"A rather dangerous costume!" returned Maurice, laughing.

"At all events it would be original; and, as originality is sure to produce an effect, the saucy little parvenue might afford to follow my advice, even though it came from an enemy."

Maurice could not help exclaiming with a comical intonation,—for there was something irresistibly ludicrous in the puny fierceness of the dressed doll,—"An enemy!"

"Oh, there is no concealment about it!" exclaimed Madame de Fleury with the air of a Liliputian belligerent. "It is open warfare; we are at swords' points, and all the world knows our animosity. And Mrs. Gilmer has the impertinence to pretend that our styles are quite similar, and that the same modes become us. She even declares that such has been Mademoiselle Melanie's verdict, and from the judgment of Mademoiselle Melanie nobody dares to appeal."

"This Mademoiselle Melanie is a Parisian, I presume?" asked Maurice, more because it seemed polite to say something, than from any interest in the answer to his question.

"Could she be anything else?" replied Madame de Fleury, with enthusiasm. "Could a being gifted with such wondrous taste have been born out of Paris? She is a protegee of Vignon's; and, when I was exiled, Mademoiselle Melanie came to America with me. She instantly became known. There is a Mr. Hilson here, to whom she probably brought letters, for he has taken the deepest interest in trumpeting her fame. She has created a perfect furor."

"Hilson?" repeated Maurice, musingly. "A gentleman of that name visited Brittany before I left. I wonder if it can be the same person."

"Very likely, for he has been abroad. I have heard him mention Brittany. Well, this Mr. Hilson was so infatuated with—hush! That is a ring!"

While Madame de Fleury listened in breathless expectation, Lurline opened the door and announced, "The dress of madame has arrived!"

"Ah! at last! at last! What happiness! I am saved, when I had almost given up all hope! Monsieur de Gramont, you will excuse me! Au revoir!"

Before Maurice could utter his congratulations upon the advent of the dress, she had glided out of the room.



CHAPTER XXII.

MEETING.

The tangled web Count Tristan had woven for others began to fold its meshes around himself, and to torture him with the dread that he might be caught in his own snare. From the moment Maurice arrived in Washington,—an event the count had not anticipated,—his covert use of the authority entrusted to him was menaced with discovery. To a frank, straightforward character, the very natural alternative would have suggested itself of explaining, and, as far possible, justifying the step just taken; but to a mind so full of guile, so wedded to wily schemes as the count's, a simple, upright course would never have occurred. The fear of exposure threw him into a state of nervous irritability which allowed no rest, and he was compelled to pay the price of deception by plunging deeper into her labyrinths, though every step rendered extrication from the briery mazes more difficult.

On the morrow Maurice accompanied his grandmother, Bertha, and Count Tristan to the residence of the Marchioness de Fleury. Count Tristan's malaise evinced itself by his unusually fretful and preoccupied manner, his querulous tone, and a partial forgetfulness of those polite observances of which he was rarely oblivious. He allowed his mother to stand, looking at him in blind amazement, before he remembered to open the door; was very near passing out of the room before her, and scarcely recollected to hand her into the carriage. His abstraction was partially dissipated by her scornful comment upon the contagious influences of a plebeian country; but to recover himself entirely was out of the question.

On reaching the ambassador's mansion, the visitors were disconcerted by the information that Madame de Fleury "did not receive."

"She will receive us!" answered Maurice, recovering himself. "We are here by appointment." And, passing the surprised domestic, he ushered his grandmother into the drawing-room. Bertha and Count Tristan followed.

The servant, with evident hesitation, took the cards that were handed to him, and retired. The door of the salon chanced to remain open, and rendered audible a whispered conversation going on in the entry.

"I dare not disturb madame at this moment; she would fly into a terrible rage. You know she never allows her toilet to be interrupted!"

These words, spoken in a female voice, reached the ears of the visitors.

"But the gentleman says it is an appointment. What's to be done? What am I to answer?" was the rejoinder in rough male tones.

"You are a blockhead,—you have no management," replied the first voice. "I will arrange the matter without your stupid interference."

Lurline now courtesied herself into the room, and, after bestowing an arch glance of recognition upon the viscount, addressed the countess.

"I am desolee to be obliged to inform madame that Madame de Fleury is at this moment so much absorbed by her toilet that I fear I shall have no opportunity of making known the honor of madame's visit. My mistress has made an engagement to go to the capitol to hear some distinguished orator. It is madame's debut in spring attire this season. Madame's dress, bonnet, and mantle have this moment been sent home. A more delicately fresh toilet de printemps cannot be conceived; it will establish the fact that spring has arrived. But madame has not yet essayed her attire and assured herself of its effect. I trust madame la comtesse will deem this sufficient apology for not being received."

As she concluded, Lurline simpered and courtesied, and seemed confident that she had gracefully acquitted herself of a difficult duty.

"Not receive us when we are here by invitation?" ejaculated the countess, angrily. "Is Madame de Fleury aware that it is the Countess de Gramont and her family who are calling upon her?"

"There must be some mistake," interposed Maurice; then, turning to the femme de chambre, he added, "I beg that you will deliver these cards to the marchioness and bring me an answer."

"How am I to refuse monsieur?" replied Lurline, hesitating, yet softening her unwillingness to comply by a volley of sidelong glances. "Monsieur is not aware that he is placing me in a most delicate position. It is against madame's rules to be disturbed when her toilet is progressing: it requires her concentrated attention,—her whole mind! Still, if monsieur insists, I will run the risk of madame's displeasure. Monsieur must only be kind enough to wait, and allow me to watch for a favorable moment when I can place these cards before madame."

With a low salutation, and a coquettish movement of the head that set all her ribbons fluttering, the femme de chambre made her exit.

"Not receive us? Make us wait?" exclaimed the countess, wrathfully; "truly, Madame de Fleury has profited by her sojourn among savages! This is not to be endured! Let us depart at once!"

"My dear mother," began Count Tristan, soothingly, "it will not do to be offended, or to notice the slight, if there be one; but, I am sure, none is intended. It is absolutely indispensable that I should see the countess, and get her to present this letter to the Marquis de Fleury, and also that I should obtain her promise that she will influence him to secure the vote of Mr. Gobert. Pray, be courteous to the marchioness when she makes her appearance, or all is lost."

"What degradation will you demand of me next? How can you suppose it possible that I can be courteous? I tell you I am furious!"

"But you do not know all that depends upon obtaining these votes. Think of this railroad,—of the vital importance of the direction it takes! Think of the Maryland property, which is almost all that is left to us"—

"Have I not again and again begged you not to meddle with railroads,—not to occupy yourself with business matters which a nobleman is bound to ignore?"

"And by obeying you, as far as I could, and only acting in secret, I have nearly ruined myself," answered the count, with growing excitement.

At this moment the loud ringing of a bell was heard, accompanied by the voice of Lurline, speaking in tones of great tribulation.

"Patrick! Patrick! do you not hear the bell? Come here quickly! What's to be done? Such a calamity! It's dreadful! dreadful!"

Count Tristan started up, and went to the door to question the femme de chambre, fearing that the calamity in question might be of a nature sufficiently serious to prevent the much-desired interview.

Lurline was standing in the hall; she wore her hat and shawl, and was giving directions to a domestic in the most rapid and flurried manner.

"Will Madame de Fleury receive us?" inquired the count, anxiously.

"I told monsieur that I could not promise him, and, now that this misfortune has befallen us, it is thoroughly impossible even to make your presence here known to madame. Who could have anticipated such a contretems? Never before has Mademoiselle Melanie allowed a dress to issue from her hands which did not fit a merveille, and there are two important alterations to be made in this before it can be worn. Madame is in despair; she will go out of her senses; it will give her a brain fever!"

"Can we not have the pleasure of seeing her for a few moments, when her toilet is completed?" inquired Maurice.

"Ah, there it is! When her toilet is completed? Will it be completed in time for her to reach the senate at the hour proposed? Monsieur will pardon me, but I have not a moment to spare."

Turning to Patrick, she added, "I am forced to go out to purchase some ribbons. I have left madame in the hands of Antoinette. Madame is in such a state that one might weep to see her! Take care not to admit any one, except the Countess Orlowski, who accompanies your mistress to the senate. I will be back presently."

The Countess de Gramont rose up majestically.

"Let us depart, my son! Never more will I cross this threshold,—never enter this house where I have been insulted!"

"No insult was intended," replied Count Tristan, nervously. "Even if it were, we are not in a position to be cognizant of insults; we should be forced to ignore them. I cannot leave without entreating the marchioness to deliver this letter to Monsieur de Fleury, herself: it must be done,—and to-day. There is not an instant to lose."

"And you can stoop so low,—you can demean yourself to such a degree? What a humiliation!"

"Humiliations are not to be taken into consideration where ruin stares us in the face!" he answered, violently.

"Is it so very important?" inquired Bertha, struck by the count's angry manner.

"Of more importance than I can explain to you!"

"Oh, then let us stay, aunt! We must make allowances for Madame de Fleury's ruling passion. Her toilet first, all the world afterward!"

A carriage just then drove to the door, and attracted the attention of Bertha, who was standing by the open window.

"What magnificent horses! and what a neat equipage! All the appointments in such admirable taste! A lady is descending. I suppose it must be the Countess Orlowski. What a dignified air she has! What a graceful bearing! I wish I could see her face. She must be handsome with such a perfect figure. Yes,—I am right,—it is the Countess Orlowski, for the servant has admitted her."

As the lady was passing through the hall, she said to the domestic, "No, you need not announce me; I will go at once to the chamber of Madame de Fleury."

