"He has been truly serviceable," answered Gaston. "His advice was always good, and in nothing better than in deciding you to take this house, which you, at first thought too magnificent; he was wise, also, in persuading you to furnish it so luxuriously. He comprehended, better than you or I did, that a certain amount of pomp and show would make a desirable impression upon the inhabitants even of a republican country."

"Yes, I have cause to thank him for that counsel. And when I reflect that this house, which I at first thought too splendid, will soon become my own, I can hardly believe my good fortune. To-day, or to-morrow, I am to make the last payment of ten thousand dollars, and the house will be mine, clear of all incumbrance. I have the money ready, and probably before night it will be paid. This very morning, when I returned home, as I entered the door, I could not but pause suddenly, and say to myself, 'Is this no dream? Have I a home of my own, at last? Will this elegant mansion to-day become mine, and through the toil of'"—

"'Fairy fingers,'" interrupted Gaston.

"Something magical, I am inclined to admit," returned Madeleine, gayly. "But had it not been for the earnest counsels of Mr. Hilson, I should never have felt justified in living in my present style; he convinced me that the money I expended in surrounding myself with all the elegances of life was laid out at interest; and I suppose he is right; these elegances have perhaps drawn the rich to my door."

"What was it that drew the poor?" asked Gaston. "You have tried to keep your charities as secret from me as your noble birth was kept from others, but accident has made me acquainted with more than you are aware. I know with what liberal hands you have succored the needy."

"Those who have endured the sharp sting of poverty themselves may well feel for the poor," replied Madeleine. "And yet, I do little enough for my poor human sisters and brothers; but we are gossiping very idly. Did you not say that you particularly wished to speak to me? It was not simply to make these sage reflections, was it?"

"No; but I shrank from touching upon the subject while you seemed so serene and happy. I could not bear to recall the painful interview with your family yesterday, when they—they—they"—

"When they cast me off!—spurned me as one degraded! Do not fear to speak out. My aunt is implacable,—I might have known that she would be,—and Count Tristan is the same."

"What matter? You have no need of their affection. And yet, the day will come when they will all seek you, and be proud and glad to claim you. I say it, and I feel it!"

Madeleine shook her head.

"And they did not all throw you off. Was not Mademoiselle Bertha just what she always is? And was not Maurice,—though he appeared to be so completely overwhelmed that he could not command his voice,—was he not the same as ever?"

"Was he the same, think you?" asked Madeleine, eagerly.

"Yes, I am sure of it; and I come here to-day as his messenger,—or, rather, as the herald of his coming."

Madeleine trembled, in spite of herself. The thought of beholding Maurice once more, of conversing with him, of listening to him, affected her too strongly for her to be able even to assume indifference.

M. de Bois regarded her with an air of exultation.

"I have judged you rightly, then, and you are unchanged. Maurice is not less dear to you than"—

Madeleine's hand, appealingly lifted, checked him.

For a few moments she remained silent. When her tranquillity was somewhat restored, she said slowly, but in an altered tone,—

"You are the messenger of Maurice; what did he request you to say to me."

"He commissioned me to let you know that he earnestly desired an interview with you, at once,—and alone,—free from interruption. He entreats you to receive him to-day. I promised, as soon as I could make known to you his petition, that I would return to him with your answer;—he awaits it impatiently. What answer shall I give him?"

"He may come," answered Madeleine, in a tone of suppressed emotion.

"I will tell him that he may be here in an hour?" said Gaston interrogatively, for he saw the mighty struggle Madeleine was making to control herself, and thoughtfully desired to give her some little time for preparation.

Madeleine bowed her head in acquiescence.

Gaston had too much delicacy to prolong the conversation. He bade her adieu and at once sought Maurice.



CHAPTER XXVI.

MEETING OF LOVERS.

M. de Bois lost no time in communicating to Maurice the result of his visit. He found the young viscount awaiting him with torturing impatience. Gaston had scarcely said that Madeleine would receive her cousin in an hour, when Maurice, without heeding the last words, caught up his hat, convulsively grasped his friend's hand, and, without uttering a syllable, hurried forth.

He was acquainted with Madeleine's residence,—he had sought it out the night previous,—and thither he now hastened. He bounded up the street door-steps, but paused a moment as his hand touched the bell. Was he again about to look upon that face which he had sought with such fruitless, but frenzied ardor? He thought of those days when all creation became a blank because that heaven-lit countenance no longer shone upon him. His brain and heart throbbed and beat at those tumultuous recollections until both seemed mingled in one wild motion.

He comprehended Madeleine's character so well that he knew he should find her tranquil and self-possessed; and was he about to enter her presence as voiceless and unmanned as during their brief rencontre the day previous?

He turned to descend the steps in the hope of collecting his scattered faculties, by walking awhile, but the very thought of delaying, even for a few moments, an interview for which he had so long pined caused him too sharp anguish for endurance; he seized the bell, and rang with as sudden an impulse as though he feared the mansion before which he stood would vanish away, and he would awake from one of the old dreams by which he had been haunted.

The door opened and he was at once conducted to Madeleine's boudoir.

Madeleine was still sitting before the little table where Gaston de Bois had left her. The sketch she had commenced lay before her, and the pencil beside it; but though she had not moved from her seat, the drawing had not received an additional touch.

As Maurice entered she rose, and advanced toward him, stretching out both her hands. Closely clasping those extended hands, he gazed upon her with an expression of rapture. For a moment, the large, clear windows of her soul opened as naturally and frankly as ever; but his look was so full of unutterable tenderness that over her betraying eyes the lids dropped suddenly, and her face crimsoned, it might be with happiness which she felt bound to conceal.

Madeleine was the first to speak; but the only words she murmured were, "Maurice!—my dear cousin!"

How her accents thrilled him! How they brought back the time when that voice, which made all the music of his existence, was suddenly hushed, and awful silence took its place, leaving the memory of departed tones ever sounding in his aching, longing ears!

"Madeleine!—have I found you at last? Oh, how long we have been lost to each other!"

"You have never been lost to me," answered Madeleine involuntarily; but the words were hardly spoken when she repented them.

"I know it; M. de Bois kept you informed of my movements. But, ah, Madeleine, how could you be aware of my anguish, and so cruelly refuse a sign by which I might learn that you were near me?"

"I had no alternative. I could not have carried out the project I had formed, and which"—Madeleine paused, and looked around her somewhat proudly, then added, "and which you now see crowned with success, if I had run the risk of your tracing me. You would have opposed my undertaking,—do you not feel that you would? Answer that question, before you reproach me."

"Yes, you are right, Madeleine; I fear I should have opposed your enterprise. And yet, believe me, I honor it,—I honor you all the more on account of that very undertaking. Thank Heaven, I have lived long enough in this land, where men (and women too) have sufficient courage to use their lives, and senseless idlers are the exceptions; to realize that man's work and woman's work are alike glorious; that labor is dignified by the hand that toils; and that you, Madeleine, the daughter of a duke,—you, the duchess-mantua-maker, have reached a higher altitude through that very labor than your birth could ever command."

"Maurice,—my cousin, my dear, dear cousin!—these words compensate me for all my trials and struggles. I hardly dared to dream that I should hear them for your lips. Ah, to-day,—to-day when I am about to accomplish one of the ends for which I have most earnestly toiled,—to-day when I shall become full possessor of this mansion, henceforth a home of my own,—this day will ever be full of precious memories to me; it will be written upon my book of life moistened with the sweetest tears I ever shed,—tears of gratitude and joy."

"You are to purchase this magnificent mansion? Is it possible?" asked Maurice, for the first time looking around him. "How can you have achieved this, Madeleine? You have had some friend who aided you, and"—he paused abruptly.

"I have had friends, Maurice, warm and devoted friends," answered Madeleine, simply.

"But," he resumed, and hesitated, "how—how has all this been brought about? Ah, Madeleine, I have not forgotten, I cannot forget the sad revelation you made to me in Brittany. He whom you love,—it is he,—he who has protected you, who has enjoyed the exquisite happiness of aiding you by his advice, and by his own means perhaps"—

Maurice uttered these words excitedly and almost in a tone of reproach.

"No, Maurice," returned Madeleine, growing ghastly pale, and speaking with an effort which gave her voice a hollow, unnatural sound. "He whom I love has never aided me,—I have received no assistance from him,—I have given him no right to offer any."

"He whom you love!" repeated Maurice with culminating anguish. "Then you love him,—you do love him still? Answer me, Madeleine. Do not torture me by suspense! Answer me,—you love him still?"

"As ever!" replied Madeleine, and an irrepressible blush chased the ashy whiteness of her cheeks.

"And he is here,—here in America,—here in Washington?" asked Maurice.

"Yes."

