bois offered any counsel (which his guest pretended to imagine he did), the impediment in his speech increased to such an extent that his suggestions were unintelligible. His perturbation might have passed for surprise at the startling intelligence so abruptly communicated; but it could hardly be translated into sorrow or sympathy, and was a very imperfect simulation of astonishment.

"I am going to Rennes, for the purpose of making inquiries at the railroad depot. Will not that plan be a good one?" asked the count.

"Ver—ver—ery good," stammered M. de Bois.

"Can you think of any mode that will facilitate my search?"

"I fear not,—none at all; I am very dull in such m—m—matters."

The count took his leave, congratulating himself that his neighbor had not been subjected to the scrutiny of the Countess de Gramont or Bertha, and especially of Maurice, whose absence at this crisis he looked upon as doubly fortunate.

Count Tristan returned to the chateau with as dejected a mien as he could assume.

Bertha was watching at the window, and ran out to meet him. "What news? When did M. de Bois lose his handkerchief? When did he last see Madeleine?"

"Dear child, I am deeply pained not to bring more cheering information. M. de Bois must have dropped his handkerchief some days ago,—the morning after the ball; he has not been here since; he has no recollection of the circumstance; he has not seen Madeleine at all."

"Was he not amazed to hear that she had gone?"

"Very much confounded; the shock quite bewildered him. We consulted about the best means of tracing her at Rennes. You may rest assured that M. de Bois was totally ignorant of her intention to leave us. And, if you will allow me to make a suggestion, I would charge you not to let him suspect, when you meet, that you for a moment imagine he was in Madeleine's confidence. It would be highly indelicate,—the very supposition would be derogatory to her dignity. I have said all that was necessary to him, and, as he had nothing to do with the affair, it is a topic which cannot with propriety be touched upon again."

"Assuredly not," coincided the countess. "Madeleine, with all her faults, would not so entirely forget her own self-respect as to have a clandestine understanding with a young man. I cannot believe she would disgrace herself and us by such unmaidenly conduct."

"Unmaidenly! Would it be unmaidenly?" questioned Bertha, innocently. "If it would be an impropriety to confide in M. de Bois, then Madeleine certainly has not made him her confidant. Oh, my poor Madeleine! It is dreadful to think that she must have gone away alone,—quite alone!"

"You may well call it dreadful, Bertha. An occurrence of this kind has never blotted the annals of our family! What will be said of her and of us? Such a step, taken by a woman of her birth, will set hundreds of tongues discussing our domestic concerns; our names will be bandied about from lip to lip; our affairs will be in all sorts of common people's mouths. Hasten, for heaven's sake, my son, and find Madeleine before this story gets wind."

Count Tristan dutifully obeyed,—that is to say, he assumed an appearance of compliance, for in a few moments he was galloping toward Rennes.

Evening set in before he returned. His long absence had kindled in the minds of the countess and Bertha a hope that he had discovered some clew, and the latter had worked herself up to such a pitch of excitement that she almost anticipated the return of Madeleine in Count Tristan's company. Her disappointment when, at last, he entered, looking weary and dejected, was proportionate to her expectations. He had made all possible search,—so he said,—and no information concerning the fugitive could be gathered; she was gone! He feared they must now wait patiently until they heard from her. She would doubtless write soon,—a letter might come at any moment. Very possibly she had changed her mind in regard to Lady Vivian's offer, and had accepted it without communicating her intention, because she feared her aunt's displeasure. This was the most likely explanation of her sudden departure. He had called at the Chateau de Tremazan, and Lady Vivian had left for Scotland two days after the ball. Madeleine was doubtless at this moment on her way to Edinburgh.

The count, though he made this assertion with an air of perfect credence, did not, for a moment, believe that such was Madeleine's destination; but he thought to check persistent inquiries which might accidentally bring to light some fine thread that would lead to the discovery of her retreat.

"Oh, if she goes to Lady Vivian, we will make her return at once,—will we not, aunt?" asked Bertha, catching eagerly at this new hope. "But Madeleine told me distinctly that she had no intention of accepting Lady Vivian's offer."

"There would be no harm in changing her mind," observed the count. "You will find that she has done so; therefore, give yourself no more uneasiness at present."

Bertha would very gladly have followed the count's advice; but, even if she had made the effort, it would have been impossible to drive anxiety for Madeleine out of her thoughts. Several times during the evening she started up, thinking that she heard her voice; if a step echoed in the antechamber, she turned eagerly to the door, her blue eyes greatening with expectation. Once, when the roll of wheels sounded in the distance, she uttered a cry of joy and rushed out upon the porch. Every moment she grew more and more restless and feverish; and when the usual hour for retiring came, she wandered into Madeleine's room, instead of her own, and once more minutely examined the whole chamber. There might, perhaps, be a note somewhere which she had overlooked: after the most diligent search, none was to be found. There were pens, ink, and paper upon the little table which Madeleine generally used, but not a word of writing was visible.

The sight of pen and ink suggested an idea which had not before occurred to Bertha. She sat down and wrote to Maurice. She poured out all her grief upon paper, and it was soothed as if dropped into words upon the blank sheet before her. How often a full heart has had its burden lifted and lightened at the pen's point, as if the sorrow it recorded grew less heavy beneath the calming touch of that potent instrument!



CHAPTER IX.

THE EMPTY PLACE.

It chanced that Bertha's letter to Maurice was posted the next morning without the knowledge of Count Tristan and his mother; not, however, through any preconcerted arrangement on the part of Bertha. Her character was so frank, so transparent,—her actions were always so unveiled,—her thoughts flowed in such an instinctive current toward her lips,—that the idea of concealment could have no spontaneous existence in her mind. She made no allusion to the letter until it was gone; but that was purely accidental, though not the less fortunate. Had Count Tristan been aware that such a letter had been written, it would never have reached its destination.

It was somewhat singular that the count, whose code of honor would have forced him to resent, at the sword's point, the faintest hint that he could be guilty of an unworthy action, would not have scrupled to intercept a letter, to distort a fact (we use the mildest phrase), to stoop to any deception, to be guilty of any treachery, if he were powerfully prompted by what he termed family considerations,—which simply meant his own personal interest.

He had determined to keep Maurice in ignorance of Madeleine's flight as long as possible, that the chances of discovering her retreat might be diminished; and great was the wily schemer's consternation when he learned that Bertha had unadvisedly frustrated his plans by writing to her cousin.

Madeleine's value had never been estimated to its just height until her place was empty. It is not in human nature to prize that which we possess to its full worth, until it is "lacked and lost!" Alas! in how many households there moves, with noiseless feet, some placid, patient, yet potent spirit, with hands ever ready to toil, or soothe; a smile ever kindled to comfort or encourage; a voice that "turns common words to grace," imparting hope and dispensing joy; a presence full of helpfulness and peace; a being, grown familiar to our eyes by every day's association, whom we carelessly greet, or jostle against unheeding, or thrust aside impatiently, never dreaming that our working-day mortal, could she cast off this garment of clay, would stand revealed one of God's holy messengers commissioned to minister!—that is, never until we suddenly find her place empty, yet trace the touch of her delicate fingers, the print of her light footsteps everywhere around us, and feel the dreary void made in our hearts by her absence, and recognize, too late, that we have entertained an angel unawares.

Throughout the Chateau de Gramont there was no one, save Count Tristan, who did not make some such reflection (though vague and undefined, perhaps) while thinking of Madeleine. The ancient domestics seemed completely lost without her guiding hand,—her spirit of order systematizing and lightening all their duties. Everything was in confusion, everything went wrong. Dearly as they loved her, they had never before realized that Mademoiselle Madeleine had been of so much importance and assistance to them all.