At the sound of that voice, the shriek of joy that broke from Bertha's lips drowned the amazed exclamation of Maurice. In another instant, Bertha's arms were around the stranger, and her kisses were mingled with tears and broken ejaculations, as she embraced her rapturously.

Maurice stood beside them, struggling with emotion that caused his manly frame to vibrate from head to foot, while his dilated eyes appeared spellbound by some familiar apparition which they hardly dared to believe was palpable.

There is a joy which, in its wild excess, paralyzes the faculties, makes dumb the voice, confuses the brain, until ecstasy becomes agony, and all the senses are enveloped in a cloud of doubt. Such was the joy of Maurice as he stood powerless, questioning the blissful reality of the hour, yet in the actual presence of that being who was never a moment absent from his mental vision.

"Madeleine! Madeleine! My own Madeleine! Have we found you at last? Is it really you?" sobbed Bertha, whose tears always flowed easily, but now poured in torrents from their blue heavens.

And Madeleine, as she passionately returned her cousin's embrace, dropped her head upon Bertha's shoulder, and wept also.

"Madeleine!"

At that tremulously tender voice her face was lifted and turned toward Maurice,—turned for the first time for nearly five long years; and yet, at that moment, he felt as though it had never been turned away.

Bertha involuntarily loosened her arms, and Madeleine extended her hand to Maurice. He clasped it fervently, but his quivering lips gave forth no sound. One irrepressible look of perfect joy from Madeleine's luminous eyes had answered the impassioned gaze of his; one smile of ineffable gratitude played over her sweet lips. For an instant the eyes were raised heavenward, in mute thanksgiving, and then sought the ground, as though they feared to reveal too much; and the smile of transport changed to one of grave serenity, and the wonted quietude of her demeanor returned.

The countess and Count Tristan had both risen in speechless surprise, but had made no attempt to approach Madeleine, whom Bertha now drew into the room.

"Madeleine! I cannot believe that I am not dreaming," cried the latter; "I cannot believe that I have found you!—that it is really you! And you are lovelier than ever! You no longer look pale and careworn; you are happy, my own Madeleine,—you are happy,—are you not? But why have you forgotten us?"

"I have never forgotten—never—never forgotten!" faltered Madeleine, in a voice that had a sound of tears, answering to those that glittered in her eyes.

Maurice had not released her hand, and, bending over her, made an effort to speak; but at that moment the stern voice of the countess broke in harshly,—

"How is it that we find you here, Mademoiselle de Gramont? Where have you hidden yourself? What have you done since you fled from my protection?"

"Yes, what have you done?" chimed in Count Tristan. "How is it that we find you descending from a handsome equipage and elegantly attired?"

"I have done nothing for which I shall ever have to blush!" answered Madeleine, with a dignity which awed him into silence.

"It was needless to say that, dear Madeleine," cried Maurice, whose powers of utterance had returned when he saw Madeleine about to be assailed. "No one who knows you would dare to believe that you ever committed an action that demanded a blush."

Madeleine thanked him with her speaking countenance. Perhaps it was only fancy, but he thought he felt a light, grateful pressure of the hand he held.

"But tell us where you have been!" continued Bertha, affectionately. "You look differently, Madeleine, and yet the same; and how this rich attire becomes you! You are no longer poor and dependent then,—are you?"

"I am no longer poor, and no longer dependent!" answered Madeleine, in a tone of honest pride.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the count and his mother together.

"But how has all this happened?" Bertha ran on. "Oh! I can divine: you are married,—you have made a brilliant marriage."

At those words a suppressed groan, of unutterable anguish, struck on Madeleine's ear; and the hand Maurice held dropped from his grasp.

"Speak! do speak! dear Madeleine!" continued Bertha. "Tell us all your sufferings,—for you must have suffered at first,—and all your joys, since you are happy now. And tell us how you chance to be here,—here in America, as we are; and how it happens that you are calling upon the Marchioness de Fleury, at the same time as ourselves; and why you expect to be received by her, though she will not receive us."

Before Madeleine could reply, and she was evidently collecting herself to speak, Lurline, who had just returned from executing her commission, passed through the hall. The door of the drawing-room stood open; she caught sight of Madeleine, and ran toward her, exclaiming joyfully,—

"Oh, what good fortune! How rejoiced my poor mistress will be! She did not dare to hope for this great kindness! I am so thankful! I will fly to announce to her the good news!"

She hurried away, leaving Madeleine's relatives more than ever amazed by these mysterious words.

Count Tristan was the first to break the silence. Ever keenly alive to his own interest, he saw a great advantage to be gained if he had interpreted the language of the femme de chambre rightly.

In an altered tone, a tone of marked consideration, he asked, "You are well acquainted with the Marchioness de Fleury?"

"Very well!" replied Madeleine, with an incomprehensible emphasis, while a smile that had a faint touch of satire flitted over her face.

"She receives you?" questioned the count.

"Always," answered Madeleine, smiling again.

"She esteems you?" persisted the count.

"I have every reason to believe that she does."

"And you have influence with her," joined in Bertha, suspecting the count's drift, and feeling desirous of aiding him.

"I think I may venture to say I have."

"Oh, how fortunate!" cried Bertha; "you maybe of the greatest service to our cousin, Count Tristan." She took the letter out of his hand, and placing it in Madeleine's, added, "Beg Madame de Fleury to read this letter, and obtain her promise that she will use her influence with the Marquis de Fleury to cause Mr. Gobert,—Gobert, that's his name, is it not?" appealing to the count,—"to cause Mr. Gobert to vote as herein instructed. See, how well I have explained that matter! I really believe I have an undeveloped talent for business."

"The letter should reach Madame de Fleury this morning. The appeal should be made to the marquis to-day,—this very day!" urged the count.

"It shall be!" replied Madeleine, with quiet confidence.

The countess here interposed.

"What, my son, you are willing to solicit the interference of Mademoiselle de Gramont, without knowing how and where she has passed her time, how she has lived since she fled from the Chateau de Gramont? I refuse my consent to such a proceeding."

"Aunt,—madame," returned Madeleine, in a gently pleading voice, "do not deprive me of the pleasure of serving you. Humble and unworthy instrument that I am, leave me that happiness."

"If the marchioness would only grant me a few moments' interview this morning," said Count Tristan, who evidently doubted the strength of Madeleine's advocacy.

"I promise that she will grant you an interview this morning," replied Madeleine, interrupting him.

The femme de chambre now reentered and said, "Madame is impatient at this delay; every moment seems an hour."

"Say that I will be with her immediately," answered Madeleine. She then addressed the count: "Have no fears,—you may depend upon me; the countess will receive you the moment her toilet is completed."

Madeleine once more embraced Bertha, once more extended her hand to Maurice, who stood bewildered, dismayed, looking half petrified, and passed out of the room.

As soon as she had disappeared, Bertha broke forth joyously, "Well, aunt, what do you think now of our Madeleine? Is not this magic? Is not this a fairy-like denouement? She disappears from the Chateau de Gramont as though the earth had opened to swallow her; no trace of her could be discovered for nearly five years, and suddenly she rises up in our very midst, a grand lady, enveloped in a cloud of mystery, and working as many wonders as a veritable witch. She leaves us poor, friendless, dependent; she returns to us rich, powerful, and with influential friends ready to serve those who once protected her. But I think I have found the key to the enigma. Did we not hear strict orders given that none but the Countess Orlowski should be admitted? Well, Madeleine was at once allowed to enter: it follows, beyond doubt, that she is the Countess Orlowski."

This version of Madeleine's position seemed to strike both the countess and her son as not merely possibly, but probably, correct.

"I always thought," returned the count, "that Madeleine was a young person who, in the end"—

His mother finished the sentence, in a tone of pride, "would prove herself worthy of the family to which she belongs."

The loud ringing of the street door-bell attracted the attention of the group assembled in the drawing-room. A well-known voice exchanged a few words with the servant, and Gaston de Bois entered. His manner was unusually perturbed, and he looked around the room as though in search of some one.

The instant he appeared, Bertha exclaimed, "Oh, M. de Bois! M. de Bois! We are all so much rejoiced! Madeleine, our own Madeleine, is found at last! She is here,—here in this very house, at this very moment!"

"I—I—I knew it!" answered M. de Bois, with a mixture of embarrassment and exultation.

"You knew it? How could you have known it?" asked Maurice, eagerly.

"I saw her car—ar—arriage at the door."

"Her carriage? She has a carriage of her own, then?" inquired the count.

"Yes, and the most superb horses in Washington."

"You knew, then, that she was here?" cried Maurice, with emotion; "you knew it, and you never told us?"

"I knew it, but I was forbidden to tell you. I hoped you would meet; I felt sure you would. I did not know how or when; but, from the moment you put your foot in this city, I looked for this meeting. I was strongly impelled to bring it about, but my promise withheld me."

"Of course, you could not break a promise; that explanation is quite satisfactory," remarked Bertha. "I am sure you would have given us a hint but for your promise."

"I almost gave one in spite of it. I found it harder to keep silent than I used to find it to speak; and that was difficult enough."

"But have the goodness to unravel to us this grand mystery," demanded the count. "Madeleine is married—married to Count Orlowski, the Russian ambassador."

"A nobleman of position!" added the countess.

"How did this come about?" inquired the count.

M. de Bois looked stupefied.

"Who—who—said she was married?" he gasped out. "Why do you imagine that she is mar—ar—arried?"

"She is not—not married then? Say she is not!" broke in Maurice, hanging upon the reply as though it were a sentence of life or death.

