"I mean to decline it in the most definite manner."

"Decline?" cried Count Tristan, breathing hard, while his face rapidly changed color; for at one moment it was overspread with a death-like pallor, and then, suddenly grew purple. "Decline? Such a thing is not to be thought of; you are jesting?"

"I was never more serious in my life."

"But you will think better of the matter; you will listen to reason; you will reverse your decision," pleaded the count, his nervous incoherence and confusion increasing as he grew more and more agitated. "It's for the honor of the family to say 'yes,' and therefore 'yes' is the proper answer,—eh, Madeleine? Don't joke any more, my dear; it troubles me; it gives me such a throbbing and heavy weight in my brain. All's right,—is it not?"

Count Tristan lay back in his chair, and continued muttering, though his words were no longer comprehensible.

Madeleine now began to be alarmed, and, approaching him, said kindly, "Can I give you anything? You are not well. Let me order you a glass of wine."

He stared at her with vacant, glassy eyes, while his lips moved and twitched without giving forth any distinct sounds. He lifted up his arms in appeal; they dropped suddenly, as if struck by a giant's invisible hand, and his head fell forward heavily.

Madeleine, greatly terrified, spoke to him again and again, shook him gently by the shoulder, to rouse him,—tried to lift his head; the face she succeeded in turning toward her was frightfully distorted; white foam oozed from the lips; the eyes were suffused with blood. She had never before seen a person in a fit, but instinct told her the nature of the seizure.

Her violent ringing of the bell quickly brought servants to her assistance, and she ordered Robert to summon Dr. Bayard with the utmost haste.

This distinguished physician pronounced the attack apoplexy; and, after applying those remedies which recent discoveries in science have proved most efficacious, ordered the patient to be undressed and put to bed.

Madeleine's own chamber was prepared for the count's use. The attack was of brief duration, and he recovered from its violence soon after the physician arrived, but remained exhausted and insensible.

Another critical case required Dr. Bayard's immediate attendance, and after giving Madeleine minute directions, he took his leave, saying that he would return in a couple of hours.

Then Madeleine, who had been engrossed by the necessity of promptly ministering to the sufferer, remembered that the count's family should at once be made aware of his condition. What a frightful shock the countess would receive when she heard of her son's state! And Maurice and Bertha,—would they not be greatly alarmed? How could intelligence of the calamity be most gently communicated? Should Madeleine write? A note bearing the tidings might startle his mother too much. Madeleine saw but one alternative,—it was to go in person and break the sorrowful news as delicately as possible. She did not waste a moment in pondering upon the manner in which the haughty countess might receive her, but ordered her carriage, and drove to the hotel, leaving Count Tristan under the charge of Ruth, and Mrs. Lawkins, the housekeeper.

Arrived at her destination, Madeleine ordered her servant to inquire for the Viscount de Gramont. He was not at home. Was Mademoiselle de Merrivale at home? The same reply. Was the Countess de Gramont at home? Madeleine could not help hoping that a negative would again be returned, for she grew sick at heart at the prospect of encountering her aunt alone. The countess was within.

Madeleine's card was requested. She had none. What name should the servant give? Here was another difficulty: she was only known as "Mademoiselle Melanie;" she could not make use of her real name; besides, she feared that the countess would deny her admission if made aware who was her visitor. But something must be done. Madame de Gramont had issued orders that prevented any guest from entering her presence without permission. Madeleine asked for a sheet of note-paper, and, with her pencil, hastily wrote,—

"Madeleine entreats the Countess de Gramont to see her for a moment. She has a matter of importance to communicate."

The servant returned almost immediately, and, replacing the note in Madeleine's hand, said, "The Countess de Gramont desires me to say that she is engaged."

"It is absolutely necessary that I should see Madame de Gramont," replied Madeleine. "I will bear the blame of her displeasure if you will show me to her apartment."

"The lady is very rigid, ma'am. I don't dare."

"She will be angry at first, I admit," returned Madeleine; "but her dissatisfaction will not last when she knows upon what errand I have come. I can confidently promise you that. Perhaps you will consider this money sufficient compensation for her displeasure, should I prove wrong; and if I am right, you can keep it in payment for having served me."

She handed him a piece of gold, which the man took with so little hesitation it left no doubt upon Madeleine's mind that he was well acquainted with the nature of a bribe.

"I'll do what I can, ma'am, if you will take the blame," replied he.

Madeleine alighted, followed him to the door of the room which he designated as the drawing-room of the countess, and then desired him to retire; he obeyed with well-pleased alacrity.

The young girl had been trembling from agitation until that moment; but there was necessity for calmness in executing her mission. She opened the door with a firm hand, and entered the apartment with unfaltering steps.

The countess was sitting with her back turned to the entrance; she did not perceive Madeleine until the latter stood beside her.

Madame de Gramont pushed back her chair with a repellant gesture, and, before her niece could speak, asked indignantly, "What is the meaning of this intrusion? Did you not receive my message, Mademoiselle de Gramont, and understand that I declined to see you?"

"I received it, madame," returned Madeleine, mildly and mournfully; "but I feel sure you will pardon an intrusion I could not avoid when you learn the cause which brings me here."

"I can divine your errand, Mademoiselle de Gramont; you probably imagine that, because I permitted my son to say that your marriage with Lord Linden would, after a proper interval, allow me to acknowledge you once more as a relative, your mere acceptance of his lordship's hand entitles you to seize upon any frivolous excuse to force yourself upon my privacy. You are mistaken. I have no intention of recognizing the mantua-maker, and I forbid her to make any attempt to hold the most transient intercourse with me. I have already said, I will receive Lady Linden when I meet her in another country, where her history is unknown; but not until then. And now I must request you to retire, or you will compel me to leave my own apartment."

Madeleine had made one or two fruitless attempts to interrupt the countess; but now, as the latter moved toward the door, about to put her threat into execution, the young girl sprang after her and said, beseechingly,—

"I implore you not to go until you hear me! I did not come to speak of myself at all. I came in the hope of sparing you too severe a shock."

"Very generous on your part, but somewhat misjudged, as your unwelcome presence has given me as great a shock as I could well sustain."

"Ah, aunt,—Madame de Gramont,—do not speak so harshly to me! I have scarcely strength or courage left to tell you; I came to speak of—of Count Tristan."

"My son seems to have chosen a somewhat singular messenger, and one who he was well aware would be far from acceptable," returned the countess, wholly unmoved.

"He did not send me; I came myself; He is not aware of my coming, for—for"—

Madeleine's voice failed her, and the countess took up her words.

"For you desired to make me fully sensible of the length to which you carried your audacity. So be it! I am satisfied! Mademoiselle de Gramont, for the second time I request you to retire."

"I cannot, until I have told you that Count Tristan is—is not, not quite well; that is, he became indisposed at my house."

"In that case, it would have appeared to me more natural, and certainly more proper, if he had returned to his old residence, and spared me the pain of being apprised of his indisposition by an unwelcome messenger."

"He had no choice, or, rather, I had none. I feared to have the news broken in a manner that might alarm you too much, and therefore I would not even trust myself to write. Count Tristan was seized with,—I mean was taken ill while conversing with me. He is not in a state to return home at present, and I came to beg that his mother or his son will go to him."

"I comprehend you, Mademoiselle de Gramont; you were always politic in the highest degree. You know how to make the best of opportunities. You find my son's temporary indisposition an admirable opportunity to lure his relatives to your house, and to make known to the world your connection with them. Your well-laid, dramatic little plot will fail. Your good acting has not succeeded in alarming me, and I see no reason why Count Tristan de Gramont, in spite of his sudden illness, should not send for a carriage and return to the hotel. By your own confession, the step you have taken is unwarranted; for you admitted that my son was not aware of your intention."

"Because he was too ill to be aware of it, madame," replied Madeleine, with an involuntary accent of reproach.

The cold and cruel conduct of the countess did not render her niece less compassionate, less fearful of wounding; but it inspired her with the resolution, which she had before lacked, to impart the fearful tidings.

"He is too ill to be moved at this moment. I sent for medical aid at once, and everything has been done to restore him."

"Restore him? What do you mean?" almost shrieked the countess, now becoming painfully excited, and struggling against her fears, as though, by disbelieving the calamity which had befallen her son, she could alter the fact. "Why do you try to alarm me in this manner? It is very inconsiderate! very cruel! You do it to revenge yourself upon me! Where is Maurice? Where is Bertha? I must have some one near me on whom I can depend! Why am I left at your mercy?"

"I asked for Maurice and Bertha before I attempted to force my way to you," returned Madeleine. "I was told that neither was at home. Pray do not allow yourself to be so much distressed. I have no doubt that we shall find Count Tristan better."

"We shall find! What do you mean by we shall find?" sternly demanded the countess, whose grief and alarm did not conquer her pride, though her voice trembled as she asked the question.

"My carriage is at the door: I thought I might venture to propose that you would enter it, and return with me to my house, that no time might be lost." Madeleine said this with quiet dignity.

"Your carriage? And you expect me to be seen with you, in your carriage? I cannot comprehend your object, Mademoiselle de Gramont. What possesses you to try to exasperate me by your insolent propositions?"