The countess missed her every moment; and, interested as were her regrets, they were not unmingled with some faint self-reproach when she remembered how lightly she had prized her services. The antiquated femme de chambre had never appeared so clumsy, purblind, and stupid; and the more her stately mistress chided her, the more bewildered Bettina became, the more blunders she committed.

Even a bearing as majestic as that of the noble lady could not neutralize the caricaturing effect of a robe pinned awry; curls with long straight ends standing out porcupine fashion; a cap obstinately bent upon inclining to one side; and a collar with a strong tendency to avoid a central position.

As for Bertha, naturally restless, excitable, and untutored in the art of calming the agitation of her mind by active employment, she could do nothing but wander in and out of her aunt's apartment; stand at the window watching for the postman, beating the devil's tattoo upon the panes; counting the hours, fretting over their insupportable length, and breaking out, at intervals, into piteous lamentations.

It was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to appear at table, and she scarcely tasted food. Glancing up at the faded flowers in the hanging baskets suspended before the windows, and to the withered bouquets in the tall vases that stood on either side,—baskets and vases which Madeleine had ever kept freshly supplied,—Bertha could scarcely restrain her tears, as she murmured mournfully,—

"Ah, I know now what the English poet's Ophelia meant, when she said all the violets withered when her father died! All our flowers faded when Madeleine went!"

Baptiste, who was standing beside her chair, rubbed his eyes, and the sigh, that would not be checked, was audible to her quick ears. She turned to give him a glance which recognized his sympathy, and noticed that there was no gay-looking blossom in his button-hole that day. This was an unmistakable expression of sorrow on the part of Baptiste; for he never assumed the compulsory office of butler without asserting his preference for his legitimate vocation of gardener by a flower in his coat. Bertha had never seen him dispense with the floral decoration before, and she comprehended its absence but too well.

Her nervous disquietude increased every hour, and caused her aunt a species of petty martyrdom resembling the torture of perpetual pin-pricking, the incessant buzzing and stinging of a gnat, the endless creaking of rusty door-hinges,—minor miseries often more unendurable than some great mental or physical suffering. But although the patience of the countess was wearied out, Bertha was too great a favorite to be rebuked. Count Tristan discreetly fled the field, and thus avoided his share of the infliction.

Bertha's letter reached Maurice the day after it was written, and found him in a state of such torpid despondency that any summons to action, even the most painful, was a blessing. He had felt that the only chance of combating his sorrow, and preventing its obtaining full mastery over all his faculties, was to work off the sense of depression by hard study,—to battle against it with the arms of some engrossing occupation; but how could he spur himself up to study without an object?—and he was as far as ever from obtaining his father's consent to fitting himself for the bar, or for any other professional pursuit. No,—there was only one pursuit left open to him, the pursuit of pleasure, and he had not sufficiently recovered from his late shock to start off in chase of that illusive phantom. Bertha's letter roused him out of this miserable, mind-paralyzing apathy. In the very next train which left for Rennes he was on his way back to Brittany.

It was the fourth day after Madeleine's departure. Those days had seemed months to Bertha, the weariest months of her brief, glad life. She was standing at a window that commanded the road,—her favorite post, and the only locality where she ever remained quiet for any length of time,—when the carriage in which Maurice was seated drove up the avenue. With a joyful exclamation she rushed out of the room, darted down the stair, through the hall, into the porch, and had greeted Maurice before any one but the old gardener knew that he had arrived.

"You have heard from her?" were her cousin's first words, gaspingly uttered.

"No, not a line. She will never write; she will never come back! O Maurice! I have lost all hope," sighed Bertha.

"Dear Bertha, we will find her! Let her go where she may, I will find her!—be sure of that. I will not rest until I do."

His grandmother, attracted by Bertha's exultant ejaculation, had followed her, though with more deliberate steps, and now appeared. The cruel words the countess had spoken to Madeleine were ringing in the ears of Maurice, and he saluted his noble relative respectfully, but not with his usual warmth.

"I am glad you have come back to us, Maurice. Bertha is so lonely."

The lips of Maurice parted, but some internal warning checked the bitter words before they formed themselves into sound. He bowed gravely, and, entering the house, remarked to Bertha,—

"You wrote that all the servants had been examined?"

"Yes, all; and they know nothing of Madeleine's flight."

"That is impossible. One of them at least must have some knowledge."

Maurice rang the bell. It was Bettina, who replied. Gustave, she said, was in the stable, and Baptiste in the garden. The answers of the femme de chambre to the young viscount were clear and unhesitating: no one could doubt, for a moment, that she was wholly ignorant of Madeleine's movement; and her tone and manner evinced, as forcibly as any language could have done, how deeply she mourned over her absence. Elise was next summoned, and her replies were but a repetition of Bettina's.

"I will not send for Gustave and Baptiste," he observed, dismissing the two female domestics,—"I will walk out and see them."

"And I will go with you," said Bertha.

The countess was too well pleased to see the cousins together to object.

Gustave was grooming a horse as they passed by the stable. He paused in his work to welcome the viscount, and added, in the same breath,—

"Monsieur will find it very dull at the chateau, now. It does not seem like the same place since Mademoiselle Madeleine left!"

"Have you no idea how she went, Gustave? Some of you surely must know!"

"I know nothing, monsieur. When they told me that Mademoiselle Madeleine was gone, it was as though a thunder-bolt had struck me. I have never felt good for anything since!"

There was too much sincerity, too much feeling in his tone for Maurice to doubt him, or deem further questioning necessary. He walked sadly away, accompanied by Bertha.

Baptiste was busied near the little chalet; he seemed to hover about it constantly of late. He was aware of the return of his young master,—he had bowed to him as he was descending from the carriage. When Bertha and her cousin approached the venerable domestic, his trepidation was too obvious to escape their notice. He was pruning the luxuriant growth of some of the vines Madeleine had planted, and the hand which held his knife shook and committed unintentional havoc among the blossoming branches.

"Baptiste, come in; I have something to talk to you about," said Maurice, entering the chalet with Bertha.

How painfully that pleasant little retreat reminded him of Madeleine! For a moment he was overpowered, and dropped into a chair, covering his eyes with his hands; perhaps because he could not bear the sight of objects which called up such agonizing recollections; perhaps because his eyes were dim with too womanish a moisture.

"Dear Maurice," said Bertha, bending over him compassionately, "if Madeleine only knew how wretched she has made us both, surely she would not forsake us so cruelly."

Maurice, by a gesture, prayed her to sit down. Baptiste stood in the doorway; his attitude betokened a reluctance to enter, and a desire to be quickly dismissed. After a long interval, the viscount, slowly raising his head, was again struck by the perturbed mien of the guileless old man, whose native simplicity, warmth, and ingenuousness would have melted any mask he attempted to assume. Maurice had almost abandoned all expectation that he would receive any information from the domestics; but he now experienced a sudden renewal of hope.

"Baptiste," he said, scrutinizing the ancient gardener closely, "do you not know where Mademoiselle Madeleine is?"

"No, monsieur."

The reply was uttered in a tone of genuine sadness.

"You cannot even guess?"

"No, monsieur."

"Do you know how she left here?"

"No, monsieur."

"Baptiste, you are not speaking falsely?—you are not trifling with me? If you are, you can hardly know how cruelly you are adding to my sorrow."

"I have spoken the exact truth, monsieur."

"I am sure he has, Maurice," interrupted Bertha. "I never knew Baptiste to utter even a white lie: he has as great a horror of falsehood as Madeleine herself."