"And you see him? You have seen him perhaps this very day?"

"Yes."

"And he loves you,—loves you as much as ever?"

Madeleine silently bowed her head, but the radiant light that overspread her countenance answered more unmistakably than the affirmative action.

"Ah, Madeleine, can you think, can you believe that his love equals mine? You do not answer; speak, I implore you! Do you believe that he has loved you as I love you?"

Madeleine felt impelled to reply because she deemed it best for Maurice to be confirmed in his error. In a low, tremulous tone, and with her eyes swimming in the soft lustre of a half-formed tear, she murmured, "Yes."

"No! no! It cannot be!" burst forth Maurice. "No woman was ever loved twice with such absorbing devotion. You cannot be to him what you are to me! You cannot have saved him from all the perils from which you have saved me! Ah, Madeleine, since you have been selected to fill the place of a guardian angel to me, why, why was my love rejected? Why did another rob me of your heart? Why were you willing to unite your fate to his and not to mine?"

"Maurice," said Madeleine, regaining some degree of composure, "I shall never forget the noble offer you made me when I was a desolate outcast; I shall never forget the joy it gave me,—the gratitude it caused me,—the good it did me, at the very moment when I was forced, ay forced to reject that offer. But had there been no other barrier could I have consented to become a burden to you? I,—poor and friendless,—could I have consented to draw down the anger of your family upon you? Could I have consented to separate you from them?—to make a lasting feud between you? Say, Maurice, would you have had me do this?"

"I would have had you leave me still a hope upon which I could have existed, until I had fitted myself to enter an honorable profession; until I had a prospect of earning an independence through that profession; until I had the right to say to you (as I now might, were you but mine in heart), Madeleine, I have waited patiently, and toiled earnestly,—will you share my narrow means, my almost poverty? Will you be my wife? We might have been exiles, so to speak, for we should perhaps have been cast off by our own kindred, and might never have returned to our native land; but your presence would have made this new country,—this young Hercules of lands,—this land full of sinews, bones and muscle, not yet clothed with rounded symmetry of outward form, but fresh and strong and teeming with promise, a true home to us. Its vast, ever-growing mind would have given new expansion to our own mental faculties. We should have grown spiritually, and reached nobler heights together. If we had griefs to endure, grief itself would have been sweet to me if we drank it from the same cup. All this might have been, Madeleine, if you had loved me as I love you."

Madeleine passed her hand over her eyes as if to shut out some picture of blinding brightness conjured before them by his words; and, looking up with forced serenity, said,—

"Maurice, though I cannot be your wife, do you refuse to let me take the place of a sister?—a sister who loves you with the most tender affection,—who will rejoice in your joy and share your sorrow, and look upon her own life as brighter if she brightens yours? Since it has been the will of Heaven that we should meet again before the time I proposed arrived, there is no need that we should become strangers to each other. Because I cannot be all that you desire, you will not reject such affection as I can offer you?"

"Reject it? No, rejection has only emanated from your side," he continued bitterly. "I was and am unworthy of your affection, your confidence; but what you will grant I will thankfully receive, too poor not to feel enriched even by your coldest regard."

"Will you prove that to me, Maurice?"

"Yes; how can I do so?"

"By promising that you will never have a sorrow which you do not confide to me; by promising that you will never doubt my ready sympathy; more yet,—by giving me an invaluable privilege,—one which will make me proud indeed. Do not be offended, Maurice; but—but—should you ever need means to carry out any enterprise (and you know, in this land, how many offer themselves), I would claim the privilege of being your banker, and joining in your undertaking as freely as if I were indeed your sister."

"You, Madeleine? Can you imagine that I could force myself to consent to this? You are already rich then?"

"I am becoming rich,—I have laid the foundation of wealth. But tell me that you do not reject my sisterly regard, my devotion"—

"Would he whom you love permit this devotion?"

"Yes," answered Madeleine, smiling gravely.

"It would not render him wretched? It would not exasperate him?" questioned Maurice.

"No."

"He is not jealous, then?"

"Yes, I fear he is,—very jealous; but not of you."

"And yet, he has cause," returned Maurice, with violence which he could not control; "more cause than I trust he has of being jealous of any other man; and there may be, must be other men who aspire to love you. Your position, Madeleine, must expose you, at times, to impertinence; you must need protection."

"I have a talisman within which protects me ever," answered Madeleine.

"Ah, I know,—the love you bear him, my rival! Let us not speak of him. I cannot endure it; let us ever banish him from our conversation."

"I did not mean to make you suffer," said Madeleine, soothingly.

Before he could reply, Victorine entered with a mysterious air. Her countenance intimated that she had a matter of the utmost importance upon her mind.

Habituated to some of the little, pleasant, and supposed to be harmless customs of her own country, she could not comprehend that Mademoiselle Melanie appeared to have no lovers, that she entertained no gentleman in particular. M. de Bois was so openly her friend that mystery never attached itself to his visits. Mr. Hilson was a frequent visitor, but he was a married man, whose wife and daughters were among the most zealous of Mademoiselle Melanie's patrons. Victorine was always on the qui vive for the accession of a lover, as a necessary appendage to one in Mademoiselle Melanie's position; and, at this moment, she felt as though she had a clew to some intrigue.

Instead of speaking in an audible tone, she approached Madeleine, and glancing dubiously at Maurice, said, in a whisper, "Mademoiselle, I have something to communicate."

"What is it?" asked Madeleine, without the slightest embarrassment.

"A gentleman desires to see Mademoiselle Melanie immediately, and in private," whispered Victorine. "He particularly said in private, and, evidently he is very desirous of not being seen. He was quite confused when that stupid valet ushered him into the exhibition-rooms; but fortunately, I came to his assistance. He was so anxious to escape observation that he would follow me downstairs; I therefore ushered him into Mademoiselle's private drawing-room."

"Did you not ask his name?" inquired Madeleine, quietly.

"He would not give his name, mademoiselle. He said I must deliver you this note when no one was by, or slip it in your hand unperceived."

She spoke in a whisper, and gave the note with her back turned to Maurice, probably supposing that he was not aware of its delivery. Madeleine broke the seal quite openly. At the first line, however, she changed color, and was visibly disturbed. Victorine, who was watching her closely, exulted in secret. Maurice perceived Madeleine's agitation with surprise and pain. A suspicion that the letter was from his rival could not be escaped.

"What is it?" he asked, impulsively.

"I cannot tell you," replied Madeleine, hastily refolding the letter.

"Can you not tell me from whom this letter comes?"

"No—no!" she replied with unusual vehemence.

"Alas! I know too well," returned Maurice sadly. "But why should you be agitated and troubled by what he says? What right has he to give you pain?"

"You must leave me—leave me at once!" cried Madeleine, nervously.

Victorine was enchanted; the plot thickened! Here was a mystery, and she held the clew to it! It was very plain that Mademoiselle Melanie did not wish these two gentlemen to meet.

"Victorine, you will conduct monsieur"—said Madeleine. "I do not wish him to leave by the front entrance; you will conduct him through the garden."

There was a private entrance into the street through the large garden at the back of the house; but this was the first time that Victorine had ever received an order to show any visitor out by that way, and she felt she was beginning to be admitted to Mademoiselle Melanie's confidence,—an honor for which she had long sighed.

Maurice was about to remonstrate, but Madeleine said to him, imploringly, "Can you not trust me? Will you not consent to my wishes, and trust to their being explained some future day?"

Maurice, though tormented by the keenest pangs of jealousy, could not resist this appeal.

"I trust you ever, Madeleine," he replied, taking up his hat. "When may I see you again?"

"When you choose; you are always welcome; but go now. Show monsieur through the garden, Victorine."

Victorine smiled a mysterious assent. Maurice followed her out of the room, but Madeleine's intention was unexpectedly frustrated.

The visitor whom Victorine had ushered into the drawing-room had followed her unnoticed to the small entry which led into Madeleine's boudoir. The forewoman and Maurice had only taken a few steps when they encountered him.

Maurice exclaimed in astonishment, "Good heavens, my father!"

"You here, Maurice," returned the count in a severe tone.

"Are you not here, my father?"

"That is different," answered the count, hiding his annoyance beneath a frigid air. "You heard what your grandmother said. She would be indignant if she knew of this visit, and you must be aware that it does not meet with my approval."

"Have I reason to think so when I find you here also?" replied Maurice, in a manly tone.

"I come as the head of the family, and to talk upon a family matter of great importance. I do not, however, wish that my visit here should be known to any one. You understand me,—it is not to be mentioned."

"Be assured I shall not mention it," said Maurice, bowing and moving onward.