"Pardon me; I did not mean to add to your trouble; if my suggestion was injudicious, disregard it. Nothing can be easier than to send for another carriage. Will you allow me to ring the bell for you to do so? And, since you would not wish to be seen in my company, I can leave the house before you."

"And you expect me to follow? You expect that I will order the carriage to drive to the residence of Mademoiselle Melanie, the mantua-maker?"

"You need only say, 'Drive to —— street, number ——.' My errand here is at an end. I pray you to pardon me, if I have executed it clumsily. My sole intention was to spare you pain, and I almost fear that I have caused you more than I have shielded you from."

Madeleine was retiring, but the countess called her back.

"Stay! You have not told me all yet. What is the matter with my son? Was it a fainting fit? I never knew him guilty of the weakness of fainting."

It was difficult to answer this question without explaining the grave nature of the attack. Madeleine was silent.

"Did you not hear me? Why do you not answer?"

"The doctor did not call it a fainting fit," was Madeleine's vague response. "Yet Count Tristan was in a state of insensibility, and had not spoken when I left him."

"Why did you leave him, then? How could you have been so neglectful?" The countess burst out as though it was a relief to have some one on whom she could vent her wrath. "If he is seriously ill,—so ill as to continue insensible,—you should have remained by his side, and not left him to the improper treatment of strangers: it is abominable,—outrageous!"

"I will gladly hasten back. Pray be composed, madame, and let us hope for a favorable change. I expect to find him better. Before you reach the house, his consciousness may have returned."

Madeleine retired, without waiting for any further comment; for she had an internal conviction that whatever she did or said would be unpleasant to her aunt in her present troubled state.

There was no perceptible alteration in the condition of Count Tristan. Ruth, who was sitting by his side, said he had scarcely stirred. His face still wore a purplish hue, and his glassy, bloodshot eyes, though wide open, were vacant and expressionless. He lay as still as if deprived of sensation and motion.

Madeleine had been at home nearly an hour before she heard the carriage which contained the countess stop at the door. Madame de Gramont, even in a case of such extremity, was not able to complete her arrangements hurriedly.

Madeleine, when she went forth to receive her relative, was much relieved to find her accompanied by Bertha.

Bertha threw herself in Madeleine's arms, whispering, "Is he very ill?"

"Yes, I fear so," answered Madeleine, in too low a voice for the countess to hear. Then turning to Madame de Gramont, she inquired, gently, "Do you wish to go to him at once?"

"For what other purpose have I come?" was the ungracious rejoinder.

Madeleine led the way to the apartment, and motioned Ruth to withdraw.

The countess walked up to the bed with a firm step, as though nerving herself to disbelieve that anything serious was the matter.

"My son!" she said, in a voice somewhat choked, but which expressed confidence that he would immediately reply, "My son! why do you not answer me?"

She took his hand; it remained passive in hers; his eyes still stared vacantly. His mother more tightly grasped the hand she held, shook it a little, and called out to him again in a hoarser tone; but there was no answer.

Bertha burst into tears, and knelt down sobbing by the bed.

"Hush!" said the countess, angrily. "You will disturb him. Why do you cry so? It is nothing serious,—nothing very serious;" and she looked around appealingly, her eyes resting, in spite of herself, upon Madeleine.

"We must hope not," said the latter, now venturing to draw near. "The doctor will be here again shortly, and, if you would permit me to advise, I would suggest that Count Tristan should remain undisturbed."

"I only ask that he will speak to me once!" exclaimed the countess, in peevish distress. "A mother may demand that! Do you not hear me, my son? Why, why will you not answer?"

Her voice was raised to a high pitch, but it did not seem to reach the ears of the insensible man.

Voices in the entry attracted Madeleine's attention; the sound of well-known tones reached her ears, and she hastily left the room.

The servant was communicating to Maurice the sad event which had just taken place. Madeleine beckoned her cousin to follow to her boudoir, and, in a few words, recounted what had just taken place.

Maurice had listened, too completely awe-stricken for language, until Madeleine rose and asked, "Will you not go to him now, Maurice?"

Then he ejaculated, "How mysteriously all things are ordered, Madeleine! Truly you are the ministering angel of our family!"

As Maurice, with Madeleine, entered the chamber where Count Tristan lay, the countess experienced a revulsion of feeling at beholding them side by side, and cried out, in a louder tone than seemed natural in that chamber at such a moment,—

"Maurice! Maurice! I have wanted you so much to advise me! You see your father's condition: he does not seem to recognize us; but it cannot be anything serious. The great point is to make arrangements for removing him at once to the hotel. You must attend to that; I wish no time to be lost."

Maurice was gazing in dumb anguish upon his father's altered face, and, though no tears moistened his eyes, his frame shook with emotion far more painful to man than weeping is to woman.

"You will see to his immediate removal," repeated his grandmother, authoritatively, finding that he did not notice her request.

"That cannot be done with safety, I feel certain," answered Maurice.

"But he cannot remain here," persisted the countess. "He must be taken to the hotel, where I can watch by him."

"You would not have the attempt made at the risk of his life?" remarked Maurice, with more sternness than he intended.

Madeleine gently interposed.

"Dr. Bayard, the physician who was called in, promised to return in a couple of hours: he must be here shortly: will it not be best to ask his opinion? And if he says Count Tristan cannot yet be removed with safety, I entreat, madame, that you will allow me to place this suite of apartments at your disposal and his. They are wholly disconnected with the rest of the house, and you can be as private as you desire."

"Do you expect me to remain under this roof? Your roof? Do you imagine that I will allow my son to remain here, even in his present condition? Oh, this is too much! This would be more terrible than all the rest! I could not humble myself to endure that!"

The countess spoke in a perfect agony of mortification.

Madeleine only replied, "There is no necessity for a decision until you have consulted the physician."

Maurice thought it wise to echo her words; the countess was partially soothed, for the time being, and sat down to await the coming of Dr. Bayard.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MANTUA-MAKER'S GUESTS.

Around Count Tristan's bed were grouped in silence his four nearest of kin, waiting for the physician who was to decide upon the possibility of removal. The countess sat erect and motionless by her son's head. Her countenance wore a look of granite hardness, as though she were fighting her grief with Spartan-like determination which would not let her admit, even to herself, that any anguish preyed upon her heart. Maurice sat at the foot of the bed, mournfully watching the spasmodic movements of his stricken father: they were but feeble and few. Madeleine had placed herself upon the other side of the couch. Her instinctive delicacy prompted her to withdraw as far as possible from the countess. Bertha had softly stolen to Madeleine's side, and sat silently clasping her hand, and leaning against her shoulder; for hers was one of those clinging, vine-like natures that ever turn for support to the object nearest and strongest.

This was the disposition of the group when Ruth Thornton entered the room on tiptoe and placed a card in Madeleine's hand.

"Did you tell him what had occurred?" whispered Madeleine.

"I did, and he still begged to see you."

Though Ruth spoke in a low voice, Bertha was so near that she heard her reply, and it caused her, almost unconsciously, to glance at the card.

"Say that I will be with him directly," said Madeleine.

"It is M. de Bois. I will go with you," murmured Bertha, rising at the same time as her cousin.

The countess did not move her eyes, but Maurice turned his head to look after them. Madeleine could never pass from his presence without his experiencing a sense of loss which inflicted a dull pang.

M. de Bois had been ushered into Madeleine's boudoir. He had not anticipated the happiness of seeing Bertha. When she entered, his start and flush of joy, and the gently confident manner in which he took her hand, and drew her toward him, might well have surprised Madeleine; but that surprise was quickly turned to positive amazement, for Bertha's head drooped until its opulent golden curls swept his breast,—and—and—(if we record what ensued be it remembered that constitutionally bashful men, stirred by a sudden impulse, have less control over their emotions than their calmer brothers)—and—in another second, his own head was bent down, and his lips lightly touched her pure brow, just where the fair hair parting ran on either side, in shining waves. Truly was that first kiss

"The chrism of Love, which Love's own crown With sanctifying sweetness did precede."

Gaston's ideas of what amount of tender demonstration punctilious decorum permitted a lover, had finally undergone an alarming modification, through the corrective influence of the social atmosphere he had inhaled during the last few years. In his own land the limited privileges of an accepted suitor do not extend thus far until the day before a wedding-ring encircles the finger of a bride. Is it on this account that the Parisian Mrs. Grundy, dreading some irresistible temptation, never allows affianced lovers to be left alone?

Bertha's conceptions of propriety must also have been in a very unsettled state; for, albeit "to her brow the ruby mounted," that first kiss seemed to her to lie there as softly as an invisible gem, and she did not withdraw her head, nor look up reproachfully, nor utter one word of chiding.

Gaston noticed Madeleine's wonder-struck look, and said, "You did not know, then, Mademoiselle Madeleine, how happy I am?"

Then Bertha escaped from the arm that encircled her, and nestling in her cousin's bosom, faltered out, "I was so much troubled about Cousin Tristan that I could not tell you."

"One of my most cherished hopes has become reality!" returned Madeleine, fondly. "M. de Bois knows how much I have wished for this consummation; and I think you have known it, Bertha, ever since you made me a certain confession."

"What? Mademoiselle Bertha confessed to you, and you kept me in ignorance?" cried Gaston, reproachfully.

"I did as I would be done by,—an old rule that wears well, and keeps friendships golden."

