The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fairy Fingers, by Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie

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Title: Fairy Fingers
       A Novel

Author: Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie

Release Date: February 21, 2008 [EBook #24664]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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FAIRY FINGERS.


       *       *       *       *       *

_IN PRESS:_

BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME,

THE MUTE SINGER;
A Novel.

       *       *       *       *       *




FAIRY FINGERS.

A Novel.

BY

ANNA CORA RITCHIE,

AUTHOR OF "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS," "MIMIC LIFE,"
"TWIN ROSES," "ARMAND," "FASHION," ETC.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Labor is Worship."

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW YORK:

CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY.

MDCCCLXV.

       *       *       *       *       *

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by
GEO. W. CARLETON.

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
for the Southern District of New York.


       *       *       *       *       *


CONTENTS.

CHAPTER                                       PAGE

I. Noblesse,                                     7

II. The Cousins,                                17

III. Madeleine,                                 24

IV. Proposals,                                  38

V. Heart-beats,                                 43

VI. Unmasking,                                  55

VII. A Crisis,                                  68

VIII. Flight,                                   79

IX. The Empty Place,                            94

X. The Humble Companion,                       109

XI. Pursuit,                                   116

XII. The Sister of Charity,                    121

XIII. Weary Days,                              131

XIV. Diamonds and Emeralds,                    139

XV. The Embroidered Handkerchief,              148

XVI. A Voice from the Lost One,                155

XVII. "Chiffons,"                              166

XVIII. Maurice,                                173

XIX. The Aristocrats in America,               179

XX. The Incognita,                             186

XXI. The Cytherea of Fashion,                  195

XXII. Meeting,                                 200

XXIII. Noble Hands made Nobler,                213

XXIV. Feminine Belligerents,                   226

XXV. The Message,                              237

XXVI. Meeting of Lovers,                       241

XXVII. Count Tristan's Policy,                 249

XXVIII. Lord Linden's Discovery,               254

XXIX. A Contest,                               260

XXX. Bertha,                                   268

XXXI. A Surprise,                              278

XXXII. The Nobleman and Mantua-maker,          283

XXXIII. Madame De Gramont,                     294

XXXIV. Half the Wooer,                         298

XXXV. A Revelation,                            305

XXXVI. The Suitor,                             311

XXXVII. A Shock,                               314

XXXVIII. The Mantua-maker's Guests,            323

XXXIX. Ministration,                           330

XL. Recognition,                               340

XLI. Unbowed,                                  345

XLII. Double Convalescence,                    352

XLIII. Outgeneralled,                          357

XLIV. A Change,                                364

XLV. Reparation,                               375

XLVI. A Mishap,                                380

XLVII. Inflexibility,                          387

XLVIII. The New England Nurse,                 392

XLIX. Ronald,                                  405

L. A Secret Divined,                           409

LI. Seed Sown,                                 415

LII. A Lover's Snare,                          420

LIII. Resistance,                              426

LIV. An Unexpected Visit,                      431

LV. Amen,                                      435

LVI. The Hand of God,                          442

LVII. Conclusion,                              453


       *       *       *       *       *


FAIRY FINGERS.




CHAPTER I.

NOBLESSE.


They were seated in the drawing-room of an ancient chateau in
Brittany,--the Countess Dowager de Gramont and Count Tristan, her only
son,--a mansion lacking none of the ponderous quaintness that usually
characterizes ancestral dwellings in that locality. The edifice could
still boast of imposing grandeur, especially if classed among "fine
ruins." Within and without were harmoniously dilapidated, and a large
portion of the interior was uninhabitable. The limited resources of the
count precluded even an apologetic semblance of repairs.

The house was surrounded by spacious parks and pleasure-grounds, in a
similarly neglected condition. Their natural beauty was striking, and
the rich soil yielded fruits and flowers in abundance, though its only
culture was received from the hands of old Baptiste, who made his
appearance as gardener in the morning, but, with a total change of
costume, was metamorphosed into butler after the sun passed the
meridian. In his button-hole a flower, which he could never be induced
to forego, betrayed his preference for the former vocation.

The discussion between mother and son was unmistakably tempestuous. A
thunder-cloud lowered on the noble lady's brow; her eyes shot forth
electric flashes, and her voice, usually subdued to aristocratic
softness, was raised to storm-pitch.

"Count Tristan de Gramont, you have taken leave of your senses!"

A favorite declaration of persons thoroughly convinced of their own
unassailable mental equilibrium, when their convictions encounter the
sudden check of opposition.

As the assertion, unfortunately, is one that cannot be disproved by
denial, the count sank resignedly behind the shield of silence. His
mother returned to the attack.

"Do you mean me to understand that, in your right mind, you would
condescend to mingle with men of business?--that you would actually
degrade yourself into becoming a shareholder, or manager, or director,
or whatever you please to term it, in a railway company?--_you_, Count
Tristan de Gramont! The very proposal is a humiliation; to entertain it
would be an absurdity--to consent, an impossibility. I repeat it, you
have taken leave of your senses!"

"But, my dear mother," answered the count, with marked deference, "you
are forgetting that this railway company chances to be an American
association; my connection with it, or, rather, its very existence, is
not likely to be known here in Brittany,--therefore, my dignity will not
be compromised. The only valuable property left us is the transatlantic
estate which my roving brother purchased during his wanderings in the
New World, and bequeathed to my son, Maurice, for whom it is held in
trust by an American gentleman. The members of the association, who
desire to interest me in their speculation, assert that the proposed
railroad may pass directly through this very tract of land. Should that
be the case, its value will be greatly increased. At the present moment
the estate yields us nothing; but the advent of this railroad must
insure an immense profit. We estimate that, by judicious management, the
land may be made to bring in"--

His mother interrupted him with a haughty gesture. "_'Speculation!'_
_'yield!'_ _'profit!'_ _'bring in!'_ What language to grow familiar to
the lips of a son of mine! You talk like a tradesman already! My son,
give up all idea of this plebeian enterprise!"

The count did not answer immediately. He seemed puzzled to determine
what degree of confidence it was necessary to repose in his stately
mother. After a brief pause, he renewed the conversation with evident
embarrassment.

"It is very difficult to make a lady, especially a lady of your rank,
education, and mode of life, understand these matters, and the
necessity"--

"It ought to be equally difficult to make the nobleman, my son,
comprehend them," answered the countess, freezingly.

The count rejoined, as though driven to extremity, "It is the very fact
of my being a nobleman, that has made these people, Americans as they
are, and despisers of titles as they profess to be, seek me with
eagerness. The _prestige_ of my _title_, and the promise of obtaining
some privileges respecting Maurice's Maryland estate, are all that I can
contribute toward the success of their undertaking. It is true I am a
nobleman; but even rank, my dear mother, must have the means of
sustaining its existence, to say nothing of preserving its dignity. Even
rank is subject to the common, vulgar need of food and raiment and
shelter, not to mention the necessity of keeping horses, carriages,
domestics, and securing other indispensable but money-consuming
luxuries. Our narrow income is no longer sufficient to meet even our
limited expenditures. The education of Maurice at the University of
Paris, and your own charities, have not merely drained our purse, but
involved us in debt. I hail the offer made me by this American company,
because it may extricate us from some very serious difficulties. I am
much mortified at your resolute disapproval of the step I contemplate."

Count Tristan de Gramont was a widower, the father of but one child. It
must not be supposed that, although he seriously purposed embarking in a
business enterprise, he had failed to appropriate a goodly share of that
pride which had both descended by inheritance, and been liberally
instilled into his mind by education. His character was strongly stamped
with the Breton traits of obstinacy and perseverance, and he was gifted
with an unaristocratic amount of energy. When an idea once took
possession of his brain, he patiently and diligently brought the embryo
thought to fruition, in spite of all disheartening obstacles. He was
narrow-minded and selfish when any interests save his own and those of
his mother and son were at stake. These were the only two beings whom he
loved, and he only loved them because they were _his_--a portion of
_himself_; and it was merely himself that he loved through them. In a
certain sense, he was a devoted son. His education had rendered him
punctilious, to the highest degree, in the observance of all those forms
that betoken filial veneration. He always treated his august mother with
the most profound reverence. He paid her the most courteous
attentions,--opened the doors when she desired to pass, placed
footstools for her feet, knelt promptly to pick up the handkerchief or
glove she dropped, was ever ready to offer her his arm for her support,
and seldom combated her opinions.

The first time he had openly ventured to oppose her views was in the
conversation we have just related.

She looked so regal, as she sat before him in a richly carved antique
chair, which she occupied as though it had been a throne, that, in spite
of the blind obstinacy with which she refused to see her own interests
and his, Count Tristan could not help regarding her with admiration.

She was still strikingly handsome, notwithstanding the sixty winters
which had bleached her raven locks to the most uncompromising white.
Those snowy tresses fell in soft and glossy curls about her scarcely
furrowed countenance. Her forehead was somewhat low and narrow; the
face, a decided oval; the nose, almost straight; the eyes almond-shaped,
and of a jetty blackness, flashing out from beneath brows that were
remarkable for the fine, dark line that designated their arch. The mouth
was the least pleasing feature,--it was too small, and unsuggestive of
varied expression; the lips not only lacked fulness, but wore a
supercilious curl that had become habitual.

Her form was considerably above the medium height, and added to the
sense of grandeur conveyed by her presence. Her carriage was erect to
the verge of stiffness, and her step too firm to be quite soundless.
Advancing years had not produced any unseemly _embonpoint_, nor had her
figure fallen into the opposite extreme, and sharpened into meagre
angularity; its outline retained sufficient roundness not to lose the
curves or grace.

She had made no reply to her son's last remark, which forced him to
begin anew. He thought it politic, however, to change the subject.

"You remember, my mother, that some seven of our friends are engaged to
dine with us to-morrow. I trust you will not disapprove of my having
invited two American gentlemen to join the party. After the letters of
introduction they brought me, I was forced to show them some attention
and"--

He paused abruptly, without venturing to add that those gentlemen were
directors of the railway company of which he had before spoken.

"My son, you are aware that I never interfere with your hospitalities,
but you seem to have forgotten that my Sevres china is only a set for
twelve, and I can use no other on ceremonious occasions. With Bertha and
Madeleine we have one guest too many."

"That is a matter readily arranged," replied the count. "Madeleine need
not appear at table. She is always so obliging and manageable that she
can easily be requested to dine in her own room. In fact, to speak
frankly, I would _rather not_ have her present."

"But, should she be absent, Bertha will be annoyed," rejoined Madame de
Gramont.

"Bertha is a simpleton! How strange that she does not see, or suspect,
that Madeleine always throws her into the background! I said a while
ago, my mother, that _your charities_ had helped to drain our purse, and
this is one which I might cite, and the one that galls me most. Here,
for three years, you have sheltered and supported this young girl,
without once reflecting upon the additional expense we are incurring by
your playing the benefactress thus grandly. It is very noble, very
munificent on your part; still, for a number of reasons, I regret that
Madeleine has become a permanent inmate of this chateau."

"Madeleine was an orphan," replied the countess, "the sole remaining
child of the Duke de Gramont, your father's nephew. When she was left
homeless and destitute, did not the _honor of the family_ force me to
offer her an asylum, and to treat her with the courtesy due to a
relative? Have we not always found her very grateful and very
agreeable?"

"I grant you--very agreeable--_too_ agreeable by half," returned the
count; "so agreeable that, as I said, she invariably throws your
favorite Bertha into the shade. I confess that the necessity of always
reserving for this young person, thrust upon us by the force of
circumstances, a place at table, a seat in the carriage, room upon every
party of pleasure, makes her presence an inconvenience, if not a
positive burden. And will you allow me to speak with great candor? May I
venture to say that I have seen you, my dear mother, chafed by the
infliction, and irritated by beholding Bertha lose through contrast with
Madeleine?"

His mother replied with animation: "Bertha is my grandniece,--the
granddaughter of my only sister; the ties of blood, if nothing more,
would bind me more closely to her than to Madeleine. Possibly there may
have been times when I have not been well pleased to see one so dear,
invariably, though most inexplicably, eclipsed. Bertha may shine forth
in her most resplendent jewels,--her most costly and exquisite Parisian
toilet; Madeleine has only to enter, in a simple muslin dress, a flower,
or a knot of ribbons in her hair, and she draws all eyes magnetically
upon her."

"That is precisely the observation I have made," answered Count Tristan;
"and, my mother, have you never reflected how seriously your _protegee_
may interfere with our prospects respecting Maurice?"

The countess started. "Impossible! He could not think of Madeleine when
a union with Bertha would be so much more advantageous."

"Youth does not think--it chooses by the attraction it experiences
towards this or that object," answered the count. "Before Maurice last
returned to the university, nine months ago, his admiration for
Madeleine was unmistakable. Now that he is shortly to come home, and for
an indefinite period,--now that our plans must ripen, I have come to the
conclusion that Madeleine must be removed, or they will never attain
fruition; she must not be allowed to cast the spell of her dangerous
fascination over him; something must be done, and that before Maurice
returns; in a fortnight he will be here."

Before the countess could reply, a young girl bounded into the room,
with a letter in one hand, and a roll of music in the other.

It would be difficult to find a more perfect type of the pure blonde
than was manifested in the person of this fair young maiden. The word
"dazzling" might be applied without exaggeration to the lustrous
whiteness of a complexion tinged in the cheeks as though by the
reflection of a sea-shell. Her full, dewy lips disclosed milky rows of
childlike teeth within. Her eyes were of the clearest azure; but, in
spite of their expression of mingled tenderness and gayety, one who
could pause to lay the finger upon an imperfection, would note that
something was wanting to complete their beauty;--the eyebrows were too
faintly traced, and the lashes too light, though long. The low brow,
straight, slender nose, the soft curve of the chin, the fine oval of the
face, were obviously an inheritance. At a single glance it was
impossible not to be struck with the resemblance which these classic
features bore to those of the countess. But the sportive dimples,
pressed as though by a caressing touch, upon the cheeks and chin of the
young girl, destroyed, even more than the totally opposite coloring, the
likeness in the two countenances. The hair of the countess had been
remarkable for its shining blackness, while the yellow acacia was not
more brightly golden than the silken tresses of Bertha,--tresses that
ran in ripples, and lost themselves in a sunny stream of natural curls,
which seemed audaciously bent on breaking their bounds, and looked as
though they were always in a frolic. In vain they were smoothed back by
the skilful fingers of an expert _femme de chambre_, and confined in an
elaborate knot at the back of Bertha's small head; the rebellious locks
_would_ wave and break into fine rings upon the white brow, and lovingly
steal in stray ringlets adown the alabaster throat, ignoring
conventional restraint as sportively as their owner.

Bertha de Merrivale, like Madeleine, was an orphan, but, unlike
Madeleine, an heiress. The Marquis de Merrivale, Bertha's uncle, was
also her guardian. He allowed her every year to spend a few months with
her mother's relatives, who warmly pleaded for these annual visits. Her
sojourn at the chateau de Gramont was always a season of delight to
Bertha herself, for she dearly loved her great-aunt, liked Count
Tristan, enjoyed the society of Maurice, and was enthusiastically
attached to Madeleine.

"A letter! a letter from Maurice!" exclaimed Bertha, dancing around her
aunt as she held out the epistle.

The countess broke the seal eagerly, and after glancing over the first
lines, exclaimed, "Here is news indeed! We did not expect Maurice for a
fortnight; but he writes that he will be here to-morrow. How little time
we shall have for preparation! And I intended to order so many
improvements made in his chamber, and to quite remodel"--

"Oh, of course, everything will have to be remodelled for the Viscount
Maurice de Gramont! Nothing will be good enough for _him_! Every one
will sink into insignificance at _his_ coming! We, poor, forlorn
damsels, will henceforth be of no account,--no one will waste a thought
on _us_!" said Bertha.

"On the contrary," replied her aunt, "I never had your happiness more in
my thoughts than at this moment. Be sure you wear your blue brocade
to-morrow, and the blue net interwoven with pearls in your hair, and
that turquoise set which Maurice always admired."

"Be sure that I play the coquette, you mean, as my dear aunt did before
me," answered Bertha, merrily. "No, indeed, aunt, that may have done in
_your_ day, but it does not suit _ours_. We, of the present time, do not
wear nets for the express purpose of ensnaring the admiration of young
men; or don our most becoming dresses to lay up their hearts in their
folds. I am going to seek Madeleine to tell her this news, and I have
another surprise for her."

"What is it?" inquired the countess, in an altered tone.

"This great parcel of music, which I sent to Paris to obtain expressly
for her. But I have something else which she must not see to day,--this
bracelet, the exact pattern of the one my uncle presented to me upon my
last birthday, and Madeleine shall receive this upon her birthday; that
will be _to-morrow_."

As she spoke, she clasped upon her small wrist a band of gold, fastened
by a knot formed of pearls, and gayly held up her round, white arm
before the eyes of the count and countess.

The latter caught her uplifted hand and said gravely, "Bertha, music and
bracelets are very appropriate for _you_, but they do not suit
Madeleine. Madeleine is poor, worse than poor, wholly dependent upon"--

"There you are mistaken, aunt," returned Bertha, warmly. "As _I_ am
rich, she is not poor;--that is, she will not always be poor, and she
shall _not_ be dependent upon any one--not even upon _you_. I mean to
settle upon her a marriage portion if she choose to marry, and a
handsome income if she remain single."

"Very generous and _romantic_ on your part," replied the countess,
ironically; "but, unfortunately for her, you have no power at present
over your own property; you cannot play the benefactress without the
consent of your guardian, and that you will never obtain."

"But if I marry, I will have the right," answered Bertha, naively.

"You will have the consent of your husband to obtain, and that will be
equally difficult."

"That is true, but I am not discouraged. I suppose when I am of age I
shall have the power, and I need not marry before then. I am sixteen,
nearly seventeen; it will not be so _very_ long to wait, and I am
determined to serve Madeleine."

"Many events may occur to make you change you mind before you attain
your majority. Meanwhile you are fostering tastes in Madeleine which are
unsuited to her condition. I know you think me very severe, but"--

"No, no, aunt, you are never severe toward me; you are only too kind,
too indulgent; you spoil me with too much love and consideration; and it
is because you _have_ spoiled me so completely that I mean to be saucy
enough to speak out just what I think."

Bertha seated herself on the footstool at her aunt's feet, took her hand
caressingly, and with an earnest air prattled on.

"It is with Madeleine that you are severe, and you grow more and more
severe every day. You speak to her so harshly, so disdainfully at
times, that I hardly recognize you. One would not imagine that she is
your grandniece as much as I am,--that is, _almost_ as much, for she was
the grandniece of the Count de Gramont, my uncle. You find incessant
fault with her, and she seems to irritate you by her very presence. Oh!
I have seen it for a long time, and during this last visit I see it more
than ever."

"Bertha!" commenced her aunt, in a tone which might have awed any less
volatile and determined speaker.

"Do not interrupt me, aunt; I have not done yet, and I _must_ speak. Why
do you put on this manner towards Madeleine? You _do put it on_,--it is
not natural to you,--for you are kind to every one else. And have you
not been most kind to her also? Were you not the only one of her proud
relatives who held out a hand to her when she stood unsheltered and
alone in the world? Have you not since then done everything for her?
Done everything--but--but--but _love her_?"

"Bertha, you are the only one who would venture to"--

"I know it, aunt,--I am the only one who would venture, so grant me one
moment more; I have not done yet. Madeleine cannot be an incumbrance,
for who is so useful in your household as she? Who could replace her?
When you are suffering, she is the tenderest of nurses. She daily
relieves you of a thousand cares. When you have company, is it not
Madeleine who sees that everything is in order? If you give a dinner, is
it not Madeleine who not only superintends all the preparations, but
invents the most beautiful decorations for the table,--and out of
nothing--out of leaves and flowers so common that no one would have
thought of culling them, yet so wonderfully arranged that every one
exclaims at their picturesque effect? When you have dull guests,--guests
that put me to sleep, or out of patience,--is it not Madeleine who
amuses them? How many evenings, that would have been insufferably
stupid, have flown delightfully, chased by her delicious voice!"

"You make a great virtue of what was simply an enjoyment to herself. She
delights as much, or more, in singing than any one can delight in
hearing her."

"That is because she delights in everything she does; she always
accomplishes her work with delight. She delighted in making you that
becoming cap, with its coquettishly-disposed knots of violet ribbons;
she delighted in turning and freshening and remaking the silk dress you
wear at this moment, which fits you to perfection, and looks quite new.
She delighted in embroidering my cousin Tristan that pretty velvet
smoking-cap he has on his head. She delighted in making me the wreath
which I wore at the Count de Caradare's concert the other evening, and
which every one complimented me upon. It was her own invention;--and did
not you yourself remark that there was not a head-dress in the room half
as beautiful? Everything she touches she beautifies. The commonest
objects assume a graceful form beneath her fingers. The "_fingers of a
fairy_" my cousin Maurice used to call them, and, there certainly is
magic in those dainty, rapidly-moving hands of hers. They have an art, a
skill, a facility that partakes of the supernatural. Madeleine is a
dependent upon your bounty, but her magic fingers make her a very
valuable one; and, if you would not think it very impertinent, I would
say that we are all _her debtors_, rather than _she ours_. There, I have
done! Now, forgive me for my temerity,--confess that you have been too
severe to Madeleine, and promise not to find fault with her any more."

"I will confess that she has the most charming advocate in the world,"
answered the countess with affection.

"Madeleine must not see this bracelet until to-morrow; so I must hasten
to lock it up," resumed the young girl; "after that I will let her know
that our cousin will be here to honor her birthday. How enchanted she
will be! But she makes entirely too much of him,--just as you all do.
The instant she hears the news, away she will fly to make preparations
for his comfort. I shall only have to say, 'Maurice is coming,' and what
a commotion there will be!"

Bertha tripped away, leaving the countess alone with her son.

"Is she not enchanting?" exclaimed the former, as Bertha disappeared.
"Maurice will have a charming bride."

"Yes, _if_ the marriage we so earnestly desire ever take place."

"IF? IF? I intend that it _shall_ take place. It is my one dream, my
dearest hope!" said the countess.

"It is mine also," replied the count; "and yet I have my doubts--my
fears; in a word, I do not believe this union ever _will_ take place if
Madeleine remain here."

The countess drew herself up with indignant amazement. "What do you
mean? Do you think Madeleine capable of"--

"I do not think Madeleine capable of anything wrong; but she has such
versatility of talent, she is so fascinating, her character is so
lovable, that I think those talents and attractions capable of upsetting
all our plans and of making Maurice fall deeply in love with her."

"But is not Bertha fascinating, and lovely as a painter's ideal?" asked
the countess.

"Yes, but it is not such a striking, such an impressive, such a
bewitching, bewildering style of beauty," replied her son. "Mark my
words: I understand young men. I know what dazzles their eyes and turns
their heads. If Maurice is thrown into daily communication with Bertha
and Madeleine, it is Madeleine to whom he will become attached."

"It must not be!" said the countess, emphatically, and rising as she
spoke. "It shall not!"

"I echo, it shall not, my mother. But we must take means of prevention.
It is most unfortunate that Maurice returns a fortnight before we
expected him. I had my plans laid and ready to carry into execution
before he could arrive. Now we must hasten them."

"What is your scheme?" asked his mother.

"Madeleine has other relations, all richer than ourselves. I purpose
writing to each of them, and proposing that they shall receive her, not
for three years, as we have done, but that they shall each, in turn,
invite her to spend three months with them. They surely cannot refuse,
and her life will be very varied and pleasant, visiting from house to
house every three months, enjoying new pleasures, seeing new faces,
making new friendships. And her relatives will, in reality, be our
debtors, for Madeleine is the most charming of inmates. She is always so
lively, and creates so much gayety around her; she has so many resources
in herself, and she is so _useful_! In fact, we are bestowing a valuable
gift upon these good relatives of hers, and they ought to thank us, as I
have no doubt they will."

The countess approved of her son's plan to rid them of their dangerously
agreeable inmate, and the count, without further delay, sat down to pen
the projected epistles.




CHAPTER II.

THE COUSINS.


Bertha's prediction was verified, and the whole chateau was thrown into
confusion by preparations for the coming of the young viscount. Old
Baptiste forsook his garden-tools for the whole day, to play in-door
domestic. Gustave, who daily doubled his _role_ of coachman with that of
_valet_, slighted his beloved horses (horses whose mothers and
grandmothers had supplied the de Gramont stables from time immemorial)
to cleanse windows, brighten mirrors, and polish dingy furniture.
Bettina, the antiquated _femme de chambre_ of the countess, who also
discharged the combined duties of housekeeper and housemaid, flew about
with a bustling activity that could hardly have been expected from her
years and infirmities. Elize, the cook, made far more elaborate
preparations for the coming of the young viscount than she would have
deemed necessary for the dinner to be given to her master's guests. This
band of venerable domestics had all been servants of the family before
the viscount's birth, and he was not only an idol among them, but
seemed, in a manner, to appertain to them all.

The countess, alone, did not find the movement of gladness around her
contagious. The coming of Maurice before the departure of Madeleine,
distressed her deeply; but small troubles and great were incongruously
mingled in her mind, for, while she was tormented by the frustration of
her plans, she fretted almost as heartily over that set of Sevres
porcelain which, with the addition of her grandson, would not be
sufficient for the expected guests, even if Madeleine dined in her own
chamber. Besides, the arrival of Maurice made _that_ arrangement out of
the question. He would certainly oppose her banishment, just as Bertha
had done; and the day, unfortunately, was Madeleine's birthday. This
circumstance would give her cousins additional ground for insisting upon
her presence at the festive board. The countess saw no escape from her
domestic difficulties, and was thoroughly out of humor.

Before Madeleine had awoke that morning, Bertha had stolen to her
bedside and clasped the bracelet upon her arm. Light as was Bertha's
touch, it aroused the sleeper, and she greeted her birthday token with
unfeigned gratitude and delight. But Madeleine had few moments to spend
in contemplation of the precious gift. She dressed rapidly, then
hastened away to make the chateau bright with flowers, to complete
various preparations for the toilet of her aunt, to perform numerous
offices which might be termed menial; but she entered upon her work with
so much zest, she executed each task with such consummate skill, she
took so much interest in the employment of the moment, that no labor
seemed either tedious or debasing.

Maurice de Gramont had just completed his twenty-first year when he
graduated with high honor at the University of France. After passing a
fatiguing examination, he had gladly consented to act upon his father's
suggestion, and devote a few weeks to enjoyment in the gay metropolis.
The count had no clew to the cause of his sudden return to Brittany.

"Aunt, aunt! There is the carriage,--he is coming!--Baptiste, run and
open the gate!" cried Bertha, whose quick eyes had caught sight of a
coach which stopped at the farther end of a long avenue of noble trees,
leading to the chateau.

Baptiste made all the speed which his aged limbs allowed; Gustave
hastened to throw open the front door; Bertha was on the porch before
the carriage drew up; the count and countess appeared at the entrance
just as Maurice sprang down the steps of the lumbering vehicle.

His blue eyes sparkled with genuine joy, and his countenance glowed with
animation, as he embraced his grandmother warmly, kissed his father,
according to French custom, then turning to Bertha, clasped her extended
hands and touched either cheek lightly with his lips. She received the
cousinly salutation without any evidence of displeasure or any token of
confusion.