Baptiste looked at her gratefully.

"Then you know nothing at all," ejaculated Maurice, in a tone of discouragement. "You did not help Mademoiselle Madeleine in any way? She must have had some assistance; but from you she had none? You did not even know that she intended to leave us?"

Baptiste hesitated; his mouth twitched,—his eyes were fixed upon the ground.

"Why do you not answer, Baptiste?" asked Bertha. "You did not know that Mademoiselle Madeleine was going,—did you?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

The answer was spoken almost in a whisper.

"You knew it? And why, why have you not told us this before?" she almost shrieked out.

"No one asked me that question, mademoiselle; and Mademoiselle Madeleine requested me not to give any information concerning her which I could possibly, and without uttering a falsehood, avoid."

Maurice sprang up and laid his hand upon the old man's shoulder.

"Speak now then! You cannot avoid telling us all you know! You were aware that she was going; you assisted her flight. How did you aid her? What did you do? What do you know?"

"Very little, monsieur. I did very little and know very little. The evening before Mademoiselle Madeleine left, she came to me in the garden; she asked me if I would do her a favor. I would have done her a thousand. Did I not owe her enough? Was it not she who watched beside my bed when I had that terrible rheumatic fever two years ago? Did she not pour out my medicine with her own white hands? Did she not talk to me when I was racked with pain, until I thought the room was full of heavenly music, and I forgot I was suffering? Did she not keep me from cursing God when the pangs were so sharp that I felt I was tortured beyond my strength? Did she not tell me why all anguish of soul or body should be borne patiently? Was there, oh, was there anything I would not have done for Mademoiselle Madeleine? When she left the chateau, was her loss greater to any one than it was to me? And she would not have gone if she could have staid any longer. I was sure of that. When she said she must go, I knew she must, and I never even dared to pray her to remain."

It was seldom that Baptiste spoke so much, for he was taciturn by nature; but the emotion, forcibly suppressed for so many days, once breaking bondage, burst forth into a torrent of words.

"You did well, Baptiste,—good, faithful old man! Mademoiselle Madeleine needed a friend; and I thank Heaven she had one like you. Do not think we blame you; only tell us all you know. She came to you the evening before she left: what favor did she ask?"

"Mademoiselle Madeleine only asked, monsieur, that I would come to her room when the house was all quiet, that night, and carry down her trunk and place it in the chalet. I could not help saying, 'Oh, Mademoiselle Madeleine, are you going to leave us?' She answered, 'I cannot stay, Baptiste. I am compelled to go. You are the only person here who is aware of my intention. When I am gone do not give any information concerning me that you can possibly, and without uttering a falsehood, avoid. It will be better that no one should know I had your aid.' Those were her exact words, monsieur."

"Go on,—go on!" urged Maurice, as the narrator paused.

"When the house was all quiet, I put off my shoes and stole softly to Mademoiselle Madeleine's room. She opened the door, and, without speaking, pointed to the little trunk. Old and weak as I am, I had no trouble in carrying it. It was light enough. It could not have held much."

"Did she not bid you adieu, then?" asked Bertha.

"Just as I was stooping to lift the trunk, Mademoiselle Madeleine stretched out her hand and took mine. I felt her warm, soft touch the whole day after. She did not say adieu, but she looked it. She looked as though she were blessing me and thanking me. I never saw a face that said so much,—so much that went to my very soul and comforted me! When she let go my hand, I took up the trunk and carried it out. She closed the door behind me without a sound, and I brought the trunk here that night and left it. That is all I know, monsieur."

"But how was the trunk conveyed hence?"

"I do not know, monsieur."

"Did you see Mademoiselle Madeleine the next morning?" inquired Bertha.

"No, mademoiselle. I could not help going to the chalet the first thing when I came out to work. I pushed the door open and looked in; the trunk was not there, and I knew that Mademoiselle Madeleine was gone too!"

"But did not Mademoiselle Madeleine drop some hint, even the faintest, of her plans?" asked Maurice, earnestly.

"I have told monsieur every word Mademoiselle Madeleine spoke to me on the subject."

"Some one must have aided her further! Who could it be? Who could it possibly be?" mused Maurice.

Baptiste was certain he knew who alone it could be; and he was pondering within himself whether he had the right to mention the note Madeleine had ordered him to deliver to M. de Bois. Her request had been that he would give no information he could honestly avoid; if it could be avoided, it was plain, then, that the intelligence ought not to be communicated.

"Has monsieur done with me?" he asked, as Maurice stood reflecting in silence.

"Yes, if you have nothing further to tell me."

"Nothing further, monsieur." Saying these words, Baptiste withdrew.

"After Madeleine was missed," said Bertha, when the old gardener was gone, "I was the first person who came to the chalet. I found a handkerchief lying just by this table. It was marked G. de Bois."

"Gaston de Bois! Then it is clear he was Madeleine's confidant. He promoted her flight!"

"So I thought, at first," rejoined Bertha; "but it seems this is not so. Your father took him the handkerchief, and he could not tell when or where he had lost it. He was amazed to hear that Madeleine had left us, and disclaimed all knowledge concerning her."

"Who, then, could it have been? But I will see M. de Bois myself."

"First let me tell you"—began Bertha, and faltered.

"Why do you hesitate? For Heaven's sake, dear Bertha, tell me everything which can throw the faintest glimmer of light upon the path Madeleine has taken."

"I do not know how to say what I was thinking; perhaps I ought not to allude to it at all; yet it seems as if it must be true. Do you not remember that Madeleine confessed she had bestowed her affections upon some one? Since they were not given to you, as I once believed, I cannot help imagining that perhaps she might—might have meant"—

"Gaston de Bois?"

"Yes."

Maurice did not answer, and Bertha could say no more. There was a painful struggle going on in her mind, though less torturing than that which convulsed the spirit of her cousin.

When he had somewhat recovered himself, he said,—

"At all events I will see M. de Bois. If there is nothing to be learned from him, if he really knows nothing concerning Madeleine's departure, I must seek information at Rennes. There is no time to lose. I will call upon M. de Bois at once."

The cousins parted at the door of the chalet. Bertha turned toward the chateau, pausing on her way to talk with Baptiste; Maurice went in the direction of his neighbor's residence.

Count Tristan's visit had taken M. de Bois aback, chiefly because he was confounded by a new proof of his own awkwardness (stupidity, he plainly termed it) in leaving his handkerchief behind him, as a witness of his presence at the chalet. But there was no such confusing testimony to destroy his composure when he received Maurice. Besides, he had ample time to collect himself; for he was walking in the park when his valet announced that the young viscount was awaiting him in the library. He had looked forward to the return of Maurice to Brittany as soon as the latter heard of Madeleine's mysterious disappearance. M. de Bois knew that it would be more difficult to prevent her being traced by her cousin than by any other person, and that it was by him Madeleine herself most feared to be discovered. Gaston was therefore fully on his guard against betraying her confidence.

Maurice, on his part, was keenly sensible of the difficulty of his undertaking. He could not openly inquire of M. de Bois whether Madeleine had apprised him of her intentions. The very question would have a tendency to compromise his cousin, by suggesting that she was capable of holding clandestine communication with a young gentleman. Then, too, if M. de Bois was really the object of her attachment, he might not be aware of the preference with which she honored him; and it would be the height of indelicacy for Maurice to allow him to suspect a circumstance which her modesty would scrupulously conceal. He was sitting in the library pondering over the embarrassments of his position, when his host entered. The gentlemen greeted each other with wonted cordiality.