"No—no—not married at all—not in the least married."

Maurice did not answer, but the sound that issued from his lips almost resembled the sob of hysteric passion.

"Tell us quickly all about her!" besought Bertha, impatiently.

"Yes, speak! speak!" said the countess, imperiously.

"Speak!" echoed the count.

"Gaston, my dear friend, pray speak,—speak quickly!" Maurice besought.

"I wi—is—ish I could! That's just what I wa—an—ant to do! But it's not so easy, you bewil—il—ilder me so with questions. But the time has come when you must know that she has the hon—on—onor—the honor—the honor to be"—

"Go on, go on!" urged Maurice.

"I wish I could! It's not so easy to expla—plai—plain."

The rustling of a silk dress made him turn. The Marchioness de Fleury, in the most captivating spring attire, stood before them.

"Ah! here is Madame de Fleury, and she will tell you herself better than I can," said M. de Bois, apparently much relieved.

The marchioness saluted her guests with excessive cordiality, softly murmured her gratification at their visit, and added apologetically,—

"I must entreat your pardon for allowing you to wait; it was not in my power to be more punctual; a terrible accident—the first of the kind which has ever occurred to me—is my excuse. Do not imagine, my dear viscount," turning to Maurice with a fascinating smile, "that I had forgotten my appointment; but, at the Russian embassy, yesterday, I was prevailed upon to promise that I would be present at the senate to-day to hear the speech of a Vermont orator, a sort of Orson Demosthenes, who has gained great renown by his rude but stirring eloquence. We ladies have been promised admission (which is now and then granted) to the floor of the house, instead of being crammed into the close galleries. It will be a brilliant occasion. I invited the Countess Orlowski to accompany me. If all had gone well I should have been ready to receive your visit before she came."

The brow of the countess smoothed a little as she answered, "I felt confident, madame, that there must have been some explanation."

"Ah! I fear you are displeased with me," resumed Madame de Fleury, playfully. "But I will earn my pardon. You will be compelled to forgive me; M. de Fleury meets me at the capitol, and I will deliver this letter of the count's into his hand, and make him promise, blindfold, to consent to any request that it may contain."

"Madame," returned the count, bowing to the ground, "I shall never be able to express my gratitude. You can hardly form a conception of the favor you are conferring upon me. That letter is of the highest importance, and my indebtedness beggars all expression."

"To be frank with you, count," answered Madame de Fleury, "you owe me nothing. You are only indebted to the advocate you chose,—one whom I never refuse,—one to whom I feel under the deepest obligation, especially this morning,—one who is so modest that she can seldom be induced to ask me a favor, or to allow me to serve her. Thus, you see, it is but natural that I should seize with avidity upon this opportunity."

The count looked at his mother triumphantly; and, as the face of the marchioness was turned toward Bertha, he whispered, "Shall I not tell her that Madeleine is our niece?"

The countess seemed disposed to consent, for the words of Madame de Fleury had gratified as much as they astonished her.

The marchioness addressed the Countess de Gramont again. "I trust, madame, that you will allow me to waive ceremony, and take a liberty with you, since it is in the hope of being some service. I should like to reach the capitol before the oration commences; and, if this letter must be delivered to M. de Fleury immediately, my going early will enable me to have a few moments' conversation with him, which I probably shall not get after the orator rises. Will you excuse me, if I tear myself away? And will you give me the pleasure of your company to-morrow evening? To-morrow is my reception-day, and some of my friends honor me in the evening. I am desolee at this apparent want of courtesy, but I am sure you see the necessity."

The countess bowed her permission to Madame de Fleury's departure, and the count overwhelmed her with thanks. The countess would herself have taken leave, but anxiety to learn something further of Madeleine, caused her to linger.

The marchioness now addressed her valet, who was standing in the hall waiting orders.

"Patrick, when Madame Orlowski calls, beg her to pardon my preceding her to the capitol; say that I will reserve a seat by my side."

"Then the lady who just visited you was not Madame Orlowski?" inquired the count, more puzzled than ever.

"No, indeed; she is worth a thousand Madame Orlowski's!"

The count's glance at his mother seemed again to ask her permission to allow him to announce that Madeleine was their relative.

"We felt certain that she was one of the magnates"—began the count.

The marchioness interrupted him.

"She is better than that; she has all the magnates of the land—that is the female magnates—at her feet. The foreign ladies swear by her, rave about her; and, as for the Americans, they are demented, and would gladly pave her path with gold,—that being their way of expressing appreciation. Madame Manesca passes whole mornings with her,—Madame Poniatowski talks of no one else. She enchants every one, and offends no one. For myself, I have only one fault to find with her,—I owe her only one grudge; if it had not been for her aid, that impertinent little Mrs. Gilmer would not have had such success in society. If I could succeed in making her close her doors against Mrs. Gilmer, what a satisfaction it would be! Then, and then only, should I be content!"

The count could restrain himself no longer.

"We are highly gratified to hear this, madame. It concerns, us more nearly than you are aware; the lady is not wholly a stranger to us; in fact, she—she"—

"Indeed? she was so little known in Paris that you were fortunate in finding her out. I appreciated her there, but I did not know how much actual credit was due to her, for she had not then risen to her present distinction. I confess she is the one person in America without whom I could not exist."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the countess.

"And I cannot be grateful enough to her," continued the marchioness, "for her visit this morning, for she never goes out, or, so seldom, that I did not dare to expect, to even hope for her presence; yet her conscientiousness made her come; she suspected that I was in difficulty, and hastened here."

"It is like her; she was always charming, and so thoughtful for others!" observed the count, as complacently as though this were an opinion he had been in the habit of expressing for years.

"You may well say charming," responded Madame de Fleury; "and what knowledge she possesses of all the requirements, the most subtle refinements of good society! What polished manners she has! What choice language she uses! What poetical expression she gives to her sentiments! I often forget myself when I am talking to her, and fancy that I am communicating with a person of the same standing as myself; and, without knowing what I am doing, I involuntarily treat her as an equal!"

"An equal? Of course, most certainly!" answered the countess, aghast.

The amazement of the count, Maurice, and Bertha, sealed their lips.

"Her taste, her talent, her invention is something almost supernatural," continued the marchioness, enthusiastically; for, now that she was launched upon her favorite theme, she had forgotten her haste. "She sees at a glance all the good points of a figure; she knows how to bring them out strongly; she discovers by intuition what is lacking, and dexterously hides the defects. I have seen her convert the veriest dowdy into an elegant woman. And, when she gets a subject that pleases her, she perfectly revels in her art. Look at this dress for instance,—see by what delicate combinations it announces the spring."

The marchioness was struck with the consternation depicted in the countenances of her visitors.

Bertha was the only one who could command sufficient voice to falter out, "That dress, then"—

"It is her invention," replied the marchioness, triumphantly. "Any one would recognize it in a moment, as coming from the hands of Mademoiselle Melanie. Though she has such wonderful creative fertility, her style is unmistakable. There was never mantua-maker like her!"

"A mantua-maker! a mantua-maker!" exclaimed the countess and her son at once, in accents of disgust and indignation.

"Ah, I see you do not like to apply that epithet to her, and you are right. She should not be designated as a mantua-maker, but a great artist,—a true artist,—a fairy, who, with one touch of her wand, can metamorphose and beautify and amaze!"

At that moment, a servant announced that the Countess Orlowski waited in her carriage, and desired him to say that she feared she was late.

"You will excuse me then?" murmured the marchioness. "I must hasten to execute my mission for Mademoiselle Melanie, since it was she who so warmly solicited me to undertake this delicate little transaction, and I would not disappoint her for the world. Pray, do not forget to-morrow evening. Au revoir."

She floated out of the room, leaving the countess and her son speechless with rage and indignation.

Bertha and Maurice stood looking at each other, and then at M. de Bois, the only one who expressed no surprise, but seemed rather more gratified than moved when he beheld the countess sink back in her chair, and apply her bottle of sal volatile to her nose. The shock to her pride had been so terrible, that she appeared to be in danger of fainting.



CHAPTER XXIII.

NOBLE HANDS MADE NOBLER.

After the Marchioness de Fleury had departed, leaving her astonished guests in her drawing-room, M. de Bois was the first to break the silence.

"And you, Mademoiselle Bertha, are you also horrified at this rev—ev—evelation?" he asked.

"I?" answered Bertha, making an effort to collect herself. "No, I can never be horrified by any act of Madeleine's, for she could never be guilty of an action that was unworthy. I am only so much astonished that I feel stunned and confused, just as Maurice does; see, how bewildered he looks!"

The countess had now recovered her voice, and said, in a tone trembling with indignation, "It is infamous!"

"A degradation we could never have anticipated!" rejoined Count Tristan.

"She has disgraced her family,—disgraced our proud name forever!" responded the countess.

"Do not say that, aunt!" pleaded Bertha. "She has not even used your name, though it is as rightfully hers as yours. Do you not observe that she has only allowed herself to be called by her middle name, and that every one speaks of her as Mademoiselle Melanie?"

Bertha, as she spoke, bent caressingly over her aunt, and took her hand. But the attempt to soften the infuriated aristocrat was futile.

The countess replied, with increasing wrath, "I tell you she has humiliated herself and us to the last degree! She has brought shame upon our heads!"

Gaston de Bois was walking up and down the room, thrusting his fingers through his hair, flinging out his arms spasmodically, and, now and then, giving vent to a muttered ejaculation, which sounded alarmingly emphatic. When he heard these words, he could restrain himself no longer. He came boldly forward, and planting himself directly in front of the countess, unawed by her forbidding manner, exclaimed,—

"No, madame; that I deny! Mademoiselle de Gramont has brought no shame upon her family!"