There was a significance in Madeleine's look comprehended by Gaston. It warned him that any confidence which she had reposed in him must be sacred, even from his betrothed bride.

Dr. Bayard was announced, and Madeleine conducted him to the chamber occupied by her suffering guest, and withdrew.

It strikes us that Madeleine's interpretation of the rules of decorum must also have suffered by her residence in America; for she very coolly left the lovers to themselves, and, passing through the dining-room, walked into the garden.

When she reentered her boudoir she found Gaston and Bertha conversing as happily as though no sorrow found place upon the earth, or certainly none beneath that roof; but, since the world began, lovers have been pronounced selfishly forgetful of the rest of mankind. We have our doubts, however, whether their being wholly wrapped up in each other deserves so harsh a name as selfishness, since that very closeness of union renders souls richer and larger, and gives to each additional power to receive and communicate happiness, while thoroughly selfish people lack the capacity to impart good gifts, and are content with being recipients.

Madeleine had just seated herself opposite to the lovers, and was thinking what a pleasant picture to contemplate were those two radiant countenances, when Maurice entered with the physician.

"I fear, sir, you look upon my father's state as very critical?"

"Very," replied Dr. Bayard, who was a man of such acknowledged ability that he could afford to be frank without being suspected of a desire to magnify the importance of a case under his treatment. "Apoplexy may be produced by various causes, hereditary disposition, high living, or anxiety of mind, or all united. I cannot decide what was the origin of Count Tristan de Gramont's seizure. One side is entirely paralyzed, and the other slightly."

"Can he be removed to his hotel with safety?" inquired Maurice.

"Assuredly not. The risk would be very great. It should not be encountered if there is any possibility of his remaining here for the present."

He looked questioningly toward the mistress of the house.

Madeleine promptly replied, "These apartments are entirely at the service of Count Tristan and his family, if they will honor me by occupying them."

"That is well," returned the doctor. "Let the count remain undisturbed until he is convalescent. I will see him again in the evening."

Dr. Bayard took his leave, and Maurice turned to Madeleine,—

"This is most unfortunate. It is a great burden to be thrown upon you, Madeleine."

She interrupted him quickly. "You could hardly have spoken words less kind, Maurice. If this shock could not have been spared your father, I am thankful that it fell beneath my roof. He will be more quiet here than in a hotel, and can be better tended. If the countess will permit me, I will gladly constitute myself his chief garde malade. I have had some experience"—

That inadvertent remark increased the agitation of Maurice, and he answered, in a voice tremulous from the rush of sad recollections, "Who can testify to that better than I? Do you think I have forgotten the good soeur de bon secours whose movements I used to watch, and whose features, dimly traced by the feeble light of the veilleuse, I never ceased to gaze upon, as she moved about my bed?"

Madeleine smiled and sighed at the same moment, and then remarked, perhaps to turn the conversation,—

"But your grandmother,—I fear it will be very difficult to obtain her consent to Count Tristan's remaining under my roof."

"She cannot desire to risk my father's life!" returned Maurice, somewhat angrily. "I may as well tell her what is decided upon, at once."

Madeleine detained him.

"First let me explain to you the arrangements I propose making. If the countess will condescend to remain here, I will have the drawing-room, which opens into the room Count Tristan occupies, made into a bed-chamber for her. The apartment beyond is the dining-room. This little boudoir can be converted into a chamber for you. There is an apartment upstairs which I will occupy; and, as Bertha cannot remain at the hotel alone, I shall be truly happy if she will share my room, or that of the countess."

"Yours! yours!" exclaimed Bertha. "Oh, what a pleasant arrangement! And how quickly and admirably you have settled everything, just as you always used to do; and nobody could ever plan half so well!"

"It will be your turn to play the hostess, and to them all!" cried Gaston. "Who would have believed such a revolution of the great wheel possible! That's what I call compensation in this world; for few things, I know, can make you happier; and nothing can strike such a severe blow at the pride of the Countess de Gramont as to find herself the compulsory guest of the relative she has despised and persecuted."

Gaston, in his ardor and desire to see Madeleine avenged, had forgotten the presence of the viscount; but Madeleine's look of reproach and her glance toward her cousin recalled his presence to the mind of her enthusiastic defender.

"I beg pardon, Maurice," said he; "I ought not to have spoken disrespectfully of the countess; that is, while you were by."

"I understand and can pardon you, Gaston. Now I must go to my grandmother and learn what she says; for I can see Madeleine's 'fairy fingers' are impatient to commence their magical preparations for our comfort."

He spoke sadly; though his words were half gay in their import.

Very few minutes elapsed before Maurice returned, accompanied by the countess. She swept into the room, towering as majestically as though she could rise above and conquer all the assailing army of circumstances arrayed against her.

Madeleine made a movement toward the door.

"Remain! I wish to speak to you, Mademoiselle de Gramont," cried the countess in her most icy tone.

"Permit me first to request Miss Thornton to watch beside Count Tristan. He ought not to be left alone."

Madeleine had been more thoughtful of the patient than his mother, and the latter could not detain her.

"Are you positive that your father cannot be moved? I am not convinced that it is out of the question."

The countess addressed these words to Maurice.

"The physician has just declared that the risk would be too great. That question, then, is definitely settled. It only remains for you to say how far you will accept Madeleine's hospitable proposition."

"Hospitable! Do not talk of hospitality but of degradation! What will be said when it is known that Count Tristan de Gramont was sheltered, during his illness, by his mantua-maker relative!—his tradeswoman niece! There is only one condition upon which I can be forced to consent."

Here Madeleine reentered, and the countess accosted her.

"Mademoiselle de Gramont, the tide of fortune has, for the moment, set against our ill-fated house, and our humiliation can scarcely be more complete. You are aware that the physician you have employed (and with whom I trust you are not in league) says that my son cannot be removed without danger."

"Yes, madame, and I hope Maurice has communicated the suggestion which I have hesitatingly, but very gladly, made for your accommodation."

"He has done so," replied the countess, with undiminished stateliness. "As for myself, it is asking too much,—it is an impossibility that I should stoop to take up my abode here; but, while my son lies in his present state, which I am told is alarming (though I believe I am misinformed), I, as his mother, should feel bound to visit him though it were in a pest-house. Your offer is declined for myself and Mademoiselle de Merrivale. Maurice gives me to understand that he considers his place to be by his father's side, night and day; therefore for him it will be accepted upon certain conditions; upon these only can I allow my son and grandson to remain beneath your roof."

"Name them, madame. I will promptly, joyfully comply with your wishes if it be in my power to do so."

"You will immediately close your establishment, that none of the transactions of the trade which has sullied your rank may go on within these walls; and you will at once make known to the public your intended nuptials with Lord Linden."

"I never had the remotest intention, madame, of becoming the wife of Lord Linden."

"Has he not offered you his hand?"

"Yes, and but for the accident which has wholly diverted my thoughts, he would have received a distinct refusal before now."

"What reason can you advance for declining so eligible an offer?"

"The same I gave at the Chateau de Gramont, nearly five years ago. My affections belong to another."

Madeleine spoke with fervor, as though she experienced a deep joy in thus proclaiming her constancy. Maurice, with a stifled sigh, turned from her, and pretended to be gazing at the flowers in the conservatory.

"And may we, at last, be favored," demanded the countess, scornfully, "with the name of this unknown lover, who has been able to inspire you with such a rare and romantic amount of constancy?"

"It is one, madame, I cannot now mention with any more propriety than I could have done years ago."

"Then it must be one of which you are ashamed! But how can I doubt that? Has he not allowed you to become a tradeswoman? Has not the whole affair been a disgraceful and clandestine one? You may well refuse to mention his name! It can only be one which your family can object to hear."

"You are right in one respect, madame: it is one which they object to hear; but, as I shall never be the wife of any other man,—yet never, in all probability, the wife of that one,—let the subject of marriage be set aside. In regard to closing this establishment, you are hardly aware, madame, what you request. It would not be in my power to close it suddenly, granting that I had the will to do so. I should not merely throw out of employment some fifty struggling women, who are at present occupied here, but would prevent my keeping faith in fulfilling engagements already made. I will not dwell upon the great personal loss that it would be to me. I should be glad to believe you are convinced of the impossibility of my complying with your wishes."

"Do you mean to say that you actually refuse?"

"I am compelled to do so; but I will exert myself to render your visits private. I will devise some method by which you will be entirely shielded from the view of those who come here on business."

"You presume to think, then, that in spite of your insolent refusal, I will allow my son to remain here?"

Madeleine felt that she could say no more, and looked beseechingly toward Maurice, who exclaimed,—

"My father must remain here, for he cannot be removed. I gladly accept my cousin's kind offer, and will remain to watch beside my father. Bertha and yourself can continue to live at the hotel and visit him as often as you feel inclined."

"Let me go! Let me go! I am suffocating! I stifle in this house!" burst forth the countess, as though she were really choking. "I cannot remain. Bertha, I want you. Maurice, give me your arm,—let me get away quickly."

Maurice reconducted his grandmother to the hotel, almost without their exchanging a word by the way. Bertha accompanied them, but she walked behind with Gaston de Bois.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

MINISTRATION.