"Did you return from Paris to-day?" asked M. de Bois. "Have you just come?"

"About an hour ago. I came to you at once to"—

M. de Bois interrupted him. It was the policy of the former to lead the conversation, that he might avoid direct questions.

"Had you heard that Mademoiselle de Gramont had left the chateau?"

"Yes; my cousin Bertha wrote to me, and"—

Again M. de Bois seized upon the thread of conversation.

"Have you no news from Mademoiselle Madeleine?—no letter?"

"None," sighed Maurice, convinced that, as M. de Bois plunged into the subject in this straightforward, calm manner, he could not possibly be in her confidence.

The host went on.

"Has not Count Tristan been able to obtain any trace of her?"

"Thus far, none at all! What could have become of her! Where could she have gone!" exclaimed Maurice; but not in a tone of interrogation, for he now felt assured that M. de Bois could not answer.

"One thing is certain; what Mademoiselle Mad—ad—adeleine has done must have been prompted by a noble motive. She could not cause you all this sorrow unless she imagined herself compelled to take the step which we must all lament."

"You are right, you only do her justice!" rejoined Maurice.

"What course do you propose to ado—op—opt?" inquired M. de Bois, with a perfectly natural air of friendly interest.

"I hardly know what to do. I should be thankful for any advice. I shall first visit the Prefecture at Rennes, to see if she obtained a passport. She could not surely run the risk of attempting to travel without one. If the passport be for Great Britain, I may go to Scotland. Possibly she may have changed her mind, and accepted Lady Vivian's offer,—do you not think so?"

"It does not appear to me likely. She definitely decli—i—ined."

"Did she tell you so? Did she speak to you on the subject?" asked Maurice, hastily.

For the first time during the interview, M. de Bois betrayed a slight disquietude, but he quickly collected himself and answered,—

"I heard Lady Vivian speak to Mademoiselle Bertha of the offer she had made her cousin, and after that, Mademoiselle Mad—ad—adeleine told me she had declined the prop—op—oposition. But, if you imagine she has changed her mind, would not a letter to Lady Vivian answer every pur—ur—urpose?"

"No; if she should be there, I must see her, and use arguments which would have no force upon paper. She must be there! Where else could she be? I will start for Scotland to-night. Now I must bid you adieu."

"If you are going back to the chateau, I will accompany you. I must make my adieux to the ladies. I leave for Paris to-morrow."

"Indeed! Do you make a long stay?"

"Prob—ob—obably. The Marquis de Fleury had promised me a secretaryship, if he were sent as ambassador to America. It is uncertain when he may get the appointment, but he has offered me the post of confidential sec—ec—ecretary at once."

"And you have accepted?"

"Gladly."

"Ah, M. de Bois, how I envy you! You will have an object in life, while I, who feel as though a pent-up volcano were roaring within me, am condemned to let my struggling energies smoulder beneath the ashes of my father's autocratic will! You have heard of his opposition to my studying for the bar? What is to become of me if I am deprived of every stimulating incentive to action?—especially now—now that"—he checked himself suddenly. He was not aware that M. de Bois had been informed by Bertha of Madeleine's rejection, and Maurice could not dwell upon his own disappointment to one who might be a rival.

"Count Tristan may gradually be brought to contemplate your wishes with more favor."

"Hardly; but come—if you will accompany me, let us go."

Bertha, who had been waiting impatiently for the return of Maurice, did not fly to meet him when she saw M. de Bois walking by his side, as they approached the chateau. The countess was in the drawing-room when the gentlemen entered, and her majestic presence stemmed the stream of inquiries that was ready to gush from Bertha's lips.

M. de Bois, who during his interview with Maurice had been so self-possessed that the impediment in his speech was scarcely observable, was seized anew and cast into chains by his invisible enemy. The captive struggled in vain; the avenues of speech were barricaded; all his limbs were shackled; his movements became uncertain and spasmodic, menacing tables, chairs, vases, which, had they been gifted with consciousness, must have trembled at his approach; his nervous fingers thrust themselves into his hair, and threw it into ludicrous disorder; his countenance was suffused with scarlet; he stammered out something about bidding adieu, which the ladies were evidently at a loss to comprehend, until Maurice explained that M. de Bois expected to start on the morrow for Paris, where he purposed to take up his residence.

"We shall regret losing so valued a neighbor!" observed the countess, condescendingly.

Bertha made no remark, though she looked as though she wished to speak, and could not summon resolution. She took an opportunity, while the countess was conversing with their guest, to whisper to her cousin,—

"You asked M. de Bois, and he could give you no information concerning Madeleine?"

"None at all," replied Maurice in a low tone. Then, turning to the countess, he said aloud, "I also must bid you adieu, my grandmother; I am going immediately to Rennes; if I obtain the information there, which I think probable, I shall start at once for Scotland and seek Lady Vivian."

"You have not consulted your father, Maurice," the countess answered, with an emphasis which was intended to remind him that he was not a free agent.

"I must beg you to make my apologies to him."

Maurice, though he treated his grandmother with deference which left her no room for complaint, could not force himself to assume his wonted air of affection; his love for her had waned from the hour he listened to the unjust accusation, the reproaches, the contumely she had heaped upon the innocent and unfortunate orphan placed at her mercy. The softening veil had fallen from her character, and disclosed its harsh, proud selfishness and policy. He now knew that she had offered her destitute relative shelter, not from any genuine, womanly feeling of tenderness and compassion, but simply because she deemed it humiliating to allow one who bore her name to be placed in a doubtful and friendless position. All Madeleine's gentleness, cheerfulness, diligence to please, had failed to melt her aunt's impenetrable heart and make it expand to yield her a sacred place; the countess had misinterpreted her highest virtues,—grossly insulted her by attributing shameful motives to her most disinterested conduct, and destroyed all the merit of her own benefactions by reminding the recipient of her indebtedness. Maurice felt that, truly to venerate a person, he must be moved by esteem for noble qualities possessed. The recent revelation of his grandmother's actual attributes estranged and revolted him, until it became difficult to treat her with even the outward semblance of reverence.

When the viscount bade farewell, M. de Bois also took his leave.

"You will write to me as soon as you reach Edinburgh?" pleaded Bertha to her cousin.

"I will certainly write," answered Maurice; "meantime comfort yourself with the assurance that I will not relinquish my search until Madeleine is restored to us."

And Bertha did solace herself with that pledge, for hope was a dominant characteristic of her buoyant temperament.

The monotonous round of blank, weary days that ensued was happily broken, before the week closed, by the promised letter from Maurice. Bertha, whose only exciting occupation consisted in watching for the arrival and distribution of letters, was in possession of the precious missive before her aunt and Count Tristan were aware of its arrival. She tore it open, and, glancing through the contents, uttered a cry of joy that rang through the chateau, and reached the ears even of the countess and her son in the library. The next moment Bertha burst into the apartment, laughing and crying, waving the letter triumphantly over her head, and exclaiming, in a voice now stifled with sobs, now broken by hysterical mirth,—

"She is found! she is found! Maurice has traced her! Oh, my dear, dear Madeleine, I shall see her again!"

Her blinding tears, or her overwhelming transport, prevented her noticing the totally different effect produced upon her two relatives by this rapturously uttered communication. The face of the countess expressed a haughty satisfaction that her noble family had been spared some impending disgrace; but Count Tristan's black brows contracted; his malignant eyes flashed fiercely; he ground his teeth with suppressed rage as he snatched the letter out of Bertha's hand. She flung her arms about her aunt, and laid her head lovingly upon her unsympathetic bosom, as though she must caress some one in the exuberant outburst of her joy! Meanwhile the count perused the letter.