"She no longer belongs to my family!" retorted the countess. "I disown her henceforward and forever!"

"And you do rightly, my mother," added the count. "We will never acknowledge her, never see her again! Maurice and Bertha, we expect that you will abide by our determination."

Maurice did not reply; he stood leaning against the mantel-piece, lost in thought, his eyes bent down, his head resting upon his hands.

Bertha, however, answered with spirit. "I make no promise of the kind. Nothing could induce me to cast off my dear Madeleine!"

M. de Bois seized her hand, and, involuntarily carrying it to his lips, said, with mingled enthusiasm and veneration, "You are as noble as I thought you were! I knew you would not forsake her!"

Bertha raised her eyes to his face with an expression which thrilled him, as she answered, "You will defend her, M. de Bois; you, who can perhaps disperse the cloud of mystery by which her life has been enveloped for the last four years. You will tell my aunt how Madeleine has lived,—what she has done. You will tell us all about her."

"That I will, gladly!" replied he. "That is, if I can. I never in my life so much desired the pow—ow—ower of spee—ee—eech!"

He broke off, and, in an undertone, gave vent to certain exclamations which indistinctly reached the ears of the countess and Bertha.

Their amazed looks did not escape his notice, and he continued: "Ladies, I ought to ask your pardon; possibly my expressions have sounded to you somewhat profane; I am under the sad necessity of using very strong language. I cannot loosen my tongue except by the aid of these forcible expletives, and I must—must speak! For I, who have known all Mademoiselle Madeleine's noble impulses, can best explain to you her con—on—onduct."

The last word, which was the only one upon which he stammered, was followed by another emphatic ejaculation.

Bertha, without heeding this interruption, asked, "And have you known where Madeleine was concealed all this time?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, I knew."

"And it was you who assisted her to leave Brittany?"

"It was I! That was about the first good action which brightened my life, and—and—and"—(another muttered oath to assist his articulation) "and I hope it was only a commencement."

"Tell us—tell us everything quickly," prayed Bertha.

"Mademoiselle Madeleine, when she determined to leave the Chateau de Gramont,—when she resolved to cease to be dependent,—when, in spite of her noble birth, which was to her only an encumbrance, she purposed to gain a livelihood by honest industry,—confided her project to me. And what good she did me in making me feel that I was worthy enough of her esteem to be trusted! She first committed to my charge her family diamonds, her sole possession, and ordered me to dispose of them"—

"Her diamonds! those which have been in her family for generations! What sacrilege!" cried the countess, in accents of horror.

"Pardon me, madame; it would have been sacrilege, she thought, and so did I, if she had kept them when their sale could have prevented her being the unhappy recipient of the unwilling charity of her relatives."

"Go on—go on!" urged Bertha. "How did she leave the chateau? How could she travel?"

"I obtained her a passport, for it would have been running too great a risk if she had attempted to travel without one. The passport had to be signed by two witnesses. Fortunately, two of my friends at Rennes were about to leave the country; I selected them as witnesses, because they could not be questioned; I told them the whole story, and bound them to secrecy. We took out the passport for England to divert pursuit; but, Mademoiselle Madeleine only went to Paris, and it was not necessary that her passport should be vised if she remained there."

"But the diamonds,—they were those Madame de Fleury wore and which I recognized!" exclaimed Bertha.

"I made a false step there; but it was just like me to bungle," continued Gaston. "I knew that the Jew, Henriques, often had transactions with the Marquis de Fleury. I took the diamonds to another Jew from whom I concealed my name, and suggested his taking them to Henriques, hinting that the marquis would probably become their purchaser. The marquis is a connoisseur of jewels; and, as you are aware, at once secured them. The sum realized was sufficient to supply the simple wants of Mademoiselle Madeleine for years. But this did not satisfy her,—her plan was to work. When she heard that the diamonds were in M. de Fleury's possession, she embroidered a robe upon which the lilies and shamrock were closely imitated, and took her work to Vignon, Madame de Fleury's dressmaker. Vignon was amazed at the great skill and taste displayed in the design and execution, and offered to give the embroiderer as much employment as she desired. Madame de Fleury being the most influential of Vignon's patrons, the dress was exhibited to her. She was at once struck and charmed by the coincidence that allowed her to become the possessor of a dress upon which the exact design of her new jewels had been imitated. She asked a thousand questions of Vignon, who gladly monopolized all the credit of inventing this novel pattern. From that moment Mademoiselle Madeleine's 'fairy fingers' commenced their marvels under the celebrated couturiere's direction, and Vignon daily congratulated herself upon the mysterious treasure she had discovered. Mademoiselle Madeleine now determined to remain in Paris incognita. She worked night and day, scarcely allowing herself needful rest; but, alas! she worked with a ceaseless heartache,—a heartache on your account, Maurice, for she knew how wildly you were searching for her; and when you fell ill"—

Maurice interrupted him: "It was she who watched beside me at night! I knew it! I have always been convinced of it. Was I not right?"

"I was bound not to tell you, but there can be no need of concealment now. Yes, you are right. When the soeur de bon secours we had engaged to take care of you during the day, left, and would have been replaced, according to the usual custom, by another to watch through the night, we told her no watcher was needed before morning. Mademoiselle Madeleine made herself a garb resembling that worn by the sisterhood; and, every night, when the good sister we had hired left, Mademoiselle Madeleine took her place. We thought your delirium would prevent your recognizing her."

"Probably it did, at first," returned Maurice; "but, for many nights before I spoke to you; I was conscious, I was sure of her presence."

"When you did speak, I was startled enough," resumed Gaston; "and it was a sad revelation to Mademoiselle Madeleine; for, when your reason was restored, she could not venture any more to come near you."

"Did she go to Dresden? How came my birthday handkerchief to be sent from Dresden?" asked Bertha.

"That was another piece of stupidity of mine. You see what a blockhead I have been. Mademoiselle Madeleine wished to send some token of assurance that she thought of you still; but it was necessary that you should not know she was in Paris. I had the package conveyed to a friend of mine in Dresden, and desired him to remove the envelope and send the parcel to Bordeaux, though you were in Paris at the time. It would not have been prudent to let you suspect that Mademoiselle Madeleine was aware of your sojourn in the metropolis. But, when the postmark induced Maurice to start for Dresden, I saw what a fool I had been. It was just like me to commit some absurdity,—I always do! I could not dissuade Maurice from going to Dresden; but Mademoiselle Madeleine wrote a note which I enclosed to my friend, and desired to have it left at the hotel where Maurice was staying. After that I was more careful not to commit blunders. The other birthday tokens, you received, Mademoiselle Bertha, I always contrived to send you by private hand; thus, there was no postmark to awaken suspicion."

"But how came Madeleine here in America?" inquired Bertha.

"When the Marquis de Fleury was appointed ambassador to the United States, Mademoiselle Madeleine learned that Madame de Fleury sorely lamented her hard fate, and mourned over the probability that she would be obliged to have all her dresses sent from Paris. This would be a great inconvenience, for she often liked to have a costume improvised upon the spur of the moment, and completed with fabulous rapidity. Mademoiselle Madeleine had frequently thought of America, and felt that the new country must present a field where she could work more advantageously than in Paris. She desired Vignon to suggest to Madame de Fleury that one of the assistants in her favorite couturiere's establishment,—the one with whose designs Madame de Fleury was already acquainted,—might be tempted, by the certainty of the marchioness's patronage, to visit America. Madame de Fleury was contented, and immediately proposed that Mademoiselle Melanie should sail in the same steamer. Vignon allowed two of her work-women to accompany her. The sum Mademoiselle Madeleine had realized from her diamonds enabled her to hire a modest house in Washington, and to furnish it tastefully. On her arrival she sent for Mr. Hilson. Perhaps you remember him, Mademoiselle Bertha? He once dined at the Chateau de Gramont."

Here the count uttered an exclamation of violent displeasure, but M. de Bois went on,—

"He had requested Mademoiselle Madeleine if she ever visited America to let him know. He called upon her at once, and she frankly told him the story of her trials, and the conclusion to which they had forced her. He highly approved of her energy, her zeal, and spirit. She made him promise to keep her rank and name a secret. He brought his wife and daughter to see her, and they became her stanch, admiring, and helpful friends. Through them alone, she would quickly have been drawn into notice; but a more powerful medium to popularity was at work. The sensation produced by Madame de Fleury's toilets caused all Washington to flock to the exhibition-rooms of 'Mademoiselle Melanie,' who was known to be her couturiere. Soon, it became a favor for 'Mademoiselle Melanie' to receive new customers. She was forced to move to the elegant mansion where she now resides. It is one of the grandest houses in Washington, and Mademoiselle Melanie has only one more payment to make before it becomes her own. The fact is, people have gone crazy about her. Those who seek her merely upon business, when they come into her presence, are impressed with the conviction that she is not merely their equal, but their superior, and treat her with involuntary deference. She is rapidly becoming rich, and she has the glory of knowing that it is through the labor of her own dainty hands, her own 'fairy fingers!'"

"Oh, all she has done was truly noble!" said Bertha, with enthusiasm.

"It was disgraceful!" cried the countess, fiercely. "She might better have starved! She has torn down her glorious escutcheon to replace it by a mantua-maker's sign. She has stooped to make dresses!—to receive customers! Abominable!"