Maurice, exasperated as he was at his grandmother's insolence to his cousin, well knew that any attempt to soothe Madame de Gramont, or even to reconcile her to the inevitable, would be fruitless. Her domineering spirit could not bow itself to be governed, even by the pressure of inexorable circumstance; she strove to control events by ignoring their existence, and to break the force of her calamity by encasing herself in an iron mail of resistance, which, she thought, no blows could penetrate. This was her state when she hastened to her own chamber, and was about to lock herself in, under the conviction that she could shut out the phantom of misery which seemed to dog her steps.

"I will return this evening, and let you know how my father progresses," said Maurice, as she was closing the door.

She reopened it without moving her hand from the silver knob. "Then you persist in going back to that house?"

"Would you have me leave my father without a son's care? I shall remain at Madeleine's while it is necessary for my father to stay there."

Maurice spoke with a decision that admitted no argument.

The countess shut her door, and the sound of the turned key was distinctly audible. How she passed the succeeding hours no one knew; she was not heard to move; she answered no knock; she took no notice of Bertha's petition that her dinner might be brought to her; she was not again seen until the next morning.

There is no proverb truer than the one which suggests that even an ill wind blows some one good. Bertha was the gainer by her aunt's seclusion: she had full liberty, and for a large portion of the time she did not enjoy her freedom alone.

Madeleine had been actively employed during the absence of Maurice. Her first step was to send for an upholsterer. Other arrangements followed which quickly converted the drawing-room into a comfortable bed-room. She herself proposed to take such rest as she found needful upon the sofa in her boudoir.

The upholsterer had arrived, and Madeleine had no little difficulty in making him comprehend her plan of completely shutting off the staircase which led to the exhibition and working rooms above, by means of drapery. She had felt bound thus far to consult the countess' desire for privacy. A separate entrance from the street was out of the question, but the draperies were to be disposed in such a manner that the instant Madame de Gramont and her family passed the threshold they were completely secluded.

Madeleine was standing in the hall giving her orders, when Maurice reappeared. Finding her occupied, he passed on to his father's chamber.

It was now six o'clock. Dinner was served for three persons. Madeleine summoned her housekeeper and requested her to watch beside Count Tristan while his son dined.

On entering the count's room Madeleine assured herself that there was no change in the patient's condition, and then said, "Come, Ruth, dinner is served; come, Maurice, if you assume the office of garde malade, I must take care that your strength is not exhausted."

Her cheerfulness dispelled some of the heavy gloom that hung about Maurice, and he rose and followed her. She led the way through the apartment which had been the drawing-room, and pointing to the bed, said,—

"That is for you; this is your bed-chamber."

"Mine? I do not expect to need a bed; I mean to sit up with my father."

"Yes, to-night; but not every night," she added, with playful imperativeness. "I shall not allow that, and you see I have taken the reins into my own hands, and show that a little of the de Gramont love of rule has descended to me with its blood."

They entered the dining-room. Maurice was struck by the air of combined simplicity and elegance which characterized all the appointments. The dinner, too, was simple, but well-cooked. Maurice had no appetite at first, but was soon lured to eat,—everything placed before him appeared so inviting. Then, it was delightful to see Madeleine sitting quietly opposite to him, looking even lovelier than she did in those happy, happy, by-gone days in the ancient chateau! Ruth's pretty and pleasant countenance at another time might have been an addition; but we fear that Maurice at that moment, did not appreciate the presence of a very modest and attractive young girl who reflected in her own person not a few of Madeleine's virtues. The repast was of brief duration; but Madeleine was the one who partook of it most sparingly. She enjoyed so much seeing Maurice eat that she could not follow his example.

Maurice and Madeleine returned to Count Tristan's apartment together. Soon after, Dr. Bayard paid another visit, but expressed no opinion. Maurice went back to the hotel to keep his promise to his grandmother. There was no response when he knocked at her door; no reply, though he spoke to her, that she might hear his voice and know who was there.

Bertha and Gaston were sitting together. Albeit the conversation in which they were engaged appeared to be singularly absorbing, the latter said,—

"Do you return immediately to Mademoiselle Madeleine's? If so, I will accompany you; and, as I suppose you will watch beside your father, we will sit up together."

Maurice assented and they set forth; that is, as soon as Bertha, who detained them, first upon one plea and then upon another, would permit.

But when Madeleine learned Gaston's friendly proposition, she answered, "We shall not need you. Maurice is hardly experienced enough for me to trust him just yet. I intend to sit up to-night; to-morrow night Maurice must rest, at least part of the night, and then, M. de Bois, we will be glad to claim you as a watcher."

There was no appeal from Madeleine's decision. She exerted a mild authority which was too potent for argument.

After Gaston departed, Madeleine, for a brief space, left Maurice alone with his father. When she stole back to her place at the head of the bed, she was attired in a white cambric wrapper, lightly girded at the waist; a blue shawl of some soft material fell in graceful folds about her form. She had entered with such a soundless step, that when Maurice saw her sitting before him, he started, and his breath grew labored, as though, for a second, he fancied that he gazed upon some unreal shape. The flowing white drapery, and the delicate azure folds of the shawl helped the illusion, which her musical voice would scarcely have dispelled, but for the sense of reality produced by the words she uttered.

"It is just eleven; that is the hour at which the medicine was to be given."

She took up the cup and administered a spoonful of its contents, before Maurice had quite recovered himself.

The silence which followed did not last long. Madeleine began to question Maurice concerning his life in America, his opinions, his experiences, the people he had known and esteemed; and he responded, in subdued tones, by a long narrative of past events.

It was the first time that Maurice had been called upon to watch beside a bed of sickness, and his was one of those vivacious temperaments to which sleep is so indispensable that an overpowering somnolence will fling its charms about the senses, and bear the spirit away captive, even in the soul's most unwilling moments. Five o'clock had struck when Madeleine perceived that her companion's eyes had grown heavy, and that he was making a desperate struggle to keep them open. With womanly tact she leaned her elbow on the bed, and rested her forehead on her hand, in such a manner that her face was concealed, and thus avoided any further conversation. In less than ten minutes, the sound of clear but regular breathing apprised her that Maurice had fallen asleep.

When she looked up, at first timidly, but soon with security, Maurice was lying back in his arm-chair—his hands were calmly folded together, his head drooped a little to one side, the rich chestnut curls (for his hair had darkened until it no longer resembled Bertha's golden locks) were disordered, and fully revealed his fair, intellectual brow; the pallor of his face rendered more than usually conspicuous the chiselling of his finely-cut features; the calm, half-smiling curve of his handsome mouth gave his whole countenance an expression of placid happiness which it had not worn, of late, in waking hours. Madeleine sat and gazed at him as she could never have gazed when his eyes might have met hers; she gazed until her whole soul flashed into her face; and if Maurice had awakened, and caught but one glimpse of the fervent radiance of that look, he would surely have known her secret.

There is intense fascination to a woman in scanning the face that to her is beyond all others worth perusing, when the soft breath of sleep renders the beloved object unconscious of the eyes bent tenderly upon his features. No check is given to the flood of worshipping love that pours itself out from her soul; then, and perhaps then only, in his presence, she allows the tide of pent-up adoration to break down all its natural barriers. However perfect her devotion at other times, there may, there always does exist a half-involuntary reticence, a secret fear that if even her eyes were to betray the whole wealth of her passion, it would not be well with her. Men are constitutionally, unconsciously ungrateful; give them abundance of what they covet most and they prize the gift less highly than if its measure were stinted. And women have an instinct that warns them not to be too lavish. Those women who love most fervently, most deeply, most internally, seldom frame the full strength of that love into words, or manifest it in looks even; that is, in the waking presence of the one who holds their entire being captive.

Maurice slept on, though the streets had long since become noisy, and door-bells were ringing, and there was a sound of hammering in the entry (the upholsterer at work), and steps could be distinguished passing up and down the stair.

Madeleine, who at one period of her life had been used to night vigils, hardly felt fatigued; but she knew that she must hoard her strength if she would have it last to meet prolonged requirements. She touched Maurice softly; but he was not aroused until she had made several efforts to break his slumber. He looked about him in bewilderment, and then at the white-robed figure before him as though it were an apparition.

"It is I, and no ghost," said Madeleine. "The morning has come; go and lie down for a couple of hours to refresh yourself,—I will do the same. Mrs. Lawkins will stay with your father."

"Have I really been asleep?" asked Maurice, in a tone of mortification. "Asleep, while you were waking? What a stupid brute I am!"

"Have brutes easy consciences? for that is said to be man's best lullaby. You must consider yourself still subject to my orders. Go and lie down. You shall be called to breakfast at nine o'clock; that will give you two hours' rest. As for me, I shall fall asleep in a few moments."

Maurice yielded.

Madeleine did not fall asleep quite as soon as she predicted; but, after a time, she sank into a refreshing slumber. At nine o'clock the ringing of the alarum she had taken the precaution to set, awoke her. She stole to Maurice's door, but had to knock several times before she could arouse him; he was again enjoying that blessing which he had lately professed to despise.

"What is it? Who is there?" he cried out, at last.

"It is I, Madeleine. Nine o'clock has just struck. We will breakfast as soon as you are ready to come into the dining-room."