"My son, let me hear what Maurice says."

Count Tristan read,—

"I hasten to send you good news, my dearest Bertha. At Rennes I visited the Prefecture to examine the list of passports, knowing that Madeleine must have obtained one to travel unmolested. I found that her passport had been taken out for England. This confirmed my impression that she had joined Lady Vivian in Scotland. The passport which, as you are aware, requires two responsible witnesses, was signed by Messrs. Picard and Bossuet. I sought those gentlemen to extract further information from them, but, singularly enough, both had left Brittany the day after Madeleine. I cannot conceive how she obtained their signatures, for surely she had no acquaintance with them. Following this clew I started immediately for Edinburgh, and arrived here on Wednesday evening. I had no difficulty in finding the residence of Lady Vivian. She is in London, but is expected home shortly. I had an interview with her venerable housekeeper, who answered all my inquiries with great patience. From her I learned that Lady Vivian was accompanied by a young French lady whom she had recently engaged as a dame de compagnie. The housekeeper could not remember her foreign name, but when I mentioned Mademoiselle de Gramont, she said it sounded like that. She had been informed that the young lady was very accomplished and belonged to an excellent family; also that Lady Vivian had first heard of her during her late visit in Brittany. In answer to the question whether this young lady arrived with Lady Vivian in London, the housekeeper replied that she did not,—she had joined her ladyship only a few days ago. Thus I feel certain that Madeleine is found. I leave for London at once, and, not many days after you receive this letter, you may expect to see us both; for I will never cease my supplications until Madeleine yields and returns with me to the Chateau de Gramont. I know what joy this intelligence will give you, my dear little cousin, and my joy is increased by the reflection of yours."

The count broke off without reading the concluding lines of the letter, and remarked,—

"Maurice came to a hasty conclusion. If Lady Vivian's dame de compagnie should prove to be Madeleine, as it may be, there is no certainty that she will yield to his persuasions and return to us. Madeleine is very obstinate and self-willed. You must pardon me, Bertha, for throwing a damper upon your hopes, but I would spare you too severe disappointment."

"I shall not be disappointed. I feel sure Maurice has discovered Madeleine: that is all I ask for the present. You may be right about her refusing to return here,—I dare say you are; but that will not make me miserable, which I should be if we could not find her at all. I mean to ask my uncle's permission to allow Madeleine to reside with us. I do not see how he can refuse, and he is very indulgent; so that, whether Madeleine consents to return here, or not, we shall not be wholly parted."

Bertha did not suspect into what a fury her words were lashing the count, nor did she divine the machinations already at work within his perfidious spirit to defeat her kindly purpose.



CHAPTER X.

THE HUMBLE COMPANION.

Rapidly as Maurice travelled from Edinburgh to London, the distance seemed interminable to his impetuous spirit. Multitudes of arguments were driven through his mind in long array, and he was impatient to prove their power in persuading Madeleine to return. Was it possible that she could refuse to see their force? If calm reasoning, if entreaties and prayers failed to move her, he would test the potency of a threat,—she should learn that he had vowed never to return to his paternal home, never to forgive those who had driven her forth by their cruelty, until she had proclaimed their pardon by again taking up her abode at the Chateau de Gramont. Madeleine, who shrank from all strife, who moved in an atmosphere of harmony, which seemed to envelop her wherever she went, would not lift her hand to sever the sacred bond of union between father and son, grandmother and grandchild. Whatever anguish it might cost her to yield, however great her sacrifice, she would endure the one and accept the other rather than become the instrument that, with fatal blow, struck such an unholy severance.

Maurice vividly pictured to himself his approaching interview under a tantalizing variety of circumstances. Now he imagined that he saw Madeleine only in the presence of her new friends,—that she was cold and reserved, and allowed him no opportunity of uttering a word that could reach her ear alone. Now he fancied she had granted him a private interview,—that she was sitting by his side, but resolute, unconvinced, unmoved, while he besieged her with arguments, appealed to her with all the passionate fervor that convulsed his soul, portrayed in darkest colors the fearful results of her inflexibility. Now he painted her overwhelmed by his reasoning, melted by his application, terrified by that terrible menace, and finally consenting to his petition.

It was past ten o'clock when the train reached the London terminus. The loquacious Edinburgh housekeeper had informed him that Lady Vivian was the guest of Lady Augusta Langdon. The lateness of the hour forbade a visit that night; yet, after having engaged a room at Morley's hotel, he could not help strolling in the direction of Grosvenor Square, and was soon searching for the number he had written upon his tablets. It was easily found, and Maurice stood before one of the most sumptuous of the magnificent edifices which adorn that aristocratic locality. The windows were thrown open, and the richly embroidered lace curtains drawn back, for the evening was more than usually sultry. He crossed to the opposite side of the street, and took up a position which enabled him to distinguish forms moving about the spacious drawing-room. With what straining eyes and breathless anxiety he scrutinized them! Now he saw a lady of noble carriage walking to and fro,—that might be Lady Langdon; by and by he caught sight of a gaunt, ungainly figure, and recognized Lady Vivian. Who would have believed that a glimpse of that angular, unsymmetrical form could ever have called such radiance to the eyes of a young and handsome man?—could have kindled such a glow upon his cheeks?—could have quickened his pulses with so joyful a motion?

Not long after, a group of young ladies clustered together, just beneath the chandelier, to examine some object which one of them held in her hand; and now the heart of Maurice throbbed so tumultuously that its beats became audible. He had singled out one maiden whose height and graceful proportions distinguished her from her companions,—Madeleine! Her face was turned from him; but surely that statuesque outline, that slender, flexible throat, that exquisitely-shaped head, about which he thought he traced the coronal braid that usually crowned her noble brows,—these could belong to Madeleine only! Could he fail to recognize them anywhere or at any distance? The longer he gazed the more certain he became that it was she herself,—that she was found at last! How eagerly he watched to see her turn, and render "assurance doubly sure" by revealing her lovely countenance! She remained some time in the same position; then the little group dispersed, and she glided away, but not in the direction of the window. The eyes of Maurice never moved from the place where she had disappeared, though he was conscious of attracting the attention of passers-by, and now and then a whispered comment of derision fell upon his ear.

Several equipages drove up to Lady Langdon's door, and her guests gradually departed. Soon after the drawing-room was deserted, the lights were extinguished, the windows closed. Other lights brightened the casements above. Still Maurice remained riveted to the spot, unreasonably hoping to behold Madeleine for one fleeting moment again. By and by, one window after another grew dark; but not until the last light went out could he force himself to turn away and retrace his steps to the hotel.

"Will the dawn never come?" How often that question rises involuntarily to the lips, through the long night of expectation that precedes a wished-for day! Time—that is, the sense of its duration—is but another word for state,—state of mind. The length or briefness of the hour is so completely governed by the mood of one's spirits that it becomes easy for those who have learned this truth from experience to conceive a thousand years but as a day to the blessed,—a day of torture, an age to the miserable; and to comprehend that time itself can have no existence, and its computation must be replaced by state in the eternal hereafter where we shall live in the spirit only.

"Will the dawn never come?" Maurice repeated hundreds of times as that night dragged its leaden, lagging feet with the slow movement of centuries.