M. de Bois, for a moment forgetting the courtesy due to the rank and years of the countess, replied indignantly, "Madame, did she not make your dresses for three years? Have you not been one of her customers? An unprofitable customer? The profit was the only difference between what she did at the Chateau de Gramont and what she does in the city of Washington!"

"Sir!" exclaimed the countess, giving him a look of rebuke, which was intended to silence these unpalatable truths.

"You are right, M. de Bois," answered Bertha, not noticing the furious glance of her aunt. "That was a random shaft of yours, but it hits the mark, and strikes me as well as my aunt; yet I thank you for it; I thank you for defending Madeleine; I thank you for befriending her. I shall never forget it—never!"

Bertha frankly stretched out her hand to him; he took it with joyful emotion.

"Whom would she have to defend her if I did not, since her family discard her? Since even an able young lawyer utters not a word to plead her cause?" he added, looking reproachfully at Maurice. "But she shall never lack a defender while I live, for I love her as a sister! I venerate her as a saint. To me she is the type of all that is best and noblest in the world! The type of that which is greater, more valuable than glory, more useful than fame, more noble than the blood of countesses and duchesses—honest labor!"

Bertha's responsive look spoke her approval.

"And what do I not owe her, myself?" continued M. de Bois. "It was her words, long before her sorrows began, which rendered me conscious of the inert purposelessness of my own existence. It was the effect produced upon me by those words which made me resolve to throw off my sluggish, indolent melancholy and inactivity, and rise up to be one of the world's 'doers,' not 'breathers' only. The change I feel in myself came through her; even the very power of speaking to you thus freely comes through her, for she encouraged me to conquer my diffidence, she made me despise my weak self-consciousness, and I cannot offer her a sufficient return; no, not if I took up arms against the whole world, her own family included, in her defence! In my presence, no one shall ever asperse her nobility of word, deed, or act!"

Bertha's speaking eyes thanked him and encouraged him again.

In spite of the manifest rage of the countess he went on,—

"But Mademoiselle Madeleine now holds a position which needs no champion. She has made that position herself, by her own energy and industry, and the unimpeachable purity of her conduct. In this land where labor is a virtue, and the most laborious, when they combine intellect with industry, become the greatest,—in this land it will be no blot upon her noble name, (when she chooses to resume it) that she has linked that name with work. She will rather be held up as an example to the daughters of this young country. No one, except Mr. Hilson, not even her zealous patron, and devoted admirer, Madame de Fleury, yet knows her history; but every one feels that she merits reverence, and every one yields her spontaneous veneration. The young women whom she employs idolize her, and she treats them as the kindest and most considerate of sisters might. Some among them belong to excellent families, reduced by circumstances, and she has inspired them with courage to work, even with so humble an instrument as the needle, rather than to accept dependence as inevitable. She is fitting them to follow in her footsteps. If her relatives scorn her for the course she has pursued, she will be fully compensated for their scorn by the world's approval."

All eyes had been riveted upon Gaston, as he spoke, and no one perceived that Madeleine was standing in the room, a few paces from the door. Bertha's exclamation first made the others conscious of her presence.

"Madeleine! we know all! Oh, what you must have suffered! How noble you have been! Madeleine, you are dearer to me than ever, far dearer!"

The tears that ran softly down Madeleine's cheeks were her only answer.

Bertha, as she wiped them away, said, "These are not like the tears you shed that sorrowful day in the chalet, that day when you must have first made up your mind to leave us. Do you remember how you wept then? Those were tears of agony! You have never wept such tears since,—have you, Madeleine?"

"No, never!"

"I could not then comprehend what moved you so terribly; but, at this moment, I understand all your sensations. Now that we have met again there must be no more tears. You know that I am of age now; I am mistress of my own fortune; and you and I must part no more! You must come and share what is mine. You must have done with work, Madeleine."

"That cannot be, my good, generous Bertha; my day of work has not yet closed."

"Bertha!" exclaimed the countess, who, until then, had stood trembling with anger, and unable to command her voice. "Bertha, have you quite forgotten yourself? Remember that you are under my guardianship, and I forbid your having any association with Mademoiselle de Gramont."

Madeleine advanced with calm dignity towards the countess, and said quietly,—

"Madame—aunt"—

The countess interrupted her imperiously.

"Aunt! Do you dare to address me by that title? You—a dressmaker! When you forgot your noble birth, and lowered yourself to the working-classes, making yourself one with them,—when you demeaned yourself to gain your bread by your needle, bread which should have choked a de Gramont to eat,—you should also have forgotten your relationship to me, never to remember it again!"

"If I did not forget it, madame," answered Madeleine, with calm self-respect, "I was at least careful that my condition should not become known to you. I strove to act as though I had been dead to you, that my existence might not cause you mortification. I could not guard against the accident which has thrown us together once more, but for the last time, as far as my will is concerned."

"This meeting was not Mademoiselle Madeleine's fault," cried M. de Bois, coming to the rescue. "It was my folly,—another blunder of mine! I was dolt enough to think that you had only to see her for all to be well; and, instead of warning Mademoiselle Madeleine that you were in Washington, I kept from her a knowledge which would have prevented your encountering each other. It was all my imprudence, my miscalculation! I see my error since it has subjected her to insult; and yet what I did," continued he more passionately, and regarding Maurice, as he spoke, "was for the sake of one who"—

Madeleine, seized with a sudden dread of the manner in which he might conclude this sentence, broke in abruptly,—

"Were I not indebted to you, M. de Bois, for so many kindnesses, I might reproach you now; but it was well for me to learn this lesson; it was well for me to be certain that my aunt would discard me because I preferred honest industry to cold charity."

"Discard you?" rejoined the countess, furiously. "Could you doubt that I would discard you? Henceforth the tie of blood between us is dissolved; you are no relative of mine! I forbid you to make known that we have ever met. I forbid my family to hold any intercourse with you. I appeal to my son to say if this is not the just retribution which your conduct has brought upon you!"

The count answered with deliberation, as though he was pondering some possibility in his wily mind; as if some idea had occurred to him which prevented his fully sharing in his mother's wrath, or, rather, which tempered the expression of his displeasure,—

"Madeleine's situation has rendered this the most proper and natural course open to us. She could not expect to be formally recognized. She could not suppose it possible, however much consideration we might entertain for her personally, that the Countess de Gramont and her family should allow it to be known that one of their kin is a dressmaker! Madeleine is too reasonable not to see the impropriety (to use a mild word) there would be even in such a suggestion."

"I see it very plainly," answered Madeleine, not unmoved by the count's manner, which was so much gentler than his mother's, and not suspecting the motive which induced him to assume this conciliatory tone.

The count resumed: "We wish Madeleine well, in spite of her present degraded position. If circumstances should prolong our stay in Washington, or in America,—and it is very possible they may do so,—we will only request her to remove to California or Australia, or some distant region, where she may live in desirable obscurity, and not run the risk of being brought into even accidental contact with us."

"No,—no!" exclaimed Bertha, vehemently. "We shall not lose her again,—we must not! You may all discard her, but I will not! I will always acknowledge her, and I must see her! She is dearer to me than ever; I will not be separated from her!"

Did Bertha see the look of admiration with which M. de Bois contemplated her as she uttered these words?

The countess asked in an imperious tone,—

"Bertha, have you wholly forgotten yourself? I will never permit this intercourse,—I forbid it! If you are willing to brave my displeasure, I presume Madeleine, ungrateful as she has proved herself to be, for the protection I granted her during three years, will not so wholly forget her debt as to disregard my command."

How often Madeleine had been reminded of that debt which her services at the Chateau de Gramont had cancelled a hundred times over!

Before she could respond to her aunt's remark, Bertha went on,—

"You do not comprehend my plan, aunt. Madeleine, of course, must give up her present occupation; there is no need of her pursuing it; I am rich enough for both. She shall live with me and share my fortune. Madeleine, you will not refuse me this? For nearly five years I have mourned over our separation, and wasted my life in the vain hope of seeing you again. You would be ashamed of me if you knew in what a weak, frivolous, idle manner, I have passed my days, while you were working so unceasingly, and with such grand results. I shall never learn to make good use of my hours except under your guidance. Long before I reached my majority I looked forward gladly to the time when I should be a free agent and could share my fortune with you. My aunt knows that I communicated my intention to her before you left the Chateau de Gramont. And now, Madeleine, my own best Madeleine,—you will let the dream of my life become a reality,—will you not? Say yes, I implore you!"

Bertha had spoken with such genuine warmth and hearty earnestness that a colder nature than Madeleine's must have been melted. She folded the generous girl tenderly and silently in her arms, and, after a pause, which the countenance of her aunt made her aware that the proud lady was on the eve of breaking, answered, sadly,—

"It was worth suffering all I endured, Bertha, to have your friendship tested through this fiery ordeal, and to know that your heart cannot be divided by circumstances from mine. But your too liberal offer I cannot accept; the path I have marked out I must pursue until I reach the goal which I am nearing. An incompleteness in the execution of my deliberate plans would render me more miserable than I am to-day in being cast off by my own family."

"Do not speak such cruel words," returned Bertha. "They do not cast you off; that is, I do not, and never will; and I am sure"—

She turned to look at Maurice, who had stood silent through the whole scene, leaning upon the mantel-piece, his head still resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed upon Madeleine. His mind was too full of conflicting emotions for him to speak; above all other images rose that of the being whom Madeleine had declared she loved. Did she love him still? Was he here? Did he know her condition? Was M. de Bois, whom she had entrusted with her secret,—M. de Bois, who had protected and aided her,—the object of her preference? Maurice could not answer these torturing questions, and the happiness of once more beholding the one whom he had so long fruitlessly sought, made him feel as though he were passing through a strange, wild dream, which, but for one doubt, would have been full of ecstasy.