As the maiden and youth stood side by side, they might easily have been
mistaken for brother and sister. The same florid coloring was remarkable
in the countenances of both, save that the tints were a few shades
deeper on the visage of Maurice. His eyes were of a darker blue; his
glossy hair was tinged with chestnut, while Bertha's shone with
unmingled gold; but, like Bertha's, his recreant locks had a strong
tendency to curl, and lay in rich clusters upon his brow, distressing
him by a propensity which he deemed effeminate. His mouth was as ripely
red as hers, but somewhat larger, firmer, and less bland in its
character. His eyebrows, too, were more darkly traced, supplying a want
only too obvious in her countenance. The resemblance, however,
disappeared in the forehead and classic nose, for the brow of Maurice
was broad and high, and the nose prominent, though finely shaped.

His form was manly without being strikingly tall. It was what might be
designated as a noble figure; but the term owed its appropriateness
partly to his refined and graceful bearing.

"My dear father, I am so glad to see you!--grandmother, it is refreshing
to find you looking as though you bade defiance to time;--and you, my
little cousin, how much you have improved! How lovely you have grown! A
year does a great deal for one's appearance."

"Yours, for instance," replied Bertha, saucily. "Well, there was
abundant room for improvement."

Maurice replied to her vivacious remark with a laugh of assent, and,
looking eagerly around, asked, "Where is Madeleine?"

"Madeleine is busy as usual," answered Bertha. "I warrant she is in some
remote corner of the chateau, mysteriously employed. She does not know
that you have arrived."

"And is she well? My father never once mentioned her in his letters. And
has she kept you company in growing so much handsomer during the last
year?"

"_Her_ beauty needed no heightening!" exclaimed Bertha, affectionately.
"But she develops new talents every day; she sings more delightfully
than ever; and lately she has commenced drawing from nature with the
most wonderful ease. You should see the flowers she first creates with
her pencil and then copies with her needle! I really think her needle
can paint almost as dexterously as the brush of any other artist."

The count exchanged a look with his mother, and whispered, "Do stop
her!"

The latter turned quickly to her grandson, and said, "Are you and Bertha
determined to spend the morning out of doors? Come, let us go in."

As they entered the drawing-room, the countess pointed to a seat beside
her.

"Maurice, leave your chattering little cousin, and sit down and give us
some account of yourself. What have you been doing? How have you been
passing your time?"

Maurice obeyed; Bertha placed herself on the other side of her aunt; the
count took a chair opposite.

"Behold a most attentive and appreciating audience!" cried Bertha. "Now,
Mr. Collegian and Traveller,--hero of the hour!--most noble
representative of the house of de Gramont! hold forth! Let us hear how
you have been occupying your valuable time."

"In the first place, I have been studying tolerably hard, little cousin.
It seems very improbable, does it not? The midnight oil has not yet
paled my cheeks to the sickly and interesting hue that belongs to a
student. Still the proof is that I have passed my examination
triumphantly. I will show you my prizes by and by, and they will speak
for themselves. Next, I have joined a debating society of young students
who are preparing to become lawyers. Our meetings have afforded me
infinite pleasure. At our last reunion, I undertook to plead a cause,
and achieved a wonderful success. I had no idea that language would flow
so readily from my lips. I was astonished at my own thoughts, and the
facility with which I formed them into words, and they say I made a
capital argument. I received the most enthusiastic congratulations, and
my associates, in pressing my hand, addressed me, not as the Viscount de
Gramont, but as the _able orator_. I really think that I could make an
orator, and that I have sufficient talent to become a lawyer."

"A lawyer!" exclaimed the countess with supreme disdain. "What could
introduce such a vulgar idea into your head? A lawyer! There is really
something startling, something positively appalling in the vagaries of
the rising generation! A lawyer! what an idea!"

"It is something more than an _idea_, my dear grandmother: it is a
project which I have formed, and which I cherish very seriously,"
replied Maurice.

"A project,--a project! I like projects. Let us hear your sublime
project, Mr. Advocate," cried Bertha.

"The project is simply to test the abilities which I am presumptuous
enough to believe I have discovered in myself, and to study for the bar.
My father wrote me that he intended to become a director in a railway
company, and descanted upon the advantage of embarking in the
enterprise. He also confided to me, for the first time, the real state
of our affairs,--in a word, the empty condition of our treasury. Why
should my father occupy himself with business matters and I live in
idleness? Once more, I repeat, I am convinced I have sufficient ability
to make a position at the bar, and with my father's consent, and yours,
grandmother, I propose to commence my law studies at once."

"A pettifogger! impossible! I, for one, will never countenance a step so
humiliating! It is not to be thought of!" replied his grandmother, in a
tone of decision.

"No, Maurice, your project is futile," responded his father. "My joining
this railroad association is quite a different matter. I shall in
reality have nothing to do. It is only my name that is required;
besides, America is so far off that nobody in Brittany will be aware of
my connection with the company. Your becoming a lawyer would be a public
matter. I cannot recall the name of a single nobleman in the whole list
of barristers"--

"So much the better for me! My title may, _in this solitary instance_,
prove of service to me. It may help to bring me clients. People will be
enchanted to be defended by a viscount."

"You conjure up a picture that is absolutely revolting!" cried the
countess, warmly. "_My grandson_ pleading to defend the rabble!"

"Why not, if the rabble should happen to stand in need of defence?"

"Why not?--because you should ignore their very existence! What have you
and they in common?"

Maurice was about to reply somewhat emphatically, but noticing his
grandmother's knitted brow, and his father's troubled expression, he
checked himself.

The countess added, with an air of determination that forbade
discussion, "Maurice, you will never obtain my consent, never!"

"But if I may not study for the bar, what am I to do?" asked the young
man with spirit.

"Do?" questioned the countess, proudly. "What have the de Gramonts done
for centuries past? Do nothing!"

"_Nothing?_ Thank you, grandmother, for your estimate of my capacities
and of the sluggish manner in which my blood courses through my veins.
Doing _nothing_ was all very well in dead-alive, by-gone days, but it
does not suit the present age of activity and progress. In our time
everything that has heart and spirit feels that labor is a law of life.
Some men till the earth, some cultivate the minds of their fellow-men,
some guard their country's soil by fighting our battles; that is, some
vocations enable us to live, some teach us how to live, and some render
it glorious to die. Now, instead of adopting any of these pursuits, I
only wish to"--

"To become a manufacturer of fine phrases, a vender of words!" replied
the countess, disdainfully.

"An advantageous merchandise," answered Maurice,--"one which it costs
nothing, to manufacture but which may be sold dear."

"Sold? You shock me more and more! Never has one who bore the name of de
Gramont earned money!" replied the countess, with increased _hauteur_.

"Very true, and very unfortunate! We are now feeling the ill effects of
the idleness of our ancestors. It is time that the new generation should
reform their bad system," replied Maurice.

"Maurice"--began his father.

"My dear father, let me speak upon this subject, for I have it greatly
at heart. I have an iron constitution, buoyant spirits, a tolerably good
head, a tolerably large heart, an ample stock of imagination, an
unstinted amount of energy, and an admiration for genius; now, all these
gifts--mind, heart, imagination, spirit, energy--cry out for
action,--ask to vindicate their right to existence,--need to find vent!
_That_ is one ground upon which I plant my intention to become a lawyer.
Another is that a man of my temperament, liberal views, and tendencies
to extravagance, also needs to have the command of means"--

"Have we ever restricted you, Maurice?" asked his father, reproachfully.

"No, it is only yourselves you have restricted. But do you suppose I am
willing to expend what has been saved through your economy? Until lately
I never knew the actual state of our finances. Now I see the necessity
for exertion, that I may be enabled to live as my tastes and habits
prompt."

"That you may obtain by making an advantageous marriage," remarked the
countess, forgetting at the moment that Bertha was present.

"What! owe my privileges, my luxuries, my very position, to my wife?
Never! Every manly and independent impulse within me rises in arms
against such a suggestion; while the emotion I experienced when I felt I
could become something _of myself_,--that I had talents which I could
employ,--that I had a future before me,--renown to win,--great deeds to
achieve,--filled me with a strange joy hitherto unknown. I tell you, my
father, there is a force and fire in my spirit that must have some
outlet,--must leap into action,--_must_ and _will_!"

"It shall find an outlet," replied the countess, "without making you a
hired declaimer of fine words,--a paid champion of the low mob. Let us
hear no more of this absurd lawyer project. The matter is settled: you
will never have your father's consent, nor mine."

"Then I warn you," exclaimed Maurice, starting up, and speaking almost
fiercely. "You will drive me into evil courses. I shall fall into all
manner of vices for the sake of excitement. If I cannot have occupation,
I must have amusement, I shall run in debt, I may gamble, I may become
dissipated, I may commit offences against good taste and good morals,
which will degrade me in reality; and all because you have nipped a
pure intention in the bud. The root that bore it is too vigorous not to
blossom out anew, and the chances are that it will bring forth some less
creditable fruit. You will see! I do not jest; I know what is in me!"

"Content! we will run the risk!" replied the countess, trying to speak
cheerfully.

The grave manner of Maurice and his impressive tone, as he stood before
her with an air half-threatening, half-prophetic, made her experience a
sensation of vague discomfort.

"We will trust you, for you are a de Gramont, and cannot commit a
dishonorable action. Now, pray, go to your room and make your toilet. We
are expecting guests to dinner."

Maurice turned away without uttering another word, without even heeding
the hand which Bertha stretched in sympathy towards him; and, with a
clouded brow and slow steps, ascended to his own apartment.




CHAPTER III.

MADELEINE.


"Fourteen at table, and the Sevres set only sufficient for twelve! Truly
it _is_ untoward, but I wish, my dear aunt, you would not let it trouble
you so much. If you will allow the two extra plates to be placed before
Bertha and myself, we will endeavor to render them invisible by our
witchcraft. Do compliment us by permitting the experiment to be tried."

"Bertha is entitled to the best of everything in my mansion," answered
the countess, unsoothed by this proposition.

"_That_ I admit," was Madeleine's cordial reply; "but to meet this
unlooked-for emergency, I thought you might possibly consent to let her
exert her witchery in making an intrusive plate disappear from general
view."

"And you, it seems, are quite confident of possessing witchcraft potent
enough to accomplish the same feat!"

Madeleine, without appearing to be hurt by the taunting intonation which
pointed this remark, replied frankly, "I suppose I must have been guilty
of imagining that I had; but, indeed, it was unpremeditated vanity. I
really did not reflect upon the subject. I was only anxious to get over
the dilemma in which we are placed by these troublesome plates."

"Not _premeditated_ vanity, I dare say," remarked the countess, dryly;
"only vanity so spontaneous, natural, and characteristic that
_premeditation_ is out of the question."

Madeleine remained silent, and went on with her task, dexterously
rolling around her slender fingers her aunt's soft, white curls, and
letting them lightly drop in the most becoming positions.

The toilet of the countess for her son's dinner-party was in process of
completion.

She wore a black velvet dress, which, after being on duty for a fabulous
number of years, and finally pronounced past all further active service,
had been resuscitated and remodelled, to suit the style of the day, by
Madeleine. We will not enter into a description of the adroit method by
which a portion of its primitive lustre had been restored to the worn
and pressed velvet, nor particularize the skilful manner in which the
corsage of the robe had been refashioned, and every trace of age
concealed by an embroidery of jet beads, which was so strikingly
tasteful that its double office was unsuspected. Enough that the
countess appeared to be superbly attired when she once more donned the
venerable but rejuvenated dress.

The snow-white curls being arranged to the best advantage, Madeleine
placed upon the head of her aunt a dainty cap, of the Charlotte Corday
form, composed of bits of very old and costly lace,--an heir-loom in the
de Gramont family,--such lace as could no longer be purchased for gold,
even if its members had been in a condition to exchange bullion for
thread. This cap was another of the young girl's achievements, and she
could not help smiling with pleasure when she saw its picturesque
effect. The countess, in spite of the anxious contraction of her dark
brows, looked imposingly handsome. Hers was an old age of positive
beauty,--a decadence which had all the lustre of

      "The setting moon upon the western wave."

It was only when her features were accidentally contrasted with those of
such a mild, eloquent, and soul-revealing face as the one bending over
her that defects struck the eye,--defects which the ravages of time had
done less to produce than the workings of a stern and haughty character.

But Madeleine's countenance how shall we portray? The lineaments were
of that order which no painter could faithfully present by tracing their
outline correctly, and no writer conjure up before the mind by
descriptive language, however minutely the color of eyes, complexion,
and hair might be chronicled. Therefore our task must necessarily be an
imperfect one, and convey but a vague idea of the living presence.

It was a somewhat pale face, but pure and unsallow in its pallor. The
vivid blood rushed, with any sudden emotion, to cheek and brow, but died
away as quickly; for late hours, too little sunlight, fresh air, and
exercise, forbade the flitting roses to be captured and a permanent
bloom insured. The hue of the large, dreamy eyes might be called a light
hazel; but that description fails to convey an impression of their rare,
clear, topaz tint,--a topaz with the changing lustre of an opal: a
combination difficult to imagine until it has once been seen. The
darkly-fringed lids were peculiarly drooping, and gave the eyes a look
of exceeding softness, now and then displaced by startling flashes of
brilliancy. The finely-chiselled mouth was full of grave sweetness,
decision, and energy, and yet suggestive of a mirthful temperament. The
forehead was not too high, but ample and thoughtful. The finely-shaped
head showed the intellectual and emotional nature nicely balanced.
Through the long, abundant chestnut hair bright threads gleamed in and
out until all the locks looked burnished. They were gathered into one
rich braid and simply wound around the head. At the side, where the
massive tress was fastened, a single cape jasmine seemed to form a clasp
of union. A more striking or becoming arrangement could hardly have been
devised.

Madeleine was somewhat above the ordinary stature, and her height,
combined with the native dignity of her bearing, would have given her an
air of stateliness, but for the exceeding grace which dispelled the
faintest shadow of stiffness,--a stiffness very noticeable in the formal
carriage of the countess.

The wardrobe of the young girl was necessarily of the most limited and
uncostly character; and, though she was dressed for a ceremonious
dinner, her attire consisted merely of a sombre-hued barege, made with
the severest simplicity, and gaining its only pretension to full dress
by disclosing her white, finely-moulded neck and arms. Her sole ornament
was the bracelet which had been Bertha's birthday gift.

While giving the last, finishing touches to her aunt's toilet, Madeleine
talked gayly. Hers was not one of those bright, silvery voices which
make you feel that, could the sounds become visible, they must _shine_;
but there was a rich depth in her tones, which imparted to her lightest
words an intonation of feeling, and told the hearer that her vocal
chords were in close communication with her heart. Though her
countenance did not lack the radiance of youthful gladness, there was so
much thought mingled with its brightness that even her mirth conveyed
the impression that she had suffered and sorrowed.

The only daughter of the Duke de Gramont, at eighteen she suddenly found
herself an orphan and wholly destitute. Her father was one of that large
class of impoverished noblemen who keep up appearances by means of
constant shifts and desperate struggles, of which the world knows
nothing. But he was a man of unquestionable intellect, and had given
Madeleine a much more liberal education than custom accords to young
French maidens of her rank.

The accident of his birth the Duke de Gramont regarded as a positive
misfortune, and daily lamented the burden of his own nobility, for it
was a shackle that enfeebled and enslaved his large capacities.

He once said to his young daughter, "You would have been far happier as
a peasant's child; I should have had a wider field of action and
enjoyment as an humble laborer; we should both have been more truly
_noble_. I envy the peasants who have the glorious privilege of doing
just that which they are best fitted to do; who are not forced to
_vegetate_ and call vegetation existence,--not compelled to waste and
deaden their energies because it is an aristocratic penalty,--not doomed
to glide into and out of their lives without ever living enough to know
life's worth."

Such words sank into Madeleine's spirit, took deep root there, and,
growing in the bleak atmosphere of adversity, bore vigorous fruit in
good season.

She had known only the intangible shadow of pomp and luxury, while the
substance was actual penury. But her inborn fertility of invention, her
abundant resources, her tact in accommodating herself to circumstances,
and her inexhaustible energy, had endowed her with the faculty of making
the best of her contradictory position, and the most of the humblest
materials at her command.

Though she had several wealthy relatives, the Countess de Gramont was
the only one who offered her unsheltered youth an asylum. Perhaps we
ought not to analyze too minutely the motives of the noble lady, for
fear that we might find her actuated less by a charitable impulse than
by pride which would not allow it to be said that her grandniece ever
lacked, or had to solicit, a home. Be that as it may, the orphan
Madeleine became a permanent inmate of the Chateau de Gramont.

Her gratitude was deep, and found expression in actions more eloquent
than words. She was thankful for the slightest evidence of kindness from
her self-constituted protectors. She even exaggerated the amount of
consideration which she received. She was not free from the hereditary
taint of _pride_; but in her it took a new form and unprecedented
expression. The sense of indebtedness spurred her on to discover ways by
which she could avoid being a burden upon the generosity of her
benefactors,--ways by which her obligations might be lightened, though
she felt they could never be cancelled. She became the active, presiding
spirit over the whole household; her skilful fingers were ever at work
here, there, and everywhere; and her quick-witted brain was always
planning measures to promote the interest, comfort, or pleasure of all
within her sphere. The thought that an employment was menial, and
therefore she must not stoop to perform it, never intruded, for she had
an internal consciousness that she dignified her occupation. What she
accomplished seemed wonderful; but, independent of the rapidity with
which she habitually executed, she comprehended in an eminent degree the
exact value of time,--the worth of every minute; and the use made of her
_spare moments_ was one great secret of the large amount she achieved.

The toilet of the countess for the dinner was completed, but she kept
Madeleine by her side until they descended to the drawing-room.

Madeleine had not yet welcomed Maurice, who had retired to his chamber
to dress before she was aware of his arrival. When she entered the
_salon_ with the countess, he was sitting beside Bertha, but sprang up,
and, advancing joyfully, exclaimed, "Ah! at last! I thought I was never
to be permitted to see the busy fairy of the family, who renders herself
invisible while she is working her wonders!"

He would have approached his lips to Madeleine's cheek, but the countess
interfered.

"And why," asked Maurice, in surprise which was not free from a touch of
vexation,--"why may I not kiss my cousin Madeleine? You found no fault
when I kissed my cousin Bertha just now!"

"That is very different!" replied the countess, hastily.

"Different! What is the difference?" persisted Maurice.

"There is none that I can discover. Both are equally near of kin,--both
my cousins,--both second cousins, or third cousins, some people would
call them; the one is kin through my grandmother, the other through my
grandfather. What _can_ be the difference?"

"_My will_ makes the difference!" answered the countess, in a severe
tone. "Is not _that_ sufficient?"

"It ought to be so, Maurice," Madeleine interposed, without appearing to
be either wounded or surprised at her aunt's manner. "If not, I must add
_my will_ to my aunt's." Then, as though in haste to change the subject,
she said, extending her hand, "I am very, _very_ glad to see you,
Maurice."

"You have not changed as much as my pretty Bertha here," remarked
Maurice. "She has gained a great deal in the last year. But you,
Madeleine, look a little paler than ever, and a little thinner than you
were. I fear it is because you still keep that candle burning which last
year I used to notice at your window when I returned from balls long
after midnight. You will destroy your health."

"There is no danger of _that_," answered Madeleine, gayly. "I am in most
unpoetically robust health. I am never ailing for an hour."

"Never ailing and never weary," joined in Bertha. "That is, she never
complains, and never admits she is tired. She would make us believe that
her constitution is a compound of iron and India-rubber."

Maurice took a small jewel-case from his pocket, and, preparing to open
it, said, "Nobody has yet asked why I am here one fortnight before I was
expected. Has curiosity suddenly died out of the venerable Chateau de
Gramont, that none of the ladies who honor its ancient walls by their
presence care to know?"

"We all care!" exclaimed Bertha.

"That we do!" responded Madeleine. "Why was it, Maurice?"

"The reason chiefly concerns you, Madeleine."

"Me! You are jesting."

"Not at all; I came home because I remembered that to-day was your
twenty-first birthday. I would not be absent upon your birthday, though
I did not know that your reaching your majority was to be celebrated by
a grand dinner."

"Madeleine's birthday was not thought of when your father invited his
friends to dinner," remarked the countess, curtly.

Maurice went on without heeding this explanation.

"I have brought you a little birthday token. Will you wear it for my
sake?"

As he spoke, he opened the case and took out a Roman brooch.

Madeleine's eyes sparkled with a dewy lustre that threatened to shape
itself into a tear. Before she could speak, Bertha cried out,--

"A dove with a green olive-branch in its mouth,--what a beautiful
device! And the word '_Pax_' written beneath! That must be in
remembrance that Madeleine not only bears peace in her own bosom, but
carries it wherever she goes. Was not that what you intended to suggest,
Cousin Maurice?"

"You are a delightful interpreter," replied the young man.

"Yet she left me to read the sweet meaning of her own gift," said
Madeleine, recovering her composure. "See, a band of gold with a knot of
pearls,--a '_manacle of love_,' as the great English poet calls it,
secured by purity of purpose."

As she fastened the brooch in her bosom, she added, "I am so rich in
birthday gifts that I am bankrupt in thanks; pray believe _that_ is the
reason I thank you so poorly."

The countess impatiently interrupted this conversation by summoning
Maurice to her side.

As he took the seat she pointed out, he said, in an animated tone, "I
have not told you all my good news yet. Listen, young ladies, for some
of it especially concerns you. On my way here, I encountered the
equipage of the Marchioness de Fleury. She recognized me, ordered her
carriage to stop, and sent her footman to apprise me that she was on her
way to the Chateau de Tremazan, and to beg that I would pause there
before going home, as she had a few words to say to me. I gladly
complied. At the chateau I found quite a large and agreeable company. I
need not tell you that the amiable host and hostess received me with
open arms."

The countess remarked, approvingly, "Our neighbors the Baron and
Baroness de Tremazan are among the most valued of my friends. I have no
objection to their making much of you."

"Nor have I," answered Maurice, vivaciously. "But, to continue"--

Bertha interrupted him: "I have so often heard the Marchioness de Fleury
quoted as a precedent, and her taste cited as the most perfect in Paris,
that I suppose she is a very charming person;--is she not?"

A comical expression, approaching to a grimace, passed over the bright
countenance of Maurice, as he answered, "_Charming?_ I suppose the term
is applicable to her. At all events, her toilets are the most charming
in the world: she dresses to perfection! In her presence one never
thinks of anything but the wonderful combination of colors, and the
graceful flowing of drapery, that have produced certain artistic effects
in her outward adorning. She is style, fashion, elegance, taste
personified; consequently she is very _charming as an exhibition of the
newest and most captivating costumes_,--as an inventor and leader of
modes that become the rage when they have received her stamp."

"But her face and figure,--are they not remarkably handsome?" asked
Bertha.

"Her figure is the _fac-simile_ of one of those waxen statues which are
to be seen in the windows of some of the shops in Paris, and would be
styled faultless by a mantua-maker, though it might drive a sculptor
distracted if set before him as a model. As for her face, the novel
arrangement of her hair and the coquettish disposition of her
head-ornaments have always so completely drawn my attention away from
her countenance, that I could not tell you the color of her eyes, or the
character of any single lineament."

"Perhaps, too," suggested Madeleine, "she is so agreeable in
conversation, that you never thought of scanning her features."

"Of course she is agreeable,--that is, in her own peculiar way; for she
has an archly graceful manner of discussing the only subjects that
interest _her_, and always as though they must be of the deepest
interest to _you_. If you speak to her of her projects for the winter or
the summer, she will dwell upon the style of dress appropriate in the
execution of such and such schemes. If you express your regret at her
recent indisposition, she will describe the exquisite _robes de chambre_
which rendered her sufferings endurable. If you mention her brother, who
has lately received an appointment near the person of the emperor, she
will give you a minute account of the most approved court-dresses. If
you allude to the possibility that her husband (for such is the rumor)
may be sent as ambassador to the United States, she will burst forth in
bitter lamentations over the likelihood that American taste may not be
sufficiently cultivated to appreciate a Parisian toilet, or to comprehend
the great importance of the difficult art of dressing well. If you give
the tribute of a sigh to the memory of the lovely sister she lost a year
ago, she will run through a list of the garments of woe that gave
expression to her sorrow,--passing on to the shades of second, third,
and fourth mourning through which she gradually laid aside her grief.
You laugh, young ladies. Oh, very well; but I declare to you she went
through the catalogue of those mourning dresses, rehearsing the periods
at which she adopted such and such a one, while we were dancing a
quadrille. In short, the Marchioness de Fleury is an animated
fashion-plate!--a lay-figure dressed in gauze, silk, lace, ribbon,
feathers, flowers, that breathes, talks, dances, waltzes!--a
mantua-maker's, milliner's, hair-dresser's puppet, set in motion,--not a
woman."

"Has she really no heart, then?" questioned Bertha.

"I suppose that, anatomically speaking, a bundle of fibres, which she
courteously designates by that name, may rise and fall somewhere beneath
her jewel-studded bodice; but I doubt whether the pulsations are not
entirely regulated by her attire."

"You are too severe, Maurice," remarked his grandmother, rebukingly.
"The Marchioness de Fleury is a lady of the highest standing and of
great importance."

"Especially to the Parisian modistes who worship her!" replied Maurice.
"But, while we are discussing the lady herself, I am forgetting to tell
you her reasons for delaying me half an hour. It was to inquire whether
you would be disengaged to-morrow morning, as she purposes paying you a
visit to make a proposition which she thinks may prove agreeable to the
Countess de Gramont and Count Tristan."

"We are ever proud to receive the Marchioness de Fleury," responded the
countess, graciously.

"I dare say you think I have emptied my budget of news," Maurice went
on; "but you are mistaken: several bits of agreeable intelligence remain
behind. At the Chateau de Tremazan, I saw three of our relatives on the
de Gramont side, Madame de Nervac, the Count Damoreau, and M. de
Bonneville. They inquired kindly after you, Madeleine, and I told them
you were the most"--

The countess interrupted him with the inquiry, "Are they upon a visit of
several days?"

"I believe so. Now for the last, most pleasant item. As there are so
many lively young persons gathered together at the chateau, some one
proposed an impromptu ball. Madame de Tremazan seized upon the idea, and
commissioned me to carry invitations to the Countess dowager de Gramont,
Mademoiselles Madeleine and Bertha, and Count Tristan, for the evening
after to-morrow. I assured her in advance that the invitations would be
accepted;--was I not right?"

"Oh, yes," replied Bertha; "I am so glad!"

"We will enjoy a ball greatly!" exclaimed Madeleine.

"And so will I!" said Maurice. "I engage Madeleine for the first
quadrille, and Bertha for the first waltz."

"And we both accept!" answered his cousins, with girlish delight.

"Not so fast, young ladies," interrupted the countess. "It is quite out
of the question for you to attend a ball of such magnificence as may be
expected at the Chateau de Tremazan."

"And why not, aunt?" asked Bertha, in a disappointed tone. "You surely
will not refuse your consent?"

"I deny you a pleasure very unwillingly, dear child, but I am forced to
do so. You did not expect to appear at any large assemblies while you
were in Brittany, and you have brought no ball-dress with you. You have
nothing ready which it would be proper for you to wear at such a
brilliant reunion; for the de Tremazans are so rich that everything will
be upon the most splendid and costly scale. Mademoiselle Bertha de
Merrivale cannot be present upon such an occasion, unless she is attired
in a manner that befits her rank and fortune. I, also, have no dress
prepared."

"What a pity, what a pity!" half sighed, half pouted Bertha.

"It is too bad, too provoking!" ejaculated Maurice.

"If there be no obstacle but the lack of a ball-dress for yourself and
for Bertha, aunt," remarked Madeleine, "we may console ourselves; for we
will go to the ball."

"Oh, you dear, good, ingenious Madeleine!" exclaimed Bertha, throwing
her arms around her cousin. "I wonder if the time ever _will_ arrive
when you have not some resource to extricate us from a difficulty?"