As the gentlemen had met, Victorine concluded there was now no need of showing the way through the garden entrance. She opened the door of the boudoir to admit Count Tristan, and then led the way to the entrance from the street. Maurice did not comprehend why Madeleine's orders were disregarded; for he never suspected that his father was the writer of the note.

At the sound of a footstep on the stair, the viscount raised his head, and caught sight of a gentleman who had commenced descending, but suddenly turned back, as though he also did not wish to be seen. He could not, however, disappear before Maurice had recognized Lord Linden.

Why should Lord Linden have so rapidly retreated when he thought he might be seen? Could this languid, blase nobleman be the man Madeleine loved? Could she have been acquainted with him in France? When could their acquaintance have commenced? Why had she never mentioned him? It was very singular.

Maurice left the house he had entered with such joyous sensations, sadly and slowly. Madeleine was found at last, yet Madeleine was again lost to him!



CHAPTER XXVII.

COUNT TRISTAN'S POLICY.

When Count Tristan was ushered into Madeleine's presence, he was received, not perhaps with warmth, but with marked courtesy. Nothing in her greeting betrayed that his past conduct was remembered, and yet nothing in her manner indicated that their relationship was unforgotten. Her demeanor was simply that which would have been natural and appropriate in receiving, beneath her own roof, one who was almost a stranger.

The count had been completely disconcerted by the unexpected meeting with his son; his wily smoothness was too much ruffled for him to couch his first words in polite language; he could not forbear saying,—

"I entertained the hope that my visit would be private; it is very unfortunate that I encountered Maurice; it will give him cause to think that I am opposed to his grandmother's course." He smoothed over this slip of the tongue by adding, "And, certainly, so I am! I disapprove of her excessive rigor; her conduct toward you does not meet with my full sanction."

It was the unintentional expression of Madeleine's countenance, perhaps, which made Count Tristan remember that his own conduct had strongly resembled that of his mother. But his auditor spoke no word; she was too kind to utter her thoughts, and too frank to say what she did not think.

The count went on,—

"I could not yield to my strong impulse yesterday, and defend you; it would not have done; my mother would only have been exasperated. I was forced apparently to agree with her. The sacred title of 'mother,' which is never to be forgotten, compelled me to yield her this respect,—a respect due alike to her years and to her position. But, now that we are alone, I may tell you how pained, how grieved I was at the occurrences of yesterday."

"I no longer think of them," replied Madeleine.

"As I said," continued the count, "when you left us so mysteriously in Brittany, however troubled we might have been at your sudden step, however anxious about your welfare, it was useless to be indignant, since you thought your course the right one, and you were ever conscientiousness personified; besides it should always be taken into consideration that, come what might, you are still our relation; the ties of blood are indissoluble. I said to my mother, 'It can never be forgotten that Madeleine is your niece.'"

"I would have had her forget it," replied Madeleine. "I preserved my incognita, and kept at a distance from you all that you might not be wounded by the remembrance."

"But be sure, Madeleine, that I, for one, cannot forget our relationship, nor cease to treat you as my niece."

Madeleine could not but be touched by this unexpected declaration. She answered, gratefully, "It is more than I ask, yet I thank you."

"Yes," returned the count, "and to prove to you how far I am from looking down upon you,—how much I honor your position, and how highly I esteem you,—how thoroughly I comprehend your character, and the readiness with which you always serve others,—I come here to-day to ask a favor at your hands."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Madeleine, delightedly. "You make me truly happy. Can I, indeed, serve you? You could scarcely have spoken words that had more power to gladden me."

"That is precisely what I imagined," answered the count, complacently. "Now let me explain the matter. You have often heard me speak of the property left to Maurice by his uncle. It is now almost our sole possession. Its value depends upon the railroad which may or may not run through that portion of the country. A committee of nine persons has been selected to decide whether this road shall run to the right or left. If they choose the road to the right, the property of Maurice will not be benefited, and—and—and—I cannot enter into particulars, but—but—it is almost valueless. If they choose the left road, the value of the estate will be so much increased that it will yield us,—that is, will yield my son something very handsome. Of this committee, Mr. Hilson and Mr. Meredith will vote for the left road, and, through the influence of Madame de Fleury, for which I am indebted to you, M. de Fleury's banker, Mr. Gobert, will also vote for the left: that secures us three votes."

"How glad I am that I was able to accomplish something to serve you!" said Madeleine.

"There is much more, I trust, that you will be able to accomplish. The votes of Mr. Gilmer and Mr. Rutledge must be gained,—the only two which it seems possible to obtain; for the other gentlemen are inflexible in their decision. Mrs. Gilmer is one of your customers. I hear that she raves about you; if that is the case, you can do anything with her, and she will manage her husband. Have you no mode of winning her over to our side?"

Madeleine pondered a moment, then answered gayly,—

"Yes, I have at my command one method that is certain,—perfectly certain. Mrs. Gilmer is very desirous of receiving an invitation to Madame de Fleury's ball. The marchioness has left her out on purpose. Mrs. Gilmer has made numerous efforts, but, thus far, unsuccessful ones, to obtain this invitation; if I could secure it for her she would gladly repay me by inducing her husband to vote as you desire."

"Bravo! Bravo! we shall succeed; for you can surely obtain the invitation. Madame de Fleury herself said that she was enchanted at the opportunity of obliging you,—that she could not do too much to show her great consideration."

"Yes; but you can scarcely comprehend the difficulty of persuading her to consent to invite Mrs. Gilmer. She mortally detests her, and I could offer few petitions which she would be less likely to grant. Still, I will use strong arguments,—powerful inducements. I will endeavor to think of some temptation which she cannot resist."

"That is just what I believed you would do, my dear Madeleine," said the count, taking her hand.

Madeleine withdrew it, though not too abruptly. The contact gave her, magnetically, as it were, a painful impression.

"But how," she asked, "is Mr. Rutledge to be reached?"

"Through you,—through you again, my kind, good Madeleine," answered the count, hilariously.

"Through me? I do not know him except by name. He is a bachelor; therefore there is no wife who can be induced to become a mediator."

"No, there is no wife, to be sure, but there is a lady-love whom he hopes to make his wife, and she, also, is one of your patrons; it is the sister of Lord Linden; you might solicit her, or you might obtain her influence through his lordship."

"Through his lordship? That is not possible," replied Madeleine, decisively.

"Surely it may be," remarked the count, "since you are acquainted with him, and I have faith in your powers of persuasion."

Madeleine looked very much astonished as she answered, "What has made you imagine that I have any acquaintance with Lord Linden?"

"I saw him upstairs in one of your salons, sitting in a comfortable arm-chair, as though he were very much at home, reading a book."

Madeleine looked confounded.

"Lord Linden?"

"Yes; you will therefore admit that it was quite natural for me to suppose that he had the entree here?"

"I did not know that he was in the house!" returned Madeleine, ingenuously. "He has never been here before to my knowledge. I once was thrown in contact with him in travelling from New York to Washington. The cars met with an accident and he broke his arm; I, being unhurt, was of some little assistance; but I have never seen him since."

"Then it is a most fortunate chance," resumed Count Tristan, "that brings him here. Through him you can influence his sister,—through her the vote of Mr. Rutledge will be secured, and these two votes gained; the road to the left will be chosen, and for this I shall be wholly your debtor. Truly, Madeleine, you are the fairy Maurice used to call you in old times; for you have the power, the gift of working wonders, and you always had!"

"Cousin Tristan,"—began Madeleine, seriously, then paused; "do you allow me still to call you so?"

"Yes,—yes, undoubtedly; and especially when we are alone. Call me cousin, certainly; but what did you wish to say?"

"You must find some other advocate as far as Mr. Rutledge is concerned. I fear I have not sufficient influence with Lady Augusta Linden to make this request, or to induce her to grant it, or to prevent her thinking the petition itself an impertinence."

"That does not matter; you can manage the affair through Lord Linden, and the opportunity presents itself this very moment, since he is here,—here under your own roof."

"I cannot see him,—I particularly desire not to see him; there are reasons which must prevent my asking any favor at his hands. It is totally out of my power to do what you desire."

"But it is of the greatest importance, Madeleine; this opportunity must not be thrown away. What would Maurice think if he believed that you refused to serve him at such a critical moment?"

"Maurice, if he knew all which I could tell him, would be the first to forbid my appealing to Lord Linden. I pray you to seek some other means of influencing Mr. Rutledge; he cannot be reached through me."

"I have no other!" cried the count, with desperate energy. "My sole dependence is upon you. And, Madeleine, this is not the mere question of gain: more than I dare confide to you depends upon the decision of that committee."

Madeleine made no response, but her manner plainly manifested that she was not prepared to retract what she had said.