She returned to her boudoir and made a hasty toilet, substituting, for her simple white wrapper, another, somewhat richly embroidered, and trimmed with pale blue ribbons. We reluctantly venture upon the suggestion, for it would indicate a decided weakness, quite unworthy of Madeleine's good sense; but there is just a possibility that she remembered she was to breakfast once more with her lover, and her artistic eye selected the most becoming morning-dress in her possession.

Ruth had breakfasted some hours before; Madeleine and Maurice sat down to table alone. In spite of the grief which lay in the depths of both their hearts, it must be avowed that both experienced a sense of calm felicity which made them shrink from contemplating the past, or looking forward to the future; the delicious present was all sufficient. Maurice wondered at himself,—was almost angry with himself,—and then he looked across the table and wondered no longer.

Madeleine was less astonished at her own pleasant emotions. Partly through discipline, and partly through temperament, she always caught up all the sunshine of the passing hour, even though she did not lose sight of the clouds that lay in the distant horizon. And how often the present beams had pierced their way through thick darkness to reach her!

"Come and tell me what you think of my invention," said she, as they rose from the table and opened the door which led into the hall.

The upholsterer had already completed his work. A crimson drapery was suspended from the ceiling to the ground, along the whole length of the entry, and entirely shut out the staircase. At the street door this drapery was so skilfully arranged that a person visiting the apartments on the first floor could, at once, pass out of sight.

"Will not these curtains render this portion of the house quite secluded? I hope they will make your grandmother feel less aversion to coming here."

"What resources you have, Madeleine! And how kindly you employ your fertile ingenuity! Who would have thought of such an arrangement?"

"Why any one who took the trouble to sit down and think about the matter at all! Possibly some people might not have been in the habit of exercising their ingenuity enough to do that; but any one who took the trouble to reflect how the desired object could be accomplished would have seen the difficulties melt away."

"Under the touch of 'Fairy Fingers,'" returned Maurice, admiringly.

"Ah, that is an old superstition of yours which you have not quite outlived. Will you not go to your grandmother now? She may be expecting you, and must be anxious for news."

"She showed great anxiety last night," replied Maurice, bitterly.

"Maurice, we have no right to judge her! Unless we ourselves have experienced her sensations, we cannot even comprehend her state. Speak to her this morning as though you had parted in all affection yesterday; and bring her here, if you can. For her own sake try to bring her."

Shortly after Maurice left, Madeleine received another letter from Lord Linden. Finding that she did not reply to the first, he had called upon her twice on the day previous; but, greatly to his mortification, had been denied. Later in the day, his wounded vanity was somewhat soothed by learning the calamity which had befallen Count Tristan, at Madeleine's house; though his lordship could hardly deem even such an event sufficient excuse for her tardiness in replying to a letter of so much importance. In reality, Madeleine had entirely forgotten her suitor and his letter. She glanced hastily over his second epistle, and, without further delay, wrote a few frigid lines conveying a definite refusal of the proposed honor with which he had followed his proposition of dishonor.

It is needless to describe Lord Linden's emotions when this response reached him. Madeleine's language was so cuttingly cold, yet so full of dignity, that he could only curse the rash blindness which could have permitted him to make dishonorable advances to such a woman. He ordered his trunk to be packed, and left Washington by that afternoon's train.

Bertha had not seen Madame de Gramont from the time she locked herself in her chamber until the breakfast hour, next day. The maid Mademoiselle de Merrivale brought with her from Paris was in the habit of attending the countess as punctiliously as she did her own mistress; but her services were, for the first time, dispensed with on the night previous. Bertha was oppressed by a vaguely uncomfortable sensation when she entered the room where breakfast awaited her, and found the apartment vacant. In a few moments the countess entered.

How frightfully old she had grown in a single night! Her step, which used to be so firm and measured, was feeble, uncertain, and heavy. Sixty-six years had not bowed her straight shoulders; but now they stooped. The blow of an iron hand had bent them at last! Her features had grown sharp and hard, and the lines looked as though they had been cut to twice their usual depth; the mouth appeared to have fallen, the corners pressing downward; one might have thought that tears had scalded away the lustre and dimmed the vision of the dark eyes that yesterday flashed with such steel-like brilliancy. The soft, white locks, that were usually arranged with so much skill, hung partially uncurled, and scarcely smoothed about her face, adding to the desolation of her whole appearance.

Bertha was impressed with greater awe than she had ever experienced toward her aunt in the latter's most imperious moments; yet the young girl mustered courage to advance and embrace her,—more timidly, perhaps, but also more tenderly than was her wont. The countess permitted her own cold lips to sweep Bertha's forehead; but they could hardly be said to press upon it a kiss.

As they sat at table, Bertha, whose tongue had a gift for prattling, could not make an effort to speak. The countess had not tasted food since the light, noonday repast of the day previous, yet she now swallowed her cup of coffee as though it nearly choked her, and tried, in vain, to force down a few morsels of bread. Nothing would have induced her to depart from the custom of her country where coffee and bread are considered all-sufficient for the first meal.

They had returned to the drawing-room when Maurice entered. The countess greeted him with an inclination of the head, but asked no questions.

"My father seems to be in the same state," said he. "There was no change during the night; he does not appear to suffer; but, as yet, he is not conscious."

Madame de Gramont made no reply, but her breast visibly heaved.

"Did you sit up?" asked Bertha. "Are you not very much fatigued? Did Madeleine watch also? Is she not very weary?"

"Not very; nor am I." Then he turned to his grandmother. "Will you come with me to see my father? You will find that every arrangement possible has been made for your privacy."

The lips of the countess curled scornfully, but she rose and passed into her chamber.

"I must make ready also," cried Bertha, flying out of the room. "I am so glad that we are to go."

She returned wearing her bonnet and mantle. It was sometime before the countess reentered, prepared to depart.

Maurice had ordered a carriage, and they were soon at Madeleine's door.

If the countess noticed the draperies which closed off a portion of the house, she gave no sign of doing so.

Madeleine was sitting beside Count Tristan, but rose to yield her place to his mother. Madame de Gramont only betrayed that she was aware of her niece's presence by a slight movement of the head, while her eyes looked past her toward the passive figure lying on the bed. She took the vacant seat with a sort of frozen quietude, and her limbs seemed to settle themselves rigidly into positions where they remained immovable.

Madeleine at once retired, knowing that her presence must be galling to the proud relative whom circumstance thus forced into contact with her; nor did she reenter the room again while the countess was there. Maurice remained with his father and grandmother, but Bertha stole away to Madeleine's boudoir.

M. de Bois, who had called to inquire after the count, and to know of what service he could be, found the cousins together. Madeleine, whose wealth of energy rendered idleness, when it could be avoided, another name for weariness, had seated herself at her desk, and was making sketches for Ruth to copy. Bertha sat beside her, destroying pencils in her awkward attempt to sharpen them. Madeleine did not desist from her occupation, but Bertha's was quickly at an end.

She and her lover conversed for a while; then Gaston offered to show her Madeleine's conservatory, and then they passed into the garden. What wonder that they found unknown charms in the opening flowers! Was it not a spring morning? And was there not spring in their hearts? Was it not life's blossoming season with them?

At noon luncheon was served; and Madeleine, in remembrance of her guests, had given such especial instructions to Mrs. Lawkins that the luncheon closely resembled the dejeuner a la fourchette served at that hour in France. As Bertha was still in the garden, Madeleine passed into the conservatory and called her.

"Will you not go in, Bertha, and see if you can induce the countess to accompany you and Maurice to the dining-room? Say that I will remain with Count Tristan while they take luncheon."

Bertha went on her errand, but quickly returned with Maurice.

"My aunt does not seem disposed to eat."

In reality Bertha had received no answer from the countess. Did Madeleine expect that Madame de Gramont would break bread under her roof? The haughty aristocrat would sooner have perished of hunger.

"Then we will go to table together," replied the hostess, disappointed, in spite of herself. "M. de Bois, you will join us?"

The meal passed off very quietly, but very pleasantly. Bertha and Gaston were happy enough in each other to have thought a repast of bread and cheese a banquet. Maurice could not but be penetrated by the charm of sharing Madeleine's home; and, at table, where she presided with such graceful ease, he never forgot that it was in her home he was dwelling. Madeleine herself could not gaze upon the little circle of beloved ones, from whom she had been so long separated, and who were now so singularly drawn around her, without feeling supremely happy. In the midst of sorrow there are often given, to soften and render it endurable, passing flashes of absolute joy.

When they rose from table Maurice returned to his father's chamber. His grandmother still sat erect and statue-like in her chair as though she had not moved.

The hours flew by only too rapidly with Bertha, however they might have dragged in the sick-chamber. M. de Bois, also, must have lost all consciousness of time, for he did not propose to take his departure, and could Madeleine, even by a hint, dismiss him from her own house?

"Past five o'clock," said she, looking up from her drawing. "Bertha, pray ask Maurice to come to me."

When Maurice obeyed the summons, Madeleine remarked, showing him her watch, "You see how late it is; I fear the countess will become exhausted for want of food. It is in vain to hope that she could be induced to dine here; had you not better conduct her home and return?"

"Yes, certainly; it would be the wisest plan; how thoughtful you are!"

"Shall I send for a carriage? I fear she would not enter mine, or I would order that."