"Madeleine forever! Long live Madeleine!" shouted Maurice, with
enthusiasm.

"And now, good, fairy godmother, where is the robe of gold and silver to
deck your Cinderella?" asked Bertha.

"I did not promise gold and silver apparel; you must be content
with a toilet simple, airy, fresh, and spring-like as yourself.
And for you, aunt, I will arrange an autumn arraying,--a costume
soft, yet bright, like the autumn days which the Americans call
'Indian summer,'--something which will almost make one wish to fall
into the sere and yellow leaf of life in the hope of resembling you."

"But how is it possible to make two ball-dresses between this time and
night after next?" inquired the countess, evidently not at all averse
to the project, if it could be carried into execution.

"I answer for the possibility!" replied Madeleine.

"Yes, Madeleine answers for it!" repeated Maurice.

"Madeleine answers for it!" echoed Bertha; "and you know Madeleine has
_the fingers of a fairy_; she can achieve whatever she undertakes. But
your own dress, Madeleine?"

"Do not be uneasy about that; we will think of that when the others are
ready."

"But if you do not wear a dress that becomes you?" persisted Bertha.

"Why, then I shall have to look at yours, and, remembering that it is my
handiwork, be satisfied."

"There is no one like you, Madeleine!" burst forth Maurice,
uncontrollably,--"no one! You never think of yourself; you"--

"But, as some one is always good enough to think of me, I deserve little
credit on that account," rejoined Madeleine.

"Who could help thinking of you?" murmured Maurice, tenderly.

The countess had not heard the enthusiastic encomium of Maurice, nor his
last, involuntary remark. The young man had risen and joined his
cousins. His father had taken the vacant seat beside the countess, and
was talking to her in a low tone. From the moment he learned that
Madeleine's relatives were accidentally assembled at the Chateau de
Tremazan, he had determined to seize that favorable opportunity, and
send them the letters requesting that they would by turns offer a home
to their poor and orphan relative. These letters, though written upon
the day previous, fortunately had not yet been posted. Count Tristan
whisperingly communicated his intention to his mother, and received her
approval.

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of M. Gaston de Bois,
who invariably arrived before other guests made their appearance. M. de
Bois was such a martyr to nervous timidity, that he could not summon
courage to enter a room full of company, even with some great
stimulating compensation in view. On the present occasion, though only
the family had assembled, his olive complexion crimsoned as he advanced
towards the countess, and his expressive, though irregular and not
strictly handsome features became almost distorted; he unconsciously
thrust his fingers through his hair, throwing it into startling
disorder, and twisted his dark moustache until it stood out with
sufficient ferocity to suit the face of a brigand in a melodrama.

But the most painful effect of this bewildering embarrassment evinced
itself when he attempted to speak. His utterance became suddenly
impeded, and, the more violent his efforts to articulate, the more
difficult it seemed for him to utter a distinct sentence. He was
painfully near-sighted; yet he always detected the faintest smile upon
the countenance of any one present, and interpreted it into an
expression of derision.

These personal defects, however, were liberally counterbalanced by
mental attributes of a high order. His constitutional diffidence caused
him to shun society; but he devoted his leisure to books, and was an
erudite scholar, without ever mounting the pompous stilts of the pedant.
All his impulses were noble and generous, though his best intentions
were often frustrated by that fearful self-consciousness which made him
dread the possibility of attracting attention. There was a slight shade
of melancholy in his character. Life had been a disappointment to him,
and he was haunted by a sense of the incompleteness of his own
existence.

His estate joined that of the Count de Gramont, and was even more
impoverished. Gaston de Bois led a sort of hermit-like life in the
gloomy and empty chateau of his ancestors. He chafed in his confinement,
like a caged lion ready to break loose from bondage. But the lion freed
might take refuge in his native woods, while Gaston, if he rushed forth
into the world, knew that his bashfulness, his stammering, his
near-sightedness, would render society a more intolerable prison than
his solitary home.

At the Chateau de Gramont he was a frequent guest, for the countess and
her son held him in the highest esteem.

After saluting his host and hostess, he warmly grasped the hand of
Maurice, and then addressed Madeleine, with but little hesitation
apparent in his speech; but when he turned to Bertha, and essayed to
make some pleasant remark, he was suddenly seized with a fit of hopeless
stammering.

The beaming smile with which Bertha greeted him was displaced by an
expression almost amounting to compassion. Madeleine, with her wonted
presence of mind, came to his aid; finished his sentence, as though he
had spoken it himself; and went on talking _to him_ and _for him_, while
he regarded her with an air of undisguised thankfulness and relief.

Between Madeleine and Gaston de Bois there existed that sort of
friendship which many persons are sceptical that a young and attractive
woman and an agreeable man can entertain for each other without the
sentiment heightening into a warmer emotion. But love and friendship are
totally distinct affections. A woman may cherish the truest, kindliest
friendship for a man whom it would be impossible for her to love; nay,
in whom she would totally lose her interest if he once presented himself
in the aspect of a lover; and we believe a certain class of men are
capable of experiencing the same pure and kin-like devotion for certain
women.

M. de Bois felt that he was comprehended by Madeleine,--that she
sympathized with his misfortunes, appreciated the difficulties of his
position, and, without pretending to be blind to his defects, always
viewed them leniently: thus, in her presence he was sufficiently at ease
to be entirely himself; his _amour propre_ received fewer wounds, and he
was conscious that he appeared to better advantage than in the society
of other ladies.

Madeleine, on her side, had more than once reflected that there was no
one to whom she could more easily turn to impart a sorrow, intrust a
secret, solicit a favor, or receive consolation and advice,--no one in
whom she could so thoroughly confide, as M. de Bois.

Gaston had only commenced to regain his self-possession when the two
American gentlemen, Mr. Hilson and Mr. Meredith, were announced.

The countess received them with a freezing formality which would have
awed any visitors less unsuspicious of the cause of this augmented
stateliness.

They were both gentlemen who held high positions in their own country;
they had brought letters to Count Tristan de Gramont, with a view of
enlisting his interest in the railway company of which we have before
spoken; they had been cordially received by him, and invited to partake
of his hospitality; it therefore never occurred to either of them that
the haughty demeanor of the countess was designed to impress them with a
sense of their inferiority.

Mr. Hilson was what is termed a "self-made" man,--that is, he owed
nothing to the chances of birth; he had received little early
cultivation, but he had educated himself, and therefore all the
knowledge he had acquired was positive mental gain, and brought into
active use. He had inherited no patrimony, and started life with no
advantages of position; but he had made his own fortune, and earned his
own place in the social sphere. He had been one of the most successful
and scientific engineers which the United States ever produced, and was
now the president of an important railroad, and a highly influential
member of society.

Mr. Meredith was born in the State of Maryland,--a "man of family," as
it is styled. He had not encountered the difficulties and experienced
the struggles of his associates; his was therefore a less strong, less
highly developed, character. He had travelled over the larger portion of
Europe, yet preferred to make his home in America; he had once retired
from business, but, finding that he was bored to death without the
necessity for occupation, connected himself with the railroad company of
which Mr. Hilson was president.

The other guests were gentlemen residing or visiting in the
neighborhood. They were the Marquis de Lasalles, the Count Caradore,
Messieurs Villiers, Laroche, and Litelle. The two former, being the most
important personages, occupied seats at table on the right and left of
the countess. Gaston de Bois was well pleased to find himself beside
Madeleine; for he was opposite to Bertha, and could feast his eyes upon
her fair, unclouded face, and now and then he spoke to her in glances
which were far more eloquent than his tongue.

Mr. Hilson sat on the other side of Madeleine. A few naturally suggested
questions about his native land unloosed his tongue, and she soon became
deeply interested in the information he gave her concerning
America,--the habits, views, and aspirations of its people.

After listening for some time, she almost involuntarily murmured, with a
half-sigh, "I should like to visit America."

There was something in her own nature which responded to the spirit of
self-reliance, energy, and industry, which are so essentially American
characteristics.

Bertha sat between the Marquis de Lasalles and Maurice. She was in the
highest spirits, and looked superlatively lovely. The brow of the
countess gradually smoothed as she noticed how gayly the heiress chatted
with her cousin.

The two plates which intruded into the Sevres set had been a terrible
eyesore to Madame de Gramont at first; but Madeleine's suggestion had
been acted upon,--they were placed before the young ladies, and, as the
countess rose from the table, she comforted herself with the reflection
that they had escaped observation.

The gentlemen accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, and then
Maurice lured Madeleine to the piano, and was soon in raptures over the
wild, sweet melodies which she sung with untutored pathos. His
grandmother could scarcely conceal her vexation. Approaching the singer,
she took an opportunity, while Bertha and Maurice were searching for a
piece of music, whisperingly to suggest that Baptiste was old and
clumsy, and the Sevres set in danger until it was safely locked up
again.

Madeleine murmured, in return, "I will steal away unnoticed and attend
to it."

She stole away, but not unperceived, for one pair of eyes was ever upon
her. She found so much besides the valuable china that demanded
attention, and her aid was so heartily welcomed by the old domestics,
who had become confused by the multiplicity of their duties, that it was
late in the evening before she reappeared in the drawing-room. The
guests were taking their leave.

"I am highly flattered by the interest you have expressed in my
country," said Mr. Hilson, in bidding her adieu. "If you should ever
visit America, as you have expressed the desire to do, and if you should
pass through Washington, as you certainly will if you visit America,
will you not promise to apprise me? Here is my address?" and he placed
his card in her hands.

Madeleine looked not a little surprised and embarrassed at this
unexpected and informal proceeding, which she knew would greatly shock
the countess; but, taking the card, answered, courteously, "I fear
nothing is more unlikely than that I should cross the ocean; but, if
such an unlooked-for event should ever occur, I promise certainly to
apprise you."




CHAPTER IV.

PROPOSALS.


On the morrow, at the usual hour for visitors, the count and his mother
sat in the drawing-room awaiting the promised guest. Maurice, at Count
Tristan's solicitation, had very unwillingly consented to postpone his
customary equestrian exercise, and was sauntering in the garden,
wondering over the caprice that prompted his father to desire his
presence at the expected interview. The tramp of hoofs broke his
revery; and a superb equipage, drawn by four noble horses,
postilion-mounted, dashed up the long avenue that led to the chateau. He
hastened to the carriage-door, and aided the Marchioness de Fleury to
alight.

The living embodiment of graceful affability, she greeted him with a
volley of slaying smiles; then, with an air which betrayed her
triumphant certainty of the execution done, glided past him into the
drawing-room, almost disappearing in a cloud of lace, as she made a
profound obeisance to the countess, and partially rising out of her
misty _entourage_ in saluting Count Tristan.

Her voice had a low, studied sweetness as she softly syllabled some
pleasant commonplaces, making affectionate inquiries concerning the
health of the countess, and simulating the deepest interest as she
apparently listened to answers which were in reality unheard. Ere long,
she winningly unfolded the object of her visit. Her brother, the young
Duke de Montauban, had prayed her to become his ambassador. He recently
had the felicity of meeting the niece of the Countess de Gramont,
Mademoiselle Bertha de Merrivale. He had been struck and captivated by
her grace and surpassing beauty; he now charged his sister to apprise
the family of Mademoiselle Bertha that he sought the honor of her hand
in marriage, and hoped to obtain a favorable response to his suit.

The consternation created by those words did not escape the quick eyes
of the marchioness. The count half rose from his seat, white with
vexation, then sat down again, and, making an attempt to hide his
displeasure, answered, in a tone of forced courtesy,--

"Though Mademoiselle Bertha de Merrivale is my mother's grandniece, we
have no control over her actions or inclinations. Her uncle, the Marquis
de Merrivale, who is her guardian, is morbidly jealous of any influence
exerted over his niece, even by relatives equally near."

The Countess de Gramont, though she also had been greatly disconcerted,
recovered herself more quickly than her son, and answered, with such an
excess of suavity that it had the air of exaggeration,--

"We feel deeply indebted for the proposed honor. An alliance with a
nobleman of the high position and unblemished name of the Duke de
Montauban is all that could be desired for my niece; but, as my son has
remarked, her guardian is very punctilious respecting his rights, and
would not tolerate an interference with her future prospects. I beg you
will believe that we are highly flattered by the proposal of the Duke
de Montauban, though we have no power to promote his suit."

Maurice could not help wondering why his father looked so thoroughly
vexed, and why his grandmother made such an effort to conceal her
displeasure by an assumption of overacted gratification.

The Marchioness de Fleury betrayed neither surprise, disappointment, nor
emotion of any kind, except by gently tapping the ground with the
exquisitely gaitered little foot that peeped from the mazes of her ample
drapery.

She answered, in the most honeyed voice, "Oh! I was misinformed, and I
knew that your charming niece was at this moment visiting you."

Then, spreading her bespangled fan, and moving it gently backward and
forward, though the day was far from sultry, she dismissed the subject
by asking Maurice if he had delivered Madame de Tremazan's invitations
to the ball.

Almost before he had concluded his reply, she rose, and, with the most
enchanting of smiles, courtesied, as though she were making a reverence
in a quadrille of the Lancers, and the lace cloud softly floated out of
the room, the human being it encircled being nearly lost to sight when
it was in motion.

Maurice could not resist the impulse to turn to his father, and express
his amazement that the complimentary proposals made for Bertha by the
Marchioness de Fleury had been so definitely declined, adding, "If my
little cousin had been already engaged, you could not more decidedly
have shut the door upon the duke."

The count bit his lips, and strode up and down the room.

The countess replied, "We have other views for Bertha,--views which we
trust would be more acceptable to herself; but here she comes, and I
have a few words to say to her in private. Take a turn with your father
in the park, Maurice, while I talk to your cousin."

She gave the count a significant glance as she spoke.

Father and son left the room as Bertha entered.

For some minutes the two gentlemen walked side by side in silence.
Finding that his father did not seem inclined to converse, Maurice
remarked, abruptly,--

"Now that the visit of the marchioness is over, I shall take my
postponed ride, if you have no further need of me."

"I _have_ need; let your horse wait a few moments longer," replied the
count. "Can you conceive no reason why we did not for one instant
entertain the proposition of the Marchioness de Fleury?"

"None: it was made entirely according to rule; and, if you will allow me
to say so, common courtesy seemed to demand that it should have been
treated with more consideration."

"Suppose Bertha's affections are already engaged?" suggested the father.

"Ah, that alters the aspect of affairs; but it is hardly possible,--she
is so young, and appears to be so heart-free."

"Still, I think she has a preference; and, if I am not mistaken, her
choice is one that would give us the highest satisfaction."

"Really!" ejaculated Maurice, unsuspiciously. "Whom, then, does she
honor by her election?"

"A very unworthy person!" rejoined the count, in a tone of irritation,
"since he is too dull to suspect the compliment."

"You cannot mean"--began Maurice, in confused amazement, but paused,
unwilling to finish his sentence with the words that rose to his lips.

"I mean a most obtuse and insensible young man, walking by my side, who
has learned to interpret Greek and Latin at college, but not a woman's
heart."

"Impossible! You are surely mistaken. Bertha has only bestowed upon me a
cousinly regard," answered Maurice, evidently more surprised and
embarrassed than pleased by the unexpected communication.

"I presume you do not expect the young lady herself to make known the
esteem in which she holds you, undeserving as you are? You must take our
word for her sentiments. What this alliance would be to our falling
house, I need not represent; it is not even necessary that you should
enter into the merits of this side of the question. You must see that
Bertha is beautiful and lovable, and would make the most delightful
companion for life. Is this not so?"

"Yes, she is beautiful, lovable, and would make a delightful companion,"
answered Maurice, as though he echoed his father's words without knowing
what he said.

"Is she not all you could desire?"

"All,--all I could desire as--as--as a _sister_!" replied Maurice.

"But the question is now of a wife!" rejoined the count, angrily. "Are
you dreaming, that you pore upon the ground and answer in that strange,
abstracted manner?"

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

The count went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.

HEART-BEATS.


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

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

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

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

So passed the evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you please."

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

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

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

"Come in then, and welcome."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, your advice has decided me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, as sec--sec--sec--"

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

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

"To my cousin Bertha, and to me."

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

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

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

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

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

"And why _despairingly_?"

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

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

"A great misfortune for me!" sighed Gaston.

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

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

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

"To _you_, ah, yes; with _you_ I am always at my ease,--I have always
confidence. It is not difficult to talk to one for whom I have so much
affection,--_so much_, and yet not _too much_."

"That proves fluent speech possible."

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

"Not at all."

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

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

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

"Pardon me; you mistook"--

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

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

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

"Tell me what your method is."

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

"No; I promise I will not."

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

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

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

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

"Ah, if that were only true!"

"I think it _is_ true."

"Thank you! thank you!"

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

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

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

"You think so?"

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

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

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

"Is it pos--pos--pos--" stammered Gaston.

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

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

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

"The Viscount Maurice."

The silken thread snapped in Madeleine's hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I? nonsense! I'm--I'm--I'm only--only--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

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

At the same moment he withdrew to the window.

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

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

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

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

"Playing Penelope, as usual."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

M. de Bois could not well refuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, certainly."

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

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




CHAPTER VI.

UNMASKING.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_You_, Madeleine, you, and _you_ only!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madeleine resumed her seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_A sister! A sister!_ Oh! I am so glad!--a _sister_? You do not really
love me, then?"

"Have I said that?"

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

"_You_ do not love _me_ then?" asked Maurice.

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it because you like somebody else better?"

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

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

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

"Another woman?"

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

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

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

"Never," replied Maurice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Madame--aunt!" she began.

The countess would not permit her to proceed.

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

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

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

"Grandmother!" cried Maurice, furiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her tears gushed forth with redoubled violence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Madeleine! one of these days"--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well; that will do."

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

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

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

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

"Go, if you love me! And you--_you_, at least, _do_ love me!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, my son, what reply?"

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

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

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

     "MY DEAR COUSIN:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her son continued reading the letter,--

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

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

Count Tristan in an altered tone read on,--

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

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

The count continued reading,--

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII.

A CRISIS.


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

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

"I have received this communication from Count Damoreau."

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

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

Madeleine went on,--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madeleine's lips trembled with a half smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I mean that I purpose shortly to quit this mansion, _never to return_!"

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

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

"No, madame," returned Madeleine, with an emphasis which might have been
interpreted into a tone of pride. "I shall _not_ become the humble
companion of any lady."

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

"I shall live alone."

"_Live alone_, at your age,--without fortune, without friends? It is
impracticable,--impossible!" replied her aunt, decisively.

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

"But your noble name."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maurice interrupted him,--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madeleine could not at once command her voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My affections are bestowed; my heart is _no longer free!_"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_That will never be!_"

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

"_Count Tristan's, for instance_," remarked Madeleine, bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will go," he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII.

FLIGHT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bertha went on. "It was a terrible blow to Maurice! He felt so sure
until then that Madeleine loved him; so did I. But we were both
mistaken. It is plain enough now that she does _not_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did she not apprise you of its contents?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do let me see them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madeleine tried to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The note contained these words:--

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

                                   "MADELEINE M. DE GRAMONT."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer was in the negative.

"Have you not seen her?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

"No, mademoiselle."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baptiste was in the garden.

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

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

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

"Baptiste?"

"Monsieur?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX.

THE EMPTY PLACE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, monsieur."

The reply was uttered in a tone of genuine sadness.

"You cannot even guess?"

"No, monsieur."

"Do you know how she left here?"

"No, monsieur."

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

"I have spoken the exact truth, monsieur."

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

Baptiste looked at her gratefully.

"Then you know _nothing at all_," ejaculated Maurice, in a tone of
discouragement. "You did not help Mademoiselle Madeleine in any way? She
must have had some assistance; but from _you_ she had none? You did not
even know that she intended to leave us?"

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

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

"Yes, mademoiselle."

The answer was spoken almost in a whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But how was the trunk conveyed hence?"

"I do not know, monsieur."

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

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

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

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

"_Some one_ must have aided her further! Who could it be? _Who could it
possibly be?_" mused Maurice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gaston de Bois?"

"Yes."

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

When he had somewhat recovered himself, he said,--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The host went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed! Do you make a long stay?"

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

"And you have accepted?"

"Gladly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Count Tristan read,--

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X.

THE HUMBLE COMPANION.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door was opened by a solemn footman.

"Is Lady Vivian at home?"

"Not at home, sir."

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

"Not at home, sir."

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

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

Maurice stood perplexed, and hesitating.

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

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

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

The same staid attendant reappeared at his knock.

"Has Lady Vivian returned?"

"Not returned, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At seven, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is Lady Vivian at home?"

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

"Can I see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"

"Whom, sir?"

"The young lady who accompanies Lady Vivian."

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

Maurice had no alternative and handed his card.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI.

PURSUIT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII.

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beside the bed sat a woman, clad in the shapeless dress of black serge,
and wearing the widely projecting white bonnet and cape, black veil,
white band across the brow, and beneath the chin, which compose the
attire of a sister _de bon secours_. She was one of that community of
self-abnegating women, who, bound by holy vows, devote their lives to
the care of the suffering, and are the most skilful, tender, and zealous
nurses that France affords.

Just beyond the good "sister" stood a young man, poring over a piece of
paper, which had the appearance of a medical prescription: a
spirited-looking youth, whose harmonious and intellectual cast of
features was heightened to rare beauty by richly mellow coloring, and
the silken curves of a beard and moustache unprofaned by a
razor,--curves softly traced above the fresh, rubious lips, and
gracefully deepening about the cheeks and chin,--curves that disappear
forever when the civilized barbarism of shaving has been accepted.

He came forward when M. de Bois entered, and accosted him in an earnest,
rapid tone.

"I hope, sir, you are a friend of this gentleman. Am I right in my
supposition?"

"Yes--yes--what--what has happened?" asked M. de Bois, his countenance
plainly betokening his alarm.

"I occupy the adjoining apartment," continued the stranger. "My name is
Walton. Three nights ago I was startled by the sound of some object
falling heavily near my door, followed by a deep groan. I found this
gentleman lying on the ground, apparently insensible. I carried him into
his chamber, laid him upon the bed, and summoned the _concierge_. The
name inscribed upon her book is the Viscount Maurice de Gramont, and his
last residence the chateau of his father, Count Tristan de Gramont, in
Brittany, near Rennes. I took upon myself the responsibility of calling
a physician,--Dr. Dupont,--and, through his advice, of engaging this
good 'sister,' one of the '_soeurs de bon secours_,' as a nurse. Dr.
Dupont wrote to his patient's father; but no answer has been received. I
have been with your friend very constantly. You perceive he has a raging
fever; he talks a great deal, but too incoherently to be able to answer
any questions or to give any directions."

This information was communicated with a quick, energetic intonation,
while the speaker stood fanning Maurice, and preventing the hand which
he flung about from striking against the wall. There was a confident
rapidity in the stranger's movements, a vigorous manliness and
self-dependence in his bearing, strikingly dissimilar to the deportment
which usually characterizes young Parisians at the same age. Though he
spoke the French language with fluent correctness, a slightly foreign
accent betrayed to M. de Bois that he was not a native of France.

Gaston thanked him as warmly as his troublesome impediment permitted,
and said that he would himself write to the Count de Gramont. Then,
bending over his friend, took his hot, unquiet hand, and spoke to him
again and again. His voice failed to touch any chord of memory and cause
it to vibrate in recognition. Maurice was muttering the same word over
and over; Gaston hardly needed to bow his head to catch the imperfect
sound; he knew, before he heard distinctly, that it was the name of
"Madeleine."

"Had you not better write your letter _immediately_?" asked young
Walton. "Will you walk into my room? I do not see any writing materials
here. Mine are at your service."

Gaston, as he followed the stranger into the adjoining chamber, could
not but be struck by the easy, off-hand, decided manner in which he
spoke, and the promptitude with which he desired to accomplish the work
to be done.

Mr. Walton's sitting-room, which was separated from his bed-chamber, was
much larger than the apartment of Maurice. It had an air of great
comfort, if not of decided elegance, and testified to the literary and
artistic taste of its occupant. The walls were decorated with fine
photographic views, and some early efforts in painting. Here stood an
easel, holding an unfinished picture; there an open piano; further on a
convenient writing-table; in the centre another table covered with books
and portfolios; materials for writing and sketching were scattered about
with a bachelor's disregard for order.

"I will clear you a space here," said he, sweeping the contents of one
table upon another, already overburdened. "Everything is in confusion;
for I have been working at odd moments. I could not make up my mind to
go to the studio. I would not leave that poor fellow until somebody
claimed him. What an interesting face he has! If he were only better, I
would make a sketch. His countenance is just my beau ideal of the young
Saxon knight in a historical picture I am painting. A man always finds
materials for art just beneath his hand, if he only has wit and thrift
to stoop and gather them as he goes. But I fear I am interrupting you.
Make yourself at home. I will leave you while you are writing. Really, I
cannot express how glad I am that you have come at last. I have been
looking for you--that is, for somebody who knew M. de Gramont--every
moment for two days."

After drawing back the curtains to give M. de Bois more light, and
glancing around to see that he was supplied with all he could require,
the young artist returned to the apartment of Maurice.

Ronald Walton was born of South Carolinian parents,--their only child.
His boyhood was not passed in a locality calculated to develop artistic
instincts, nor had his education afforded him artistic advantages, nor
had he been thrown into a sphere of artistic associates; yet from the
time his tiny fingers could hold brush or pencil he had seized upon
engravings of romantic scenery, copied them upon an enlarged scale, and
painted them in oil, to the astonishment of his parents and friends.
When his young companions extracted enjoyment from fish-hook and gun,
and hilariously filled game-bags and fishing-baskets, he sat quietly
drinking in a higher, more humane delight before his easel. These
tastes, as they strengthened, caused his father, though a liberal and
cultivated man, severe disappointment. At times he was even disposed to
place a compulsory check upon his son's artist proclivities; but the
soft, persuasive voice of the gentle, refined, clear-sighted mother
interposed. She had made the most loving study of her child's character,
and had faith in his fitness for the vocation he desired to adopt. She
pleaded that his obvious gift might be tested, and proved spurious or
genuine, before it was trampled under foot as unworthy of recognition;
and her heart-wisdom finally prevailed.

Ronald was sent to Paris to study under a distinguished master. During
three years he had made golden use of his opportunities. He was
remarkable among his fellow-students for his indomitable perseverance,
and his power of concentrating all his thoughts upon his work. He
experienced a desire to attain excellence for _its own sake_, not for
the petty ambition of _excelling others_. Thus he became very popular
among his associates, and excited their admiration without ever
awakening the jealousies of wounded self-love. Though he had determined
to devote his life to art, from the conviction that it was the vocation
for which he came commissioned from the Creator's hand, there was
nothing morbid in his passion for his profession. It was a healthy love
of the beautiful in outward form, springing from the love of all which
the beautiful typifies, combined with a strong impulse to represent and
perpetuate the haunting images of varied loveliness which constantly
floated through his brain.

The young Carolinian was called an enthusiast even by his French
fellow-students, with whom enthusiasm is an inheritance; but his
enthusiasm was allied to a severely critical taste,--a rare combination;
and being grafted upon the tree of _practicability_, indigenous to the
soil of his young country, it brought down his ideal conceptions into
actual execution.

The philosopher of the present day scouts at _enthusiasm_; but what
agent is half so mighty in giving the needful spur to genius? Enthusiasm
kindles a new flame in the chilled soul when the ashes of disappointment
have extinguished its fires; enthusiasm reinvigorates and braces the
spirit that has become weary and enervated in the oppressive atmosphere
of uncongenial _entourage_; enthusiasm is the cool, refreshing breeze of
a warm climate and the blazing log of a cold. Ronald's unexhausted
enthusiasm was the secret fountain whose waters nourished laurels for
him in the gardens of success.