"Madeleine," continued the count, with ill-disguised anger, and feeling that he had no alternative but to make a confession which humbled him to the dust, "this property was held in trust by me; my difficulties, my embarrassments, have been overwhelming: they have brought me to the verge of absolute ruin. A man may be placed in positions where he is forced into actions from which he would otherwise shrink; this was my case. I obtained from Maurice a power of attorney which he thinks I have never used,—but—but—impelled by my troubles, and without his knowledge, I have been induced,—women cannot understand business matters; it was a course that could not be avoided,—I have been forced to compromise the interest of Maurice; I have been compelled to mortgage his estate so heavily that it is valueless unless this road augments its present worth. Do you not see what is at stake? Will you not exert yourself to save me, to save Maurice from the mortification of knowing that I have committed an action which might be misconstrued,—which might be condemned,—might be considered,"—the count paused, overcome with shame.

Madeleine hesitated; for the sake of Maurice she could endure to be misunderstood,—she could submit to place herself in a position which humbled and compromised her.

The count saw that her resolution was shaken, and he did not lose his advantage.

"Remember that Maurice is beginning life; he has imbibed the sanguine spirit of the land in which he has lately lived. What a sudden and crushing blow to him will be the revelation that awaits him! Can you bear to contemplate its effect? I cannot. Answer, Madeleine; he has suffered much, much for your sake: will you, will you make him suffer more?"

"No!" answered Madeleine, firmly. "Come what may, I will see Lord Linden, and obtain his influence with his sister if I can."

"There spoke the Madeleine of other days!"

Madeleine interrupted him: "Spare me your praises; I do not deserve them. If Lord Linden is here, as you say, I will see him at once."

"That is right; you are prompt as ever. I will take my leave. It may not be well for him to see me here. Success to you, Madeleine! But you always command success. It is a condition of your existence."

The count withdrew, and Madeleine, with a sad countenance, only waited until the street door closed upon him, to keep her promise and seek Lord Linden.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

LORD LINDEN'S DISCOVERY.

Lord Linden, who had resolved not to leave the house until he had discovered his incognita, waited with laudable patience, closely scanning every lady who passed through the adjoining apartments. His position did not command a view of the workroom. An hour passed, and he began to get puzzled. The non-appearance of the lady who had entered the house was inexplicable, unless she resided there. His perplexity was momentarily increasing, when he saw Count Tristan in conversation with the forewoman. They left the apartment together. It then occurred to Lord Linden that there might be other exhibition-rooms in the lower story, and he had better reconnoitre. He had made up his mind to do this, and was descending the stair, when he caught sight of Maurice de Gramont and involuntarily retreated. What was Count Tristan doing here? What brought his son here? Neither of the gentlemen were accompanied by ladies. He returned to his former station, uncertain what step to take next. Just then, Victorine passed through the apartment on her way to the workroom. He accosted her and inquired if there were exhibition rooms on the lower floor. She informed him that the first story was reserved by Mademoiselle Melanie for her own use.

Lord Linden returned to his arm-chair, and had just made up his mind that the lady of whom he was in search had visited Mademoiselle Melanie in her own apartments and left the house again, when he was startled, astounded, and overjoyed by the sight of the very being he sought, tranquilly approaching him.

Madeleine looked serious, even sad; for she had consented to stoop to an action which mortified her deeply.

Lord Linden was so thoroughly amazed at her sudden appearance that he could not move,—could not collect himself to address her.

She courtesied, and said, with grave sweetness,—

"I was only informed a few moments ago of your presence here, my Lord."

Lord Linden rose and stammered out, "Is it possible? Do I really behold you? This morning I saw you enter this house. I gained my admission as Madame de Fleury's escort, and lingered in the hope of seeing you after she left."

Lord Linden did not know how to proceed. He had expected to encounter his incognita wearing her hat and mantle. He had supposed that her visit to the residence of the celebrated couturiere was to make some purchase. To behold her so apparently at home bewildered him.

Madeleine perfectly comprehended his perplexity, and, with the utmost composure, attempted to clear away the mist from his mind by saying,—

"I beg pardon; I was not aware that you accompanied Madame de Fleury. As I have the honor of numbering Lady Augusta Linden, your lordship's sister, among my customers, I thought"—

"Customers? Your customers? You, then, are"—

"Mademoiselle Melanie, the mantua-maker," answered Madeleine with an unfaltering voice.

"You? Can it be?"

Pointing in the direction of the workroom, she answered with a half-smile, "Yonder are a number of witnesses who can testify to my identity."

Lord Linden, trying to conceal the shock he had received, and gazing upon her with admiration, exclaimed, in an impassioned tone,—

"Ever since I first met you, when you were returning from"—

"From New York," broke in Madeleine, "where I went to choose silks and velvets and other feminine paraphernalia for the use of my customers."

Lord Linden was again discomfited. After a moment he went on,—

"I have sought you everywhere. I was certain I should find you in the first drawing-rooms in Washington."

"You find me in a salon which a great many ladies visit before they enter those drawing-rooms."

"It is incredible!"

"To me it seems very comprehensible," answered Madeleine stoically.

He looked into her lovely countenance and continued, with increasing fervor,—

"I have never ceased to think of you. No other woman has had power to efface your image. Having known you, without ever suspecting who and what you are"—

Madeleine interrupted him.

"Now that you are aware who I am and what I am, my lord, it becomes easier to dissipate any illusion which owes its origin to a mystery with which you were pleased to surround me."

"To exchange my illusions, perhaps, for others, more captivating, more poetic," resumed the nobleman.

"Do you talk of poetry, my lord, to a mantua-maker?"

"Say, rather, to one who, in spite of her vocation, inspires me with the most absolute veneration. I swear to you—But no, my actions, not my words, must prove my admiration. You shall find me ever at your command. I shall count it the greatest happiness of my life to devote myself to your service."

"My lord, you tempt me to put your words to the test."

"Do so, I pray you. It is what I most desire."

"By a singular chance," said Madeleine, "one of those marvellous coincidences which sometimes occur in real life, but which look like fiction when they are related in books, an opportunity presents itself that may enable you to prove the sincerity of your protestations. You must understand that I am a woman of business. But that is easily comprehended, as I am a woman who toils for her daily bread. I take great interest in the decision of the committee of a certain railroad company, one of the members of which I desire to influence."

Lord Linden looked stupefied, and almost as if he thought Madeleine were making a jest of him. But her grave manner contradicted that suggestion.

She went on as tranquilly as before,—

"They are to decide, at their next meeting, whether a certain railroad shall take the direction to the right or left. I desire that the left road should be chosen."

Lord Linden still regarded her as though he were too completely astounded to make any comment.

"Certain members of the committee will, I am aware, vote for the left road. I wish to secure the vote of Mr. Rutledge."

"Mr. Rutledge!" exclaimed Lord Linden. "I know him well."

"He is the warm admirer of Lady Augusta Linden," observed Madeleine. "It is even reported that he aspires to her hand."

Lord Linden showed plainly that he was astonished to find one in Madeleine's position so conversant with the affairs both of the business world and the beau monde.

Madeleine proceeded,—

"If any influence can be used with Mr. Rutledge to induce him to vote for the left road, it will cause me gratification, I cannot explain of what nature. You have spoken, my lord, of desiring to serve me. I have very frankly pointed out in what manner it was possible that you might confer a favor upon me. If I could enter into full particulars, this request would lose its singularity. As that cannot be done, I can only entertain the hope that you will believe it has an interpretation which I should not blush to reveal."

"That I feel,—of that I am certain," returned the nobleman, earnestly. "No one could look at you and doubt the nobility of your actions and motives. I am almost hardy enough to venture to promise Mr. Rutledge's vote. Will you permit me to return here after I have spoken with him, and report to you the result of my advocacy?"

Before Madeleine could reply, Mrs. Gilmer entered the adjoining room.

Madeleine rose, and, courtesying to her visitor, said,—

"Your lordship will excuse me; my duty requires that I should leave you and attend to this lady."

She glided out of the room, but Lord Linden continued to watch her, as though he could not force his eyes away.

It was some time before he made his exit.

Mrs. Gilmer was looking very much depressed. She had begun to believe that it was very possible she would receive no invitation to Madame de Fleury's ball.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Melanie," said she, as Madeleine entered; "you will sympathize with me. I have never had such a mortification before. I knew Madame de Fleury's enmity, but I could not believe her so cruel, so inhuman. She is thoroughly devoid of feeling, and has determined to leave me out of her invitations. I actually induced the Russian ambassadress, with whom she is very intimate, to intercede for me. I have just seen Madame Orlowski, and she tells me Madame de Fleury refused point blank. She resisted Madame Orlowski's most urgent entreaties, and will not yield to any one; I have no longer any hope. I shall be excluded from this ball, of which all Washington is talking. How am I to survive such a slight?"