"I suppose not; it is wonderful to what cruel and inconsistent length she carries her pride."

"It is not our place, Maurice, to measure its length or analyze its workings. There is Robert in the hall; tell him to call a carriage."

When the carriage arrived, the countess, Bertha and Maurice, drove away together.



CHAPTER XL.

RECOGNITION.

With electric rapidity flashed the news through Washington that Mademoiselle Melanie, the fashionable dressmaker, was a lady of rank,—a heroine,—a being hardly inferior to those disguised princesses who figure in popular fairy tales. Numberless romantic stories were fabricated and circulated, and the startling and improbable motives assigned for her incognita bore witness to the fertile imagination of the American public.

It may well be imagined that there was but one all-engrossing theme discussed in the working-rooms of Mademoiselle Melanie's establishment. Mademoiselle Victorine was not a little disgusted when she learned that a secret of such moment had been so successfully concealed from her. But the quick-witted foreigner had too much tact to betray her ignorance by evincing astonishment in the presence of the employees, or the patrons of Mademoiselle Melanie. On the contrary, Mademoiselle Victorine gave them to understand that she had all along been the repository of Mademoiselle de Gramont's secrets, and knew more of her past history and future plans than was yet suspected.

Madeleine's thoughtful kindness prompted her to make a brief explanation to Ruth Thornton, whom she had so long treated as a friend, or younger sister. Ruth was moved and gratified by the unsought confidence; but her genuine, up-looking veneration for Madeleine could not be increased by the knowledge that she was the daughter of the late Duke de Gramont. Madeleine concluded her narrative by saying,—

"One may be very poor, and very dependent, and yet be the daughter of a duke; and even a duke's daughter may find it less irksome to earn her own bread than to eat the bread of charity."

Ruth asked, tremblingly, "But now will all go on as before? Will your noble relatives permit you to continue your present life?"

"My relatives can exert no influence which will turn me from the path I have chosen," replied Madeleine, divining her young protegee's thoughts. "While Count Tristan remains in my house, you will act as my representative. When he is restored, or, rather, when he is no longer my guest, I shall resume my former duties."

Ruth's sinking heart was lifted up by this assurance, and the cloud that had gathered upon her sweet face passed away, and left it as placid as Madeleine's own. Madeleine's tranquillizing influence over others was one of her most remarkable traits. She was not merely calm and self-possessed herself, but her presence communicated a steadfast, hopeful calmness that was irresistible.

The beau monde had decided that as Mademoiselle de Gramont's family had claimed her, she would unhesitatingly abandon her humble occupation, and assume her legitimate position in the social sphere; and great were the lamentations over the noble couturiere's supposed abdication of her throne.

The next question to be settled was whether her former patrons should recognize and visit her as an equal, ignoring their previous acquaintance. Madame de Fleury was the first to reply to that query. We will not make ourselves responsible for the assertion that she was prompted by purely disinterested motives, and the unqualified admiration with which Mademoiselle Melanie had long since inspired her. It is just possible that other incentives had their weight in her light head, and that believing herself about to be deprived of the inventive genius which had rendered her toilet the glory and delight of her life, she might have determined to preserve Mademoiselle Melanie's friendship that she might secure her advice on all important occasions. Be that as it may, Madame de Fleury immediately left cards for Mademoiselle de Gramont, and her example was followed by the Countess Orlowski, and a host of other ladies, who conscientiously walked in her footsteps.

The morning of the third day after Count Tristan's seizure passed much in the same manner as the second. Maurice conducted his grandmother and Bertha to Madeleine's residence. The countess was as silent, as frigid, as immovable as before. She took the same seat, kept the same unbent position, appeared to be as completely abstracted from what was passing around her, as on the day previous. Madeleine absented herself, and Bertha soon stole to her side. M. de Bois, whose vigils, it appeared, had not fatigued him sufficiently for extra repose to be requisite, joined them at an early hour.

About noon, Maurice hastily entered Madeleine's boudoir and said, "I think there is some change in my father; his face is much paler and his eyes appear to be wandering about with a faint sign of consciousness; the motion of his right hand is restored, for he has lifted it several times. Pray come to him, Madeleine."

"I only banished myself in the fear that my presence would not be agreeable to the countess," replied Madeleine. "Do you think it will not now pain her to see me?"

"I cannot tell, but you must come."

Madeleine obeyed.

The countess had risen and was bending over the bed.

"My son! Tristan, my son! do you not hear your mother?" she cried, in a hollow, unnatural voice.

His eyes still gazed restlessly about, with a helpless, hopeless, supplicating look.

"My dear father," said Maurice, taking the hand which the count had again lifted and let fall.

No sign of recognition followed.

"What do you think of his state, Madeleine? Is he not better?"

His cousin softly drew near, and taking in her own the hand Maurice had dropped, said, "You know us, Count Tristan, do you not?"

His eyes, as though drawn by her voice, turned quickly, and fastened themselves upon her face; his hands made a nervous clutch, his lips moved, but the sounds were thick and indistinct, yet the first syllable of her name was audible to all.

"Do not try to speak," said Madeleine, soothingly; "you have been very ill; you are still weak; do not endeavor to make any exertion."

He continued to look at her beseechingly, and to clasp her hand more and more tightly,—so tightly that it gave her positive pain, and his quivering lips again made a fruitless effort to utter her name.

"Tristan, my son!" exclaimed the countess, motioning Madeleine to move aside.

Madeleine attempted to obey, but could not release her hand from its imprisonment.

Count Tristan did not appear to hear, or rather to recognize the voice of his mother, although she continued to address him in a loud tone, and to beg, almost to command, him to listen to her. Maurice also spoke to him, but without making any impression on his mind. There was no meaning in his gaze when it rested on the faces of either; but his eyes, the instant they fell upon Madeleine's countenance, grew less glassy, more living, and through them the darkened soul looked dimly out.

Whatever might have been the internal sufferings of the countess, they did not conquer her stoicism. She resumed her seat, and her lips were again sealed; their close compression and ashy hue alone told that the torture of the mental rack upon which she was stretched had been augmented.

As soon as Madeleine felt the count's hand relaxing its firm grasp, she withdrew hers, though he made a faint attempt to detain her. As she retired from the bed, his eyes followed her, and his lips moved again.

"You are not going, Madeleine?" questioned Maurice. "My father evidently knows you,—wants you near him; you are the only one he recognizes; do not leave us!"

Was that low, stifled sound which reached their ears, in spite of the firmly-compressed lips of the countess, an inward sob or groan?

As Madeleine sat down, Dr. Bayard entered. Maurice related what had passed, and the doctor requested Madeleine to address the patient. That he made an effort to reply was unmistakable. Dr. Bayard then spoke to the count, but without attracting his attention. He desired Maurice to accost him, but no better result ensued. He signified to the countess that she should do the same; but the agony of beholding her son recognize, cling to one toward whom she entertained the bitterest enmity, while the voice of his mother—his mother who loved him with all the strength of her proud nature—was unheeded, became intolerable. She rose up, not quickly, but with all her wonted stateliness, and with a firm and measured pace walked out of the room. She had no definite purpose,—she did not know where she was going, or where she wished to go,—but she could not abide the sight forced upon her eyes in that chamber.

"Maurice, attend your grandmother," whispered Madeleine.

Maurice had not thought of stirring, but he rose and opened the door of the adjoining room.

"Leave me! I would be alone!" said the countess, as he entered.

He returned to his father's side.

Dr. Bayard was giving his orders to Madeleine. A crisis had just passed, he said. Count Tristan was better; there was reason to hope that he would recover. One side was still paralyzed and there was partial paralysis of the tongue. His mind, too, was in a torpid state, but might gradually awaken. As Madeleine was the person whom he recognized, it would be well for her to remain near him and minister to his wants. Madeleine was more than content.

An hour passed and the countess did not return to her son's bedside. Maurice, at Madeleine's suggestion, ventured to intrude upon her. She appeared to be lost in a deep revery, and did not raise her eyes at his approach.

"I fear you are not well, my grandmother; will you not allow me to conduct you home?"

"I am well," she answered bitterly, "but I will go. My presence is of no use here; my own son ignores it!"

She spoke as though the invalid had refused to recognize her for the express purpose of adding a fresh insult to those which an evil fortune, a malicious chance (to use her own expressions), had heaped upon her head.

Without again visiting her son's chamber, she entered the carriage which Maurice had ordered; he took his seat opposite to her, and neither remembered, until they entered the hotel, that Bertha was left behind.

"I was thinking so much of my poor father that I quite forgot Bertha," he said, apologetically. "I will return for her at once."

"Yes, go, go!" was all the countess replied.



CHAPTER XLI.

UNBOWED.

Maurice did not suspect how Bertha was employed at that moment, and how much his heart would have had cause to rejoice if she proved successful in her undertaking. She was so happy herself in her betrothed that she was possessed by a strong desire to make some effort by which a like felicity might be secured to Madeleine. It had been one of the day-dreams of Bertha's girlhood that she and Madeleine should receive their wedding rings in the same hour. Gaston was entreating his fiancee to name a period, even though it might be some months hence (only a few days before, we think, he declared himself content with knowing that he might hope for this crowning joy at the most distant date), when he might call her his.

Bertha replied, tantalizingly, "The time depends upon Madeleine, not upon me. She must name the day."