M. de Bois, when he had concluded his letter, found the art-student at
the bedside of Maurice.

"I will post your letter, if you please," said Ronald; "then I will make
a moment's descent into the studio, or some of those noisy madcaps will
be rushing here after me. I will return, however, before long, if you
have no objection."

Hardly waiting for M. de Bois's courteous, but rather slowly-expressed
acknowledgment, he hurried away.

For a couple of hours Gaston sat beside Maurice, listening to his
indistinct ravings, and tracing out that striking likeness to a
countenance he had studied too closely for his own peace. Now and then
he exchanged a word or two with the good "sister," as she moistened the
lips, or bathed the brow of the sufferer.

The doctor came, but pronounced his patient no better, and threw out a
hint that he had some fears the fever was taking the form of typhus;
adding a warning in regard to the danger of infection. That intelligence
had no influence upon Gaston, who resolved to pass as many hours as
possible with his friend. Nor did it affect Ronald Walton, when he
returned and heard the physician's verdict.

The two young men for the next four days alternately shared the duties
of the holy "sister."

The postal arrangements between Paris and Rennes chanced, at that
moment, to be very imperfect; the letter of Dr. Dupont never reached its
destination, and that of M. de Bois was delayed on its route. It was not
until the fifth day after it was posted that Count Tristan, who obeyed
the summons with all haste, arrived in Paris. His son had never once
evinced sufficient consciousness to recognize Gaston de Bois, but, the
instant the count was ushered into the room, was seized with a fit of
frenzy, and broke forth in a torrent of reproaches, upbraided his father
with the ruin and death of Madeleine, charged him with having wrought
the destruction of his own son, and warned him that he had brought utter
desolation upon his ancestral home.

Dr. Dupont, who entered the room during this paroxysm, suggested to the
count the propriety of withdrawing. The latter, although every word
Maurice uttered inflicted a deadly pang, could not, at first, be induced
to tear himself away. The doctor was resolute in pronouncing his
sentence of banishment, and declared that the viscount's life might be
the sacrifice if he were subjected to further excitement.

We will not attempt to portray the poignant sufferings of the count,
who, in spite of his wiliness and worldliness, was passionately attached
to his only child,--the central axis upon which all his hopes, his
schemes, his whole world moved.

Several times, while the invalid was sleeping, his father ventured to
steal into the chamber; but, by some strange species of magnetism, his
very sphere seemed to affect the slumberer, who invariably awoke, and
recognized, or partially recognized him, and burst out anew in violent
denunciations, to which respect would never have allowed him to give
utterance, except under the stimulus of delirium. The count writhed and
shrank beneath the fierce stabbing of those incisive words, and, in his
ungovernable grief, flung himself beside the son, whom he feared death
would shortly snatch from his arms, pouring forth assurances Maurice
would once have hailed as words of life, but which now fell powerless
upon his unheeding ears. While Count Tristan's overwhelming anguish
lasted, there was no promise he would not have made to purchase his
son's restoration, and no promise he would not have broken, if interest
prompted, when the peril was past.

After one of these agitating interviews, the doctor's edict entirely
closed the door of the patient's chamber against the count, who was
forced to admit the wisdom of the order.

Gaston de Bois and Ronald Walton, between whom a pleasant intimacy was
springing up, continued to watch by the bed of Maurice. Another
fortnight passed, and though he lay, as it were, in a grave of fire, the
doctor's prediction of typhus fever was not verified. At the expiration
of this period, Ronald was the first to notice a favorable change, and
to discover that the invalid had lucid intervals which showed his reason
was reascending her abdicated throne. But he abstained from pointing out
the improvement to Gaston, fearing that, in his joy, he might
communicate the consolatory intelligence to the count, who would then
insist upon seeing his son, and possibly reproduce the evil results by
which his former visits had been attended.

Maurice had ceased to moan and mutter, and lay motionless as one
thoroughly exhausted. He slept much, waking for but a few moments, and
sinking again into a species of half-lethargy. There was something
inexpressibly sweet and pleasant in his present calmness; his mind
seemed to have been mysteriously soothed and satisfied; the turbulent
waves, that dashed him hither and thither against the sharp rocks of
doubt and fear, had subsided. His features, especially when he slept,
wore an expression of the most serene contentment.

The _soeur de bon secours_, who had watched him through the night, had
yielded her place to the "sister," who assumed the office of nurse
during the day. Gaston entered soon after, and, finding the patient
gently slumbering, sat down beside his bed. After a time, Maurice
stirred, drew a long breath, and slowly opened his eyes. They met those
of his watcher. For some time the invalid gazed at him without speaking,
and then said, in a tone that was hardly audible,--

"M. de Bois."

"My dear Maurice--dear friend--you are better,--you know me at last,"
exclaimed Gaston, joyfully.

"I knew you before; you have been the most faithful of friends and
nurses. I knew you quite well, and I knew _her_ too!"

Gaston bounded from his chair, breathing so hard that he could scarcely
stammer out, "Her! who--o--o--om do you me--e--ean?"

"Madeleine," replied Maurice, confidently.

"Mademoiselle Mad--ad--adeleine; you are dream--eaming!"

"No! I thought so at first, and the dream was so sweet that I would not
break it by word or motion, fearing that I should discover it was not
reality. But it was no _dream_. Night after night,--how many I do not
know--I could not count,--I have seen Madeleine beside me! When the good
'sister' moved about the room, in the dim light of the _veilleuse_, in
spite of her coarse, unshapely garb, I recognized the outlines of
Madeleine's form; notwithstanding the uncouth bonnet, and the white
bandage that concealed her hair and brow, and, passing beneath her chin,
almost hid her face, I recognized the features of Madeleine. I watched
her as she glided about the room, and with her delicate, noiseless,
rapidly moving touch created the most perfect order around her. I heard
her as she softly sang sweet anthems, and I could not mistake the voice
of Madeleine. I felt her hand, her cool, fresh, velvety hand, upon my
burning forehead, and it soothed me deliciously. I lay with closed eyes
as she bathed my temples, and passed her fingers through my hair to
loosen its tangles. I was afraid of frightening her away, or finding I
saw but a vision. The water she held to my lips was nectar; when she
smoothed my pillow, all pain passed from the temples that rested upon
it, throbbing with agony before, and I sank into a sweet slumber,--not
unconscious slumber: I knew that I was sleeping; I knew that Madeleine
sat there, filling the place of the sister of charity; I knew that when
I opened my eyes I should see her,--_and I did_, again and again. I
never once spoke to her; I feared some spell would be broken if I
breathed her name. In the morning she disappeared; but I knew she would
come again at midnight, when all was quiet, and the light was carefully
shaded. M. de Bois, my dear Gaston, I tell you _I have seen Madeleine!_"

M. de Bois sat still, looking too much astounded to utter a word.

"I see you cannot believe me," Maurice continued. "She never came while
you were here, and so you think it is a dream. A happy dream! a dream
full of the balm of Gilead! for she has cured me! My brain was a burning
volcano until her hand was laid upon my brow, and I gazed in her face,
and knew it was no phantom. Do not look so much distressed, my dear
Gaston. I am perfectly in my senses."

M. de Bois did not contradict him. Perhaps he remembered the good rule
of never opposing a sick man's vagaries. After a pause he said,--

"Maurice, since you are quite yourself, would you not like to see your
father?"

The wan face of Maurice flushed slightly.

"Is he here?"

"Yes, he has been here for more than a fortnight. The doctor forbade his
entering. Will you not see him now?"

The invalid assented languidly. He had perhaps spoken too much and
overtaxed his strength.

The joy of Count Tristan was deep and voiceless when he was once more
permitted to embrace his son. He was so fearful of touching upon some
painful chord, and of again hearing those frantic ravings, that he had
no language at his command. Maurice, in a faint tone, inquired after his
grandmother and Bertha, and then seemed too weary to prolong the
conversation. Glad at heart, as the count could not but feel, at the
wonderful improvement in his son, he was ill at ease in his presence,
and seemed always to have some haunting dread upon his mind. It was a
relief when the doctor forbade his patient to converse, and hinted that
the count should make his visits very brief.

The next day, when M. de Bois entered, Maurice greeted him in a mournful
tone.

"She did not come last night. I watched for her in vain. The 'sister,'
yonder, went as usual at midnight, and came back in the morning; but,
during the night, a stranger took her place."

What could M. de Bois answer? He gave a sigh of sympathy, but did not
attempt to make any comment.

"She knows perhaps that my father is here, and she will come no more for
fear of being discovered. But I have _seen her_, Gaston! I know I have
seen her! I could not have lived if I had not. And her countenance was
not sad,--it wore a look of patient hope that lent a glory to her face.
The very remembrance of that saint-like expression put to shame the
despair to which I have yielded."

"I--I--I--am"--

M. de Bois could get no further. If he meant to use any argument to
persuade Maurice that it was only a vision, conjured up by his fevered
imagination, which he had seen, the attempt would have been vain.
Maurice clung to the belief that he had really beheld Madeleine, and
that conviction soothed, strengthened, and reanimated him.




CHAPTER XIII.

WEARY DAYS.


Up to this period of his life the vigorous constitution of Maurice had
suffered no exhausting drain. His habits had been so regular, his mode
of life so simple, that his fine _physique_ had been untrifled with,
uninjured. As a natural sequence, the first inroads made upon its
strength were rapidly repaired. The fever once conquered, in a week he
was sufficiently convalescent to walk out, leaning on the arm of Gaston
de Bois, or Ronald Walton. His gait was feeble, his form attenuated, his
countenance had lost its ruddy glow,--the lines had sharpened until
their youthful, healthful roundness was wholly obliterated; but the
nervous, untranquil expression had passed away from his face, and the
restless glancing from side to side had left his eyes. Through the
stimulating medium of fresh air and gentle exercise he gathered new
vitality, and the promise of speedy restoration was daily confirmed.

His favorite resort was the _atelier_ of the celebrated master under
whose direction Ronald was studying his art. Seated in the comfortable
arm-chair devoted to the use of models, Maurice often remained for
hours, watching the busy brushes and earnest faces, among which the
genius-lighted countenance of the young Carolinian shone conspicuously.
On one of these occasions, after sitting for some time lost in thought,
when he chanced to turn his head Ronald surprised him by crying out,--

"My dear fellow, don't move! Keep that position another moment,--will
you? I am making a sketch of your head. It has just the outline I want
for my Saxon Knight after the battle."

Maurice could not but smile at this evidence of the national trait of
the young American, who seized upon every material within his reach for
the advancement of his art. Ronald's words, too, struck him,--"After the
battle!" Well might he resemble one who had passed through a severe
conflict; but it was also one who was prepared to fight valiantly anew,
and not disposed to succumb to the army of adverse circumstances arrayed
against his peace.

It was not possible for a young man, endowed with the impressible
temperament of Maurice, to be thrown into constant communication with
an associate as full of vigorous activity as Ronald Walton, without
being stirred and inspired by the contact. The force, decision,
aptitude, promptness, which distinguished Ronald, had constituted him a
sort of prince among his fellow-students, who gave him the lead in all
their united movements, without defining to themselves his claim to
supremacy. Ronald's character was not free from imperfections; but its
very faults were essentially national,--were characteristics of that
"fast-running nation" which is "indivertible in aim," and incredulous of
the existence of the unattainable. His dominant failing was a
self-dependence, which, in a weaker nature, would have degenerated into
self-sufficiency, but just stopped short of that complacent, puerile
egotism, which narrows the mind, and rears its own opinions upon a
judgment-seat to pronounce verdicts upon the rest of the world. He never
doubted his ability to scale any height upon which he fixed his eyes; he
laughed at obstacles; he did not believe in impossibilities; what any
other man could accomplish, that he had an internal conviction he might
also achieve; and he held the faith of the poet-queen that all men were
possible heroes.

These attributes were precisely those most calculated to impress and
charm Maurice, and he regarded Ronald with unbounded admiration, mingled
with a sickening sense of regret when he reflected upon the trammels
which reined in the ready impulses and crushed the instinctive
aspirations which were wrestling within himself.

Count Tristan, as soon as his son was sufficiently restored to travel,
suggested that he should return with him to Brittany; but Maurice
betrayed such uncompromising reluctance to this proposal that his father
thought it wise not to press the point.

Though the count had escaped a calamity, which even to contemplate had
almost driven him out of his mind,--though his son's life was spared,
and his restoration to vigorous health assured,--at times the father
felt as if that son were lost to him forever. An inexplicable reserve
had risen up and thrust them asunder. In the count's presence Maurice
was always abstracted and pensive; he uttered no complaints, made no
petitions. He had come to the conclusion that both were useless; but his
opinions and wishes were no longer frankly, boldly, iterated. He and his
father stood upon different platforms, with an invisible, but an
insurmountable barrier looming up between them. Count Tristan, albeit
irritated, galled, grieved, could discover no mode of reestablishing the
olden footing. After spending a month in Paris, he returned to
Brittany, his mind filled with discomforting forebodings, to which he
could give no definite shape.

Maurice was once more left in the great, gay capital, his own
master,--at liberty to plunge into whatever sea of dissipation, to float
idly down whatever tide of pleasure lured him. But he wronged himself
when he warned his father, some months previous, that if he were
debarred from studying a profession, he might seek excitement, or
oblivion, in impure channels, and waste his exuberant energies in
degrading pastimes. He spoke on the spur of some vague, restless impulse
within him, that clamored for an outlet; but he misjudged himself in
imagining that he could be compelled to drown the memory of his
disappointment in the wine-cup, the vortex of the gaming-table, or the
more fearful maelstrom of siren allurements. To a young heart which has
not been sullied by familiar contact with evil, there is no aegis so
invulnerable to the assaults of those deadly enemies, who make their
attacks in the fascinating garb of licentious liberty, as a strong,
pure, life-absorbing attachment. He who wears the shield of a first,
stainless affection, carries Ithuriel's spear in his hand, and, at a
single touch, the sensual enchanter in his path, however resplendent its
disguise, drops the fair-featured mask and shining mantle, and stands
revealed in native hideousness. The image of Madeleine, ever present to
Maurice, drew around him a protecting circle which nothing vile could
enter, and, wherever his own eyes turned, it seemed to him that her
heavenly eyes followed. Could he profane their holy gaze by fixing his
upon scenes of captivating degradation and rose-crowned vice?

Day after day, as his strength returned, it was but natural that he
should grow more and more weary of monotonous indolence, and more and
more impatient to escape from its depressing, deadening thraldom. The
happy change, which a settled occupation had effected in Gaston de Bois,
seemed to add to the discontent of his friend. Sometimes he was on the
point of starting for Brittany, and making a fresh appeal to his father;
then he was withheld by the dread that an angry discussion would be the
only sequence. He knew that his father's pride, sustained by that of his
grandmother, was unconquerable, and that the sentence, which condemned
him to a dreary, inert, and profitless existence, would only be
pronounced upon him anew.

Since his illness he had entirely abandoned his vain search for
Madeleine. He always felt as though he had seen her, albeit, when he
attempted to reflect upon the likelihood that she had actually sat
beside his couch, and watched over him during his illness, reason
essayed to efface the impression which could hardly have been made by
the fingers of reality. Even granting that Madeleine, on leaving
Brittany, had joined the sisterhood, and proposed to devote her life to
holy offices, for which she was richly dowered by nature, was there not
a novitiate to be passed? How could she so soon have entered upon her
sacred duties? And if by some mysterious dispensation she had been
absolved from the probation of a novice, how could she have learned that
he was ill? How could she have come to him so promptly? Was it probable
that Mr. Walton, an entire stranger, had, by mere accident, selected a
nurse from the very society which she had joined? These questions, and
others equally difficult to answer, sprang up constantly in his mind,
and found no satisfactory solution. Yet the conviction that he had
actually beheld her remained unshaken.

Bertha had been apprised by her aunt of the dangerous illness of
Maurice, and had written to him when he was unable to read her letters.
As soon as he was convalescent, they were placed in his hands.

"My dear Gaston, write a line to my cousin for me," begged Maurice,
feeling that he had not strength to reply, and little dreaming what a
thrill of joy ran through Gaston's frame at that request.

M. de Bois wrote,--wrote with an eloquence that could never have found
utterance through his tongue.

If we may judge from the number of times Bertha perused that letter, or
if we may draw an inference from her wearing it about her person
(probably that she might be able to refresh her memory with its
information concerning her cousin), the epistle was either very
difficult of comprehension, or it had some witching spell which drew her
eyes irresistibly to its cabalistic characters.

She had not recovered her wonted buoyancy. Beneath her uncle's roof she
pined for Madeleine hardly less than at the Chateau de Gramont.

The Marquis de Merrivale, her guardian, was a bachelor. The chief object
of his existence was an endeavor to "take life easy," and guard himself
from all vexations and discomforts. His next aim was to pamper the
cravings of an epicurean appetite, but always with such judicious
ministry that his digestive organs might not be impaired thereby. He was
good-natured on principle, because it was too much trouble to get
excited and vexed. His equanimity was seldom disturbed, save by his
cook's failure in the concoction of a favorite dish.

Count Tristan had drawn largely on his invention when he informed the
Marchioness de Fleury that Bertha's uncle was exceedingly tenacious of
his rights, and jealous of the interference of his niece's relatives in
regard to any future alliance she might form. The marquis never dreamed
of troubling his brain with such a minor matter as matrimony. He was
inclined to be governed entirely by Bertha's predilection,--to leave the
affair wholly to her, throwing off the trouble with the responsibility.
He could have no objection to see her affianced to the Duke de
Montauban,--he would have had none to her union with Maurice de Gramont.
He found it sufficient pleasure to have his bright-faced niece sitting
opposite to him at table, so long as she was gay and had a good
appetite. If he had thwarted her wishes he would have accused himself of
making a base, unkinly attempt to injure her digestion by causing her
annoyance. He considered himself quite incapable of so unworthy, so
harmful so cruel an action.

When she returned from the Chateau de Gramont, he was discomposed at
finding that she brought back a clouded visage, and seemed perfectly
indifferent to the choicest dainties which he caused to be set before
her as the most striking mark of his affection. Indeed, he became so
uncomfortable when she rejected these delicate attentions day after day,
that his mind was gradually prepared to look favorably upon a
proposition which Bertha had resolved to make.

She had been at home about a month; they were dining,--that is, her
uncle was enjoyingly partaking of the meal that rounded his day, while
Bertha's fork played with the oyster _pate_ on her plate, dividing it
into tiny bits, but never lifting one to her mouth. The marquis, after
descanting warmly upon the excellence of the _pate_, which he highly
relished, interrupted his eulogium by saying,--

"My dear child, you have not tasted a morsel of this incomparable
_pate_! It is a triumph of culinary art! If you will just oblige me by
touching a small piece to your lips; the paste is so light it will
magically melt! Really, you _must eat_!"

"I cannot, uncle."

"Try, try; it disturbs me greatly to see you sitting there looking so
gloomy. It will really hurt my digestion, and that would be a frightful
calamity. Don't you like Lucien's cooking? I think him a treasure; but
if you cannot relish what he prepares he shall receive his dismissal."

"I dare say I should like the cooking in Paris better than any other,"
remarked Bertha, treacherously assailing her uncle in his vulnerable
point.

"Paris! what are you talking about? We cannot have our dinners sent from
Paris and kept warm on the road,--can we?"

"But we might go to Paris and take our dinners," she rejoined,
coaxingly.

"Bless my heart! What an idea! It is a day's journey! Think of the
trouble and discomfort of getting there!"

"Think of the new inventions of the Parisian _cuisine_; for they invent
new dishes, my Cousin Maurice has told me, as often as they originate
new fashions for dress. There are abundance of novel dishes every day
issuing from the brains of accomplished cooks,--dishes of which you have
never even heard. You really ought to taste some of them."

"That's a consideration,--positively it is. I must reflect upon it!"
replied her uncle.

"And Maurice seems to cling to the idea that my Cousin
Madeleine"--continued Bertha.

"There, there, my dear; that will do! don't touch on that unpleasant
subject, especially at dinner; it will certainly injure your digestive
organs, and give you the blues for the rest of the day. I assure you, my
child, all low spirits come from indigestion. I am convinced indigestion
is one great cause of all the sadness and sorrow, and, I dare say, of
all the sin in the world."

"It seems to me change of air must be very beneficial," replied Bertha,
recovering from the false step she had been on the point of making.

"Very wisely remarked! Change of air is beneficial, and gentle exercise
is beneficial: both stimulate the digestive faculties and keep up their
healthy action. And you really think, my dear, you would like to taste
some of those new Parisian dishes?"

"I should indeed!"

"Then you shall. I look upon it as criminal, in the present low state of
your appetite, to thwart its faintest craving. Of course we cannot
procure anything fit to sustain nature on the road to Paris, but I can
make Pierre pack up a basket of refreshments, and a bottle of old wine,
so that we shall not be poisoned on the way. If we can only make the
journey comfortably, I have no objection to investigate the gastronomic
novelties of which you have heard. I could take Lucien with us, that he
might learn some new mysteries in his art."

"To be sure you could. When shall we start, dear uncle? I am so anxious
to go! When shall we start?"

"There! there! Don't get excited about it; that will interfere with the
gastric juices. Let us conclude our dinner quietly. Try a wing of that
pheasant, while we discuss the matter with wholesome calmness."

Bertha allowed herself to be helped to the wing, and tried to force down
a few morsels for the sake of humoring the generously inclined _bon
vivant_, who grew more and more genial and amiably disposed as he sipped
his Chateau Margaux. Fine wine invariably had a softening, expansive
effect upon his character, and, after a few glasses, he honestly looked
upon himself as one of the most tender-hearted, soberly inoffensive, and
morally disposed of mortals.

If Bertha had openly proposed to him that they should spend a few weeks
in Paris for the gratification of any praiseworthy intention of her own,
or of any harmless whim, he would have unhesitatingly refused, and
opposed any number of objections to the proposition; but she had
introduced the subject in its most favorable light, and was sure of a
victory.

A few days later, the Marquis de Merrivale and his niece, attended by
her maid, his valet and cook, were on their way to the metropolis. The
marquis, having instituted many inquiries with the view of discovering
what hotel rejoiced in the possession of the most scientific cook,
concluded to engage a suite of apartments at the hotel _des Trois
Empereurs_.

The meeting between Bertha and Maurice was as full of tenderness as
though they had been in reality what their strong family resemblance
caused them to appear, brother and sister.

"No word from Madeleine yet?" was Bertha's first inquiry,--hardly an
inquiry, for she knew what the answer must be.

Then Maurice told her of the _soeur de bon secours_ who had sat by his
bed night after night.

"Could it really have been Madeleine?" she asked, breathlessly.

"M. de Bois seems to think not; yet I am unshaken in my conviction that
it was she herself."

"But why did you not speak to her?"

"A feeling which I can scarcely define withheld me. At first I thought I
was dreaming, and that the dream would be broken if I spoke or moved.
Then I felt sure Madeleine was there, but that she believed herself
unrecognized, and if I showed that I knew her she would leave me,--leave
me when I could not follow, and must again have lost all trace of her.
It was such a luxury, such a joy to feel her by my side! It was her
presence and not the skill of the physician which restored me."

"And you never once betrayed yourself?"

"No. What seems most singular is that from the very day I mentioned to
M. de Bois that I had seen her, she came no more. Yet how could she have
learned, or divined, that I knew her?"

"That circumstance, dear Maurice, makes it all look like a dream. As
soon as the fever left you the phantom it conjured up disappeared."

Maurice shook his head, unconvinced, and Bertha was too willing to be
deceived herself to attempt to persuade him that he was in error.

The Marquis de Merrivale now entered. Maurice, whom he had only known
slightly, rose in favor when the epicure found that the young Parisian
could give all requisite information concerning the best restaurants in
Paris; and the viscount reached a higher summit of esteem, when he
promptly promised to put Lucien _en train_ to familiarize himself with
certain valuable culinary discoveries. Maurice knew enough of the
character of the marquis to be confident that his stay in the metropolis
would be determined by the amount of comfort he enjoyed, and the quality
of the dinners set before him.

Bertha's next visit was from M. de Bois, and could she have banished
from her mind a vague impression that he loved Madeleine, or was beloved
by her, the interview would have afforded her unmitigated happiness.

M. de Bois had not yet gained sufficient mastery over himself to command
his utterance in the presence of the woman who had most power to confuse
him. He still stammered painfully; but he could not help remarking that,
even as Madeleine had said, Bertha finished his broken sentences,
apparently unaware that she was doing so. And her greeting, surely it
had been far from cold. And did she not say, with a soft emphasis which
it almost took away his breath to hear, that it seemed an age since they
met? Had she then felt the time long? And did she not drop some
involuntary remark concerning the dulness of Brittany after he and
Maurice left? Had she not coupled him with her cousin? Might he not dare
to believe that Madeleine was right, and Bertha certainly did not scorn
him?




CHAPTER XIV.

DIAMONDS AND EMERALDS.


"I wish you would go, Maurice. Do, for my sake!" pleaded Bertha,
twisting in her slender fingers a note of invitation. "The Marquis de
Fleury was one of the first persons who called upon my uncle, and he
made a very favorable impression. Then Madame de Fleury has nearly
crushed me beneath an avalanche of sweet civilities. I fancy that a
humming-bird drowned in honey must experience sensations very similar to
mine in her presence. Is it not the Chinese who serve as the greatest of
delicacies a lump of ice rolled in hot pastry? The condiment with which
she feeds my vanity reminds me of this singular and paradoxical dainty.
If you penetrate the warm, sugared, outer crust, you find ice within.
But, as my uncle does not anticipate Chinese diet at the table of the
marchioness, he desires me to accept her invitation; and, as you are
invited, I wish _you_ to do the same, that I may have some familiar face
near me."

"Gaston de Bois will be there," returned Maurice, "and so will the young
American student, Ronald Walton, whom I presented to you; they are my
dearest friends; pray let them represent me, little cousin."

But Bertha was obstinate; her character had a strong tincture of
wilfulness, the result of invariably having her pleasure consulted, and
always obtaining her own way. She did not relinquish her entreaties
until Maurice, who had not lived long enough to be skilled in the art of
successfully denying the petition of a person who will take no refusal,
or of plucking the waspish sting out of a "no," consented to be present
at the dinner.

The Marquis de Fleury had learned, through his secretary, that
Mademoiselle Merrivale and her guardian were in Paris. Though the
matrimonial proposition of the marchioness on behalf of her brother, the
Duke de Montauban, had been so unfavorably received by Bertha's
relatives in Brittany, and though Bertha herself, when she met the duke
at the Chateau de Tremazan, had treated him somewhat coldly, the young
duke was too much enamored of the fair girl herself,--to say nothing of
a tender leaning towards her attractive fortune,--to be discouraged by a
passing rebuff. His relatives hailed the anticipated opportunity of
making the acquaintance of Bertha's guardian, and were prompt in paying
their devoirs. An invitation to dine followed quickly on the footsteps
of the visit.

We pass over the days that preceded the one appointed for the dinner
party; they were unmarked by incidents which demand to be recorded.

The bond of intimacy between Ronald and Maurice was drawn closer and
closer each day. Little by little the latter had communicated the
history of his own trials; his father's determined opposition to his
embracing a professional career; his attachment to Madeleine; her
unaccountable rejection of his hand; her sudden disappearance, and the
mad pursuit, which terminated by casting him insensible at Ronald's
door, and brought to his succor one who not only watched beside him with
all the devotion of a brother, mingled with the tenderness of womanhood
itself, but whose buoyant, healthy tone of mind had infused new hope and
vigor into a broken, despondent, prostrate spirit.