"It, however, may still be possible," said Madeleine, smilingly, "to obtain you an invitation."

"You think so? You really think so?" cried Mrs. Gilmer, in joyful surprise. "Do not raise my hopes to the highest pitch to cast them down again unless you want to make me ill for a month. Who could have the power to obtain me an invitation after the Russian ambassadress has been refused?"

"It sounds very presumptuous to say so, but I may have."

"You? My dear Mademoiselle Melanie,—you? I can well believe it. Madame de Fleury adores you; she owes all her success to you. Oh, I know it, well enough, though you may pretend to be ignorant of what you have done for her. And you seriously think you can get me this invitation? You will positively make the effort?"

"I will use my best endeavors, and I am pretty sure I shall succeed; but it is to be the return for a favor which I desire you to grant me."

"A favor? You can ask none that I will not grant in return for this invitation," replied Mrs. Gilmer, eagerly.

Madeleine could scarcely repress a smile, tinged with a slightly scornful expression.

"You American ladies are said to be all-powerful with your husbands; you, no doubt, have great influence with Mr. Gilmer?"

"I fancy I have," said Mrs. Gilmer, tossing her graceful head. "I arrange matters so as to have him in my power. I know his weak points, and I make it a rule to play upon them until I obtain everything I desire. Just at this moment, he is in a particularly favorable state: he is frantically jealous; though, between ourselves, I never give him real cause. I only excite his jealousy to use it as a valuable weapon against himself. Tell me quickly what favor you desire."

"Mr. Gilmer is a member of a committee which is to decide upon the course a certain railroad is to take. I wish to secure his vote for the left road."

"How odd! What difference can it make to you?"

"It would occupy too much time to explain that, and might not interest you. The important question is, can he be induced to vote for this left road?"

"I dare say; I do not doubt it,—that is, if you are really in earnest, and can promise me my invitation to the ball in exchange for his vote."

"The one depends upon the other," replied Madeleine. "I had the good fortune to secure the vote of Mr. Gobert, the banker of Monsieur de Fleury, and"—

"Mr. Gobert votes for the left road? Ah, that increases the difficulty. My husband makes a point of never voting as he does,—never! It is enough that Mr. Gobert votes one way for him to vote the other."

"That is singular; they are both bankers, and I thought they were friends."

"It is because they are both bankers that they are the bitterest enemies. Talk of the jealousies of women, of artists, of men of genius, of nations! Those are nothing to the jealousy of these rival capitalists, who are engaged in a perpetual strife to excel each other. If Mr. Gobert gives a ball that costs two thousand dollars, Mr. Gilmer gives one that costs four thousand. If Mr. Gobert builds a superb house, Mr. Gilmer builds a palace. It is a steeple-chase of vanity, in which the conqueror has for the only price of his victory the delight of seeing his rival conquered."

"Then you find the difficulty of reconciling Mr. Gilmer to vote for the left road beyond your skill?"

"No,—no,—I do not say that. I do not admit that, by any means. But Mr. Gobert is a great obstacle."

"But one which the pleasure of attending this ball will enable you to surmount?"

"Yes, I trust so. There is a way,—there is a sacrifice I can make; and I will not hesitate for such an object. My husband detests, without the slightest cause, a gentleman who visits me frequently: now, if I promised not to receive this obnoxious, but very delightful individual (whom I care nothing about), I think Mr. Gilmer, in return, would be willing, for once, to cast, his vote on the same side as his enemy. It would need some such grave inducement, some such unquestionable sacrifice on my part."

"That sacrifice may also be a prudent action," observed Madeleine.

"Oh, I do not know about that," replied the thoughtless woman of fashion; "a woman is expected to have admirers; they only render her more valuable in the eyes of her husband. I should not consent to offend this devoted friend without some strong incentive. But to insure being present at Madame de Fleury's ball, I would agree to anything. So, it is a bargain: if I obtain you my husband's vote, you obtain me this invitation?"

"That is our compact," answered Madeleine.

"Agreed. I shall return home with a light heart; you have cheered me wonderfully; I am inclined to be so amiable to all the world, my husband included, that all the world and my husband are your debtors. When shall I receive the good news that you have conquered Madame de Fleury?"

"At whatever time you think you will be prepared to send me the intelligence that you have vanquished Mr. Gilmer."

"That will be this evening, before my husband goes to his club."

"By this evening, then, I will have procured you the invitation."

"Remember, I depend upon you. Good-morning."

Mrs. Gilmer departed in high good-humor, leaving Madeleine reflecting with regret upon the tools which harsh circumstance seemed to force her to use.



CHAPTER XXIX.

A CONTEST.

When Mrs. Gilmer took her leave, Madeleine returned to the seclusion of her own boudoir, having first given orders that she should be apprised when Madame de Fleury made her appearance.

Madeleine was unnerved by the agitating incidents of the morning. There are days into which emotions which might fill years are crowded. It was long since she had felt oppressed by such a sense of lassitude and melancholy. Her interview with Maurice had stirred all the tenderest chords of her spirit, yet left them vibrating sadly. The mysterious visit of Count Tristan had perplexed her mind with ominous forebodings. She could scarcely be said to have seen through his machinations, yet she had an instinctive disbelief in his sincerity, and the uprightness of his motives,—a disbelief which she vainly tried to conceal from herself. More painful still had been her conversation with Lord Linden; she could not fail to perceive that he assumed the attitude of a lover, and she felt humbled at having apparently allowed, or rather ignored, such a position. Lastly, her late bargaining scene with Mrs. Gilmer had disturbed Madeleine's sense of delicacy; and a similar scene remained to be enacted with Madame de Fleury.

Madeleine involuntarily rubbed her eyes, as though she were trying to wake from a confused dream. She could not believe that she had really entangled herself in this web of plotting, and at the bidding of Count Tristan! She feared that she had acted too impulsively,—that she had made unwarrantable use of her power. Then she remembered the look of deep distress upon Count Tristan's face as he made his half confidences; she recalled his assurances that without her interposition Maurice would not only be ruined, but that disgrace must attach itself to his father's name. She had promised her aid, had half gained the victory, and must not retreat now when the only portion of her work which remained to be accomplished consisted in compelling a fashionable puppet to send an invitation to a rival whom she detested. There was nothing objectionable in the act itself; yet Madeleine, during these calm reflections, shrank from the part she was playing, and revolted against being mingled up with stratagems, however innocent.

This revery was broken by the announcement that Madame de Fleury had arrived, and was at that moment trying on her dress.

When Madeleine entered the apartment, Madame de Fleury was standing before a mirror, evidently admiring her new costume, and in great good-humor. She turned to Madeleine gayly, and said,—

"Mademoiselle Melanie, this dress is perfection! This corsage sets off my figure beautifully! And what exquisite apologies for sleeves you have invented! My arm is one of my best points, and the tinier the sleeve the better. Then the looping of this lace dress through these miniature chaplets of wild roses is very original; the whole effect is wonderfully airy and poetic. This is one of your great triumphs; you have really surpassed yourself."

As she spoke, she turned around and around, complacently contemplating her reflected image from various points of view.

"I am particularly gratified at having pleased you, madam," said Madeleine, with more gravity than was usual to her when she accosted her light-brained customers.

Madame de Fleury, without noticing her serious mien, commenced disrobing. Victorine folded up the dress and placed it in a carton.

"I mean to take the dress with me," said the marchioness. "Mademoiselle Victorine, have the goodness to desire my servant to place that carton in the carriage."

As Victorine prepared to obey, Madeleine motioned her to desist, and said, "Not yet; leave the dress for a few moments. You may retire."

The forewoman reluctantly left the room, looking puzzled, curious, and indignant.

"What? Is some alteration needful?" asked Madame de Fleury. "Have you some fresh inspiration? Has a new idea that will improve the dress suddenly struck you?"

Without replying to these questions, Madeleine looked earnestly at the marchioness, who was now resuming her bonnet, and asked,—

"You are, then, satisfied with my work, madame?"

"Satisfied? that is a cold word. I am transported!"

"And if," continued Madeleine, "for that dress I should require a price"—

"Oh, whatever you please," replied the marchioness, lightly. "Take me prisoner, gag me, plunder me, what you will, I shall not complain: the dress is worth it; and we have never had any discussion in regard to prices."

"But the price in question is not one that can be paid with money; the price I place upon this dress is the granting of a favor,—a favor most precious to me."

"A favor? you have only to speak. Do you want an office for a friend? A recommendation for some ambitious compatriot to the emperor? A pardon for some exiled transgressor? Anything possible to the wife of the French ambassador is at your service; you have but to speak."

"My petition is somewhat easier to grant; for I only ask a few words from you in writing."