The dim, late London morning came at last to bring with it a new perplexity. It would be a breach of etiquette to call upon Lady Vivian at too early an hour; yet, how was Maurice to curb the headlong rush of his impatience until the prescribed period for ceremonious visits arrived? A stranger in London, it might be supposed that the numberless noteworthy objects by which he was environed might have diverted his attention; but one engrossing thought so completely filled his whole being that it rendered him blind to all the marvels of art or beauties of nature. Yet to remain imprisoned at the hotel was out of the question. He concluded to spend his morning in Hyde Park, chiefly because it was not far distant from Grosvenor Square. But the attractions of the noble park, through which he listlessly sauntered, and of the adjacent Kensington Gardens, to which he unconsciously extended his rambles, were entirely lost upon the abstracted wanderer. Grand old trees, romantic walks, delicious flowers, had no existence for him; the whole world was one great, hueless, formless void, in which he beheld nothing but the spectral image mirrored in his own soul.

He had decided not to pay his visit until after one o'clock; but, before the sun reached its meridian, he absolved himself from the propriety of waiting, and, with rapid steps, once more took his way to Lady Langdon's residence.

The door was opened by a solemn footman.

"Is Lady Vivian at home?"

"Not at home, sir."

"Is Mademoiselle de Gramont—I mean the young lady who accompanied Lady Vivian—at home?"

"Not at home, sir."

"Can you tell me when I shall be likely to find them?"

"Her ladyship gave no orders on the subject, sir."

Maurice stood perplexed, and hesitating.

"Your card, if you please, sir," suggested the demure domestic.

"No, I will call again by and by."

Maurice walked directly back to the park. His suspense was intolerable; he could only endure it for another hour, and then returned to Lady Langdon's.

The same staid attendant reappeared at his knock.

"Has Lady Vivian returned?"

"Not returned, sir."

"Can you tell me when I may depend upon seeing her? I call upon a matter of great importance."

The stately footman looked as though he were pondering upon the propriety of making any satisfactory answer to this question.

Maurice repeated the inquiry with such an anxious intonation, such a perturbed air, that the stolid domestic, accustomed to behold only the conventional composure which allows no pulse to betray its beating, was moved out of the even tenor of his way by astonishment.

"Lady Vivian went with my lady and a large party to Hampton Court. Their ladyships will probably spend the day."

"The day!" exclaimed Maurice, in an accent of consternation.

The footman evidently thought that he had proffered more than sufficient information, and made a dignified attempt to put a close to the interview, by extending his hand, and saying, "I will see that your card reaches her ladyship."

"No, there is no need of my leaving a card: I shall return. At what hour does Lady Langdon dine?"

"At seven, sir."

"I will take the liberty of calling after dinner."

The footman looked as though he decidedly thought it was a liberty, and Maurice turned slowly away from the closing door.

What could be done to shorten the endless hours that stretched their weary length between that period and evening? Hampton Court! What was to prevent his going to Hampton Court? He might meet Lady Vivian and Madeleine, there; nothing was more likely, since they were to spend the day. His spirits revived as he signalled an empty cab, and requested to be driven as rapidly as possible to Hampton Court. He took no note of the length of time occupied in reaching his destination: it was a relief to be in motion, and to know that every moment brought him nearer a locality where the lost one might be found.

Was he more likely to encounter her in the palace or in the grounds? he asked, internally, as he sprang out of the cab. He would try the palace first. He strode through its magnificent apartments, one after another, without noticing their gorgeous grandeur, without glancing at their superb decorations, without wasting a look upon the wondrous products of brush, or chisel, or loom. His disconcerted guide paused before each world-renowned master-piece in vain; Maurice hurried on, and silenced him by saying that he was in search of a friend.

Neither Lady Vivian nor Madeleine was to be seen. They were doubtless rambling in the beautiful pleasure-grounds.

Maurice took his way through noble avenues of trees,—through groves, gardens, conservatories,—without letting his eyes dwell upon any object but the human beings he passed. Still no Madeleine. He made the tour of the palace the second time, and then traversed the grounds once more. The result was the same. Lady Vivian must have returned home.

It was growing late. He reentered his cab, and ordered the driver to take him to Morley's Hotel; paid the exorbitant price which the man, knowing he had to deal with a stranger, demanded, and took refuge in his chamber, without remembering that he had not broken his fast since morning, until a waiter knocked at the door to know if he would dine.

Yes; dinner might assist in whiling away the time. But it helped less effectually than he had anticipated; for to dine without appetite is a tedious undertaking. His own busy thoughts supplied him with more than sufficient food, and precluded all sense of hunger.

Maurice had but a slight acquaintance with Lady Vivian. An evening visit certainly was not selon les regles; but all ceremony must give way before the urgency of his mission. He compelled himself to wait until nine o'clock before he again appeared in Grosvenor Square.

That imperturbable footman again! The very presence of the automaton chilled and dispirited the impatient visitor.

"Is Lady Vivian at home?"

"Her ladyship is indisposed and has retired, sir."

"Can I see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"

"Whom, sir?"

"The young lady who accompanies Lady Vivian."

"She is with Lady Vivian; but I will take your card, sir."

Maurice had no alternative and handed his card.

"Say that I earnestly beg to see her for a few moments."

Did he imagine that human machine could deliver a message which conveyed the suggestion that any one very earnestly desired anything in creation?

The viscount was ushered into the drawing-room. A long interval, or one Maurice thought long, elapsed before the messenger returned.

"The ladies will be happy to see you, sir, to-morrow, at two o'clock."

Another night and another morning to struggle through, haunted by the murderous desire of killing that which could never be restored,—time! But here, at least, was a definite appointment,—a fixed period when he should certainly see Madeleine; this was a great step gained.

He had heard some gentlemen, at the hotel, loud in praise of Charles Kean's impersonation of "King John," which was to be represented that evening, and the recollection of their encomiums decided him to visit the Princess' Theatre.

Our powers of appreciation are limited, governed, crippled or expanded, by the mood of the moment, and a performance, which might have roused him to a high pitch of enthusiasm at another time, now seemed dull and tedious. But duller and more tedious still was the night that followed. And when morning came, how was he to consume the hours between breakfast and two o'clock? He must go somewhere; must keep on his feet; must give his restless limbs free action. He bethought him of St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey. These majestic edifices were associated with the memory of those who had done with time, and might assist him in the time-annihilating process which was then his chief object. He was mistaken; he could not interest himself in monuments to the dead; he was too closely pursued by a living phantom. He walked through the aisles, the chapels, the crypt, with as much indifference as he had wandered through Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens, and Hampton Court.

The appointed hour drew near, at last, and with rising excitement he ordered the coachmen to drive to Grosvenor Square, number ——. It was just two,—hardly two, perhaps. The inevitable footman received his card, with the faintest soupcon of a grin, and conducted him to the drawing-room.

Lady Vivian entered a few moments afterwards. She was delighted to see him,—very flattered at his visit. When did he come to London? Would he make a long stay? How did he leave their friends in Brittany?

Maurice replied as composedly as possible to her inquiries, and then asked, "May I be allowed to see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"

"Mademoiselle de Gramont!" exclaimed Lady Vivian, raising her bushy eyebrows.

"Yes, she is with you. She is engaged as your humble companion,—is she not?"

"No, I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance."

If a bullet had passed through Maurice, he could not have sprung from his seat with a wilder bound, and hardly have dropped back more motionless.

Lady Vivian looked at him in amazement,—asked what had happened. Was he ill? Would he take anything? He had been very much fatigued, perhaps. He was so very pale! She felt quite alarmed; really it was distressing.