When Bertha appealed to him by her look, he could no longer remain silent.

"You are right, Bertha; Madeleine is to me all that she ever was. I am as proud of her as I have ever been; more proud I could not be! To renounce her would be as impossible as it has ever been."

Madeleine, who had appeared so firm and composed up to that moment, trembled violently; her heart seemed to cease its pulsations; a cold tremor ran through her veins; a mist floated before her eyes; exquisite happiness became exquisite pain! She turned, as though about to leave the room, but her feet faltered. In a second, M. de Bois was at her side, and gave her his arm; she took it almost unconsciously. The voice of her aunt restored her as suddenly as a dash of ice-water could have done.

"Your father's commands and mine, then, Maurice, are to have no weight. We order you to renounce all intercourse with this person, whom we no longer acknowledge as a relative, and you unhesitatingly declare to her, in our very presence, that you disregard our wishes. This, it seems, is the first effect of Mademoiselle de Gramont's renewed influence, which we have before now found so pernicious."

"Do not fear, madame," answered Madeleine; "I will not permit"—

"Make no rash promise, Madeleine,"—interrupted Maurice. "My father's wishes and my grandmother's must ever have weight with me; but when I honestly differ from them in opinion, I trust there is no disrespect in my saying so. Blindly to obey their commands would be to abnegate free agency and self-responsibility."

"I have not forgotten," said the countess, freezingly, "that the first disrespect towards me of which you were guilty was originated by Mademoiselle de Gramont. I perceive that she is again about to create a family feud, and separate father and son, grandmother and grandchild. All her noble sentiments and heroic acting have ever this end in view. During the period that she concealed herself from us she has evidently never lost sight of this great aim of her existence, and has closely calculated events, and bided her time that she might manoeuvre with additional power and certainty. She has not disgraced us enough; she is planning the total downfall of our noble house, no matter whom it buries in the ruins. It is not sufficient that we have to blush for the dressmaker, who would exchange the device graven upon her ancestral arms for that of a scissors and thimble; but she is laboring to bring her disgrace nearer and fasten it more permanently upon us."

M. de Bois, who felt that Madeleine was clinging to his arm, as though her strength was failing, answered for her,—

"The daughter of the Duke de Gramont has not become less noble, madame, through her noble industry. She has not brought to her own, or any other cheek, a blush of genuine shame. I, who have watched over her from the hour that she left the Chateau de Gramont, claim the proud privilege of giving this testimony. No duchess has the right to hold her head higher than the Duke de Gramont's orphan daughter."

Before any one could reply, he led Madeleine from the room, and out of the house. The movement which Maurice and Bertha, at the same moment, made to follow her was arrested by the countess. Before they had recovered themselves, Madeleine was seated in her carriage, and had driven away. M. de Bois was walking rapidly to his hotel.



CHAPTER XXIV.

FEMININE BELLIGERENTS.

Madeleine's residence was one of the most superb mansions in Washington: a spacious house, built of white stone, and located within a few minutes' walk of the capitol. She was in the habit of seeking the beautiful capitol-grounds every fine morning, before the busy city was astir, accompanied by Ruth Thornton. The matinal hour devoted to this refreshing walk was to both maidens the calmest and happiest of the twenty-four. In that peaceful hour they gained strength to encounter the petty vexations and desagrement incident to the at once humble and important vocation they had adopted.

Buried deep in Madeleine's heart there was ever a sadness that could not be shaken off, but she turned the sunny side of her existence toward others, and kept the shadow of her great sorrow for herself alone; therefore her mien was ever tranquil, even cheerful. Possibly, she suffered less than many whose griefs were not so heavy, because her meek, uncomplaining spirit tempered the bleak wind that blew over her bowed head, and rounded the sharp stones that would have cut her feet on their pilgrimage, had they stepped less softly. Thus she carried within herself the magic that drew from waspish circumstance its sharpest sting.

The morning after Madeleine's rencontre with her relatives, a group of young women were sitting busily employed around a large table in Mademoiselle Melanie's workroom.

Mademoiselle Victorine, the forewoman, and Mademoiselle Clemence, her chief assistant, were the only foreigners. They had been in Vignon's employment, and had accompanied Madeleine to America. The other workwomen Madeleine had selected herself. Many of them were young girls, well born, and bred in luxury, who had been compelled by sudden reverses to earn a livelihood. Madeleine often wondered how so many of this class had been thrown in her way. In reality, the class is a frightfully numerous one, and she had an intuitive faculty of discovering those of whom it was composed. Not only did her instinctive sympathy attract her toward them, but Mr. Hilson, who was an active philanthropist, had been largely instrumental in pointing out young women who aspired to become self-helpers. Madeleine took an affectionate interest in teaching them a trade which almost rose to the dignity of a profession in her hands. She became their friend, adviser, and comforter, and thus experienced the delicious consolation of creating happiness for others after her own happiness had received its death-blow.

The room in which the busy needle-women were sitting, was the farthest of a suite of apartments opening into each other, on the second story. These apartments were somewhat lavishly furnished, but in the strictest good taste, and the eye was charmed by a profusion of choice plants blossoming in ornamental flower-vases, placed upon brackets on the wall; or of orchids floating in pendant luxuriance from baskets attached to the ceiling. Then, Madeleine had not forgotten the picturesque use so often made of the ivy in her native land, and had trained the obedient parasite to embower windows, or climb around frames of mirrors, until the gilt background gave but a golden glimmer through the dark-green network of leaves.

Each room was also supplied either with portfolios containing rare engravings, with musical instruments, or a library.

Rich dresses were displayed upon skeleton frames in one apartment; mantles and out-of-door wrappings were exhibited in another; bonnets and head-dresses were exposed to admiring view in a third.

Near the window, not far from the table which was surrounded by the sewing-women, stood a smaller table where Ruth was engaged, coloring designs for costumes.

The gossip of the Washington beau monde, very naturally furnished a theme for the lively tongues of the needle-women. They picked up all the interesting items of fashionable news that dropped from the lips of the many lady loungers who amused themselves by spending their mornings at Mademoiselle Melanie's exhibition-rooms, giving orders for dresses, bonnets, etc., examining new styles of apparel, discussing the most becoming modes, or idly chattering with acquaintances who visited Mademoiselle Melanie upon the same important mission as themselves.

Mademoiselle Victorine generally led the conversation at the working-table, or, rather, she usually monopolized it. It was a source of great exultation to her if she happened to have a piece of news to communicate; and this now chanced to be the case.

"Something very important is to take place in this house, probably this very day!" she began, with a consequential air. "If Mademoiselle Melanie has a fault, it is that she makes no confidants; and I think I am fully entitled to her confidence. I should like to know what she could have done without me?"

"What, indeed?" exclaimed several voices, for every one was anxious to propitiate the forewoman by bestowing upon her the flattery which was essential to keep her in an equable state of mind.

"When we think of the marvels," continued Mademoiselle Victorine, "that issue from these walls; the splendid figures that go forth into the world out of our creative hands,—figures, which, could they be seen when they rise in the morning, would not be recognizable,—we have cause for self-congratulation. And Mademoiselle Melanie gets all the credit for these metamorphoses; though, we all know, she does nothing herself; that is, she merely forms a plan, makes a sketch, selects certain colors, and that is all! The execution, the real work, is mine—mine! I appeal to you, young ladies, to say if it is not mine?"

"Yes, certainly," said Abby, one of the younger girls; "but without Mademoiselle Melanie's sketch, without her ideas, her taste, what would"—

"There—there; you talk too fast, Mademoiselle Abby; you are always chattering. I say that without me Mademoiselle Melanie would never have attained her present elevated position; without me this establishment would never have been what it now is,—a very California of dressmaking. And, in a little more than four years, what a fortune Mademoiselle Melanie has accumulated! That brings me back to the point from which I started. Does any one know what is to happen shortly?" she inquired, with an air of elation at being the only repository of a valuable secret.

"No—no—what is it?" asked numerous voices.

"Well, Mademoiselle Ruth, do you say nothing?" inquired the triumphant forewoman. "Are you not anxious to know?"

Ruth, without lifting her head from the sketch she was coloring, answered, "Yes, certainly, unless it should be something with which Mademoiselle Melanie does not desire us to be acquainted."

"Oh, hear the little saint!" returned Victorine. "She does not care for secrets,—no, of course not! She is only jealous that any one should know more than herself. She would not express surprise, not she, if I told her Mademoiselle Melanie is about to pay down ten thousand dollars—the last payment—upon the purchase of this house, which makes it hers."

Mademoiselle Victorine concluded with a violent shake of the brocade she was trimming.

"But did you learn this from good authority?" asked Esther, a slender, pale-faced girl.

"The very best. I heard Mrs. Hilson say so to some ladies whom she brought to introduce here; and you know Mr. Hilson transacts all business matters for Mademoiselle Melanie. Mrs. Hilson told her friends that Mademoiselle Melanie's establishment was a perfect mint and fairly coined money. When I heard this assertion I said to myself, 'How little people understand that without me Mademoiselle Melanie would never have founded an establishment that was compared to a mint—never!' Yet she gets all the credit."

"But you see"—began Esther.

Victorine interrupted her.

"What a chatterbox you are, Mademoiselle Esther! You will never get on with that work if you talk so much. Those festoons want spirit and grace; you must recommence them, or the dress will be a failure, I warn you! For whom is it? I have forgotten."

"It is Mrs. Gilmer's, and she expects to wear it at the grand ball to be given by the Marchioness de Fleury."