As she said this, Madeleine opened a desk, and placed upon it a sheet of note-paper, a gold pen, and an inkstand. Then she paused, and said, hesitatingly,—

"Yet, though I ask but these few written words, in full compensation for that dress, the materials of which as well as the work being mine, I fear to make my petition known, for I feel that it will cost you much to comply with my wishes."

"Nonsense! speak plainly," said Madame de Fleury, smoothing her ribbons with caressing touches.

"I would solicit an invitation to your ball for one of your acquaintances who, as yet, has received none, and who chances to be one of my customers."

"Is that all? We are enacting much ado about nothing," said the marchioness, seating herself smilingly at the desk. "You shall have the invitation, modest and mysterious petitioner. What name shall I write?"

"Mrs."—Madeleine faltered.

"Go on," cried the marchioness, who had commenced her note with the usual formula.

"Mrs. Gilmer!" responded Madeleine.

Madame de Fleury threw down the pen and started up.

"Mrs. Gilmer! Invite Mrs. Gilmer to a ball from which I have purposely excluded her? Invite her when I have the satisfaction of knowing that she is dying of mortification because she cannot get an invitation?—when I have steeled myself against the solicitations of Madame Orlowski? Never! I would rather bear the weight of all the years which she impertinently added to my age."

Madeleine, who was fully prepared for this burst, said, very quietly, and approaching the marchioness,—

"Madame, it is not long since you assured me that it would be a positive happiness to be able to render me a service."

"And I mean it. I would gladly serve you, but not by inviting Mrs. Gilmer to my ball: that is a little too much to demand."

"But this is the service I most need; a service for which I would be deeply grateful,—for which I could never sufficiently thank you,—which would attach me to you as nothing in the past has ever done."

"The offer of your gratitude and the promise of your attachment are, certainly, very touching," said Madame de Fleury, with a scornful petulance which she had never before evinced toward Madeleine; "but I beg leave to decline the indebtedness. You have forced me to remember, for the first time, that when a lady in my station deals with a person in your sphere, it is possible to be too kind, too condescending, too ready to forget necessary distinctions, and thus to draw upon one's self the consequences of that forgetfulness. You have given me a lesson, mademoiselle, by which I shall profit: in future I shall remember the distance between us."

She walked toward the work-room and called Victorine, who immediately responded to the summons.

Pointing to the carton, the indignant lady gave the order, "Have that dress placed in my carriage."

"No!" said Madeleine, addressing Victorine, commandingly. "Let the dress remain where it is."

"What do you mean, mademoiselle?" asked the marchioness, in angry astonishment.

"That dress is still mine!" answered Madeleine.

"Yours?"

"It is mine, and we will each keep that which belongs to us,—you the privilege of your rank; I, the results of my labor, however humble."

"Do I understand you rightly? Have you the hardihood to say"—

Madeleine interrupted her,—

"That I refuse to part with that dress for gold, or for any compensation you can offer, except the one already named,—an invitation for Mrs. Gilmer to your ball."

"She shall never have one! I have said it, and nothing can change my resolution."

"Nor mine! We are in the same position, madame, in spite of the difference of our stations," answered Madeleine, with cold sarcasm. "Nothing can change my resolution."

"But the dress is mine!" cried Madame de Fleury. "I will prove that it is mine; but we will settle that question afterward. Meantime, I order you, Mademoiselle Victorine, to have that dress placed in my carriage."

"I order you not to touch it!" said Madeleine.

Madame de Fleury now became so much exasperated that she seemed to be on the point of seizing the dress and carrying it off in her arms.

Madeleine perceived her intention, and, suddenly lifting the dress out of the carton, rolled it up rapidly, for the materials were light.

"I prove to whom the dress belongs, madame, by disposing of it thus!"

And with the most perfect tranquillity, she flung the disputed prize into the fire! It was burning brightly, for the day was cool, though spring had commenced.

The marchioness, for a moment, was stunned; but, as the flames caught the lace, she cried out, "Save it! save it! It is burning! What an infamous action! What a crime! It has killed me!"

She dropped upon the sofa, and was seized with one of those hysterical paroxysms which French women designate as an attaque de nerfs.

Victorine, with a great display of distress, flew to the sufferer, loosened the strings of the bonnet which she was recklessly crushing,—held a bottle of sal volatile to her nose (for the Frenchwoman was always prepared for similar pleasant excitements, and carried a vial in her pocket), and commenced rubbing the lady's hand with great energy.

"Save,—save the dress! Do not let it burn!" Madame de Fleury gasped out between her sobs.

"The dress is beyond saving, madame," replied Madeleine; "it no longer exists."

At this moment the marchioness suddenly recovered.

"And you have destroyed it? You have destroyed a toilet which would have made me talked of for a week! It is abominable,—it is disgraceful,—it is criminal!"

Madame de Fleury always used the strongest terms where matters of the toilet, the most important interests of her life, were in question.

"What am I to wear this evening? What is to become of me?"

The marchioness wrung her hands, and wept in genuine tribulation. She sunk back again upon the sofa, as though prostrated by her crushing sorrow.

Madeleine allowed the grief of the fine lady to expend itself in incoherent lamentations, and then said, in an icy tone,—

"Madame, do you desire to appear to-night in a dress which far surpasses the one I have destroyed?"

The marchioness was sobbing so violently that she could only answer by a movement of the head.

"Do you desire to wear a dress which has been refused to others?—a dress which Mrs. Gilmer used every argument to induce me to finish for her, but in vain?—a dress which I would even have refused you, with whose wishes I have ever been ready to comply?"

"What—what dress? What do you mean?"

"I refer to the dress the design of which you so much admired this morning,—the dress which is to be sent to New Orleans for Madame la Motte."

"But that dress is not finished; it is hardly commenced; only the embroidery is completed. Mademoiselle Victorine told me it could not be done under three days."

"It shall be finished for you, if you so please, before it is time for you to dress for this evening's assembly."

"But that cannot be; it is not possible; it is four o'clock now; it would be a miracle!"

"Not quite," returned Madeleine, quietly. "In past days I was said to have the fingers of a fairy, and you shall admit that magical power remains to me. I repeat, the dress shall be completed, if you desire it, to-night."

"But you have sent the design to Madame la Motte, who has approved of it, and, I hear, you are bound not to furnish a duplicate to any one."

"True, I must run the risk of losing the confidence of a patron for the first time in my life. I will tell Madame la Motte the truth, and furnish her with another equally elaborate dress,—not a very easy matter, as it must leave here in three days by express, and a new design must not only be planned, but executed, within that time. I may lose Madame de la Motte's patronage,—her esteem; but that will be the price I pay for the favor I seek at your hands."

"The favor!" repeated the marchioness, abstractedly.

In her bewilderment and grief caused by the destruction of the dress, she had forgotten, for the moment, all that had just taken place.

Madeleine pointed to the note which the marchioness had commenced, and said,—

"The invitation for Mrs. Gilmer."

"Ah! Mrs. Gilmer!" cried Madame de Fleury, as though she had been stung by the name.

"As you remarked, it is four o'clock," continued Madeleine; "the dress ought to be at your house by half past nine; there is scarcely time for any one who only pretends to be a fairy to accomplish the work. Four o'clock: it is just possible that I have promised too much,—that is, if we lose many minutes. Have you decided to write me the invitation?"

"You do not give me time for reflection," said Madame de Fleury, hesitating.

"You scarcely give me time," returned Madeleine, "to perform what I have promised; the moments are precious."

"You are sure the dress can be completed if—if I give you this invitation?"

"Yes, madame, if it be given at once. See," pointing to the clock, "five minutes have flown already, and in every moment we are to do the work of an hour. There is the pen."

Madame de Fleury took it reluctantly.

"That detestable Mrs. Gilmer will triumph so much!"

"You triumph in having obtained the dress that was refused to her, and has been refused to many others. But time flies, and I shall not be able, with all the magical aid for which I am given credit, to keep my word. Victorine, while Madame de Fleury is writing, apprise the young ladies to put by, as rapidly as possible, all other work, and be ready to take in hand that which I will give them directly. We want our whole force; let me find every one prepared to aid."

Victorine left the room to execute these orders.

Madame de Fleury seated herself and dipped the pen in ink.

"If you knew what it costs me to consent," she began.

"If I did not know," rejoined Madeleine, "I should not have offered to make a sacrifice of so much importance. A few moments more and it will be too late to decide,—your consent will be of no avail."

"Ah, that is true," cried Madame de Fleury, writing rapidly.

She left the note unfolded on the desk, and, as she rose, said in a tone of ludicrously mingled petulance and elation, "You have conquered! But I shall have my dress!"

"Be sure of it!" answered Madeleine.