Making a desperate effort to recover from the stunning blow, he faltered out, "I heard that you made Mademoiselle de Gramont a proposition to"—

"To become my humble companion? Yes, I did so at the request of Count Damoreau. But she definitely declined, and I felt much relieved, for she was entirely too handsome for that position. Shortly afterward I heard of a young person who suited me much better. I thought it was a mistake of the footman's, last night, when he said you desired to see the young lady who accompanied me. It was somewhat singular to have one's humble companion included in a visit to one's self! Now I comprehend that you thought she was your cousin. I hope you are feeling better; your color is coming again."

Maurice was not listening. He had lost Madeleine anew. The agony of a second bereavement, the mystery that enveloped her fate, the dreadful uncertainty of tracing her, pressed upon him and rent his soul with fiercer throes than before. Muttering some hurried apology, he rose, staggered toward the door, and, to the amazement of the stoical footman, who was greatly scandalized thereby, the pertinacious stranger fairly reeled past him into the street.



CHAPTER XI.

PURSUIT.

Maurice, when he took his abrupt leave of Lady Vivian, did not return to the hotel. He felt as though he could not breathe, could not exist, shut within four walls, with the oppressive weight of his new disappointment crushing and stifling his spirit. He traversed the streets with a rapid pace, not knowing nor caring whither he went, if he only kept in motion. His own torturing thoughts pursued him like haunting fiends, driving him mercilessly hither and thither, and he sped onward and onward, as though by increased celerity he could fly from his intangible persecutors.

Now sprang up the tantalizing suggestion, that, as Lady Vivian had never seen Madeleine, the latter had presented herself under a feigned name, for the sake of concealing her rank, and baffling the friends who sought to discover her abode. Was not that very possible, very natural? He recalled the tall, finely-moulded form, of which he had caught a glimpse in Lady Langdon's salon, and for awhile he cherished this chimera; then its place was usurped by one more painful: Madeleine was perhaps travelling alone, subjected by her very beauty to the curious scrutiny, the heartless insults of brutal men; and, perchance, through her ignorance of the world, trapped into some snare from which she could never be extricated unharmed. Then his mind was filled with the horrible idea that, in her friendliness and despair, finding no place of refuge on earth, she had flung away her burdensome life with violent hands. Nothing was more improbable than that a being endowed with her self-controlled, serene, sorrow-accepting temperament, should be driven to such an act of unholy madness. Yet Maurice allowed the frightful fantasy to work within his brain until it clothed itself with a shape like reality, and drove him to the verge of distraction.

Where could she have gone? Where? oh, where?

Hundreds of times he asked himself that perplexing question! All the pursuing demons seemed to shout it in his ears, and defy him to answer. If she had escaped the perils he most dreaded, where had she hidden herself? Perhaps she had only taken out a passport for England, with a view of throwing those who sought to track her steps, off the right scent. If she had gone to England, her passport must have been vised as she passed through Paris. If it had not been presented at the bureau des passeports, she must have remained in Paris. If she had conceived any plans by which she thought to earn a livelihood, where could they so well be carried into execution? In that great city she might reasonably hope to be lost in the crowd, and draw breath untraced and unknown. If she had left the metropolis, the fact could easily be ascertained by examining the list of passports. Maurice walked on and on, until gradually the clamorous city grew silent, and the streets were deserted. Besides the vigilant police, only a few, late revellers, with uncertain steps, and faces hardly more haggard than his own, passed him, from time to time. Still he walked, carrying his hat in his hand, that the night-breeze might cool his fevered brow.

There was a stir of wheels again, a waking-up movement around him; shop-windows lifting their shutter-lids, and opening their closed eyes; men and women bustling forward, with busy, refreshed morning faces. Another day had dawned and brought its weight of anguish for endurance. Maurice had paced the streets all night. The light that struck sharply upon his bloodshot eyes first made him aware of the new morning. The season for action then had arrived; the night had flown as a hideous dream. He did not know into what part of London he had wandered, but hailed a cab, sprang in, and gave the order to be driven to Morley's. The distance seemed insupportably long. He was now tormented by the fear that he should not reach his destination in time to take the first train for Dover. When he alighted at the hotel, he learned that in less than an hour the train would start. He dashed off a few, incoherent, sorrowful lines to Bertha, hastily crammed his clothes into his trunk, paid his bill, drove to the station, and secured a seat one moment before the railway carriages were in motion.

After he had crossed the channel, and entered a railway coach at Calais, utter exhaustion succeeded to his state of turbulent wretchedness. Nature asserted her soothing rights, and poured over his bruised spirit the balm of sleep. With reviving strength came renewed hope, and when he awoke at the terminus, in Paris, he was inspired with the conviction that he should find Madeleine in that vast metropolis,—a conviction as firm as the belief he had entertained that he would behold her in Scotland, and afterwards that he would discover her in London. He hastened to the bureau des passeports, and examined the list. No passport had been vised to which her name was attached. It was then certain that she was still in Paris. But what method could he devise for a systematic search? He thought of the argus-eyed, keen-scented police, who, with the faintest clew, can trace out any footprint once made within the precincts of the far-spreading barriers; but could he drag his cousin's name before those public authorities? Could he describe her person to them, and enter into details which would enable them to hunt her down like a criminal? Delicacy, manly feeling, forbade. He must seek her himself, unaided, unguided; and a superstitious faith grew strong within him that, through his unremitting search, never foregone, never relaxed, he would discover her at last.

His plan was sufficiently vague and wild. He resolved to scour Paris from end to end, scanning every face that passed him, until the light shone upon hers, and kindled up once more his darkened existence.

When he last returned from Brittany, he had engaged one small, plain apartment in the Rue Bonaparte, the Latin quarter of the city,—a favorite locality of students. Here he again took up his abode, or, rather, here he passed his nights; he could scarcely be said to have a dwelling-place by day. From dawn until late in the evening he wandered through the streets, peering into every youthful countenance that flitted by him, quickening his pace if he caught sight of some graceful female form above the ordinary stature, and plunging onward in pursuit, with his heart throbbing madly, and his fevered brain cheating him with phantoms. His search became almost a monomania. His mind, fixed strainingly upon this one, all-engrossing object, lost its balance, and he could no longer reason upon his own course, or see its futility, or devise a better. The invariable disappointment which closed every day's search, by some strange contradiction, only confirmed him in the belief that Madeleine was in Paris, and that he would shortly find her there; that he would meet her by some fortunate chance; would be drawn to her by some mysterious magnetic instinct. Every few days he visited the bureau des passeports, to ascertain whether her passport had been presented to be vised.

To the friends he daily encountered he scarcely spoke, but hurried past them with hasty greeting, and a painfully engrossed look, which caused the sympathetic to turn their heads and gaze after him, wondering at the disordered attire and unsettled demeanor of the once elegant and vivacious young nobleman, who had graced the most courtly circles, and was looked upon as the very "glass of fashion and mould of form."

Maurice had been nearly a month in Paris, passing his days in the manner we have described, when, for the first time, he encountered Gaston de Bois. The former would have hastened on, with only the rapid salutation which had grown habitual to him, but M. de Bois stopped with outstretched hand, and said,—

"Where have you hidden yourself? I have been expecting to see you ever since I came to Paris; but I could not discover where you lod—od—odged."

"My lodgings are in the Rue Bonaparte, numero —," returned Maurice, abruptly; "but I am seldom at home."

"You will allow me to take my chance of finding you?" asked M. de Bois, forcibly struck by his friend's altered appearance. "Or," he added, "you will come to see me instead? I am at the Hotel Meurice at present."

"Thank you," said Maurice, absently, and glancing around him at the passers-by as he spoke. "Good-morning."

M. de Bois would not be shaken off thus unceremoniously. He was too much distressed by the evident mental condition of the viscount. He turned and walked beside him, though conscious that Maurice looked annoyed.