"She will be mistaken!" said Victorine. "I know that she will not be invited. The marchioness hates her; Mrs. Gilmer is the only rival whom Madame de Fleury takes the trouble to detest; and it makes me indignant to see a lady of her superlative fascinations annoyed by this little upstart American. One must admit that Mrs. Gilmer is very pretty; her figure scarcely needs help, and she is so vivacious, and has so much aplomb, so much dash, that the notice she attracts renders her alarmingly ambitious. Still, for her to dare to contrast herself with the French ambassadress is intolerable presumption, and I rejoice that she will get no invitation to the ball."

"How do you know that she will not be invited?" asked Esther.

"How do I know all that I do know? It is odd to notice with what perfect lack of reserve the ladies who visit us talk. They chatter away just as if they thought we were human working-machines, without ears, or brains, or memories. This singular hallucination makes it not difficult to become acquainted with certain secrets of fashionable life which one clique would not make known to another clique for the world."

"But this tittle-tattle"—Esther began.

"Chut, chut," cried the forewoman. "How you chatter, Mademoiselle Esther; one cannot hear one's self speak for you! Somebody has just entered the exhibition salon; who is it? Mrs. Gilmer, as I'm alive! M. de Bois is with her; she has come to try on her dress, I suppose. She may spare herself the pains, for she will not wear it at Madame de Fleury's ball."

Ruth, whose duty it was to receive visitors, and to summon Victorine, if they had orders to give, rose and entered the adjoining apartment.

Mrs. Gilmer was one of those light-headed and light-hearted women, who float upon the topmost and frothiest wave of society, herself a glittering bubble. To win admiration was the chief object of her life. The breath of flattery wafted her upward toward her heaven,—that rapturous state which was heaven to her. To be the belle of every reunion where she appeared was a triumph she could not forego; and there were no arts to which she would not stoop to obtain this victory. Madame de Fleury was a woman of the same stamp, but with all the polish, grace, and refined coquetry which the social atmosphere of Paris imparts; and though she had far less personal beauty than Mrs. Gilmer,—less mind, less wit,—her capacity for using all the charms she possessed gave her vast advantage over the fair-featured young American.

When Ruth entered the salon, Mrs. Gilmer was too much interested in her conversation with M. de Bois to notice her, and continued talking with as much freedom as though she was not present.

"I have set my heart upon it!" said she, "and I tell you I must receive an invitation to this ball. Madame de Fleury positively shall not exclude me. I have already set in motion a number of influential pulleys, and I am not apt to fail when I make an earnest attempt."

"I am quite aware of that," answered M. de Bois, gallantly.

"Oh, what a love of a dress! What an exquisite design!" exclaimed Mrs. Gilmer, stopping delighted before a robe which had been commenced, but was thrown over one of the manikins, with a sketch of the completed costume attached to the skirt. "The blending of those pale shades of green and that embroidery of golden wheat, with a scarlet poppy here and there,—the effect is superb! Then the style, as this sketch shows, is perfectly novel. I am enchanted! Miss Ruth, I must have that dress! At any price, I must have it!"

"It is to go to New Orleans, madame," replied Ruth. "It was ordered by Mrs. Senator la Motte, and is to be worn at some grand wedding."

"No matter—I tell you I must have it! Where is Mademoiselle Victorine?"

Ruth summoned the forewoman. Victorine advanced very deliberately, and her bearing had a touch of patronage and condescension.

Mrs. Gilmer pleaded hard for the possession of the dress; but Mademoiselle Victorine appeared to take the greatest satisfaction in making her understand that its becoming hers was an impossibility. The more earnestly Mrs. Gilmer prayed, the more inflexible became the forewoman. As for repeating a design which had been invented for one particular person, that, she asserted, was against all rules of art. The original design might be feebly, imperfectly copied by other mantua-makers, but its duplicate could not be sent forth from an establishment of the standing of Mademoiselle Melanie's.

Mrs. Gilmer, whose white brow was knitted with something very like a frown, remarked that she would talk to Mademoiselle Melanie on the subject, by and by.

"Mademoiselle Melanie does not usually reverse my decisions," replied the piqued forewoman, with an extravagant show of dignity.

"We shall see!" retorted Mrs. Gilmer. "Now let me choose a head-dress for the opera to-night; something original. What can you invent for me?"

"Really," answered Victorine, who was not a little irate at the suggestion that there could be any appeal from her verdict; "I do not feel inspired at this moment; I am quite dull; nothing occurs to me out of the usual line."

"Oh! you must think!" pleaded the volatile lady. "Invent me something never before seen; something with flowers will do; but let me have impossible flowers,—flowers which have no existence, and which I shall not behold upon every one's else head. Price is no object; my husband never refuses me anything! Especially," she added in a lower tone, to M. de Bois, "when he is jealous; and I find it very useful, absolutely necessary, to begin the season by exciting a series of Othello pangs through which he becomes manageable. I feed the jealous flame all winter, and add fresh fuel in the spring, when I wish to indulge in various extravagances."

"A very diplomatic arrangement," remarked M. de Bois.

"What a bonnet! What a beauty of a bonnet! what deliciously adjusted lace! How was it ever made to fall in such folds, over that bunch of moss roses; peeping out of those quivering leaves, touched with dew-drops?"

"That bonnet belongs to Madame de Fleury," said Victorine, with a malicious emphasis.

"Ah, indeed!" returned Mrs. Gilmer, changing color. "I wonder what would become of Madame de Fleury were it not for her toilets! If she were despoiled of her gay plumage, a very insipid, commonplace looking personage would remain. I must say, it is rather singular," she continued, growing warm in spite of herself, "but if I ever happen to look at anything particularly worth noticing, I am always told it is for Madame de Fleury! Is Mademoiselle Melanie in her drawing-room? Is she accessible at this moment?"

"She has just come in; Mademoiselle Ruth will conduct you to her," answered Victorine, with an offended air.

"M. de Bois, I will be back soon," said Mrs. Gilmer to her escort. "There are books in abundance in yonder library,—rather an extraordinary piece of furniture for a dressmaker's salon, but, Mademoiselle Melanie has so much tact, she foresaw that they might be useful on some occasions."

Mrs. Gilmer followed Ruth to Madeleine's own apartments, which were on the first floor. Victorine returned to the room where the sewing-women were at work. Gaston selected a book and seated himself in a comfortable arm-chair.

He had hardly opened the volume when the Marchioness de Fleury entered, accompanied by Lord Linden.

As she descended from the carriage she had found his lordship promenading up and down before the house. He was overjoyed at this unlooked-for opportunity to obtain admission.

Madame de Fleury saluted Gaston with one of her most gracious smiles.

Victorine, catching sight of the marchioness, hurried forward, saying to Ruth,—

"Do not trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Ruth, I will have the honor of attending upon Madame de Fleury."

"That is right, Mademoiselle Victorine; but I am going to intrude into your atelier of mysteries, and see what chef d'oeuvres you have in progress."

Judging from Madame de Fleury's tone, one might easily have supposed that she alluded to pictures or statues, and was about reverently to enter the studio of some mighty genius, and wonder over his achievements in marble or on canvas. The apartment she invaded was one which visitors were not usually invited, or expected, to enter.

The gentlemen were left together.

"I am in luck!" said Lord Linden in an unusually animated tone. "My dear M. de Bois, I am the happiest of men! I have encountered my unknown beauty at last! She passed me in a private carriage, which stopped here and was dismissed. I saw her enter this house not a quarter of an hour ago. She did not perceive me, and had disappeared before I could accost her; but I determined to keep watch until she made her exit, and then either to renew my acquaintance or to follow her home and learn where she lived. She shall not give me the slip again."

"Are you sure you have not made some mistake? I do not think there is any lady here, at this moment, except Mrs. Gilmer, whom I accompanied."

"I am perfectly certain I could not be mistaken. I shall make some excuse for remaining here; I will select a shawl or mantle for my sister, who is one of this celebrated Mademoiselle Melanie's customers, and who will not be displeased at such an unprecedented attention."

Before M. de Bois could reply, the marchioness returned with Victorine.

"And you say my dress for this evening will be done in an hour? That is delightful! I am impatient to test its effects. I am half inclined to wait until it is finished, and take it home with me."

"It shall be completed within the hour; I am occupied upon it myself," answered Victorine, with a fawning manner, very different from that by which the banker's wife had been kept in subjection.

"What an original idea!" cried Madame de Fleury, pausing before the uncompleted dress which had attracted the admiration of Mrs. Gilmer. "What an exquisite conception! Those blades of golden wheat and those scarlet poppies make the most perfect trimming for these ravishing shades of green; just the colors that become me most. That dress is a triumph, Mademoiselle Victorine!"

"The design is Mademoiselle Melanie's, but the cut, the execution, they are mine," said the forewoman, complacently.

"And for whom is the dress intended? But I need hardly ask,—I am determined that it shall be mine."

"It was to be sent to New Orleans to Madame la Motte, wife of the distinguished senator. But, I beg to assure madame that she cannot judge of this attire; it is nothing now. In a few days, when it is completed, then madame will be able to see that we have surpassed ourselves in that dress."

"You have, indeed!" ejaculated Madame de Fleury, with fervor. "But I claim it. You must invent something else for Madame la Motte. Mademoiselle Melanie surely will not refuse me."

"If the decision depended upon me, the dress would assuredly become Madame de Fleury's; although the design has been sent to Madame la Motte, and has met with her approbation; but Mademoiselle Melanie is so frightfully conscientious, she would not disappoint a customer, or break her word, or give a design promised one person to another for a kingdom. She is quite immovable, obstinately unreasonable on these points."