"May she, indeed?" asked M. de Bois, joyfully, for he was convinced that he could influence Madeleine's decision.

"Yes, she will name it in naming the day for her own wedding. I have always intended that we should be married together."

M. de Bois's countenance fell.

"But Mademoiselle Madeleine is not even engaged."

"Is she not? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," returned Gaston.

"But she loves some one,—does she not?" questioned Bertha, artfully.

"She has said she did," was the cautious response.

"Then, if she loves some one, we have only to find out who it is and bring them together, and get them to understand each other, and help them to fix the day. Would not that be charming?"

"Yes, very," replied M. de Bois; but he sighed as he spoke, remembering how improbable it was that anything of the kind would take place.

Bertha had a suspicion that he must have some knowledge of Madeleine's mysterious lover, and her idea of the perfect confidence that ought to exist not only between husband and wife, but a lover and his betrothed bride, would of itself have been sufficient inducement to make her endeavor to discover the secret.

"You have been near Madeleine all these years that she has been lost to us."

"Yes, happily for me; and if she can only say happily for her, I should be proud as well as thankful."

"She does,—I am sure she does say so," responded Bertha, affectionately. "What could she have done without you? It was because you were so much to Madeleine that you became so much to—to—that is so—so—I mean"—

Many a sentence of Gaston's had she finished when his words became entangled through confusion; it was but a fair return for him to conclude this one of hers, though perhaps he did so in a manner that added to her embarrassment.

Bertha recovered herself, and shook back her curls as though they were in fault. Then looking up archly in Gaston's face she said,—

"And if I wanted an excuse for what I have done, could I have found a better?"

"Not easily," returned the delighted lover, "and I excuse you for a piece of bad taste which has rendered me the happiest and proudest of men."

"But we were talking of Madeleine," persisted Bertha; "you know every one whom she knows,—do you not?"

"What, all her patrons? Heaven forbid!"

"No,—no,—you are very tantalizing,—I did not mean those. I mean the persons who visit her: you know them all?"

"Most of them, I believe."

"Then you must be acquainted with this invisible lover of hers!"

Now was M. de Bois puzzled. Bertha saw the advantage she had gained.

"You must have seen him,—you must know all about him,—and I must know also. Not to satisfy my curiosity,—do not imagine that!—I am not in the least curious; but because I want to assist Madeleine. I want to judge whether nothing can be done to bring about her union with him."

"Nothing,—I fear, nothing," replied M. de Bois, sadly.

"Then you do know who he is? There, you have admitted that you did!"

"Are you laying snares for me, then, sweet Bertha? But I shall not let you exult over my falling into one of these well-laid traps. I only said I feared nothing could be done to bring about Mademoiselle Madeleine's union with any one."

"But you know whom she loves?"

"She has never told me."

"But you at least suspect?"

"What right have I to suspect? And you know I am dull,—I did not even suspect whom her cousin Bertha loved."

Bertha hung her head for a moment, but quickly returned to the attack.

"Tell me, at least, whom you think Madeleine prefers."

"I have no right to do that,—it would not be fair to Mademoiselle Madeleine,—she would never forgive me!"

"Ah, then you and I may have secrets from each other? That is the inference I shall draw if you refuse," said Bertha, provokingly.

This was a most distasteful suggestion to Gaston, who had a masculine touch of jealousy in his composition,—just enough to make him desire to monopolize Bertha entirely. He was not willing that she should have a thought which she could not communicate to him; to hide anything from him was to rob him! Was his an exceptional case, or are men in general as exigeant?

"Well, you do not answer?" Bertha observed.

"I should be grieved if I had not your whole confidence, now and ever," he replied.

"So shall I be if I have not yours. Should one exact more than one is willing to give? Tell me who it is that you suspect Madeleine of loving. Tell me at once!"

"I cannot,—I have no right!"

"I think you have no right to withhold the knowledge from me."

"I think so too," answered Gaston, sorely perplexed; "and yet I must not tell you! Will you not be generous enough to pity me, and ask me no more?"

Bertha only pouted at this appeal; but Gaston must have found some means of soothing her, for, by and by, she said, coquettishly,—

"Of course, I only wanted to know on Madeleine's account and on yours."

"Mine?" exclaimed Gaston.

"Yes, yours; because if I had discovered who this lover was, I might have given him some valuable hints, and all might come right very quickly; as it is, you may have to wait a long time for a bride."

"I? Why, I am not Mademoiselle Madeleine's lover!"

"No, but you are very dependent upon him. You cannot encircle your bride's finger with a wedding-ring until he passes one on the taper finger of his."

"Bertha, that is unreasonable!" remonstrated Gaston.

"All the more womanly! Of course it is unreasonable; I never laid claim to being reasonable; but, on the other hand, I am obstinate. When Madeleine names the day for her marriage she names the day for mine."

"But if she should never marry, and that is possible."

"Then I never shall!" said Bertha, with a petulant little air of determination which looked only too real.

M. de Bois had no opportunity at that moment to test the effect of his newly-acquired eloquence, for Maurice entered.

"Bertha, will you believe that I have escorted my grandmother home and actually forgotten you? The carriage waits, and I am deputed to see you safely to the hotel."

"Do you suppose I shall accept as an escort one who thought me of too little importance to bear me in mind?" asked Bertha, who was not wanting in feminine tact, that sixth sense of womanhood, which becomes wonderfully quickened when love sharpens the faculties.

Gaston joined in; "My dear fellow, you could scarcely hope to be treated civilly after such a confession. But I will do my utmost to relieve you in this unpleasant predicament. Mademoiselle Bertha refuses you as an escort—but, as she cannot return alone, I will take your place."

"And you may dismiss your carriage," returned Bertha. "I prefer to walk."

"And you really will not let me accompany you?" asked Maurice. "What will my grandmother say?"

"No doubt we shall hear that when we reach the hotel," was the young lady's saucy reply.

But they did not hear; for the countess had closed her door, and did not open it again until she summoned Adolphine to undress her.

The watchers beside Count Tristan that night were Madeleine and Maurice. The count was somewhat restless and often muttered unintelligible words; but he continued to recognize Madeleine and seemed pleased to have her near him. Maurice did not fall asleep again; he and Madeleine talked, in whispers, the whole night through, with the exception of those brief intervals when the count was awake. The themes of conversation were so abundant, so self-increasing, there was always so much which remained untold, that the topics of interest appeared to be inexhaustible.

Madeleine had given orders that Ruth and Mrs. Lawkins should commence their watch at five o'clock; but she could hardly believe that hour had arrived when the housekeeper entered, followed by Ruth. Maurice declared that he was not in the slightest degree fatigued, or sleepy, and did not need rest; but Madeleine, with smiling imperativeness, ordered him to bed; and certainly Maurice, when he obeyed, slept remarkably sound for a man who was not in the least fatigued or sleepy, and who was inclined to battle against sleep because he could not bear to lose the consciousness of being beneath the same roof as the one so long loved, so long and vainly sought; and because it was a joy inexpressible to lie still and think over all the words she had just uttered, and to picture her face until it seemed actually before him. Yet, in spite of this delightful occupation, inexorable sleep would suddenly fling her mantle over his senses, and even refused to grant him the happiness of continuing his blissful dreams in her own realm.

Maurice sought his grandmother the next morning, at the usual hour, and carried her the tidings that Count Tristan moved his limbs more freely, and that he had even spoken several words which could be comprehended. She gave no sign of preparing to accompany her grandson, and, after waiting awhile, he asked,—

"Will you and Bertha be ready soon? It is later than usual."

"I shall not go," replied the countess slowly, and as though it cost her a great effort to force out the words.

Maurice made no remonstrance; he well knew that to endeavor to alter a resolution of hers would be a fruitless attempt.

"And you, Bertha?" he inquired.

Bertha looked toward the countess: "Perhaps you would not like me to leave you?"

"All leave me!" she almost groaned out. "Why not you?"

"I will stay with my aunt," replied Bertha, without hesitation.

And she remained all day beside the afflicted, but ever haughty, countess. They did not converse, for the latter rarely spoke, even in answer to Bertha's questions, and Bertha could invent no mode of arousing and amusing her.

M. de Bois, not finding Bertha at Madeleine's, came to the hotel; but his presence was obviously very distasteful to the countess. She did not withdraw, she would have suffered martyrdom (as she did) rather than commit the impropriety of leaving Bertha alone with her lover; but she sat with knitted brows, her stony eyes turned scrutinizingly upon them, listening to and passing judgment upon every word they uttered, and looking a rebuke if Bertha ventured to smile. The icy chill of such a presence rendered Bertha and Gaston so thoroughly uncomfortable, that the young girl, although she was one of those beings who could hardly bear to live out of the sight of those she loved best, felt relieved when Gaston rose and bade her adieu. His visit had been brief, yet it seemed longer than all the combined hours they had passed together during the last three days. The visage of the countess relaxed somewhat after Gaston had gone, but she remained lost in thought without further noticing her niece. Bertha was, at least, spared the nervous unrest produced by those piercing eyes ever upon her.