Ronald Walton was placed in an advantageous position in Paris by the
very fact of being an American. His intellect, talents, manners, person,
fitted him to grace the most refined society; and, coming from a land
where distinctions of rank are not arbitrarily governed by the accident
of birth, but where men are assigned their positions in the social scale
through a juster, higher, more liberal verdict, the young Carolinian
gained facile admission into the most exclusive circles abroad, and even
took precedence of individuals who made as loud a boast of noble blood
and hereditary titles as though the concentrated virtues of all their
ancestors had been transmitted to them through these dubious mediums.

Ronald, as the intimate friend of Maurice de Gramont, had received an
invitation to the dinner given by the Marchioness de Fleury to the
relatives of the viscount.

The young men entered Madame de Fleury's drawing-room together, and,
after having basked for a few seconds in smiles of meridian radiance,
and been inundated by a flood of softly syllabled words, moved away to
let the beams of their sunny hostess fall upon new-comers.

Maurice glanced around the room in search of his cousin.

"She has just entered the antechamber," said Ronald, comprehending his
look. "Her Hebe-like face this minute flashed upon me."

While he was speaking, Bertha and her uncle were announced, and advanced
toward their hostess.

The low genuflection of the marchioness had been responded to by
Bertha's unstudied courtesy, and the lips of the young girl had just
parted to speak, when she suddenly gave a violent start, and uttered a
cry as sharp and involuntary as though she had trodden upon some
piercing instrument. As she tottered back, her dilated eyes were fixed
upon Madame de Fleury in blank amazement.

"What is it, my dear? Are you ill?" asked her uncle with deep concern.

Bertha did not reply, but still gazed at the marchioness, or rather her
eyes ran over the lady's toilet, and she clung to her uncle's arm as
though unable to support herself.

"I am afraid you really are ill," continued the Marquis de Merrivale.
"Something has disagreed with you; it must have been the truffles with
which that pheasant we had for _dejeuner_ was stuffed. I toyed with them
very timidly myself."

"Pray sit down, my dear Mademoiselle de Merrivale," said Madame de
Fleury, leading her to a chair which stood near. "Sit down while I order
you a glass of water."

She turned to address a servant, but Bertha stretched out her hand,
almost as though she feared to lose sight of her. "Don't go! Don't go!
Let me look! Can they be hers? Let me look again!"

Madame de Fleury, as unruffled as though these broken exclamations were
perfectly natural and comprehensible, bent over Bertha caressingly,
laying the tips of her delicately gloved fingers on her shoulder. Bertha
wistfully examined the bracelet on the lady's arm, then fixed her eyes
upon the necklace, brooch, and ear-rings, and lastly upon the tiara-like
comb, about which the hair of the marchioness was arranged in a
dexterous and novel manner.

Madame de Fleury was gratified, without being moved by the faintest
surprise that her toilet had produced such an overpowering sensation.
Bertha's emotion did not appear to her in the least misplaced or
exaggerated.

"You admire this set of diamonds and emeralds very much, then?" she
asked, complacently.

"The _fleur-de-lis_ and shamrock," faltered Bertha, "where--where did
they come from?"

Interpreting the unceremonious abruptness and singularity of the
question into a spontaneous tribute paid to her costly ornaments, the
marchioness graciously answered,--

"This _parure_ was a delicate attention from M. de Fleury. Not long
after he presented these diamonds to me, by a very strange coincidence
Vignon sent this dress for my approval. You observe how dexterously the
device of the necklace is imitated. Can anything be more perfect than
these lilies and shamrock leaves?"

Bertha hastily glanced at the rich white silk robe, trimmed with
_revers_ of pale violet, upon which the lilies and shamrock were
embroidered with some species of lustrous thread, which counterfeited
not only the design but the sparkle of the gems. The marchioness went
on,--

"Was it not odd that Vignon, famed as she is for novelties, should have
chanced upon a dress which so exactly matched my new set? It quite makes
me a convert to the science of animal magnetism. My mind, you see, was
_en rapport_ with hers. Indeed she says so herself, for she could not
otherwise explain the sudden inspiration which caused her to plan this
trimming. M. de Fleury wanted me to have these jewels set anew; but I
would not allow them to be touched,--this old-fashioned setting is so
remarkable, so unique. Probably there is not another like it to be found
in Paris: _that_ is always vantage ground gained over one's
jewel-wearing adversaries."

The marchioness, once launched upon her favorite stream of talk, would
have sailed on interminably, had not the announcement of new guests
floated her upon another current.

"I hope the spasms are going over, my dear," said the Marquis de
Merrivale, who was really distressed by Bertha's supposed illness. "It
was very clever to divert observation by talking about dresses and
jewels; but the truffles did the mischief. I knew well enough what was
the matter with you."

"No--no; it was those jewels," replied Bertha, who had not yet recovered
her self-possession. "Those diamonds and emeralds were Madeleine's!"

"Madeleine's!" ejaculated Maurice, who had approached her on witnessing
her unaccountable agitation. "Good heavens! is it possible?"

"Yes, they were Madeleine's,--they were her mother's jewels and had been
in her family for generations. Madeleine showed them to me only a few
nights before she left the Chateau de Gramont. I am sure of them. I
would have recognized them anywhere."

"Then at last--at last, oh thank God--we shall trace her! She must have
sold those jewels for her support. We must learn from whence Madame de
Fleury purchased them," returned Maurice, with a voice trembling with
exultation.

"Madame de Fleury said they were a _cadeau_ from the marquis," replied
Bertha. "Come, let us find him,--let us ask him at once."

Bertha rose with animation and took her uncle's arm.

"Where are you going, my dear? Pray do not excite yourself again,"
pleaded her solicitous guardian. "Pray keep cool. Dinner must shortly be
served, and you will not be in a fit state to do justice to the
sumptuous repast which I have no doubt awaits us,--some of those novel
inventions, perhaps, which you were so anxious to taste. I see people
are not scrupulously punctual in Paris,--it is ten minutes after the
time. Possibly we are waiting for some guest who has not sufficient good
taste to remember that viands may be overdone through his culpability."

"I must speak to M. de Fleury," said Bertha. "Let us get nearer to him,
that I may seize the first opportunity when he ceases talking to that
pompous-looking old gentleman who has the left breast of his coat
covered with decorations."

"Well, well, take it quietly--keep cool--don't get your blood into a
ferment,--that's all I ask."

Her uncle led her across the room, accompanied by Maurice.

Diplomat and courtier were inscribed on every line of the wrinkled
countenance of the Marquis de Fleury. He never took a step, or gave a
look, or scarcely drew a breath, by which he had not some object to
accomplish, some interest to promote. An oppressive suavity of manner,
an exaggerated politeness encased him in an impenetrable armor, and
prevented the real man from ever being reached beneath this smooth
surface. Impulses he had none. The slightest motions of his wiry frame
were studied. When he walked, he slid along as though he could not be
guilty of so positive an action as that of planting his feet firmly upon
what might prove "delicate ground." When he bowed, a contraction of
sinews worthy of an _acrobat_ allowed his head to obtain an unnatural
inclination, suggestive of a complimentary deference which humbled
itself to the dust and kissed the garment's hem. Straightforwardness in
word, thought, or action was to him as incomprehensible as it was
impossible. He was a great general, ever standing on the political or
social battle-field; skilful manoeuvres were the glory of his
existence, and flattery the magical weapon never laid aside by which he
gained his victories.

Madame de Fleury was thirty years his junior. He had purposely selected
a young, pretty, harmless, well-dressed doll, as the being best suited
to further his ends in the great world. He admired her sincerely. She
reached the exact mental stature and standard which he looked upon as
perfection in womanhood, and her absolute despotism in ruling the modes
and creeds of the _beau monde_ were to him the highest proof of her
superiority over the rest of her sex.

Though he was engaged in a conversation with the emperor's grand
chamberlain, which seemed deeply interesting to both parties, M. de
Fleury broke off instantly when Bertha, with her uncle and Maurice,
approached.

"You are so radiant to night, Mademoiselle de Merrivale," remarked the
courtier, "that all eyes are fixed upon you. It is cruel of you to
dazzle the vision of so many admirers!"

Bertha, without paying the slightest attention to these fulsome words,
replied, "Will you pardon me, M. de Fleury, if I ask an impertinent
question?"

"How could any question from such sovereign lips become other than a
condescension? The queen of beauty commands in advance a reply to the
most difficult problem which she can propound."

Bertha, with an impatient toss of her head, as though the buzz of this
nonsensical verbiage stung her ears, plunged at once into the subject.

"That set of diamonds and emeralds which Madame de Fleury wears to-night
were presented to her by you. Will you have the goodness to tell me from
whence you procured them?"

For M. de Fleury to have given a direct answer, even in relation to such
an apparent trifle, would have been contrary to his nature; besides, it
was one of his rules not to impart information without learning for what
object it was sought.

"You admire them?" he replied, evasively. "I am delighted, I am charmed
with your approval of my taste. I shall think more highly of it forever
after. The setting of the jewels is old-fashioned; but Madame de Fleury
found it so novel that I could not prevail upon her to have it
modernized."

"But you have not told me how the jewels came into your possession."

"Oh, very naturally, very naturally, lovely lady! They were not a fairy
gift; they became mine by the very prosaic transaction of purchase."

Maurice could restrain himself no longer.

"My cousin is particularly desirous of learning through what source you
obtained them. She has an important reason for her inquiry."

This explanation only placed the marquis more upon his guard.

"Ah, your captivating cousin thinks they look as though they had a
history? Yes, yes; jewels of that kind generally have. Does the design
strike you as remarkable, Mademoiselle de Merrivale?"

"Very remarkable,--and I have seen it before. I could not forget it. I
wished to know"--

Dinner was announced at that moment, and the Duke de Montauban came
forward and offered his arm to Bertha.

M. de Fleury, with lavish apologies for the interruption of a
conversation which he pronounced delightful, begged the Marquis de
Merrivale to give his arm to Madame de Fleury, named to Maurice a young
lady whom he would have the goodness to conduct, glided about the room
to give similar instructions to other gentlemen, and, selecting an
elderly lady, who was evidently a person of distinction, led the way to
the dining-room.

Maurice stood still, looking perplexed and abstracted, and quite
forgetting that he had any ceremonious duty to perform. Ronald, who from
the time he had watched beside the viscount's sick-bed had not
relinquished his friendly _surveillance_, noticed his absence of mind,
and, as he passed him, whispered,--

"My dear fellow, what is the matter? You are dreaming again. Rouse
yourself! Some young lady must be waiting for your arm."

"Ronald," exclaimed Maurice, "something very singular has happened.
Madame de Fleury is wearing Madeleine's family jewels!"

"Bravo! That is cheering news, indeed! You will certainly be able to
trace her now,--never fear! But you must get through this dinner first;
so pray collect your scattered senses as expeditiously as possible."

Elated by these words of encouragement, and the hilarious tone in which
they were uttered, Maurice shook off his musing mood, and proffered his
arm to the niece of Madame de Fleury, whom he now remembered that the
marquis had desired him to conduct.

During the dinner this young lady pronounced the handsome cavalier, who
had been assigned to her, tantalizingly _distrait_, and secretly wished
that the artistic _maitre d'hotel_ of her aunt had decorated the table
with a less novel and attractive central ornament; for it seemed to her
that the eyes of Maurice were constantly turned upon the miniature
cherry-tree, of forced hot-house growth, that rose from a mossy mound
in the centre of the festive board. The diminutive tree was covered with
superb fruit, and girdled in by a circle of Liliputian grape-vines, each
separate vine trained upon a golden rod, and heavily laden with luscious
grapes, bunches of the clearest amber alternating with the deepest
purple and richest crimson. Among the mosses of the mound were scattered
the rarest products of the most opposite seasons; those of the present
season being too natural to pamper the artificial tastes of luxury.
Truly, the arrangement was a charming exemplification of nature made
subservient to art; but was it this magnet to which the eyes of Maurice
were so irresistibly attracted? He chanced to be seated where his view
of the hostess was partially intercepted by the hot-house wonder, and he
was seeking in vain to catch a glimpse of those jewels which had been
Madeleine's.

Bertha was placed nearer the marchioness, and the Duke de Montauban
could not help noticing that her gaze was frequently fixed upon his
sister; but being one of those men who are thoroughly convinced that
what the French term "_chiffons_" is the most important interest of a
woman's life, he consoled himself with the reflection that Mademoiselle
de Merrivale was deeply engrossed by a contemplation of Madame de
Fleury's elaborate toilet, and that her absent manner had this very
feminine, reasonable, and altogether to be tolerated apology.

When Madame de Fleury and her guests swept back into the drawing-room,
Monsieur de Fleury and the grand chamberlain were again closely engaged
in some political battle. Maurice, after waiting impatiently for a
favorable moment when he might come between the wordy belligerents,
whispered to Ronald,--

"I am tortured to death! I shall never get an opportunity to ask the
marquis about those jewels. My cousin was questioning him on the subject
when dinner was announced; but he seemed to treat her inquiries as of so
little importance that she was quite baffled in obtaining information."

"Why not attack him in a straightforward manner?" answered the positive
young American. "Walk up to him and ask plainly for a few moments'
private conversation. Give him the reason of your inquiries, and demand
an answer. Bring him to the point without any fancy fencing about the
subject."

"I fear it will look very strange," replied Maurice, hesitating.

"What matter? Are you afraid of _looking strange_ when you have a worthy
object to accomplish? The information you need is of more importance
than mere looks. It thoroughly amazes me to see the awe in which a
genuine Parisian is held by the dread of appearing singular! One would
imagine that all originality was felony, and that to catch the same
key-note of voice, to move with the exact motion, and tread in the
precise footprints in which every one else speaks, moves, walks, was the
only evidence of honesty. What is a man's individuality worth, if it is
to be trodden out in the treadmill tramp of senseless conventionality?"

Maurice glanced at his friend admiringly. He had observed on more than
one occasion that although Ronald was thoroughly versed in all the
nicest rules of etiquette, he had a way of breaking through them at his
pleasure, and always so gracefully that his waiving of ceremony could
never be set down to ignorance or ill-breeding.

The viscount literally, and without delay, followed his friend's advice,
and soon succeeded in drawing M. de Fleury aside.

"Permit me to explain to you Mademoiselle de Merrivale's anxiety about
those jewels," said Maurice. "You have, perhaps, heard the name of
Mademoiselle Madeleine de Gramont, my cousin on my father's side. Some
six weeks ago she suddenly left the Chateau de Gramont, and has not
communicated with her family since. Those jewels were hers. She must
have sold them. We are exceedingly anxious to discover her present
residence and induce her to return to my grandmother's protection. If
you could inform me from whence the jewels came, it would facilitate my
search."

The marquis had no definite motive for concealment beyond the dictates
of his habitual caution. This explanation satisfied him in regard to the
reasons which prompted inquiry; and being desirous of getting rid of
Maurice, and of resuming the conversation he had interrupted, replied,
with an assumption of cordiality,--

"It gives me great pleasure to be the medium of rendering the slightest
service to your illustrious family. Those diamonds were brought to me by
the Jew Henriques, from whom I now and then make purchases. I did not
inquire in what manner they came into his possession; but, not intending
to be cheated as to their precise worth, I had them taken to Kramer, in
the Rue Neuve St. Augustin, and a value placed upon them. I paid
Henriques the price those trustworthy jewellers suggested, instead of
the exorbitant one he demanded. This is all the information I am able to
afford you on the subject."

"May I beg you to favor me with the address of this Henriques?"

"Certainly, certainly, with pleasure; but I warn you that you will not
get much out of him. He is the closest Israelite imaginable; and a
golden ointment is the only '_open sesame_' to his lips."

M. de Fleury wrote Henriques' street and number on his card, and handed
it to Maurice.

Meantime Gaston de Bois, in spite of the pertinacious attentions of the
Duke de Montauban, had approached Bertha, and would have drawn her into
conversation had she not exultingly communicated to him the discovery
she had made concerning Madeleine's jewels. Was it the sudden mention of
that name which threw M. de Bois into a state of almost uncontrollable
agitation? Why did he flush, and stammer, and try to change the subject,
and, stumbling with suppressed groans over his words, as though they had
been sharp rocks, talk such unmitigated nonsense? Why did he so soon
steal away from Bertha's side? Why did he not approach her again for the
rest of the evening? Could it be that her first suspicion was right, and
that he loved Madeleine? If not, why should her name again have caused
him such unaccountable emotion?




CHAPTER XV.

THE EMBROIDERED HANDKERCHIEF.


Maurice lost no time, the next morning, in seeking out the crafty old
Jew. Henriques was a vender of jewels that came into his hands through
private sources. There was considerable risk in his traffic; for it was
just possible some of the precious stones transferred to him might have
been acquired in a manner not strictly legal. Perhaps it was not part of
his policy to acquaint himself with the history of gems which he bought
at a bargain and reaped an enormous profit in selling; for, when Maurice
endeavored to extract some information concerning the diamonds purchased
by the Marquis de Fleury, the Jew protested entire ignorance in regard
to their prior ownership; stating that they were brought to him by one
of his _confreres_, of whom he asked no questions,--that he had
purchased them at a ruinous price, and resold them to the marquis
without a centime's benefit: a very generous proceeding on his part, he
asserted; adding, with a ludicrous assumption of importance, that he
highly esteemed the marquis, and now and then allowed himself the
gratification of favoring him in business transactions.

"But the name of the person from whom your friend received the jewels is
certainly on his books, and, however numerous the hands through which
they may have passed, they can be traced back to their original owner,"
observed Maurice.

"Not so easily, monsieur, not so easily. Purchaser has nothing to do
with original owner. Jewels worth something, or jewels worth
nothing,--that's the point; names of parties holding the articles of no
consequence."

"But you certainly inquire from what source the jewels offered you
proceed?"

"Never make impertinent inquiries,--never: would drive away customers.
If monsieur has any jewels for sale, shall be happy to look at them;
disposed to deal in the most liberal manner with monsieur."

"Thank you. My object is simply to discover a friend to whom the jewels
you sold to the Marquis de Fleury once belonged. It is indispensable
that I should learn through whose hands they came into your possession."

"Ah!" said the cunning Jew, placing his skinny finger on one side of his
hooked nose, as if reflecting; then glancing at Maurice out of the
corners of his searching eyes, he asked, "Party would like to be
discovered?--or would said party prefer to remain under the rose?"

"Possibly the latter."

"Just so; that gives interest to the enterprise. But when party objects
to being traced, difficulties spring up; takes time to overcome them;
always a certain cost."

"If you mean that I shall offer you compensation for your trouble, I am
ready to make any in my power: name your price."

"Price? price? not to be named so hastily; depends upon time consumed,
amount of labor, obstacles party concerned may throw in the way. Other
parties will have to be employed to seek out party who presented himself
with the jewels; enumeration requisite to induce communicativeness; may
turn out party had the jewels from another party, who obtained them from
another; shall have to track each party's steps backward to party who
was the original possessor."

"Take your own course. I am unskilled in these affairs," answered
Maurice, frankly; "all I ask is that you learn for me _where_ the lady
whose family jewels passed through your hands now resides. Name the cost
of your undertaking."

The wily Jew fastened his keen, speculative eyes upon his anticipated
prey, as he replied, slowly, "Cost?--can't say to a certainty; thousand
francs do to begin."

He heard the faint sigh, of which Maurice was himself unconscious, and
drew a correct inference.

From the hour that the viscount had been made aware of the true state of
Count Tristan's finances, he had reduced all his own expenses, allowed
himself no luxuries, no indulgencies, nothing but the barest
necessities, that his father's narrow resources might not be drained
through a son's lavishness. The young nobleman had not at that moment a
hundred francs at his own command. He had no alternative but to apply to
Count Tristan for the sum required by the Jew.

"My means are very limited," returned Maurice, with a great waste of
candor. "I must beg you to deal with me as liberally as possible. The
amount you demand I hope to obtain and bring you in a few days. In the
meantime you will commence your inquiries."

"Assuredly,--just so; commence putting matters in train at once;
possibly may have some clew between thumb and finger when monsieur
returns with the money; nothing to be done without golden keys: unlock
all doors; carry one into hidden depths of the earth. Shall be obliged
to advance funds to pay parties employed. Have the goodness to write
your name in this book."

Maurice wrote down his name and address, and took his leave, once more
elated by the belief that he was on the eve of discovering Madeleine's
retreat.

The letter to his father written and dispatched, he sought Bertha, and
gave her full particulars of his interview with the Jew, delicately
forbearing to mention the compensation he expected.

Bertha, as sanguine of success as her cousin, was gayly discussing
probabilities, when the Marquis de Merrivale entered.

"Young heads laid together to plot mischief, I wager!" remarked the
nobleman, jocosely; for he was in a capital humor, having just partaken
of an epicurean _dejeuner a la fourchette_ at the celebrated "Madrid's."

"We are talking about our Cousin Madeleine. Maurice has a new plan for
prosecuting his search," said Bertha. "Ah, dear Madeleine! Why did she
forsake us so strangely? How could she have had the heart to cause us so
much sorrow?"

"My dear child, it was probably her _liver_ not her _heart_ that was in
fault. Her heart, I dare say, performed its grave duties properly, and
should not be aspersed; some bilious derangement was no doubt at the
bottom of her singular conduct. The greatest eccentricities may all be
traced back to _bile_ as their origin. Regulate the bile and you
regulate the brain from which mental vagaries proceed. If some judicious
friend had administered to your cousin Madeleine a little salutary
medicine, and forced her to diet for a few days, she would have acted
more reasonably. Talking of diet, that was a princely dinner the Marquis
de Fleury set before us. He is really a very able and estimable member
of society,--understands good living to perfection. I cordially
reciprocate his wish that a lasting bond of union should exist between
us. His brother-in-law, the young Duke de Montauban, is enchanted with
my little niece. I say nothing: arrange between yourselves; but, by all
means, marry into a family which knows how to value a good cook; take a
young man who has had his taste sufficiently cultivated to distinguish
of what ingredients a sauce is composed. Don't despise a blessing that
may be enjoyed three hundred and sixty-five times every year,--that's
my advice."

Bertha had not attached any importance to the attentions of the young
duke; but her manner of receiving this suggestion,--the

                      "half disdain
    Perched on the pouted blossom of her lip,"--

convinced Maurice that, if she favored any suitor, her inclinations did
not turn towards the duke.

"The Duke de Montauban is not ill-looking," Maurice remarked, to decoy
her into some more open expression; "and he is sufficiently
agreeable,--do you not think so?"

"I never thought about him," she replied, somewhat petulantly. "If I
chance to look at him I never think of any one but his tailor and his
hairdresser, without whom I verily believe he would have no tangible
existence."

"An accomplished tailor and a skilful _coiffure_ are all very well in
their way," observed her uncle; "but a scientific _cook_ is the grand
necessity of a man's life,--a daily need,--the trebly repeated need of
each day; and the education of a cook should commence in the cradle. If
this point received the attention which it deserves from sanitarians,
there would be fewer digestive organs out of order, and consequently
fewer police reports, and a vast diminution of eccentric degradation,
and moping madness and suicide, and horrors in general."

Bertha and Maurice did not dispute this sweeping assertion; for they
knew it would entail upon them the necessity of encountering a battalion
of arguments, which the marquis delighted to call into action to defend
the ground upon which he took up his favorite position.

Count Tristan's reply to Maurice, enclosing a check for the thousand
francs, was received a few days later. Maurice returned to the Jew with
the money. The latter rejoiced him by vaguely hinting that there was a
prospect of successful operation; but the matter would occupy time. The
viscount would be good enough to call again in a week.

Maurice was too unsuspicious and too unskilled in transactions of this
nature to doubt that the Jew was dealing with him in good faith. Instead
of a week, he returned the next morning, and repeated his visits
regularly every day. The Jew diligently fanned his hopes, assuring him
that old Henriques was not to be baffled, though the parties through
whose hands the jewels had passed were almost unapproachable. Very soon
the merciless Israelite notified the young nobleman that further funds
would be requisite, and Maurice writhed under the cruel compulsion which
forced him to make a second application to his father.

Bertha had been a fortnight in Paris when the anniversary of her
birthday, which for the first time had been forgotten, was in a singular
manner recalled to her mind. A small package had been received for her
at her uncle's residence in Bordeaux, and had been promptly forwarded to
Paris. The outer cover was directed in the handwriting of her uncle's
_concierge_; on the inner, a request, that if Mademoiselle de Merrivale
were absent the parcel might be immediately forwarded to her, was
written in familiar characters. Bertha had no sooner caught sight of
them than she cried out,--

"Madeleine! It is the handwriting of Madeleine!"

She tore open the paper with trembling hands. There was no note,--not a
single written word,--but before her lay a handkerchief of the finest
texture, and embroidered with the marvellous skill which belonged alone
to those "fairy fingers" she had so often watched.

Vainly might we attempt to convey even a faint idea of her tumultuous
rapture,--of the tears of ecstasy, the hysterical laughter, the dancing
delight, with which she greeted her uncle and Maurice, who entered a few
moments after the package was received. She kissed the handkerchief
moistened with her tears, waved it exultingly over her head, kissed it
again, and wept over it again, while the marquis and her cousin stood
looking at her in speechless astonishment.

"Madeleine! Madeleine! it is from Madeleine!" at last she found voice to
ejaculate. "See, that is her handwriting," pointing to the paper cover;
"and this is her work; her 'fairy fingers' send me a token on my
birthday. I am seventeen to-day, and no one has remembered it but
Madeleine. She thinks of me still; she never forgets any one; she has
not forgotten me!"

Maurice caught up the paper in which the handkerchief had been
enveloped, and with throbbing pulses eagerly examined the handwriting.

"See, Maurice," Bertha continued, joyfully, "in the corner she has
embroidered my name, surrounded by a wreath of forget-me-nots,--for
_she_ does not forget. The crest of the de Merrivales is in the opposite
corner; and this,--why this looks like the bracelet I gave her on her
last birthday. How wonderfully she has imitated the knot of pearls that
fastened the golden band! And this corner, Maurice, look,--this is in
remembrance of you,--of your birthday token to her. Do you not see the
design is a brooch, and the device a dove carrying an olive-branch in
its mouth, and the word 'Pax' embroidered beneath?"

Maurice looked, struggling to repress the emotion that almost unmanned
him. Pointing to the stamp upon the envelope which had contained the
handkerchief, he said,--

"It is postmarked Dresden."

"Dresden? Dresden? Can Madeleine be in Dresden?" returned Bertha. "Ah,
uncle, can we not go there at once? We shall certainly find her.
Yes,--we must go. I am tired of Paris,--let us start to-morrow."

"Dresden, my dear!" cried her uncle, in a tone of unmitigated disgust.
"Why, the barbarians would feed us upon _sour kraut_, and give us
pudding before meat! Go to Dresden? Impossible! Not to be thought of!
Paris was a wise move,--we have enjoyed the living amazingly; but trust
ourselves to those tasteless German cooks? We should be poisoned in a
couple of days. Keep cool, my dear, or you will make yourself ill by
getting into such a violent state of excitement just after breakfast.
How do you suppose the important process of digestion can progress
favorably if your blood is agitated in this turbulent manner?"

Bertha was about to answer almost wrathfully, but Maurice interrupted
her.

"_I_ will go, Bertha. Madeleine must be in Dresden. At last she has sent
us a token of her existence, a token of remembrance, thank Heaven!"

"Go! go! go at once!" was Bertha's energetic injunction.