Victorine now announced that all other work had been laid aside, and the young ladies awaited Mademoiselle Melanie's commands.

"Go—go—go! or you will be too late!" urged Madame de Fleury, hurrying away.

Madeleine hastened to the work-room, and distributed portions of the dress to different needle-women. After giving a number of minute directions, and making known that she would return in a couple of hours to see what progress was made, she retired to write to Mrs. Gilmer.



CHAPTER XXX.

BERTHA.

If Madeleine had been asked which of her relatives would first have sought her after the unexpected rencontre at Madame de Fleury's, she would have answered, "Bertha,"—Bertha, whose devotion had been so unflagging, so open, so daring. But on the day which succeeded that stormy interview, Count Tristan and Maurice had visited Madeleine, yet Bertha remained absent; another day passed, and still she came not.

The Countess de Gramont had resolved, at least, to postpone a meeting she might not be able wholly to prevent. She formed her plans so dexterously that Bertha was chained to her side, fretting through the tedious hours, yet powerless to secure a moment's freedom.

Exasperation caused Bertha sleepless nights; and on the third morning she rose with the sun, summoned her maid, sent for a carriage, and was on her way to Madeleine's residence some three hours before it was likely that the slumbers of the countess would be broken.

Madeleine was preparing for her matinal walk, when her cousin was announced.

After the first joyous greetings were over, Bertha said, with tender delight,—

"And now that I have found you, my own Madeleine, I mean to come to see you every day."

Madeleine shook her head sadly. "Madame de Gramont will never permit that."

"How can she help it if I choose to order all my dresses made here? The choice and discussion of becoming attire shall occupy as much of my time as it does of Madame de Fleury's. I mean to become her rival and almost ruin myself in splendid toilets,—that is, unless you accept my proposition."

"What proposition, Bertha?"

"To give up your—your—your—What shall I call it? Your occupation,—your vocation,—I have a great mind to say your 'trade,' that the word may shock you. Live with me; travel with me; go where I go. Will you not consent?"

"No," answered Madeleine, gently, but resolutely.

"Do not decide hastily. You cannot know how much I need you, Madeleine. Your counsels were indispensable to me even in days when I had no secret to confide: now—now"—

"Now you have a secret? Is it indeed so?"

Bertha nodded, paused awhile, then went on abruptly,—

"I have been pestered to death by men who aspired to my hand, and my uncle declares there is no possibility of my finding peace until I make some choice."

"And you intend to secure peace upon his terms? Possibly among those who aspired to your hand there is one who has discovered the entrance to your heart."

"Among those who have aspired,—ah, there is the difficulty! Among those there is none."

"Then you love one who has never aspired?"

"I fear so," answered Bertha, ingenuously, and yet blushing deeply.

Madeleine looked troubled; she had long entertained a pleasant hope which she saw about to vanish.

"And you have loved him,—how long?" she asked, gravely.

"Oh, a very short time; only since day before yesterday," replied Bertha.

This answer added to Madeleine's discomposure. There was no hope for Gaston de Bois.

"Why do you look so sorrowful?" inquired Bertha, noticing her cousin's expression.

"I am thinking of one who has loved you long, with such devotion, with such self-abnegation, with such an ardent desire to become worthy of you, that I could not but sigh over his disappointment. But this sudden affection of yours may not be very deep."

"Ah, but it is! And as for suddenness, when I say I have only loved him since day before yesterday, I mean that I only then discovered how much I cared for him."

"And how came you to know that he was dear to you?"

"You will be very much shocked when I answer that question; but you always said I was eccentric. I first felt that I loved him when I saw him getting into a great rage, and when I positively fancied that I caught the sound of a horrible oath, which he uttered in an undertone!"

"That is original! I never before heard of a young lady being inspired by love for a young man when he was angry, or when he was profane."

"Ah, but he was angry in a good cause," returned Bertha, earnestly. "It was righteous indignation, and it was the violence with which he defended one whom I love, that won my heart completely."

"Whom did he defend?" asked Madeleine, unsuspiciously.

"You,—you, my own, best Madeleine, and for that I loved him. It was so wonderful, knowing how constitutionally diffident he is, to see him so courageous. And when I remembered how he used to hesitate and stammer, it seemed marvellous to hear him talk on with an ease, a fluency, a fervor truly eloquent. I never ask to listen to finer oratory. My aunt, in spite of her indignation, was confounded into silence. Count Tristan could not say a word, and Maurice looked as though amazement alone kept him from throwing himself in his friend's arms, and I fear I almost felt like doing the same."

"It was Gaston de Bois, then?" cried Madeleine, with sudden transport.

"Yes. Who else could it be? And he was so comical at the same time that he was so pathetic! At first I almost felt like laughing at his odd gesticulations. And then he talked so nobly, so grandly, that I felt like weeping; and you know it is my nature to laugh and to cry in spite of myself. I have made up my mind that I could never love anybody who could not make me do both at once, just as he did, in such a comically pathetic manner."

"How shall I thank you? Gaston de Bois is my best, my truest, friend!" said Madeleine, rapturously.

"I know that well enough! Once I feared he might be the mysterious individual whom you loved; but he said himself that you were a sister to him; and I almost leapt for joy at those words. A sister never fills the whole of a man's heart,—does she?"

"Not such a heart as Gaston de Bois'. He will tell you himself who occupies the sovereign place in that heart when he knows that he may speak."

"But how is he to know? You must promise me not to tell him, not to give him even the faintest hint, of what I have communicated. Promise me that you will not."

"I promise. But you forget how diffident M. de Bois is, how distrustful of his own merits. He will not easily believe that you can think of him. And, meantime, you"—

"Will suffer. Yes, I know it; but I should suffer more if I were guilty of an unmaidenly action. So you will keep your promise?"

"I will keep it faithfully."

It was time for the cousins to part. Bertha returned to the hotel with a lighter heart, because she had transferred its weighty secret to another's keeping. But Madeleine's joy was mingled with forebodings that Gaston de Bois would not suspect his own happiness for a long, sad period, if ever.

When she went forth, it was long past the hour usually devoted to her walk. The capitol grounds were gay with promenaders. Madeleine and Ruth attracted more attention than was agreeable, and, after a short ramble, turned homeward.

As they passed out of the gates, the first person they met was Gaston de Bois. He bowed, hesitated, seemed half inclined to walk on without speaking, but changed his mind and joined them.

It was long since Madeleine had seen him apparently so ill at ease or so distressed. She smiled as she reflected how quickly three little words (which she, alas! was forbidden to speak) would change that perturbed look to one of ineffable happiness.

For a few moments he walked moodily by her side, replying at random to her casual remarks. It chanced that Ruth was not conversant with the French language, and Madeleine, struck by his abstracted air, inquired in that tongue whether he had any cause for vexation.

Gaston answered, vaguely, that he was troubled; he did not himself know with how much real cause. A moment after, he mentioned her interview with Count Tristan, and, stammering a little in his old fashion, asked whether she would deem it a great liberty if he desired to know the object of the count's visit.

A moment's reflection convinced Madeleine that M. de Bois would not have made this inquiry out of sheer, causeless curiosity; and she made known to him the count's request concerning the votes which she was to exert herself to obtain. Gaston caught eagerly at her words, and exclaimed,—

"Valueless? Are you sure Count Tristan said the property of Maurice would be valueless but for the advent of this railroad?"

"Yes," replied Madeleine; "I am quite sure that such was his assertion. But why do you ask? What has happened? Nothing to compromise Maurice?"

"I do not yet definitely know; but, if it be what I suspect, what I fear, it will compromise him wofully."

"Pray be explicit," said Madeleine, becoming alarmed. "Tell me what you positively know, and what you fear. Remember, Maurice is my cousin."

"Would he were more! But that wish now is vain. In a word, then, I have no faith in Count Tristan. I believe him capable of unscrupulous actions which might ruin his son. At the club, last night, a group of gentlemen chanced to be conversing near me. The name of Maurice de Gramont attracted my attention. A Mr. Emerson asserted that he had just made a discovery which convinced him that the Viscount de Gramont was a young man regardless of honor; and added that he intended, without delay, to commence legal proceedings against him. As soon as I could control my indignation, I informed Mr. Emerson that the Viscount de Gramont was my friend, and I could not allow his name to be used with disrespect without demanding an explanation."

"And he gave you one?" inquired Madeleine, greatly agitated.

"He did not give me one. At first he was inclined to treat my request cavalierly. But, upon my persisting, he replied that neither place nor time served to discuss a business matter; adding that he would be at his office on the morrow, at twelve o'clock, and, if I chose to call at that hour, the whole matter would be made known to me; remarking, significantly, that he had no intention of keeping the transaction from the public."