"But I must have that dress," persisted the marchioness. "I cannot be happy without it! I will implore Mademoiselle Melanie; she will drive me to despair should she refuse."

"Mrs. Gilmer saw it a few moments ago, and was so enchanted that she did her utmost to make me promise that the dress should be hers."

"Hers, indeed! That impertinent little parvenue!" replied Madame de Fleury. "I would never forgive Mademoiselle Melanie if she consented to anything of the kind. I suppose the banker's wife imagines this delicate green would tone down her milk-maid complexion. But she shall not try the experiment."

At this moment Mrs. Gilmer herself reentered. The marchioness pretended not to be aware of her presence, and, turning to the dress in question, remarked,—

"Yes, this dress must be one of the twelve that I shall order to take with me to Maryland. Twelve will suffice for one week. I hear Mr. Meredith's estate could bear comparison with our European country residences; the toilets of his guests should do honor to their host." She went on, addressing herself to Gaston. "There are but thirty guests invited, and I hear that great indignation is felt by certain persons who are not included in the number."

Madame de Fleury's shaft was directed towards Mrs. Gilmer, who was writhing with vexation, at not forming one of the select party.

Mrs. Gilmer heard, and bit her lips with suppressed rage.

"Twelve dresses!" cried Lord Linden. "Twelve new dresses for seven days?"

"Quite a moderate supply; but I could not possibly get through the week with less," answered Madame de Fleury, serenely. "You are invited of course?"

Lord Linden replied in the affirmative.

"And you, M. de Bois?" inquired the marchioness innocently, though she was quite aware that he would repeat his lordship's answer, for she had been consulted in regard to the guests whom it would gratify her to meet.

Mrs. Gilmer, who was choking with vexation, sought revenge in one of those petty manoeuvres which women of the world thoroughly understand. She paused, in the most natural manner, before the hat which she had just extolled, and which she had been informed was designed for Madame de Fleury, and said aloud,—

"What a pretty bonnet! Admirably suited to hide the defects of an uncertain complexion, and hair of no color, neither light nor dark. It is not too gay or coquettish either; just the thing for a woman of thirty, who has begun to fade."

"I beg pardon, madame, it is intended for Madame de Fleury," answered Victorine, reprovingly, and not immediately comprehending the intentional spite of Mrs. Gilmer's remark.

"Indeed!" returned the latter, still speaking as though she had no suspicion of the presence of the marchioness; "will it not be rather young for her? It seems to me that these colors are a little too bright for a person of her age."

"Madame de Fleury is present, and may overhear you," whispered Victorine, warningly.

"Ah, indeed! I did not perceive her; much obliged to you for telling me, for she conceals her age so well that I would not mortify her by letting her suppose that I am aware of her advanced years," continued the malicious little lady in a very audible tone.

Madame de Fleury was, in reality, but twenty-five, and particularly sensitive on the subject of her age, or rather of her youth. She expected to be taken for twenty-two at the most, and had been furious when Mrs. Gilmer talked of her bonnet as suitable to a person of thirty; but when her spiteful rival had the audacity to suggest that Madame de Fleury had even passed that decisive period, she could scarcely contain her rage. By a sudden impulse she turned and faced the speaker. Both ladies made a profound courtesy, with countenances expressive of mortal hatred.

Lord Linden could not help whispering to Gaston, "Feminine belligerents! Those courtesies were exchanged after the manner that men exchange blows. It is very strange," he continued, looking about. "I do not see my fair incognita, though she certainly entered here. I fancy the marchioness intends to depart; I prefer to linger awhile. There are several salons yonder; I will steal off quietly and take refuge where I can watch who passes."

Lord Linden had hardly disappeared before the marchioness remarked to Victorine, "You said my dress would be ready in an hour, Mademoiselle Victorine? I will take a short drive and return in that time. Let Mademoiselle Melanie know that I particularly wish to have an interview with her. I must see her about that unfinished dress which certainly shall not go to New Orleans."

She courtesied once more very profoundly to Mrs. Gilmer and departed, quite forgetting Lord Linden, who was well pleased not to be missed.

"Mademoiselle Melanie will not be so unjust as to let Madame de Fleury have that dress after refusing it to me," observed Mrs. Gilmer tartly. "If she is, I never more"—

The threat was nipped in the bud, for she well knew no one could replace the sovereign modiste, and that the loss of Mrs. Gilmer's custom would not in the least affect Mademoiselle Melanie, who daily refused a crowd of applicants.

Recovering herself, the banker's wife concluded by saying, "Madame de Fleury is to return in an hour; very well; I will call somewhat later to learn Mademoiselle Melanie's decision. If the dress is not mine it certainly must not be Madame de Fleury's. We shall see if Mademoiselle Melanie's boasted justice is found wanting, or if she acts up to her professions."

M. de Bois conducted Mrs. Gilmer to her carriage, and returned to the salon; for he had an especial reason for desiring to see Madeleine; but, having called during the hours which she scrupulously devoted to her vocation, he did not feel at liberty to intrude in her private apartments.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE MESSAGE.

Shortly after M. de Bois returned to the exhibition salons, Madeleine entered the workroom. Gaston could see her moving about among the young girls, distributing sketches, making smiling comments upon the occupation of this one and that; pointing out defects or praising execution. Every face seemed to brighten when it was turned toward her, and every countenance wore an unmistakable expression of affection. We might, perhaps, except that of Mademoiselle Victorine, whose high opinion of her own abilities made her somewhat jealous of Madeleine's supremacy. Yet, even she experienced an involuntary reverence for the head of the establishment, though golden dreams of some day leaping into her place were ever floating through the Frenchwoman's plotting brain.

Beside the table where Ruth was painting, Madeleine made the longest pause. She seemed disposed to converse with her young favorite; and Ruth smiled so gratefully that M. de Bois was half reconciled to the delay, though he had an important reason for wishing to exchange a few words with Madeleine as soon as possible. The interval before she passed out of the room to return to her boudoir appeared sufficiently tedious. Gaston followed her and said,—

"Will you grant me a few moments, or are you very busy this morning?"

"Busy always," replied Madeleine, extending her hand to welcome him; "but seldom too busy to lack time for my best friend. Will you come to my own little sanctum?"

The room to which Gaston followed her offered a striking contrast, in point of furniture, to those which they had just left. Madeleine's boudoir, though it had an air of inviting comfort, was adorned with almost rigid simplicity. The only approach to luxury was a tiny conservatory, she had caused to be built, rendered visible by glass doors.

Madeleine took her seat before a small rosewood table, and with a pencil in her hand, and a piece of drawing-paper before her, said, "You will not mind my sketching as we talk. I have an idea floating through my head, and I want to throw it off on paper; I can listen and answer, just as well, with my fingers occupied."

Well might Gaston contemplate her in silent and wondering admiration. Neither her countenance nor her manner betrayed any trace of the suffering she must have endured on the day previous. She seemed to have completely banished its recollection from her thoughts. M. de Bois was fearful of touching upon the subject, it seemed so wholly to have vanished from her mind; yet his errand compelled him.

"What courage, what perseverance you possess, Mademoiselle Madeleine! It is incredible,—inexplicable," he said, at last, as he watched the delicate fingers moving over the paper.

"There you err," answered Madeleine, brightly. "It is, at least, very explicable, for it is in working that I find my strength, my inspiration, my consolation! It was work, incessant work, which sustained me when I determined to take a step from which my weaker, frailer part shrank. A step which utter wretchedness first suggested to me; which seemed terribly galling, oppressively revolting; which I ventured upon with inconceivable pain. Yet, as you have seen, I was enabled, in time, to look upon that step with resignation; I afterwards contemplated it with pride; I now regard it with positive pleasure. This could never have been had I not resolved to resist all temptation to brood over grief, and turned to work as a refuge from sorrow."

"And it is really true, then, that you, a lady of noble birth, dropping from so high a sphere into one not merely humble, but laborious, find your vocation a pleasure at last."

"It is most true," said Madeleine lifting her beautiful eyes, with such a radiant expression that the genuineness of her reply could not be doubted. "When one has, for years, lived upon the bare suffrage of others, no matter how dear,—when one has had no home except that which was granted through courtesy, compassion, charity,—you cannot conceive how delicious it is to dream of independence, of a home of one's own! And this sweet dream has become reality to me more speedily and more surely than my most sanguine hopes dared to anticipate. Think, in what a rapid, an almost miraculous manner my undertaking has prospered; by what magic my former life (that of an aristocratic lady who employed herself a little, but without decided results) has been exchanged for the delights of a life of active use, bringing forth golden fruition! In a word, how suddenly my poverty has been turned to wealth,—at all events, to the certain promise of opulence. And the most delightful sense of all is the internal satisfaction of knowing that I have done this myself, unaided; save, indeed, by the kindness, the counsel, the invisible protection of such a friend as you are, and such a friend as Mr. Hilson has proved."

"We have done nothing—but watch and admire."

"Nothing?" answered Madeleine, with gentle reproach. "Who helped me carry out all my projects? When a man's hand was needed, who stretched out his? but always with such prudence and delicacy that I could not be compromised. How helpless I should have been in Paris without you! And how many mistakes might I not have committed in America without Mr. Hilson's aid! Little did he think, when he dined at the Chateau de Gramont, with a noble family, and asked one of its members to promise that if she ever visited America she would apprise him of her presence there,—little could he imagine how soon she would make a home in his native land, and of what inestimable aid his friendship would be to her."