Maurice pressed her hand tightly, and bowing to the marquis, without
attempting to utter another syllable, took his leave, carrying with him
the envelope which bore Madeleine's handwriting.

After having his passport _vised_, he returned to his apartment to make
rapid preparations for starting that evening. Very soon Gaston de Bois
entered, evidently in a state of ill-concealed perturbation.

"Mademoiselle Bertha tells me you are going to Dresden."

"Yes, to seek my cousin. Look at the post-stamp upon that envelope.
Madeleine is in Dresden."

"How can you be sure of that?" asked Gaston.

"She writes from Dresden; can anything be clearer?" returned Maurice,
confidently.

"It is not clear to me that she is there. I wish I could persuade you
against taking this jour--our--ourney."

"That is out of the question, Gaston; so spare yourself the trouble of
the attempt."

"But the journey will be use--use--useless," persisted M. de Bois.

"How can you know that?" inquired Maurice, quickly.

"I think so; it is my impression, my conviction."

"It is not mine, and nothing can prevent my making the experiment,"
answered Maurice, decidedly.

Gaston looked as thoroughly vexed as though he were responsible for the
rash actions of his friend; but he knew that Maurice was inflexible
where Madeleine was concerned, and that all entreaties would be thrown
away unless he could sustain them by some potent reason; and _that_ it
was not in his power to proffer. He made no further opposition, but
remained fidgeting about the room in the most distracting manner,
hindering the preparations of Maurice, stumbling over articles scattered
on the floor, now and then stammering out a broken, unintelligible
phrase, and altogether seeming wretchedly uncomfortable, yet unwilling
to leave until he saw the obstinate traveller in the _fiacre_ which
drove him to the railway station.




CHAPTER XVI.

A VOICE FROM THE LOST ONE.


A few days after the departure of Maurice for Dresden, the Duke de
Montauban made a formal proposal for the hand of Mademoiselle de
Merrivale. French etiquette not allowing a suitor the privilege of
addressing the lady of his love, except through some kindred or friendly
medium, his pretensions were of course made known to Bertha by her
uncle. She received the communication with a fretful tapping of her
little foot, and a toss of her gamboling, golden ringlets, which bore
witness to her undisguised vexation and saucy disdain. The
uncompromising manner in which she declined the proposed honor, threw
her guardian, who had strengthened himself to enact the part of Cupid's
messenger, by a somewhat liberal repast, into a state of astonishment
which threatened alarming disturbance to his laboring digestive
functions.

"Really, my dear, you speak so abruptly that you make me feel quite
dyspeptic. What possible objection can you have to the young duke?"

"A very slight one, according to the creed which governs matrimonial
alliances in our enlightened land," returned Bertha, pouting through her
sarcasm. "My objection is simply that he is not an object of the
slightest interest to me."

"But the match is such a suitable one that interest will come after it
is consummated," answered her uncle.

"I do not intend to marry upon _faith_," retorted Bertha; then she broke
out petulantly, "In a word, uncle, I do not intend to marry a man who is
so insipid that I could not even quarrel with him; whom I could not
think of seriously enough to take the trouble to dislike; to whom I am
so thoroughly indifferent that for me he has no existence out of my
immediate sight."

"There, there; keep cool, my dear. Nobody intends to force you to marry
him. I did not know that it was necessary to be able to dislike a man,
and to have a capacity for quarrelling with him, to fit him for the
position of a husband. A very unwholesome doctrine. Emotion is
particularly prejudicial to the animal economy. I thought the cultivated
taste which the de Fleurys so evidently possess might have some weight
with you. That dinner they gave us was unsurpassable, and"--

"If I am to marry to secure myself superlatively good dinners, I had
better unite myself to an accomplished cook at once," replied Bertha,
demurely.

"That's very tart, my dear. All acids disagree with me, and your
acidulated observations are giving me unpleasant premonitory symptoms."

Bertha noticed that the _bon vivant_ had in reality began to puff and
pant as though he were suffering from an incipient nightmare. Being so
thoroughly habituated to his idiosyncrasy that she had learned to regard
it leniently, she made an effort to recover her good humor, and
answered,--

"I know my kind uncle will not render me uncomfortable by pressing this
subject; but, in the most courteous manner, will let the Duke de
Montauban understand that I do not intend to marry at present."

"Make you uncomfortable," rejoined the marquis, struggling for breath;
"of course, I would not for the world! Do you take me for an old brute?
And I have just made arrangements to drive you to the _Bois de Boulogne_
and dine at Madrid's this evening. A pretty state you would be in to do
justice to a dinner which promises to place in jeopardy the laurels even
of M. de Fleury's cook."

"We will strike a bargain," returned Bertha, with her wonted gayety. "If
you will agree not to mention the Duke de Montauban, I will agree to do
justice to the dinner at Madrid's."

"I am content; we will drop the duke and discuss the dinner."

The attentions of Madame de Fleury's brother to the heiress had been too
marked and open for his suit and its rejection to remain a secret.
Gaston de Bois heard Bertha's refusal commented upon, and there was a
buzz in his ears of idle speculations concerning the origin of her
caprice. Was it some blissful, internal suggestion, which diffused such
a glow of happiness over his expressive countenance when he next saw
Bertha? Was it some hitherto uncertain ground of encouragement made sure
beneath his feet, which so wondrously loosened his tongue from its dire
bondage? Was it some aerial hope, taking tangible shape, which imparted
such an air of ease and elation to his demeanor? Gaston stammered less
every day,--his impediment disappearing as his self-possession
increased. On this occasion he was only conscious of a slight difficulty
in utterance to rejoice at its existence, for it rendered delightfully
apparent Bertha's thoughtfulness in catching up words upon which he
hesitated, and concluding sentences he commenced, as though she read
their meaning in his eyes. Gaston had not seen her in so buoyant a mood
since they parted at the Chateau de Gramont. But the tide of her
exuberant gayety suddenly ebbed when she noticed the look of pain with
which he involuntarily responded to one of her chance questions. She had
asked if he thought it probable Maurice would find Madeleine in Dresden.
Again that singular expression on his countenance; again that sudden
change of color at Madeleine's name; again that involuntary starting
from his seat, with a return of the olden habit which placed fragile
furniture in danger! Was it the remembrance that Madeleine was lost to
them which occasioned M. de Bois's sudden depression? Was it an
overwhelming sense of doubt concerning the result of Maurice's mission,
which made his response to Bertha's inquiry so vague, his sentences so
disjointed? Once more Bertha asked herself whether he were not, after
all, the lover Madeleine had refused to mention. Yet, if this were the
case, how could Gaston have appeared so much less anxious and less
concerned at her flight than Maurice, who loved her with unquestionable
ardor? Why had M. de Bois aided so little in the search for her present
habitation? The young girl could not reconcile such apparent
contradictions, and while she sat perplexing herself by futile efforts
to unravel these mysteries, M. de Bois was equally puzzled to rightly
interpret her silence and abstraction.

The interview which, at its opening, had been as bright as a spring
morning, closed with sudden April shadows; and there was an April
mingling of smiles and tears upon Bertha's countenance when she retired
to her chamber, after M. de Bois's departure, and pondered over his
strange expression when her cousin was mentioned. Why, if Madeleine was
his choice, was his manner toward herself so full of tenderness? Why was
it that she never glanced at him without finding his eyes fastened upon
her face? Why had he so much power to draw her irresistibly towards him?
Why did his step set her heart throbbing so tumultuously? Why did his
coming cause her such a thrill of delight, and his departure leave such
a sense of solitude?--a void that no one else filled, a pain that no
other presence soothed.

Meantime Maurice had reached Dresden and was searching for Madeleine,
almost in the same vague, unreasonable manner that he had sought her in
Paris. But the mad course upon which he had again started, and which
might have once more unbalanced his mind, met with a sudden check. The
day after his arrival in Dresden he received a note, which ran thus:--

     "Madeleine is not in Dresden. She entreats Maurice to
     discontinue a search which must prove fruitless. Should the
     day ever come, as she prays it may, when her place of refuge
     can become known to him, no effort of his will be required
     for its discovery. Will not Maurice accept the pains of the
     inevitable present and wait for the consolations the future
     may bring forth with the hope and patience which must
     sustain her until that blessed period shall arrive?"

Maurice was almost stupefied as he read these lines. He crushed the
paper in his nervous fingers to be certain that it was tangible; he
compared the writing with the one upon the envelope which he had taken
from Bertha. If that were Madeleine's hand, so was this. He looked for a
postmark; there was none; the letter had been brought by a private
messenger, and yet Madeleine was not in Dresden! How could this be?
That, in some mysterious manner, she became acquainted with his
movements was unquestionable. Her thoughts then were turned to him,--her
invisible presence followed him. It was some joy, at least, to know that
he lived in her memory.

Maurice, without a moment's hesitation, without letting his own personal
suffering weigh in the balance of decision, without allowing his mind to
dwell upon the probabilities of tracing Madeleine through this new clew,
resolved to comply with her request.

When he returned to Paris and placed her letter in Bertha's hands, and
told her his determination, she impetuously urged him not to be guided
by their cousin's wishes. She pleaded that Madeleine was sacrificing
herself from a mistaking sense of duty; that, if her place of abode
could only be revealed, Bertha's own supplications might influence her
to abandon her present project, and to accept the home which Bertha,
with the full consent of her uncle, could offer.

Maurice listened not unmoved, but unshaken, in his selected course. He
felt that a woman of Madeleine's dignity of character,--a woman of her
calm judgment,--a woman who could look with such steady, tearless eyes
upon life's realities,--a woman who would not have trodden in flowery
ways though every pressure of her foot crushed out some delicious aroma
to perfume her life, if the "stern lawgiver, duty," summoned her to a
flinty road, and pointed to a glorious goal beyond,--such a woman,
having deliberately chosen her path, having tested her strength to walk
therein, having pronounced that strength all-sufficient, deserved the
tribute of confidence, and an even blind respect to her mandates.
Besides, compliance with her wishes was a species of voiceless, wordless
communication with her; it was sending her a message through some
unknown and mysterious channel.

Maurice presented this in its most vivid colors before Bertha's eyes;
but in vain. She was too wayward, too unreasonable, too full of
passionate yearning for the presence of Madeleine, too sensible of an
innate weakness that longed to lean upon Madeleine's strength, to see
the justice and wisdom of the conclusion to which Maurice had arrived.

As soon as their painful interview was closed by the entrance of the
marquis, Maurice sought the old Jew and ordered him to prosecute his
search no further. Henriques, who had already extracted a considerable
sum from the young nobleman, and looked upon the transaction as a safe
investment calculated to yield a certain profit for some months to come,
was very unwilling to relinquish his promised gain. He assured the
viscount that he had lately received information of the greatest
importance; the party to whom the jewels had originally belonged had at
last been tracked; the undertaking was on the very eve of success. To
abandon it was a refusal to grasp the prize almost within their clutch.
Whether the cunning Jew spoke the truth, or fiction, mattered little;
for Maurice, in spite of these alluring representations, did not allow
himself to be tempted to violate Madeleine's express command. He had, as
it were, accepted his fate, and cast away the arms with which men war
with so-called "destiny;" struggle and rebellion were over. To "_wait_"
in patience was all that remained.

But what was to be done with his existence? In the plenitude of youthful
health and strength, was his life to ebb away, like an unreplenished
stream, flowing into nothingness? His days became more and more
wearisome; the hours hung more and more heavily upon his hands; the feet
of time sounded with iron tramp in his ears, yet never appeared to move
onward.

"In his eyes a cloud and burthen lay;" a shadowy sorrow dropped its pall
of darkness over his mind and obscured his perception of all awakening,
quickening inspirations; a smouldering fire within him withered up every
vernal shoot of impulse and turned all the spring-time foliage of
thought and fancy sere. His voice, his look, his mien, betrayed that an
ever-living woe encompassed him with gloom.

Ronald fruitlessly strove to rouse him from this state of supine
despondency. The active employment, the all-engrossing interest which
would have medicined his unslumbering sorrow, were remedial agents
denied by his father's unwise decree. As a substitute, though of less
potency, Ronald strove to inspire him with his own strong love for
literature. The young American had a passion for books which were the
reflex of great minds. His quick hearkening to the voices breathing from
their pages, and made prophetic by some sudden experience; the ready
plummet with which he sounded their depths of reasoning; the sentient
hand with which he plucked out their truths and planted them in his own
rich memory, to grow like trees filled with singing-birds: these had
rendered his communings with master-spirits one of the noblest and most
strengthening influences of his life. What wonder, when literature was
so bounteously distributed over his native land that it made itself
vocal beneath every hedge,--enriched the humblest cottage with a
library,--found its way, in the inexpensive guise of magazines, a
welcome visitant at every fireside,--poured out its treasures at the
feet of rich and poor, liberally as the liberal sunshine, freely as the
free air?

Maurice, educated in a different atmosphere, at the same age as Ronald,
was a stranger to the companionship of written minds, save those to
which his college studies had formally presented him; and his dark
unrest rendered it difficult for him to follow his friend into the
teeming Golconda of literature, and to gather the gems spread to his
hands. And when, at last, Ronald's enthusiasm proved contagious and
kindled Maurice to seek out some great author's charm, it too often
chanced that he stumbled upon passages that irritated him, and increased
his moody discontent. We instance one of these occasions as illustrative
of many others.

Ronald, whose busy brush had been brought to a stand-still by an
unusually dark day, when he returned to his apartments, found his friend
reading Bulwer's "Caxtons." Maurice was leaning with both elbows upon
the table, his fingers plunged through his disordered hair, his brows
almost fiercely contracted, and his wan face bent over the volume before
him.

"I found some grand pictures in that book," remarked the young artist.
"Which are you contemplating?"

"No pictures. I have not your eye for pictures," answered Maurice, with
something more than a touch of impatience. "I am moved, haunted,
tormented by truths which have more power than all the ideal pictures
pen ever drew, or brush ever painted. You place me here before your
library, you lure me to read, and every book I open utters words that
make my compulsory mode of existence a reproach, a disgrace, a misery to
me. Read this, for instance: 'Life is a drama, not a monologue. A drama
is derived from a Greek word which signifies _to do_. Every actor in the
drama has something to do which helps on the progress of the
whole,--that is the object for which the author created him. _Do your
part_ and let the _Great Play_ go on!' _Do? do?_" continued Maurice, in
an excited tone as he finished the quotation; "it is a torment worthy of
a place in Dante's Inferno to know that there is nothing one is
permitted to _do_! I too am an actor in the Great Drama; but I have no
part to play save that of lay figure, motionless and voiceless; yet,
unhappy, not being deprived of sensibility, I am goaded to desperation
by inward taunting because I can do nothing."

"The play is not ended yet," answered Ronald, with as much cheerfulness
as he could command, for his friend's depression affected his
sympathetic nature. "We may not comprehend our _roles_ in the beginning;
we may have to study long before we can thoroughly conceive, then
idealize, then act them."

"I could bear that mine should be a sad, if it were only an active one,"
returned Maurice, again fixing his eyes upon the book.

Ronald could make no reply to a sentiment so thoroughly in accordance
with his own views. He constantly pondered upon the possibilities
through which his friend might be freed from the shackles that bound him
to the effeminate serfdom of idleness; but the magic that could unrivet
those fetters had not yet been revealed. Still he was sometimes stirred
by a mysterious prescience that they would be loosened, and through his
instrumentality.

Ronald's nature was essentially practical without being prosaic. The
rich ore of poetry, inseparable from all exquisitely fine organizations,
lay beneath the daily current of his life, like golden veins in the bed
of a stream, shining through the crystal waters that bore the most
commonplace objects on their tide. He thoroughly accepted that
interpretation of the Ideal which calls it a "divine halo with which the
Creator had encircled the world of reality;" but while he instinctively
lifted all he loved into supernal regions and contemplated them in the
glorious spirit-light that heightens all beauty, he lost sight of none
of the stern actualities of their existence. His imagination had
fashioned a hero out of Maurice, and he had thrown his person in heroic
guise upon canvas; yet he clearly beheld and mourned over the morbid
tendency that was weakening his mind and threatened to render his
character and his life equally unheroic.

Only a few days after the conversation we have just narrated, when
Maurice entered Ronald's sitting-room he found the student with an open
letter in his hand. As he lifted his eloquent, brown eyes from the paper
a glittering moisture beaded their darkly fringed lashes, and an
expression of ineffable tenderness looked out from their lustrous
depths. The letter was from his mother,--one of those messengers of deep
affection which transported him into her presence, placed him, as he had
so often sat in his petted boyhood, at her feet, to listen to her holy
teachings, and be thrilled to the very centre of his being by her words
of love. During his three years of separation, at a period when the
expanding mind is most impressible, these letters, weekly received, had
surrounded him with a heavenly aura which seemed breathed out through a
mother's ceaseless prayers, and had kept his life pure, his spirit
strong, his heart uplifted; had preserved him from being hurried by the
wild, ungoverned impulses of youth, rendered more infectuous by the
volcanic fires of genius, into actions for which he might blush
hereafter.

It was one of the undefined, unspoken sources of sympathy between Ronald
and Maurice, that the guarding hand of _woman_, influencing them from a
distance, preserved the bloom, the freshness, the pristine purity of
both their souls, even in the polluted atmosphere of a city where
immorality is an accepted evil. Maurice, who had never known a mother's
hallowing affection, gained his strength through his early attachment to
a maiden whom no man could love without being ennobled thereby; and
Ronald, whose heart had never yet awakened to the first pulse of
tenderness which drew him towards one he would have claimed as a bride,
owed his powers of resistance to as strong, as passionate devotion to a
mother who united in her person all the most glorious attributes of
womanhood, and whose idolizing love for her child was tempered by wisdom
which placed his spiritual progress above all other gain. While he was
struggling to win laurels in art's arena, she strove to bind upon his
brow a crown whose gems were heavenly truths,--a crown the pure in
spirit alone could wear.

Blessed the son who has such a mother! Safe and blessed! His foot shall
tread upon the serpent that lies hidden beneath the tempting flowers in
his path, ere the reptile can sting him; his hand shall resolutely put
away the cup of pleasure from his lips when there is poison in the
chalice; he shall walk through the fire of evil lusts unscathed! No
laurel that wreaths his brow shall render it too feverish, or too proud,
to lie upon that mother's bosom with the glad, all-confiding, satisfied
sense which made its joy when it lay there in guileless boyhood. That
mother's love shall smooth for him the rough ways of earth, and place in
his hand the golden key that opens heaven.

As Maurice took his seat beside Ronald, the latter, hastily sweeping his
handkerchief across his eyes, said with a vehement intonation,--

"I have come to a sudden determination! I am going back to America. The
trip is nothing,--ten days over and ten back,--a mere trifle! I can
spend a couple of months with my parents and be back in time for autumn
work. Instead of sending my picture, which is nearly completed, I will
present it in person."

Maurice sighed as he answered, "They will be proud of your work! Happy
are they who have work to do, and who do it faithfully!"

"That is a sentiment worthy of an American," rejoined Ronald; "indeed,
you have unconsciously stolen it from one of our most distinguished
American writers, who says, 'To have something to do and _to do it_ is
the best appointment for us all.'[Footnote: Hillard's "Italy."] The
extent to which I have insensibly Americanized you is very evident. A
thought has just struck me: you are weary and melancholy, and seem to
grow much paler and thinner every day. It will revive and strengthen you
to accompany me. Come, let us go together!"

"Let us fly to the moon!" answered Maurice, half scornfully. "Ronald,
_why_ do you always forget that although we have lived precisely the
same number of years, and I may be said to have lived so much longer
than you, if we count time by sorrows that make long the days,--though
we have both passed our twenty-first anniversary, you, as an American,
have obtained your majority, and are a free agent, while the law of
France renders me still a minor for four years? You know I cannot stir
without my father's consent; and, of course, that is unattainable."

"Unattainable if you choose to imagine that it is, and will not seek for
it," answered Ronald, rebukingly. "The wisest poet that ever penned his
inspiration, says,--

               'Our doubts are traitors
    And make us lose the good we oft might win
    By fearing to attempt!'

Do not let your traitorous doubts frighten you from the trial."

Maurice smiled away his rising irritability, and replied, "I think,
Ronald, your mind is so full of poetic arrows that one could not take a
step, or lift a finger, or draw a breath, without your being able to hit
him with a verse."

"A verse may hit him who a sermon flies!" retorted Ronald, laughingly.
"And a man is easy to hit who sits down with folded hands, like him of
whom my rhythmic shaft has just made a target. But, to speak seriously,
do you wonder that true thoughts, beautiful thoughts, which have been
thrown into the music of verse, keep their haunting echoes in some
stronghold of memory, and surge up to the lips when a stirring incident
causes the gates of the mind to vibrate? Why, the very proof of the
poet's genuine inspiration, his chiefest triumph lies in this, that he
speaks a familiar truth, a common word of hope, a little word of
comfort, a simple word of warning, with such potency that it strikes
deeper into the soul than any other adjuration can reach; it defies us
to forget; it takes the sound of a prophecy, and thrills our hearts and
governs our actions in spite of ourselves. So much in defence of my
poetic memories. Now be generous enough to admit that poetry is usually
mingled with a large proportion of prosaic common sense which resolves
itself into action. My scoffed-at poetry interprets itself into this
matter-of-fact prose: unless you have the courage, the energy to ask
your father's consent to your accompanying me to America, you will not
get it; and if you ask you _may_ get it; and if you accompany me it may
profit you. Come,--what say you? I shall be ready to start next week."

"So soon?" ejaculated Maurice, who, often as he had witnessed the
promptitude with which the young American moved, could not yet
familiarize himself with his national rapidity of action and decision.

"You call it _soon_? Why, if I had said day after to-morrow it might
have been termed _soon_; but it seems to me a week is time enough to
prepare for a journey around the world. Come, you have half an hour
before the post closes,--dash off your letter and let it go at once."

As he spoke, he cleared his writing-table of the books and papers by
which it was encumbered, and placed a chair for Maurice. The latter, who
was always carried onward by the rushing current of his friend's strong
will, wrote, on the spur of the moment, a letter more calculated to
impress his father than any deliberately studied epistle. The restless
and gloomy state of mind under which Maurice labored, revealed itself in
this impulsive effusion with a force which might not have found its way
into a calmer communication.

The frequent applications for money which Maurice had been compelled to
make, that he might meet the demands of the old Jew, were not without
their influence in preparing Count Tristan to look favorably upon his
son's solicitation. The count imagined that the sums so constantly
demanded were squandered in the manner habitual to gay young men in
Paris. He had experienced much difficulty in complying with his son's
last request, and became painfully aware that it would not much longer
be in his power to supply him at the same extravagant rate. As a natural
consequence, he hailed the proposition to travel, which might break off
any unfortunate connections, or _liaisons_, he might have formed in
Paris, and without their aid, divert his troubled mind. Then, the
present would be a favorable opportunity for Maurice to visit his estate
in Maryland, and to learn something further of that railway company
which seemed of late to have suspended its operations.

Maurice was not less astounded than overjoyed upon receiving his
father's prompt and unconditional consent to his proposed trip. He at
once carried the letter to Bertha. She was too generous to oppose a step
which promised to be advantageous to her cousin, yet she could not
contemplate their inevitable separation without sincere sorrow.

"I wish I were going with you!" she sighed. "It seems to me everybody is
going to America. Have you not heard that the Marquis de Fleury has just
received the appointment of ambassador to the United States? I wish my
uncle would let me travel to some foreign country. I am weary of this
Parisian, ball-going life."

"Has Monsieur de Fleury received his appointment at last? I had not
heard of it. Who told you?" inquired Maurice.

"M. de Bois, this very morning."

"Gaston goes with him, I presume?"

"Yes, he said so."

"That is an unexpected pleasure,--that is really delightful!" exclaimed
Maurice, enthusiastically.

Bertha did not reply; but she certainly looked inclined to pout, and as
though she had no very distinct perception of the delight in question.

In a few days Maurice and Ronald were on the great ocean.

A fortnight later the Marquis and Marchioness de Fleury, and the
secretary of the former, M. de Bois, were also on their way to the New
World.

Bertha worried her uncle by her sad face, listless manner, and low
spirits, to say nothing of her loss of appetite (to his thinking the
most important feature of her _malaise_), until he was convinced that
she had lost all interest in Paris, and that her sadness would be
increased by a longer sojourn in the gay capital. When she admitted
this, he kindly inquired if she desired to travel.

"Yes, _very much_," was her reply.

Whither would she go? To Italy? To England? To Russia?

"No,--to America!"

_America!_--land of savages!--land of Pawnees and Choctaws!--land where
cooking must be in its crude infancy! Her uncle would not listen to such
a barbarous proposition; and, finding that he could obtain no other
answer from his wilful and incomprehensible ward, he carried her back to
Bordeaux, consoling himself with the reflection that although the visit
to Paris had not been permanently advantageous to his niece, the
culinary knowledge acquired by Lucien was a full compensation.




CHAPTER XVII.

"CHIFFONS."


"Chiffons!" "_talking chiffons!_" "_writing chiffons!_"--will any one
have the goodness to furnish us with a literal yet lucid interpretation
of this enigmatical form of speech so incessantly employed in the
Parisian _beau monde_? Among the translatable words of the French
language,--among the expressive terms which cannot be rendered by
equally significant expressions in our own more copious tongue,--among
the phraseology invented to convey ideas which the phrases themselves
certainly do not suggest,--the common application of this curt little
word "_chiffons_" holds a distinguished place. Look for "_chiffons_" in
the dictionary, and you will see it simply defined as "_rags_;" yet
"_chiffons_" represent the very opposite of rags feminine, and conjure
up a multitudinous army of feminine fashions, fripperies, fancies,
follies, indispensable aids and adjuncts of the feminine toilet.

We have headed this chapter "_chiffons_," and given an imperfect
definition of the term, as a sign-post of warning to masculine
readers,--a hint that this is a chapter to be lightly skimmed, or
altogether skipped, for it unavoidably treats of "_chiffons_," which the
necessities of the narrative will not allow us to suppress.

The Marquis de Fleury had been appointed ambassador from the court of
Napoleon the Third to the United States of America.

Madame de Fleury's state of mind, in spite of the consolation afforded
by a number of strikingly original costumes, which she innocently
flattered herself would prove very effective during a sea-voyage, was
deplorable. Terror inspired by the perils of the deep was only surpassed
by intense grief excited by her compulsory banishment to a land where,
she imagined, the invading feet of modiste and mantua-maker had not
trodden out all resemblance to the original Eden; a land where the women
probably attired themselves with a leaning to antediluvian simplicity,
or in accordance with strong-minded proclivities, and the men were,
doubtless, too much engrossed by politics and business to be capable of
appreciating the most elaborate toilet that could be fashioned to
captivate their eyes; a land, in short, where taste was yet unborn, and
where it was ignorantly believed that the chief object of apparel was to
perform, on a more extensive scale, the use of primitive fig-leaves and
furs.

To prevent her from falling into the clutches of American barbarians,
Madame de Fleury secured two French maids as a _bodyguard_. Into the
hands of one, skilled in the intricate mysteries of hair-dressing, her
head was unreservedly consigned; the other, versed in more varied arts,
had entire charge of the rest of her person. But these _aides-de-camp_
of the toilet were deemed insufficient for the guardianship of her
charms. The moment her sentence of exile was pronounced, she had
summoned the incomparable Vignon to her presence, and piteously painted
the difficulties which must beset her path when she was remorselessly
torn from within reach of the creative fingers of the artist
_couturiere_. Vignon had unanticipated comfort in store: the most
accomplished of her assistants,--one who had exhibited a skill in design
and execution positively marvellous,--had several times expressed a
strong inclination to establish herself in America, and would gladly
make her _debut_ in the New World under the patronage of the
marchioness. This information threw Madame de Fleury into such
ecstasies that all the waves of the Atlantic, which had been ruthlessly
tossing their wrecks about her brain, were suddenly stilled, and she
declared that Mademoiselle Melanie must make her preparations to sail in
the same steamer; for the knowledge that she was on board would render
the voyage endurable. The marchioness complacently added that she felt
so much strengthened by these tidings, that she could now look forward
to meeting, with becoming fortitude, the trials incident upon her
residence among a semi-civilized nation.