Unfortunately Bertha's resources for self-diversion were of the most limited description. Hers was a social, a wholly dependent nature; she could not, like Madeleine, create her own amusement, and make her own occupation. She tried to read, but could not fix her attention; she tried to embroider, but quickly threw down her work; she could only wander in and out of the room, now watching at the window as though she expected some one; now sitting down and jumping up again; now turning over books and papers, and looking about for something, she did not know what, until she had thrown the room into complete disorder; and certainly her restless flitting backward and forward would have half distracted any one less absorbed than the countess. During one of Bertha's fits of contemplation at the window, she exclaimed,—

"Here comes Maurice, at last! I thought he would never be here!"

"I think my father is decidedly improving," said Maurice, as he entered. "I feel certain he recognized me to-day, and I thought he attempted to pronounce my name."

A faint light gleamed in the eyes of the countess at these words, but it was quenched by those which followed.

"Madeleine, he always seems to know, and he evidently likes to have her near him. His eyes wander after her when she leaves the room, and to-day, I thought he tried to smile when she returned."

"He is better then; it will soon be possible to move him; he can soon have that care which should be most acceptable to every son, and, I trust, has ever been to mine."

The countess made this assertion proudly, in spite of the deep wound she had received through her son's recognition of Madeleine; she had tried to forget that blow, or to persuade herself that it had not been dealt.

Maurice did not know what answer to make, and remained silent.

"Aunt, you would not think of having cousin Tristan brought here until he is nearly well,—that is, well enough to walk about,—would you?" asked Bertha; and her accents expressed her disapproval of such an attempt.

"He shall come the very moment that it is possible! Do you suppose that I would submit to his remaining where he is one instant longer than is absolutely necessary?"

No reply to this declaration was needed or expected. Maurice returned to Madeleine's house with a sense of thankfulness that the count's seizure had taken place where it did.

Gaston and the housekeeper were the watchers beside the count that night, taking the places of Madeleine and Maurice at midnight,—this exchange having now become the established rule for alternate nights.

In spite of the iron-like constitution, and iron-like character of the countess,—in spite of her valiant, her desperate struggles,—her strength began to fail under the pressure of her hidden sorrow. She was unwilling to admit that she was subject to bodily any more than to mental infirmities. She belonged to that rare class described by the poet when he speaks of one who

"Scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone."

And though she had been suffering for days from a low nervous fever, neither her words nor actions gave the slightest indication that she was not in her usual health. But, one morning, when she endeavored to rise, her limbs refused to support her,—her head swam,—it was with difficulty that she poured out a glass of water to cool her parched and burning lips, and she was so fearful of falling (there seemed something positively awful to her in the possibility of prostration, perhaps on account of the fall it typified) that she staggered back to bed and there remained.

Neither Bertha's persuasions, nor those of Maurice, could induce her to allow a physician to be summoned. Maurice suggested Dr. Bayard, who was attending Count Tristan, but the countess was even more opposed to him than to any other medical attendant. Was he not aware of her relationship to the mantua-maker? Had he not seen Count Tristan recognize that humble and degraded relative when he did not know his own mother?—his own son? No,—she never allowed physicians to approach her; she never had need of them; she had none now, so she affirmed.

Bertha was not particularly well fitted to preside in a sick-room, and her maid, Adolphine, was versed in the arts of the toilet alone. She could have made the most charming cap for an invalid, but would have proved particularly clumsy in smoothing a pillow for the head by which the cap was to be worn. Yet the countess obstinately refused to have a proper attendant engaged. She wanted nothing, she said, except to be left to herself,—not to be disturbed,—not even to be accosted.

The position of Maurice grew far more painful than ever. He could no longer devote himself exclusively to his father. Even though he could, in reality, do nothing for his grandmother, yet he felt bound to pass a portion of the day by her side; for Bertha was too much distressed and too inefficient to be left with no assistance save that of her frivolous maid. Madeleine longed to seek her aunt, and make some few, needful arrangements for her comfort; but she could not doubt that her presence would do more harm than good. All that she could effect was to instruct Maurice, as far as possible, in the requirements of a sick-room, and to have prepared, in her own kitchen, the light food suitable to an invalid, which it would be difficult to obtain in a hotel. Every day delicate broth, beef tea as clear as amber, panada, simple jellies, and choice fruit were sent to Bertha for her aunt, without the knowledge of the countess; indeed, the only nourishment the invalid tasted was provided by the thoughtful Madeleine.



CHAPTER XLII.

DOUBLE CONVALESCENCE.

A fortnight passed on. At its close the vigorous constitution of the countess, united to her powerful volition, gained a victory over her malady. She had remained unshaken in her resolution not to receive medical advice; she had taken no remedies,—used no precautions; yet the fever had been conquered. Her strength began to return, and she insisted upon leaving her bed, and being dressed, not as befits an invalid, but in her usual precise and soigne style. Adolphine timidly suggested that a wrapper would be more comfortable than her ordinary attire, and a morning cap would allow her to repose her head. The countess awed her into silence by remarking:

"I keep my chamber no longer. I shall dress in a manner suitable to the drawing-room."

During the progress of the tedious toilet, it was more than once apparent that she was battling against a sense of faintness; but even this discomfort did not induce her to allow a single pin to be less conscientiously placed, a single curl less carefully smoothed. Adolphine did not dare to betray that she perceived the failure of her mistress' strength, and had not courage to offer her a glass of water. When the folds of her heavy black silk dress were adjusted, her collar and sleeves, of rich lace, arranged, her girdle tightly clasped with a buckle of brilliants which was an heirloom, and her snowy hair ornamented with a Parisian head-dress of mingled lace, velvet, and flowers, she contemplated herself in the mirror as complacently as though she perceived no change in her shrunken, haggard, altered features, and rose up to proceed to the salon.

Her first steps were so feeble and uncertain that Adolphine started forward involuntarily, to offer her arm; but a look from her mistress made her draw back, and the tread of the countess grew firmer as she entered the drawing-room. She did not sink into the nearest seat, but crossed the apartment to the arm-chair which she was accustomed to occupy; but she had hardly sat down, before her eyes closed and her head fell back; her face was as white as that of the dead. Adolphine caught up a bottle of cologne; but she stood in such fear of the countess, that without using the restorative she ran to summon Bertha. Bertha approached her aunt in great alarm, but sprinkled the cologne on her face with lavish hands, applied it to her nostrils, and bathed her temples. In a few moments Madame de Gramont opened her eyes and said,—

"A little on my handkerchief, Bertha. Adolphine carelessly forgot to give me any."

Her proud, unconquered spirit would not admit the passing insensibility of its mortal part. There was nothing to be done except for her niece and maid to appear unconscious of the weakness which she herself ignored. Adolphine placed a footstool beneath her mistress' feet and retired. Bertha went to the window and looked out,—a favorite amusement of hers, as we are aware.

The fortnight had been one of severe privation and discipline to her. She had not once seen Madeleine, for she could not have left her aunt, except when Maurice was with her, and the countess would not have permitted her niece to go forth unprotected by Maurice or her maid, and the latter could not be spared. The escort of Bertha's affianced husband Madame de Gramont would have considered highly improper.

Gaston's visits, though he came every day, were brief and unsatisfactory; for the countess, who could not forbid them, (as she felt inclined to do), ordered the large folding-doors which divided her chamber from the drawing-room to be left open, and desired Adolphine to take her work into the latter apartment. Conversation in an ordinary tone was quite audible to the countess, and could not but be heard by Adolphine, who had a tolerable knowledge of English. What lover cares to converse to more than one listener?

Bertha pined for the fresh air,—for a drive in the country, or, better still, a stroll in the capitol grounds with Gaston; but this latter was a happiness almost as far out of her reach as the paradise which she deemed it foreshadowed.

The countess had grown highly irascible during her illness, and as Bertha and her maid were the only ones upon whom she had a chance of venting her spleen, she spared neither. She experienced a sick longing for her native land; she more than ever detested the republican country in which she was sojourning, and she heaped upon Bertha the bitterest reproaches as the instigator of the exile which had been followed by so many calamities. The countess never condescended to remember that her wealthy young relative had liberally borne all expenses since they left the Chateau de Gramont, where its owners had no longer the means of residing. Of this fact she might be supposed to be ignorant, as she never vouchsafed a thought to money matters; it, however, had been made known to her by Count Tristan before she consented to the journey; but the trivial circumstance was quickly forgotten.

While Bertha was dreamily looking out of the window, and wondering when she would be freed from this prison-like life, she heard the door open, and turned quickly, hoping to greet the all-brightening presence. It was Robert, Madeleine's servant, who entered bearing a silver salver. Bertha had not supposed that the countess would, without warning, occupy her usual place in the drawing-room, and had not guarded against Robert's being seen. The young girl was so much discomposed that she stood motionless, aghast, expecting some terrible outburst from her aunt. Robert had admitted the countess at each of her compulsory visits to the residence of "Mademoiselle Melanie," and it seemed hardly possible that she would not recognize him again. Bertha ought to have known Madame de Gramont better than to have supposed she would have stooped to bestow glances enough upon a servant of Madeleine's, or, indeed, any servant, to know his features. Robert placed the salver upon the table, and either because he was naturally a silent man, or because the presence of the countess struck him dumb, or because he had no message to deliver that morning, retired without speaking. Bertha looked anxiously at her aunt; the immobility of her features was reassuring.