"What could he mean?"

"That I can only surmise. But a few hours will make all clear."

"To gain a few hours' time may be of the utmost importance," answered Madeleine. "Try to see Mr. Emerson at once. Learn the meaning of his words, and return to me with the intelligence."

"Ah, Mademoiselle Madeleine, you are always so prompt! I should have lingered until twelve without"—

"Go! Go at once, and come back to me quickly! You have said enough to awaken a horrible suspicion. I do not dare to let my mind dwell upon the frightful possibility that suggests itself."

M. de Bois bade her good-morning as precipitately as she could desire, and hastened upon his mission.

When Madeleine reached her home she said to Ruth, "I am unfit for my usual duties to-day. Ruth, I have long intended that you should occupy a more active and prominent position in this establishment. Do you not feel yourself competent to do so?"

Ruth returned affectionately,—

"I have studied diligently under your tuition; sometimes I fancy that I have almost mastered some of the rules, and fathomed some of the mysteries, of your art."

"To-day, then," rejoined Madeleine, "I mean that you shall wholly take my place. I have faith in your ability."

Ruth retired, well pleased at the confidence reposed in her; and Madeleine entered her boudoir to await, with a sense of dread which she could ill repress, the return of Gaston de Bois.

The clock had just struck twelve when he was announced. One glance at his pale face hardly left Madeleine courage to ask,—

"What has happened?"

"The worst, the very worst that I deemed possible, and I have been able to accomplish nothing. I feel like a brute to bring you these ill tidings a single hour before you are compelled to know them."

"Do not keep me in suspense!" urged Madeleine.

M. de Bois went on, "Maurice obtained a loan of ten thousand dollars from Mr. Emerson. The security given was upon this Maryland property, which Maurice declared to be free of all mortgage; and, no doubt, he thought it was so."

"And, alas! it is not?"

"So far from clear that Mr. Emerson yesterday learned the estate was mortgaged to its full value. Count Tristan, who held in his hands a power of attorney, has doubtless made use of the instrument without his son's knowledge."

"Did you not explain this to Mr. Emerson in defence of Maurice?"

"Assuredly; but Mr. Emerson received my assertion with open incredulity. He is determined to write to Maurice and inform him of his discovery, and also to commence legal proceedings at once."

"Should these ten thousand dollars be paid into the hands of Mr. Emerson, would they not prevent his sending the threatened letter to Maurice, or taking any other steps?" inquired Madeleine, eagerly.

"Undoubtedly; but how are we to command ten thousand dollars?"

Madeleine smiled an inexpressibly happy smile, opened her desk, took out a paper, and said,—

"I had arranged to make the last payment upon this house yesterday; the sum due was ten thousand dollars: by some mistake, the person who was to receive this money did not keep his appointment. He will, doubtless, be here to-day. A few hours later, I might no longer have had these funds under my own control. See how fortunate it is that I urged you to act promptly!"

"Mademoiselle Madeleine, what—what do you intend to do?"

"Is not my intention plain and simple enough? Here is a check for ten thousand dollars; draw the money at once, and place it in Mr. Emerson's hands."

"But the payment for your house?"

"Cannot be made. We have no time for further discussion."

"Mademoiselle Madeleine, you are"—

"Very impatient and very imperative when I issue orders that I intend to have obeyed? Admitted. You need not waste time in summing up the catalogue of my imperfections."

Gaston took the check and was preparing to depart, when Madeleine delayed him.

"Mr. Emerson must not know that these funds are furnished by me. What an endless theme for gossip and speculation would be afforded by the very suggestion that the fashionable mantua-maker came to the assistance of the young nobleman! Let Mr. Emerson understand that this money is paid by one of Maurice's relatives. That will be sufficient."

"Good," returned Gaston; "and if he should conclude that it was supplied by Maurice's grandmother, all the better. If I said a relative, and Madame de Gramont were not supposed to be the person, there is no one but Mademoiselle Bertha; and Mr. Emerson might infer—I mean, it would be natural to suppose"—

"You are right. We must guard against such a false step. Surely, no name at all is necessary; but I leave the matter to your discretion; pray hasten."

Without further discussion, Gaston set out to execute his agreeable mission. He reached Mr. Emerson's office too late to stop the threatened letter; it had already been despatched.

The young viscount was sitting in his father's drawing-room, at the hotel, musing upon the mournful singularity of his own fate, and the mystery that still enveloped Madeleine, when this letter was placed in his hands. He was, at first, too completely wonder-struck to experience a high degree of indignation. He thought he must have mistaken the meaning of what he read. But no; the words were plain enough; the accusation plain enough; the threat of legal proceedings to be instituted against him plain enough. Still, he was too much amazed to be able to give credence to the communication. He seized his hat, with the intention of hurrying to Mr. Emerson, and demanding an explanation. As he opened the door, his father entered.

"What has disturbed you so much?" asked Count Tristan, noticing his son's disordered mien.

"Nothing that will prove of consequence," returned Maurice, glancing over the open letter. "There is some vexatious mistake which will easily be explained away. And yet, the language of this letter is grossly insulting."

The count's secret guilt kept him in a constant state of torturing fear, and he now vainly endeavored to conceal his alarm.

He gasped out, "That letter—let me see it!"

Before Maurice could hand the letter, it was eagerly snatched by the count. His face grew livid as he read,—his white lips were tightly compressed,—but could not shut in the sound of a convulsive groan.

Maurice, not suspecting the true cause of his father's agitation, went on,—

"The language is rude; the accusation is made in the most unmannerly style, and as if its justice were beyond doubt; but business men, in this country, are usually abrupt, and, when they are annoyed, not too courteous; one must get accustomed to their manner. My dear father, do not let this mistake affect you too deeply; it will easily be rectified. But, first, let me explain the transaction."

The count dropped his head without speaking, but again the sound of a half-suppressed groan was audible.

"An opportunity offered," continued Maurice, "for the advantageous employment of ten thousand dollars. Mr. Lorrillard suggested my raising the money through Mr. Emerson, on the security of the Maryland estate."

The count staggered and sank into a chair. The hour of discovery then had arrived,—there was no escape! Like those hopeless culprits before the eternal judgment-seat, he could have cried out to the mountains to fall upon him and hide him.

Maurice was too much alarmed by his father's appearance to go on. The death-like pallor of his face had given place to a purple hue; his veins seemed swollen; his blood-shot eyes appeared to be starting from their sockets; his stalwart frame shivered from head to foot; he clutched the table as though for support, and his head dropped heavily upon it.

"My dear father," exclaimed Maurice, "do not let the mistake move you thus. I will go to Mr. Emerson at once"—

The count's face was lifted for an instant, as he cried in a tone of intense agony, "No, no! Not for the world!"

His head fell again; he could not bear the unsuspicious gaze of the son whom he had wronged, and in whose presence he sat, a self-condemned criminal.

"Surely it is the fitting course," replied Maurice. "I will make him retract his words."

"Impossible!" was all the count could ejaculate, still with bowed head.

"But I will prove it very possible!" returned Maurice, in a tone of determination. "Mr. Emerson cannot use such language with impunity. Though he threatens that the affair shall be made public, he cannot act so rashly as to carry out that menace, and upon a mere surmise of some kind. If there is any publicity, he shall publicly retract."

"Impossible! Impossible!" the count groaned forth again.

"That will soon be decided," answered Maurice, moving toward the door.

The count started up.

"Stay! do not go yet! You do not know what you are doing! Stay! I forbid you to go!"

Maurice had such thorough confidence in his father's probity, that his suspicions were not aroused even by this vehement language. He only imagined that the very suggestion of a dishonorable action associated with his son's name affected Count Tristan thus powerfully.

"But it is absolutely necessary that immediate notice should be taken of this letter," argued Maurice. "If I had been guilty of the act of which I have been accused, I could never have lifted my head again, and I feel degraded by the very suspicion. Do not detain me, I entreat you."

"There is something you must hear before you go!" the count whispered hoarsely.

For the first time an indefinable dread stole into the mind of Maurice. He put down his hat, and, approaching his father, could only echo the words,—

"Something I must hear?"

"You should have consulted me," the count continued, speaking with great effort.

"True, and I meant to do so, had I not been prevented. But the transaction was simple enough. My estate is unmortgaged. I had given you a power of attorney, but I knew that it had not been used; you told me so yourself, scarcely an hour before I requested Mr. Emerson to make me this loan."

"No—no,—I did not say that;—you misunderstood me,—I did not say that,—I never said that! You only inferred it! I could not be answerable for your inferences," returned the count, in the tone of a man defending himself.

"Great heavens! What does this mean?" exclaimed Maurice "I cannot have misunderstood you? You cannot have used the power of attorney?"