We need hardly relate how soon, after reaching Washington, the fair
Parisian discovered that civilization had made astounding progress if it
might be estimated by the deference paid to "_chiffons_;" nor need we
portray her astonishment at finding that American women "_of fashion_"
were not merely close copyists of extreme French modes, but that they
exaggerated even the most extravagant, and hunted after the newest
styles with the national energy which their countrywomen of a nobler
class expended upon nobler objects; and were more ready to deform or
ignore nature, and swear allegiance to the despotic rule of the
Crinoline Sovereign, than any Parisian belle under the sun.

Madame de Fleury's royal sway over the empire of "_chiffons_" was soon
as thoroughly established in Washington as it had been in Paris. Dress,
or head-dress, bodice, bonnet, mantle, gaiter, glove, worn by her,
multiplied itself in important imitations, and every feminine chrysalis
sent forth its ballroom butterfly in a livery to match. Whatever style,
shape, color, she adopted, however extraordinary, became the rage for
that season, and disappeared from sight, totally banished by her regal
command, at the inauguration of the next.

At one period no skirt could sweep the pavement, or lie in rich folds at
the bottom of a carriage, unadorned by an imposing flounce that almost
covered the robe; a little later, the one sober flounce was driven into
obscurity by twenty coquettish small ones; and these were displaced by
primly puffed bands; which gave way to fanciful "keys" running up the
sides of the dress (where they seemed to have no possible right); and
those vanished when double skirts commenced their brief reign; to be
dethroned by a severe-looking quilted ruffle marching around the hem of
the dress and up the centre to the throat; and this grave adornment
suddenly found its place usurped by an inundation of fantastic
trimmings, jet, bugles, _passementerie_, velvet or lace. So much for
skirts!

Then the bodices:--_now_ nothing was to be seen but the "square cut"
which revealed the fine busts of beauties in the days of Charles
II.,--now graceful folds _a coeur_ sentimentally ruled the day,--now
infant waists became a passion, and the most maternal forms aped the
juvenility borrowed from their babies. Then for sleeves: at one time
they were wide and long and cumbrous, forbidding every trace of the most
rounded member beneath; then they took the form of antique drapery,
disclosing the arm almost nude, save for the transparent lace of the
undersleeve,--then the close, tight fit of the Quaker left all but a
distorted outline to the imagination.

And bonnets: at one moment the tiniest bird's-nest of a hat, embowered
in feathers and buried in lace, was perched on the back of the head,
reminding one of Punch's suggestion that it could be more conveniently
carried upon a salver by a domestic walking behind; a little later, the
only bonnet admissible closed around the face like a cap, laces and
feathers had disappeared, a few tastefully disposed knots of ribbon, or
a single flower, were the only adornments: but hardly had Good Sense
nodded approvingly at the graceful simplicity with which heads were
covered, when, lo! the bonnets shot up like bright-hued coal-scuttles,
over which a basket of buds and blossoms had been suddenly upset, and
went through a variety of fantastic transformations wholly
indescribable.

So with other articles of attire. Mantles that had established for
themselves a natural and convenient length suddenly grew down to the hem
of the dress; basques, high in favor, were routed by Zouave jackets;
girdles were at one moment drawn down with tight pressure until they
barely surmounted the hips, the next were allowed to take an almost
natural round (as far as their fitting locality went), and next were put
wholly to flight by pointed Swiss belts, with enormous bows, and long,
flowing ends,--while these, in turn, were chased from the field by
picturesque scarfs.

Then as regards the disposition of that native veil of unsurpassable
beauty which adorns the head of woman: now, all locks were braided low
at the back of the head, almost lying upon the neck; now they surmounted
the crown and rose in stories higher and higher; now they sprang into a
pair of wings from either side of the temples; now they were clustered
in a tuft of disorderly curls above the brow; now smoothed and
bandolined close to the face and knotted with an air of quiet simplicity
behind the ears.

Whichever of these modes the Parisian queen of "_chiffons_" rendered
graceful in her own person, every fair one, with the slightest
aspiration to _style_, strengthened her claims to be thought fashionable
by scrupulously assuming. What wonder that Mademoiselle Melanie, prime
minister to the absolute sovereign, could scarcely receive the crowd of
clients that thronged her doors?

She hired a spacious mansion, near the capitol, and furnished it with
consummate taste. She combined the vocation of mantua-maker with that of
milliner, and supplied all the materials she employed from an assortment
of her own selection. This was one secret of her astonishing success,
for it gave her control over the entire apparel of her customers.
Regarding herself as responsible for the _tout ensemble_ of each toilet
that issued from her hands, and her reputation as at stake if any
defective touch marred the general result of her adorning, she exerted a
thoroughly despotic sway over those whom she undertook to dress, and
refused, in the most positive, yet most courteous manner, to allow them
to follow the dictates of their own faulty fancies. As a skilful artist
examines a picture in the best light, that all its beauties may be
revealed, she placed each one of her subjects in the most favorable
aspect, studied her closely, searched out every fine point which might
be heightened, and pondered over every defect which might be concealed.
She had the rare gift of knowing how to embellish nature, how to bring
forth all the capacities of a face and form, and how to modify the
fashion of the day to the requirements of the wearer, instead of
slavishly following an arbitrary mode, and thereby sacrificing all
individuality of beauty. Dress became high art in her hands. Wondrously
harmonious were the effects produced. Blondes looked softer and purer
than ever before, without becoming insipid; brunettes grew more
_piquante_ and brilliant; nondescripts gained force and character;
pallid faces caught a reflection of rose tints; too ruddy complexions
were toned down by paling colors, and sallow skins found their ochre hue
mysteriously neutralized. Angular shapes were draped so gracefully that
unsymmetrical sharpness disappeared; too ample forms exchanged their air
of uncouth corpulence for a well-defined roundness; low statures seemed
to spring up to a nobler altitude, and women of masculine height sunk
into feminine proportions. In short, Mademoiselle Melanie was not a
mantua-maker, or milliner,--she was the genius of taste, the artful
embodier of poetry in outward adorning.

Her own person was strikingly attractive; but the severest simplicity
characterized her attire. Her manners, though affable, were exceedingly
reserved; without any apparent effort, she repressed the familiarity of
the vulgar, and rebuked the patronizing airs of the assuming, winning
instinctive deference even from the ill-bred.

By her workwomen she was almost worshipped. Young herself, she impressed
them with the sense that notwithstanding her lack of advantage over them
in point of years, her superior skill and knowledge entitled her to be
their head. She sympathized with their griefs, inquired into their
needs, sometimes ignored their short-comings, but never their
sufferings, and took care that the thread which helped fashion a lady's
robe should not be drawn with such weary and overworked hands that, in
the language of Hood, it sewed a shroud at the same moment.

She was seldom seen in the streets; and, when her duties called her, she
went forth closely veiled. But her distinguished air, the simple
elegance of her apparel, and the dignified grace of her movements could
not escape admiration.

She soon found a carriage of her own indispensable, and selected an
unostentatious equipage; but allowed herself the indulgence of a pair of
superb horses, because she chanced to be an appreciating judge of those
noble animals: a rather unusual knowledge for a _couturiere_.

She seldom walked or drove alone. She was usually accompanied by one of
her assistants, a young Massachusetts girl, with whom she had been
thrown into accidental communication shortly after her arrival in the
United States.

The history of Ruth Thornton is one every day repeated, but not less
touching because so far from rare. Born and bred in affluence which
emanated from the daily exertions of her father, his death left his
widow and three orphan daughters destitute. The eldest early assumed the
burdens of wifehood and maternity. Ruth was the second child. A girl of
high spirit, she quickly laid aside all false pride, and earnestly
sought to earn the bread of those she loved by the labor of her fair
young hands, until then strangers to toil. But where was remunerative
occupation to be found? Needy womanhood so closely crowded the few open
avenues of industry that it seemed as though there was no room for
another foot to gain a hold, another hand to struggle. To become a
teacher, or governess, was Ruth's first, most natural endeavor; but,
month after month, she sought in vain for a situation. She possessed a
remarkable voice and very decided musical talent. The idea of the
concert-room next suggested itself; but her naturally fine organ lacked
the long cultivation that could alone fit her to embark upon the career
of a singer. Her mind then turned to the stage; but, setting aside the
difficulty of obtaining engagements, even to fill some position in the
lowest ranks of the profession, she had no means, no time, to go through
a long course of requisite study, or to procure herself the costly
wardrobe indispensable to such a profession. She pondered upon the
possibility of entering that most noble institution, the New York School
of Design for Women. Here was meet work, hope-fanning, life-saving work
for feminine hands: engraving on wood or steel; coloring plates for
illustrated works; sketching designs for fashions to be used in
magazines, or patterns for carpets, calicoes, paper-hangings, etc. But,
on inquiry, she learned that a year's study would be needful before she
could hope to gain a modest livelihood through the medium of the
simplest of these pursuits. From whence, in the meantime, could her
mother, her sister, and herself derive their support? Next, she resolved
to resort to her needle; yet how small was the likelihood of keeping it
employed! and how poor the pittance it could earn as an humble
seamstress! True, she might learn a trade; but how was she to exist
meantime?

She stood erect in the midst of this desert of difficulties, perplexed
but undismayed, and still believing in, and steadfastly seeking for, the
work allotted to such weak hands as hers.

There is something magnetic in unflagging energy, and untiring hope;
they mysteriously attract to themselves the materials which they most
need. By a seeming accident, Ruth heard that an assistant housekeeper
was required at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York. Her high-born
relatives learned with horror that one of their kin, the daughter of a
gentleman who had held an honorable position in their community,
contemplated filling this menial position. But, in spite of their
disapproval, Ruth presented herself as an applicant for the post, and
though her youth (for she was hardly twenty) was an objection, her
services were accepted; and she entered forthwith upon her lowly duties.

We need not dwell upon the manifold and humiliating trials to which she
was subjected,--trials to which the loveliness of her person largely
contributed. Like a true American maiden, well-disciplined,
self-reliant, and of strong principles, she found protection within
herself, and bade defiance to dangers which might have proved fatal to
one whose early training had been less productive of strength.

It was while Ruth was meekly discharging these humble duties that she
became acquainted with Mademoiselle Melanie.

On arriving in New York, Madame de Fleury had taken up her residence for
a few days at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and, as though she feared to lose
sight of Mademoiselle Melanie, requested her to do the same. A severe
indisposition, which caused the latter to seek feminine aid, threw her
in communication with the housekeeper of the hotel and her young
assistant. Mademoiselle Melanie quickly became interested in the sweet,
pale, patient face hovering about her bed, and did not fail to note the
air of refinement which seemed at variance with her position. In less
than four and twenty hours the young French _couturiere_ had learned the
history of the young American housekeeper, and resolved, if she
prospered in America, to remove this lovely girl from her present
perilous position to one less exposed.

Six months later Ruth received a letter from Washington making her an
offer to become one of the assistants of Mademoiselle Melanie, and
gratefully accepted the proposal. Mademoiselle Melanie found her young
_employee's_ health too delicate for an exhausting apprenticeship to the
needle, and employed Ruth in copying and coloring sketches of costumes
which the accomplished _couturiere_ herself designed. As she became more
and more conversant with the noble character of her _protegee_ the
spontaneous attachment she had conceived for her grew stronger, and Ruth
Thornton became her constant companion.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MAURICE.


On their arrival in America Ronald took Maurice to his southern home,
where he was received with a cordial hospitality that strengthened and
confirmed the tie of brotherhood between the young men.

We will not attempt to portray the meeting between Ronald and his
parents,--a meeting so full of joy that its throbs quickened into the
pulse of pain, as though clay-compassed hearts were hardly large enough
to endure the ecstasy of such a reunion. Nor will we dwell upon the
proud elation with which Ronald's first ambitious attempt in art was
contemplated by his parents. Their praises might simply have testified
that love appreciates; the hand that wrought might have sanctified even
a feeble work to their sight; but colder judgments pronounced Ronald's
initiatory achievement a pledge of power, and all the more decisive
because the execution of the youthful hand obviously had not kept pace
with the strong conception of the fervid brain.

We pass on to the effect produced upon Maurice by his sojourn in
Ronald's transatlantic home.

Many a pang did the youthful Frenchman endure as he noted the thorough
and genial understanding which seemed to exist between the southern
youth and his father. Maurice was amazed by Mr. Walton's unfailing
recognition that his son was a responsible being; by the confidence he
reposed in him; by the unequivocal manner in which he placed him upon a
footing of equality, even while guiding him by his counsels,--counsels
offered as the results of a larger experience, yet never so compulsorily
urged as to check his son's freedom of decision. Maurice, marked, too,
the earnest interest with which Mr. Walton entered into all Ronald's
projects, albeit some of them appeared too wild and high-reaching to be
easy of accomplishment; beheld how readily the paternal hand was
stretched out to soften the ordeals through which the neophyte must
inevitably pass, and was moved by the touching frankness with which the
noble-minded parent repeatedly congratulated himself that he had not
permitted his own predilections to force Ronald into a field of action
repugnant to his tastes.

When Maurice instinctively compared this liberal, high-toned father's
mode of influencing his son with the tyrannous control of the haughty
count, and contrasted Ronald's untrammeled position with his own state
of dependent nonentity, he felt that unstruggling submission to the
cruel decree which doomed him to waste those fresh, strong, aspiring
years of his life in hopeless idleness was a weakness rather than a
virtue.

He was only spared from passing a judgment upon his father, more correct
than filial, by throwing the blame of his conduct upon the shackling
customs, and false opinions, and arbitrary laws of his native land. He
could not but be forcibly struck by the wide dissimilarity between the
usages and views of life which distinguished the two nations. In
America, he saw men, self-made and self-educated, at an age when young
Frenchmen have scarcely begun to be aware that they have any independent
existence, rising to prominent and honorable positions, taking a bold
part in public affairs, and asserting by their achievements the maturity
of their brains. He saw men, who had been forced by circumstances to
commence their lives of toil and self-support at fifteen and eighteen, a
few years later not only gaining their own livelihood, but contributing
to the maintenance of their families, and laying the foundation of
future fortune. He saw artistic tastes, literary talents, professional,
legislative, and military abilities, brought to opulent fruition in men
but a few years his senior; and though every one seemed to work at high
pressure, every one appeared to live rapidly, crowding each day with
actions, still men _lived_, lived _consciously_, planting along the
pathway of their pilgrimage the landmarks of positive deeds; and they
sowed, and reaped, and rejoiced in their harvests, and if some of them
grew old faster than their European brethren, their age was at least
enriched by varied memories, vast experiences, manifold mental gains,
that testified to the value of their lives.

And was it imperative, Maurice asked himself, that the accident of noble
blood should paralyze a man's volition, and that the bearing of a noble
name should render his life inertly ignoble? He recognized that, in the
seeming curse which condemned man to "work," God had hidden the richest
blessing, even as he buried golden veins in the dark bosom of the earth.
"Labor was privilege," and gave its sweetest flavor to the daily cup of
life.

As for Ronald, though he loved his country with the enthusiasm which
characterized all his affections, he had never been fully cognizant of
the advantages it possessed over the land in which he had lately
sojourned until he saw them through the eyes of Maurice.

Nothing is more true than that _we can render no service to another by
which we are not served ourselves_, served spiritually, therefore
_actually_, and in the highest sense; and not merely in his new
appreciation of the land of his birth, but in numerous other ways,
Ronald was the unconscious gainer by the helpful influence he exerted
over his friend. The youthful Mentor confirmed himself in grand and
vital truths while imparting them to Maurice; his own noble resolves
were quickened into activity while he sought to infuse them into the
mind of another; his own spirit acquired strength while he was
endeavoring to render his companion strong of soul. Ronald's character
was perhaps more affluent and expansive, had more force and fixedness of
purpose, than that of Maurice, yet it derived fresh vigor from the less
hopeful, less confident nature upon which it acted.

Though Maurice owed much to the young art-student, he soon owed more to
that gentle but potent hand by which Ronald had been moulded, refined,
and spiritualized. Ronald's mother opened wide her large heart and her
loving arms to take in the motherless youth thrown by an apparent
accident within her sphere.

Mrs. Walton was one of those beings to whom life is a poem, read it in
sorrow or gladness, read it whatever way you will, because all things to
her mind had a divine significance; she knew that nothing had either its
_end_ or _origin_ here, and felt that the very day-dreams and
aspirations of impulsive youth descended by influx from those supernal
regions in which all _causes_ exist, though we darkly behold them
through _effects_ ultimated upon our earthly plane. Her eyes were never
bent upon the ground, to search out stumbling-blocks of doubt, but
looked up Godward until the heavens grew less distant, and earth's
perplexing mysteries were solved; and daily joys and daily pains only
acquired importance through their bearing upon the joys and pains of
eternity; and celestial light, flowing through her pure thoughts,
reflected its mellow glory upon her humblest surroundings, and tinged
them with ineffable beauty.

Maurice, who had been so deeply impressed by Ronald's attributes and
aims, quickly recognized the fountain-head from whence flowed the living
waters he had drank, and, humbly bending to quaff at the same stream,
became conscious that his whole being was vitalized and renewed. The
great ends of existence, for the first time, became apparent to him; and
as he learned to look upon the present and temporal as only of moment
through their effect upon the future and eternal,--as he renounced a
senseless belief in the very names of _chance_ and _accident_, and
yielded to the conviction that the simplest as the gravest occurrences
all tend to lay some stone in the great architectural edifice which
every man is building for his own dwelling-place in the hereafter,--his
trials, by some wondrous transmutation, wore a holy aspect, and gently
into his unfolding spirit stole the comforting assurance that those very
trials might be the fittest, the strongest, the _appointed_ instruments
to hew out the pathway he panted to tread, and carve for him a future
which could never have been wrought by such tools as the velvety hands
of prosperity hold in their feeble grasp.

The morbid melancholy into which Maurice had fallen, and which deepened
with his vain pondering over the mysterious fate of Madeleine, rolled
from his spirit before the breath of hope,--hope breathed through
sunshine, from the lips of a woman whose sympathetic voice, tender
looks, and quick comprehension of his emotions insensibly melted away
reserve, and drew out all his confidence. He could talk to Mrs. Walton
of Madeleine with an absence of _reticence_, an unchecked gush of
feeling, which would not have been possible when he conversed with
Ronald, or with any one but a woman, _and such a woman_.

Far from advising him, as a worldly-wise counsellor would have done, to
struggle against a passion which did not promise to prove fortunate, she
bade him cherish the image of the one he so ardently loved with perfect
trust, that if that woman were indeed his _other self_,--that _separate
half_ which makes man's full complement,--he would, in spite of all
adverse circumstances, be drawn to her, by mysterious and invisible
cords, until their union was consummated.

Mrs. Walton entertained the not irrational belief that as "either sex
alone is _half_ itself," and "each fulfils defects in each," there was
created for every male soul some feminine spirit, whose heart was
capable of responding to the finest pulses of his; one who could meet
his largest requirements; one who could alone render his being perfect,
his true manhood complete; one whom he might never meet on earth, and
yet who lived for him. This great truth (for as such he accepted it) was
a glorious revelation to Maurice. He cast out the remembrance that
Madeleine had said she loved another, or only recalled her declaration
to feel certain that she had mistaken her own heart, or that he had
misconstrued the language she had used. She became more vividly present
than ever to his mind, and the constant thought that now confidently and
happily wound itself about her seemed to him to annihilate material
distances and bring their spirits into close communion.

Maurice passed two delightful months beneath the hospitable roof of Mr.
and Mrs. Walton. The period which Ronald had allowed himself for a
holiday drew to a close. The sense of unoccupied power had begun to
render him restless, and it was with elation which might have appeared
tinctured with ingratitude by those who did not comprehend the
mysterious workings of his untranquil ambition, that he prepared for his
return to that foreign land where he could enjoy advantages for the
prosecution of his art-studies unattainable in a young country.

When Maurice embarked for America with Ronald, it was understood that
they were to return to Europe together; but one morning, when the latter
casually announced his intention of securing their passage on board of a
steamer about to sail from New York, Maurice turned to him and said
abruptly,--

"Ronald, one berth will be sufficient."

"My dear fellow, what do you mean?" inquired Ronald, only half
surprised.

"It is impossible for me," replied Maurice, "to return to my life of
indolence and _supposed gayety_. A snake might more easily crawl back
into his cast-off skin. I have breathed this free, exhilarating,
vitalizing atmosphere, and the convention-laden air of Paris would
stifle me. I have written to my father and announced that I propose
remaining in Charleston. That is not all: he forbade my studying law in
Paris, because his sapient Breton neighbors would have been scandalized
by a viscount's taking so sensible a step; but possibly I may prepare
myself for the bar at this distance, without subjecting my father to the
annoyance of their disapproval. The period required for study is
shorter, and I shall have a wider field in which to practise. I cannot
be prepared to enter upon the duties of my profession much before the
time when, according to the laws of France, I shall reach my majority;
meanwhile I study, we will say, _for amusement_. I study as other men
hunt, fish, boat, skate. What do you think of my plan?"

Ronald grasped him warmly by the hand.

"It is just what I expected of you, Maurice! When we first met, and I
was so strongly attracted to you, an internal prescience whispered that
you had within you the very qualities which are asserting their
existence to-day."

"They might have been _in_ me, Ronald," answered Maurice with emotion;
"but I fear they would never have been brought _out_ but for your
agency. I never can be grateful enough that we have been thrown
together! I never can sum up the good you have done me! I stood in such
great need of just the influence you and your mother"--The voice of
Maurice trembled, and he was unable to proceed.

Ronald broke the somewhat embarrassing silence by saying,--

"In short, you have come to the conclusion that my mother is right in
her faith, and whatever we actually need for our spiritual advancement
is invariably sent, if we will but preserve ourselves in a state of
reception. All that you still lack will be supplied in the same way, if
you can but believe."

"_I do believe_," answered Maurice, in a tone of greater solemnity than
the occasion seemed to demand; but there was a world of meaning in those
three words. We should be obliged to employ many if we attempted to
express a tithe of what he had recently learned to _believe_ through
the instrumentality of a noble thinker.

A week later, Ronald folded his mother to his throbbing heart, and
tenderly bade her adieu; but, without feeling that he should be parted
from her by their material separation. Strange to say, his farewell to
his father and Maurice was shadowed by a nearer approach to sadness and
a more definite sense of sundering. Possibly their spirits had less
power than his mother's to annihilate space and follow him whithersoever
he went.

Maurice was induced to linger a few days longer as the guest of his new
friends, and his presence prevented the void left by the departure of a
beloved and only son from being too keenly felt. At the commencement of
a new week the young viscount removed to Charleston. That city was only
a few miles distant from the residence of Ronald's parents. Mr. Walton
had made his visitor acquainted with an eminent lawyer, who consented to
receive Maurice de Gramont as a student.

Count Tristan at first violently opposed his son's step, but he could
not, with any show of reason, forbid his studying law as a _pastime_.
The count's affairs became more and more entangled, and he grew more
desirous than ever that his son should contract a wealthy marriage. The
hope that Maurice might woo and win one of those numerous heiresses,
who, Frenchmen imagine, abound in the Southern El Dorado, alone
reconciled the haughty nobleman to his son's sojourn in America.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE ARISTOCRATS IN AMERICA.


While Maurice was applying himself to study with a zeal and sense of
enjoyment wholly new to him, Bertha was passing through various stages
of ennui, and testing the patience, or rather the digestive powers, of
that sorely discomforted _bon vivant_, her uncle. Day after day she grew
more capricious, unreasonable, unmanageable.

The distressed marquis came to the conclusion that his disturbed animal
economy could only be restored by an amicable separation from his niece.
But in vain he bestowed his smiles, and his _dinners_, upon the
multitudinous suitors by whom the young heiress was besieged; her
autocratic decree condemned him to the cruel duty of closing the
sumptuous repasts by the _dessert_ of a dismissal to each lover in turn,
without extending to any the faintest hope that his sentence might be
reversed. Finally the marquis became a confirmed dyspeptic; the joy of
his life was quenched when his appetite failed, beyond the resuscitating
influence of _absenthe_ and other fashionable stimulants; the glory of
his festive board had departed, and he was haunted by the conviction
that the unnatural conduct of his niece would bring his whitening hairs,
through sorrow and indigestion, to the grave.

A small but dearly prized respite from his trials was granted him when
Bertha paid her yearly visit, of four months, to her relatives in
Brittany. Her stay, however, was never extended beyond the wonted
period, for she found her sojourn at the Chateau de Gramont
unmitigatedly dull. The reception of letters from Maurice, addressed to
his father, alone relieved the tediousness of the hours; but these
welcome messengers were infrequent, brief, and somewhat cold. They left
Bertha so unsatisfied that before the close of the first year of her
cousin's absence she opened a correspondence with him herself. The
initiative letter was suggested by pleasant tidings, which she hastened
to send. It was written immediately after the eighteenth anniversary of
her birthday, and communicated the agreeable intelligence that upon that
day she had again received a token of remembrance from their beloved
Madeleine.

A yearly gift, bearing the impress of those "fairy fingers," was the
only sign Madeleine gave that she lived and remembered.

Three years passed on, and upon each birthday, wherever Bertha chanced
to be, in Bordeaux, in Paris, in Brittany, a small parcel was
mysteriously left with the _concierge_ of the house where she was
residing. The package was always addressed in Madeleine's handwriting,
and contained some exquisite piece of needle-work, but no letter, and it
bore no mark of post or express. It was invariably delivered by private
hand. At least, it rendered certain the consolatory facts, not only that
Bertha was unforgotten, but that Madeleine was cognizant of all her
movements.

No sooner had the heiress reached her majority than she prepared to
carry into execution a plan which for a long period had been silently
forming itself in her mind. Her earnest desire to visit America had been
secretly, but systematically, strengthened by Count Tristan. He well
knew that the Marquis de Merrivale would never be induced to become her
escort; and, what was more likely than that she should seek the
countenance and protection of her other relatives?

He played his cards so adroitly that Bertha, without once suspecting his
machinations, wrote to him, on the very day that closed her twenty-first
year, and invited the countess and himself to accompany her upon an
American tour. She took care delicately to make a stipulation that the
expenses of the projected trip should devolve upon her. The count
concealed his exultation under an air of well-acted reluctance, and
required much persuasion before he could be taught to look with favor
upon this _unexpected_ and _sudden_ proposition.

There was no simulation in the dismay, the horror with which Bertha's
proposal was greeted by the countess. How was she to breathe in a land
where hereditary claims to rank were unknown?--where distinctions of
_brains_ not _blood_ were alone recognized?--where a man might rise to
the highest position, as ruler of the realm, though his father chanced
to be a mechanic, and his grandfather's existence was untraceable? For a
time, Bertha's entreaties and the count's representations were equally
impotent; the countess was inexorable. But her son was not to be
baffled; he found an avenue through which her heart could be reached,
and her resolution undermined. It lay in the suggestion that Bertha's
strong inclination to visit America sprang from a desire again to behold
Maurice, and that the result of their meeting, after so long a
separation, might be in the highest degree felicitous. Bertha, he urged,
during the absence of Maurice, had probably learned that he was dearer
to her than she imagined; and, if Maurice had reason to believe that she
crossed the ocean for the sake of rejoining him, could he remain
insensible to such a proof of devotion? The countess bowed her haughty
head to a sacrifice which vitally compromised her dignity.