"When we parted, did you go to Scotland, as you pro—o—po—sed?" inquired Gaston.

"Yes; but Lady Vivian was in London. I sought her there. She knew nothing of my cousin. I returned to Paris; for I am sure Madeleine is here."

"Here?" almost gasped M. de Bois, stopping suddenly.

Maurice walked on without even noticing the strange confusion that arrested his companion's steps.

The latter recovered himself and rejoined him, asking, in as unconcerned a tone as he could command, "What has caused you to think so?"

"I am certain of it;—her passport was taken out for England, but it has not been vised in Paris. She must be here still, and I know that I shall find her. I have walked the streets day after day, hoping to meet her, and I tell you I shall—I must!"

M. de Bois, whose equanimity had only been disturbed for a moment, shook his head sorrowfully, saying, "I fear not; it does not seem likely."

"To me it does. Fifty times I have thought I caught sight of her, but she disappeared before I could make my way through some crowd to the spot where she was standing. This will not last forever,—ere long we shall meet face to face."

"I hope so! I heartily hope so! I would give all I possess, though that is little enough, to have it so!"

These words were spoken with such generous warmth, that Maurice was moved. He had not before noticed the change in his Breton neighbor,—a change the precise opposite to the one which had taken place in himself, yet quite as remarkable.

Gaston's address was no longer nervous and flurried; he had gained considerable self-command and repose of manner. The air of uncomfortable diffidence, which formerly characterized his deportment, had disappeared, and given place to a manly and cheerful bearing.

"If he loves Madeleine," thought Maurice, "how can he look so calm while she is—God only knows where, and exposed to what dangers?"

"Have you heard from Mademoiselle Ber—er—ertha?" asked M. de Bois, with some hesitation.

"Yes, several times. My cousin Bertha was broken-hearted at the news I sent her from London; but I trust that soon"—

He did not conclude his sentence: his wan face lighted up; his restless, straining eyes were fastened upon some form that passed in a carriage. Without even bidding M. de Bois good morning, he broke away and pursued the carriage; for some time he kept up with it, then Gaston saw him motion vehemently to a sleepy coachman, who was lazily driving an empty fiacre. The next moment Maurice had opened the door himself and leaped into the vehicle; it followed the carriage the young viscount had kept in view, and soon both were out of sight.

The imagination of Maurice had become so highly inflamed that forms and faces constantly took the outline and lineaments of those ever-present to his mind. And when, after some exhausting pursuits, he approached near enough for the illusive likeness to fade away, or when the shape he was impetuously making towards was lost to sight before it could be neared, he always felt as though he had been upon the eve of that discovery upon which all his energies were concentrated.

After their accidental encounter Gaston de Bois called upon Maurice repeatedly, but never found him at home.

Bertha continued to write sorrowful letters teeming with inquiries. Maurice answered briefly, as though he could not spare time to devote to his pen, but always giving her hope that the very next letter would convey the glad intelligence which she pined to receive. Four months was the limit of her yearly visit to the Chateau de Gramont, and the period of her stay was rapidly drawing to a close. She wrote that in a few days her uncle would arrive and take her back to his residence in Bordeaux. The language in which this communication was made plainly indicated that she would rejoice at the change. She touched upon the probability of seeing Maurice before she left; but he was unmoved by the half-invitation; nothing could induce him to leave Paris while he cherished the belief that Madeleine was within its walls.

Count Tristan wrote and urged him to return home; but the summons was unheeded. He could not have endured, while his mind was in this terrible state of incertitude, to behold again the old chateau, which must conjure up so many harrowing recollections. Then, too, his natural affection for his father and his grandmother was embittered by the remembrance of their persecution of Madeleine. Until she had been found,—until he could hear from her own lips (as he knew he should) that she harbored no animosity towards them,—he could not force himself to forgive their injustice and cruelty. She alone had power to soften his heart and cement anew the broken link.



CHAPTER XII.

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

The marvellous change in the bearing of Gaston de Bois, by which Maurice was struck, had been wrought by a triad of agents. A man who had passed his life in indolent seclusion, who had plunged into a tangled labyrinth of abstruse books, not in search of valuable knowledge, but to lose in its mazes the recollection of valueless hours; who had allowed his days to drag on in aimless monotony; who had fallen into melancholy because he lacked a healthy stimulus to rouse his faculties out of their life-deadening torpidity; who had allowed his nervous diffidence to gain such complete mastery over him that it tied his tongue, and clouded his vision, and confused his brain; who had despised himself because he was keenly conscious that his existence was purposeless and profitless;—this man, subjected to the sudden impetus of an occupation for which his mental acquirements and sedentary habits alike fitted him, found his new life a revelation. He had emerged from the dusty, beaten, grass-withered path his feet had spiritlessly trodden from earliest youth, and entered a field of bloom and verdure where the very stir of the atmosphere exhilarated, where the labor to be performed called dormant capacities into play and tested their strength, where each day's achievement gave the delightful assurance of latent powers within himself hitherto unrecognized,—in a word, where his manhood was developed through the regenerating virtue, the glorious might, the blessed privilege of work!

The second cause which had contributed to bring about the happy metamorphosis in Gaston de Bois sprang out of the hope-inspiring words Madeleine had dropped on that day which closed so darkly on the duke's orphan daughter. Those few, passing, precious words had fallen like fructuous seed and struck deep root in Gaston's spirit; and, as the germs shot upward, every branch was covered with blossoms of hope which perfumed his nights and days. He dared to believe that Bertha did not look upon him with disdain,—that she sympathized with the misfortune which debarred him from free intercourse with society,—that a deeper interest might emanate from this compassionate regard. The possibility of becoming worthy of her no longer appeared a dream so wild and baseless; but he was too modest, too distrustful of himself, to have given that golden dream entertainment had it not been inspired by Madeleine's kindly breath.

The third cause which combined with the two just mentioned to revolutionize his character will unfold itself hereafter.

The more cognizant M. de Bois became that powerful influences were vivifying, strengthening, and bringing order out of confusion in his own mind, the more troubled he felt in pondering over the disordered mental condition of Maurice. During a whole month after their accidental encounter in the street he called repeatedly at the lodgings of the viscount, but never once found him at home. Half discouraged, yet unwilling to abandon the hope of an interview, he persisted in his fruitless visits. One morning, to his unbounded satisfaction, when he inquired of the concierge if M. de Gramont was within, an affirmative answer was returned. Gaston could hardly credit the welcome intelligence, and involuntarily repeated the question.

"Ah, yes, poor young gentleman! he's not likely to be out again soon!" replied his informant, in a pitying tone.

Without waiting for an explanation of the mysterious words, M. de Bois quickly ascended to the fifth story, and, being admitted into the antechamber by a neat-looking domestic, knocked at the door of the apartment which was indicated to him.

The voice of a stranger bade him enter. He turned the doorknob with shaking hand. The room was so small that it could be taken in at a single glance. It was a plain, almost furniture-less apartment. In the narrow bed lay Maurice. His eyes—those great, blue eyes which so strongly resembled Bertha's—were glittering with the wild lights of delirium; fever burned on his cheeks and seemed to scorch his parched lips. The fair, clustering curls were matted and tangled about his brow; his arms were tossing restlessly about. He sprang up into a sitting posture as Gaston appeared at the door, and gazed at him eagerly; then stared around, peering into every corner of the chamber, as though in quest of some one. Those searching glances were followed by a look of blank despair that settled heavily upon his pain-contracted features as he sank back and closed his eyes.