One of the objects of the count's visit to America was to learn
something further of the railroad company with which he was connected.
For a time its operations had been suspended, owing to a financial
crisis,--a sort of periodical American epidemic that, like cholera,
sweeps over the land at intervals, making frightful ravage for a season,
and departing as mysteriously as it came. The elastic nation, never long
prostrate, had risen out of temporary difficulties and depression with a
sudden bound, and prosperity walked in the very footprints of the late
destroyer.

Mr. Hilson had lately announced to Count Tristan that the railway
association was again in full activity, and that the mooted question of
the direction which the road ought to take would, ere long, be decided.
He added that, according to his judgment, the left road was indubitably
the more desirable. Should that road be chosen, it would pass through
the property owned by the Viscount de Gramont. We have already alluded
to the immense difference in the value of the estate which the advent of
the railroad would insure.

Bertha had no difficulty in obtaining the Marquis de Merrivale's
approval of the contemplated trip.

Early in the spring the party embarked upon one of those superb steamers
that sweep across the ocean like floating cities, pulsating with
multitudinous life.

The passage was so smooth that Bertha thoroughly enjoyed the strange,
new existence, and found such ever-varying beauty in the gorgeous
sunsets, and the resplendent moonlight, that she even forsook her berth
to see "Aurora draw aside her crimson curtain of the dawn;" in short she
was in an appreciating mood throughout the voyage, and her happy state
allowed her to ignore all the _desagremens_ of the sea. The countess
also, as she sat upon the deck in a comfortable arm-chair,--which she
occupied as though it were a throne, and received the homage of
fellow-passengers, who were obviously struck and awed by her majestic
deportment,--pronounced the transit more endurable than she anticipated.

Maurice had gone to New York to welcome the voyagers, and when the
steamer neared the land he was the first person who bounded upon the
deck. Bertha caught sight of him, and as she sprang forward and threw
herself into his arms, weeping with joy and heartily returning his warm
embrace, the countess and her son exchanged looks of exultation which
showed that they had not reflected upon the vast distinction between the
frank greeting of brother and sister, and the meeting of possible
lovers.

A slight, irrepressible shadow passed over the beaming countenance of
Maurice as he turned from Bertha to welcome his father and grandmother.
The cloud flitted by in an instant, and only betrayed that the past was
unforgotten; while the look of manly confidence and self-possession, by
which it was replaced, told that the present and the future could not be
subject to by-gone storms.

After the first salutations were over, the countess scanned Maurice from
head to foot, to note what changes had been wrought by his residence in
a country which she held in such supreme contempt. The slight curl and
quivering of the lip, which accompanied her survey, bespoke that it was
not entirely satisfactory. In the first place, his apparel displeased
her. The care that he had once bestowed upon his toilet betrayed a
slight leaning to the side of foppishness; _now_, his attire gave him
the air of a man of business, rather than of mere pleasure. His bearing
was more confident than in former days, his movements more rapid, his
tone more animated and decisive, his whole manner more energetic. His
face was slightly careworn, his brow had lost something of its unruffled
smoothness, and the fresh carnation tints had faded out of his
complexion; but the wealth of expression his countenance had gained
might atone for heavier losses. In repose, his features wore a shade of
habitual sadness; but that disappeared the moment he spoke, and was
rather an air of reflection than of sorrow. Indeed, all gloom had
vanished from his spirit soon after his arrival in America. The
hope-inspiring ministry of Ronald's mother, first and engrossing study,
and ceaseless occupation next, had effectually medicined his growing
melancholy. Maurice had not felt himself a homeless exile during his
four years' sojourn in a foreign land. The Chateau de Gramont was less
dear to him than the quiet, unpretentious, but affection-brightened home
where he was always welcomed as a son.

When his stately grandmother, after so long a separation, once more
appeared before him, the cold dignity, repelling hardness, and
self-venerating pride of her demeanor struck him all the more painfully
because it conjured up, in contrast, a vision of soft humility,--the
gentle strength, the intellectual power, the refined tenderness of the
lovely woman who realized his ideal of maternity.

It almost seemed as though the countess had some internal perception
that Maurice weighed her in the balance of a new judgment, and found her
wanting; for she shrank beneath his gaze, and turned from him with a
sense of sickening disappointment.

Bertha, while she was struck by the marked alteration in Maurice, noted
the change with undisguised admiration. To _her_ eyes he was a thousand
times more attractive than ever, and she told him so without a shadow of
bashful hesitation.

The young French demoiselle had made up her mind to be charmed with
America, and little is required to satisfy those who are determined to
be pleased. How much of her enthusiasm was legitimately excited, and how
much was the spontaneous kindling of her own bright spirit, we will not
attempt to describe. Be it enough to say, that she frequently declared
her most sanguine expectations were far surpassed.

The countess, on the other hand, looked through a distorted medium which
filled her with disgust. She was horrified at the publicity of
hotel-life in New York. She could not tolerate the careless ease of the
persons with whom she was thrown into accidental communication,--the
confidence with which the very servants ventured to accost her. The
absence of awe, the lack of head and knee bending, in her august
presence, appeared a tacit insult. She was puzzled to reconcile the
freedom with which she was constantly addressed with the great deference
paid to her _sex_. While her _rank_ was almost ignored, the mere fact of
being _a woman_ commanded an amount of consideration unsurpassed by the
veneration paid to titled womanhood in her own land. Nothing, however,
shocked her more than the liberty accorded to young American maidens.
She found it impossible to comprehend that, educated as responsible
beings, the strict _surveillance_ over girlhood's most trivial actions,
which is deemed indispensable in France, ceased to be a matter of
necessity in America.

Immediately upon his arrival in New York the count had placed himself in
communication with Mr. Hilson; and, a few days later, received a letter
informing him that at a recent meeting of the managers of the ---- ----
Railway Association a committee of nine had been chosen to decide upon
the most suitable direction of the new road. The committee was to give
in its decision at the end of a fortnight. Mr. Hilson regretted to add
that he feared the majority were in favor of the road to the _right_. He
concluded by suggesting that it might be well for the count to visit
Washington, and exert over members of the committee any influence, that
he could command, to secure a majority of votes in favor of the road
which would prove so advantageous to his son's property.

The count resolved to act at once upon Mr. Hilson's suggestion. When he
proposed to his mother and Bertha that they should start the very next
day for Washington, the countess, for the first time since her arrival,
expressed herself gratified. At the seat of government she would meet
the French ambassador and his wife (the Marquis and Marchioness de
Fleury), and possibly, in the circle in which they moved, she might
encounter foreigners with whom it would not be repugnant to associate.

Bertha heard Count Tristan's announcement with such bright gleamings of
the eyes, such happy flushings of the cheeks, that the sudden radiance
which overspread her countenance set Maurice wondering over the emotions
that caused her to so warmly welcome this unanticipated change of
locality.

The revery into which he had fallen was broken by his father. The count
launched into a discussion upon the management of property in America,
then glided into the subject of the Maryland estate, and finally
suggested that it would be advisable for his son to grant him a power of
attorney which would place him in a situation to act as his
representative in any case of emergency. Maurice unhesitatingly
expressed his willingness to comply with this request, and the legal
instrument was drawn up without delay. Upon receiving the document, the
count assured his son that there was no probability that the power would
be required, and voluntarily pledged himself not to make use of it
without apprising Maurice.

Count Tristan's words and intentions were wholly at variance. His
affairs in Brittany had become so frightfully entangled, that it was
absolutely necessary for him to be able to command a considerable sum to
redeem his credit; and he saw no means by which this desirable end could
be obtained, except by a mortgage upon his son's estate. One of his
strongest motives in visiting America was to effect this purpose; but he
earnestly desired to conceal from Maurice the step he projected,
trusting to his own skill in under-hand management for the smoothing
away of difficulties before there was a necessity for explanation.

Maurice accompanied the count, his mother, and Bertha to Washington, and
there bidding them adieu returned to Charleston.

His preparatory studies being now completed, he was received as junior
partner by the gentleman who had initiated him into the mysteries of his
profession.

It chanced that Mr. Lorrillard had large possessions in certain iron
mines in Pennsylvania, which gave promise of yielding an immense profit.
He had conceived a high esteem for the young viscount, and, with a view
of promoting his interests, represented to him the advantage of
purchasing a few shares, which could at that moment be favorably
secured. Maurice had no funds at his command; but Mr. Lorrillard
suggested that the viscount could easily procure the ten thousand
dollars needful by a mortgage upon his Maryland estate, and even offered
to give him a letter to Mr. Emerson,--a personal friend residing in
Washington,--who, as the estate was wholly unembarrassed, would
willingly loan the money upon this security. It was hardly possible for
Maurice to have resided so long in America without being slightly bitten
by the national mania for speculation, and he gladly accepted the offer
of his principal, and retraced his steps to Washington.




CHAPTER XX.

THE INCOGNITA.


Maurice arrived in Washington without having apprised his father of his
purposed visit. Count Tristan received him with ill-concealed
embarrassment; but the young viscount was too ingenuous himself, and
therefore too unsuspicious of others, for him to attribute his father's
discomposure to any source but surprise at his unexpected appearance. If
Maurice noted an absence of pleasure in the count's constrained
greeting, he was too much accustomed to the formal and undemonstrative
manners of the aristocracy to dwell upon the lack of warmth.

The count had taken up his residence at Brown's hotel. He chanced to be
sitting alone when his son was ushered into the drawing-room. The
opportunity was a favorable one for Maurice to communicate to his father
the object of his visit.

After the first salutations were over, he inquired, rather abruptly,
"Have you seen Mr. Hilson? What does he say in regard to the
probabilities that the railroad will take the direction which we so much
desire?"

"Our prospects are tolerably good," returned the count; "but we need to
exert ourselves, and, possibly, you may be of service. The committee
that has the decision in its hands consists of nine persons. Out of
these, four have declared their preference for the road to the right,
and are immovable. Our friends, Meredith and Hilson, who are on the
committee, vote, of course, for the left road; then there are two rival
bankers, Mr. Gobert and Mr. Gilmer, who are bitterly opposed to each
other, and generally vote in opposition one to the other; we must bring
some agency into play which will induce them, for once, to vote alike."

"That seems indispensable; but is it possible?" questioned Maurice.

"I trust so. Mr. Gobert is the banker of the Marquis de Fleury, who
exerts unbounded power over him. One word from the marquis, and Gobert's
vote is secured. The marquis, as every one is aware, can always be
approached through Madame de Fleury. Obtain _her_ promise that we shall
have Mr. Gobert's vote, and it is ours! The marchioness, I fear, may not
have forgiven Bertha's rejection of her brother's suit; but, as both
parties are still unmarried and unengaged, if she can only be convinced
that Bertha's refusal was mere girlish caprice, and that there is still
hope of the young duke's success, she will be ready enough to serve us."

"But is there hope?" inquired Maurice, quite innocently.

The wily schemer replied by a glance half-angry, half-contemptuous; but,
without making any other answer, went on.

"The other banker, Mr. Gilmer, I am seeking the means to influence. I
have no doubt that I shall find them. The ninth member of the committee
is Mr. Rutledge, quite a young man, the only son and heir of a
Washington millionnaire. I learn, from M. de Bois, that Rutledge is
deeply enamored of the sister of Lord Linden."

"I beg pardon, but you have not yet told me who Lord Linden is; and it
is so unusual to hear _lords_ mentioned in this country that my ears are
quite unattuned to the sound of a title."

Another hasty look from the count might have been interpreted into one
of slight disgust. His son was far more Americanized than he could have
desired. He went on, with increased haughtiness.

"The English ambassador to the United States married a sister of Lord
Linden, and his lordship and a younger sister accompanied them to
Washington. Mr. Rutledge aspires to the hand of this young lady,--so
says M. de Bois, who is intimately acquainted with her brother. If she
can be interested in our plans the vote of Mr. Rutledge is easily
secured."

Maurice could not help laughing.

"It is, _in reality_, the votes of _women_, then, that are to determine
the direction of this road? I ought hardly to be surprised at _that_;
for, if they have feeble voices in other lands, they have very decided
ones in America. But how is the young lady in question to be reached?"

"That is what I am pondering upon," resumed his father. "I shall form
some plan, you may be sure; and no time must be wasted in carrying it
into execution. I have already ventured to touch upon the subject to
Lord Linden, but have not said anything definite. It is a difficult
affair to conduct delicately; yet the obtaining of these votes is of
such vital importance that we must strain every nerve to secure them."

"Certainly, since it will more than treble the value of the property,"
observed Maurice, placidly. "By the by, I presume you have had no
occasion to use the power of attorney which I gave you? Just at this
moment it is very fortunate for me that the estate is wholly
unencumbered."

The count grew ashy pale; but Maurice did not observe his change of
color, nor mark the hesitating tone in which he replied, "Very
fortunate, of course,--very fortunate, indeed;" and then, looking at his
watch, he added, "It is time for your grandmother and Bertha to return.
Lord Linden and M. de Bois escorted them to the capitol. You must be
impatient to see them."

"In regard to this property, Mr. Lorrillard informs me," resumed
Maurice; but the count interrupted him.

"A visit to Madame de Fleury is now the first step to be taken; _there_
you may be useful; you are such a decided favorite of hers, that your
advocacy may be inestimable. Suppose you call at once, and learn at what
hour she will receive your grandmother, Bertha, and myself. A visit from
you will open the way."

"I will call with pleasure," answered Maurice. "I have a letter from Mr.
Lorrillard to his friend Mr. Emerson, which I should like to deliver
without delay. It is a matter of business. Mr. Lorrillard thinks that,
as my estate is wholly unencumbered"--

"We can talk of that at another time," replied the count, hurriedly.
"Suppose you pay your visit to the marchioness at once. It is hardly
worth while waiting for the ladies; no one can tell when they may
return."

Maurice, though he could not interpret the count's singular manner,
could not even remotely divine the meaning of its abruptness and
confusion, felt himself checked in his proposed communication. He
experienced no uneasiness; he had not the faintest conception that the
count was dealing doubly with him, and that his very first act, on
reaching Washington, had been to mortgage the estate of his son for so
large amount that, but for the advent of the railroad, upon which he
confidently calculated, the mortgage must prove ruinous to the
interests of the landholder.

Had Maurice been aware of this fact, he would not for a moment have
contemplated delivering to Mr. Emerson Mr. Lorrillard's letter, in which
it was distinctly stated that the property of the viscount was without
lien.

Further discussion between the father and son was prevented by the
entrance of the countess, accompanied by Lord Linden, and followed by
Bertha and Gaston de Bois.

Maurice, as he saluted his grandmother, was gratified to observe that,
albeit her air was by no means less stately, it was more satisfied and
complacent. Though titled nobility had no native existence in the
semi-civilized land, she rejoiced to find that it was sometimes
_imported_. She had at last encountered an individual with whom she
could associate without derogation. The French, as all the world knows,
have a national antipathy towards the English; but a nobleman, even
though he chanced to be an Englishman, was hailed by the Countess de
Gramont, upon American soil, as a God-send. Lord Linden was not aware of
the compliment implied by the unwonted graciousness of her demeanor, and
the tone of _almost_ equality in which she addressed him.

Maurice comprehended the altered expression that softened his
grandmother's countenance, but was struck and amazed by the wonderful
radiance of Bertha's face. Her eyes shone as though a veritable sun
lived behind those azure heavens, and almost annihilated their color by
its brightness; her lips were eloquent with a voiceless happiness they
did not care to hide, yet could not speak; the laughing dimples played
perpetually about her softly suffused cheeks; her elastic feet almost
danced, so airy was their tread; about her whole presence there was a
buoyant glow that seemed to encompass her with an atmosphere of light
and warmth.

She had not attempted to disguise her joy on again meeting Gaston de
Bois; and, though he had paid them repeated visits during their sojourn
in Washington, there was always the same deepening of the hue upon
Bertha's cheek; the same flood of sunshine brightening over her face;
the same softening of the tones of her voice; the same quickened rise
and fall of her fair bosom when he approached.

And he,--did he not note these betraying indications of his own power?
Did they strike no electric thrill through his rejoicing soul? If they
did, he was too much bewildered by a happiness so unexpected to search
out calmly the hidden meaning of these precious signs.

The change in the deportment and character of M. de Bois, which we
described at its commencement, was now fully confirmed; and though the
blood still sprang too rapidly into his face, and his breathing grew
labored with emotion, and his manner, especially in Bertha's presence,
was slightly confused, it was the confusion of elation rather than
embarrassment. The self-control he had acquired had almost overcome his
propensity to stammer, and Bertha was unreasonable enough to half regret
that she could no longer finish his sentences, and thus prove how
instinctively she divined his thoughts.

Maurice greeted her, as was his cousinly wont after a separation, with a
kiss on either cheek; but, for the first time, she shrank from his
touch, and her ingenuous eyes involuntarily glanced toward Gaston, then
were quickly cast down; and the mutinous ringlets that had, as usual,
escaped from bondage, were a welcome veil, as they fell over her face.

"Why, little Bertha, has an absence of four years made you forget that
we are cousins?" asked Maurice, in surprise at her manner.

"No--no," she answered, shaking back the curls, and looking up brightly
in his face; "and I am rejoiced that you have come to Washington: it is
a delightful place; I am charmed with everything I see."

Did Bertha reflect how much the charm of a locality depends upon our own
internal condition? Was she aware that any place, however tame and dull,
becomes delightful through the presence of one who creates in us a state
receptive of enjoyment?

Maurice expressed his intention of calling upon Madame de Fleury; Lord
Linden and M. de Bois proposed to accompany him. The three gentlemen
took their departure together. But soon after they left the hotel,
Maurice changed his mind; and, telling his companions that he had some
business to transact which required immediate attention, apologized for
leaving them, adding that he would call upon Madame de Fleury an hour
later, and hoped he might have the pleasure of meeting them there.

M. de Bois proposed to Lord Linden that they, also, should postpone
their visit.

"As you please," answered his lordship, languidly. "I am perfectly at
leisure. I will go wherever you are going,--it does not matter where; I
am indifferent to place."

Lord Linden always _was_ at leisure, and always indifferent, and not
unfrequently attached himself to Gaston de Bois, and seemed disposed to
accompany him wherever he went.

His lordship was one of that vast race of _blase_ young noblemen whose
opportunities of enjoyment had never been circumscribed, except by the
absence of the capacity to enjoy, and who, as a natural sequence, were
continually oppressed with a sense of satiety, enervated by the noonday
sunshine of unbroken prosperity, and thoroughly weary of their own
existence. When his brother-in-law had been appointed ambassador to
America, he had accompanied him to the United States with a vague idea
that he would be thrown in contact with warlike tribes of Indians, the
aborigines of the soil, whose novel and barbarous usages might afford
him some mediocre measure of excitement. We need hardly picture his
disappointment.

The ambassadors from foreign courts and their suites were as a matter of
course, thrown into constant communication with each other, and the
secretary of the French ambassador and the brother-in-law of the English
formed an acquaintance which ripened into an approach to intimacy. There
was no particular affinity between them, but Lord Linden liked M. de
Bois's society because he was a patient listener, and Lord Linden was
the opposite to taciturn; and Gaston, though he sometimes, as in the
present instance, felt his lordship an encumbrance, had too often been a
victim to ennui not to sympathize with a fellow-sufferer.

"Mademoiselle de Merrivale has a remarkably attractive face," said Lord
Linden. "I do not particularly fancy blondes; there is too much
milk-and-water and crushed rose-leaves in their general make-up; but, if
a blonde could, to my eyes, enter the charmed circle of the positively
beautiful, I would give her admission."

Gaston, who had fallen into a pleasant revery, was quickly roused by
this observation, and exclaimed, with an indignant intonation, "Not
admit a _blonde_ into the circle of the beautiful? Can anything be
lovelier than the countenance you have just looked upon?"

"Yes," replied the nobleman, musing in his turn.

"I think I could show you a face that would make Mademoiselle de
Merrivale's sink into the most utter insignificance."

"Is your beauty a Washington belle?" inquired Gaston, half-scornfully.

"I do not know,--I do not know anything about her. I merely spoke
figuratively when I said _I could show you_,--for I certainly could
_not_, at this moment; but I allude to the most peerless being that ever
captivated the eyes of man. In her, indeed, one could realize the poet's
thought,--

        "'All beauty compassed in a female form.'"

"And who is this incomparable divinity?" asked Gaston, still with a
touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Who is she? That is more than I know myself. We were thrown together by
an accident,--quite an every-day occurrence in this headlong-rushing,
pell-mell, neck-breaking land, where the people contemplate railroad
catastrophes and steamboat explosions with as cool indifference as
though they were a necessary part of a traveller's programme."

"You were thrown in contact with your beauty, then, by a railroad
collision, or were blown together through the bursting of a boiler?"
remarked Gaston interrogatively, and more because civility seemed to
demand the question than because he took any especial interest in the
narrative.

"Yes, quite a stirring incident. I felt alive for a month after. I was
travelling from New York to Washington, in such a listless and used-up
state that, in my desperation, I seriously pondered upon the amount of
emotion that could be derived from jumping off the train, at the risk of
one's neck. As I was glancing restlessly around, suddenly a face rose
before me that riveted my eyes. It was a countenance unlike any I had
ever seen. Though features and outline were faultless, in these the
least part of its beauty was embodied. There was an eloquence in the
rapid transitions of expression that melted one into another; there was
a dreamy thoughtfulness in the magnificent hazel eyes. They were not
exactly hazel either,--they reminded one of a topaz. I hardly know what
name to give to their hue. But it is useless to attempt to describe such
a face and form. I might heap epithet upon epithet, and then leave you
without the faintest conception of the bewildering loveliness of their
possessor."

"You succeeded in becoming acquainted with the lady?" inquired Gaston,
now really interested.

"That good fortune was brought about by one of those ill winds, which,
for the proverb's sake, must blow good to some one. It could not have
been accomplished by any effort of my own, for there was an air of quiet
dignity about the lady that no gentleman could have ventured to ruffle
by too marked observation, far less by presuming to address even a
passing remark. We were about half way between Philadelphia and
Baltimore, when suddenly a terrific shock was felt, followed by a
dashing of all humanity to one side of the cars, and a great crash. We
had run into another train, were thrown off the track, and, in a moment
more, upset."

"Since you were longing for excitement," observed Gaston, "this
agreeable little variety must have gratified you."

"Yes, it was well enough in its way, not being positively fatal to
existence. You may conceive the confusion and the difficulty of getting
upon one's feet. How the people scrambled out of the cars I do not
exactly know; for a short time I was too much stunned to see anything
distinctly. I remember nothing clearly until somebody helped me up, and,
in trying to move my left arm, I discovered that it was broken."

"How unfortunate! And you lost sight of the lady?"

"It would have been unfortunate if I _had_ lost sight of her; but I did
not. The passengers were huddled together in a most primitive inn by the
road-side. There I beheld her, moving about, quite unharmed, quieting a
child here, assisting a young mother there, doing something helpful
everywhere. There chanced to be a surgeon in the cars, who, happily, was
uninjured. He saw my predicament, for I was suffering confoundedly, and,
upon examining my arm, said that it must be set at once. He called upon
several persons to aid him. Some were too much occupied with their own
distress; some too bewildered; and some shrank from the task. But, to my
supreme joy (it was worth breaking an arm for such a piece of good
luck), the lady I just mentioned came forward, and offered her services!
She tore my handkerchief and her own into bandages, produced needle and
thread from her little travelling reticule, and sewed them together. She
assisted the surgeon in the most skilful but the calmest manner. What
could I do but express my gratitude? This was the opening to a
conversation. We were detained several hours at the inn before a train
arrived to take us on our journey. I had always detested these American
cars, where all the travellers sit together in pairs; but now I rejoiced
over them, for I managed to obtain a seat beside her. We conversed,
without pause, during the whole way to Washington; and what propriety
and good sense she evinced! Her beauty had deeply impressed me, but her
conversation struck me even more. Such elevated thoughts dropped
spontaneously from her lips, and so naturally, that she did not seem to
be aware that there was anything peculiar about them. It was enough to
drive a man distracted; I confess that it did me!"

"She came to Washington then?"

"Yes; and here we were forced to part. I begged that she would allow me
the privilege of calling to thank her. In the most suave, lady-like, but
resolute manner,--a manner that silenced all pleading,--she declined.
But she had inadvertently admitted that she resided in Washington.
_That_ has kept me here ever since. I have been searching for her these
six months."

"And you have never met her again?"

"No, I have sought her in the highest circles; for, from her
distinguished and even aristocratic air, her exceeding cultivation and
good-breeding, I infer that she is a person of standing. It was somewhat
singular that a lady of her unmistakable stamp should have been
travelling alone; but that is not unusual in this country. In spite of
all my efforts, I have never been able to encounter her again. I
examined the strips of the fine cambric handkerchief with which my arm
was bound, hoping to find a name. Upon one strip the letter 'M' was
daintily embroidered. I have those strips yet carefully preserved."

"Do you think she was an American lady?"

"No, assuredly not. Though she spoke the English language very purely,
and as only a scholar could have conversed, a slight accent betrayed
that she was a foreigner; French, or Italian, I imagine. If I could only
behold her once again, I should not be so miserably tired of everything
and so bored by my own existence. Washington is killingly dull. By the
way, the de Fleurys give a grand ball on Monday. I hear that there is
great anxiety prevalent in the _beau monde_ on the score of invitations.
Of course, Mademoiselle de Merrivale will be there. Her face must create
a sensation. What a piece of good fortune it would be if I could see it,
at this very ball, contrasted with that of my lovely incognita! _There_
is a day-dream for you! I never attend a ball, or any large assembly,
without a vague anticipation of finding her in the crowd. I should like
to hear _your_ candid opinion if you saw those two faces placed side by
side."

The response which Gaston made to this remark, and which expressed
certain convictions of his own, was not uttered aloud.

It is one of love's happy prerogatives that the countenance best beloved
gains to the lover's eye a charm beyond that with which any other face
is endowed, even when he is forced to admit _that_ dearest visage is
surpassed in point of positive, calculable, tangible beauty.

    "A man may love a woman perfectly,
    And yet by no means ignorantly maintain
    A thousand women have not larger eyes:
    Enough that she alone has looked at him
    With eyes that, large or small, have won his soul."




CHAPTER XXI.

THE CYTHEREA OF FASHION.


Maurice had so unceremoniously parted from Lord Linden and M. de Bois
because he suddenly remembered that Mr. Lorrillard had impressed upon
him the necessity of making his arrangements with Mr. Emerson without
delay, as the present was a peculiarly favorable moment for purchasing
shares in the mines whose iron he hoped to convert to gold.

The viscount presented himself at Mr. Emerson's office, and delivered
Mr. Lorrillard's letter. This latter gentleman was held in such high
esteem that an introduction of his was certain of meeting with the
utmost consideration. Mr. Emerson, after only a brief conversation with
Maurice, informed him that he was ready to make the desired loan upon
the security offered, and begged that he would call the next morning,
when the necessary formalities would at once be gone through.

Gratified by his visit and elated by the prospect of effecting a
business transaction of so much importance, never dreaming of the fatal
sequence which might be the result, Maurice drove to the residence of
the French ambassador. It was not Madame de Fleury's reception-day, but
by some mistake he was ushered into her drawing-room. In a few minutes,
Lurline, a confidential _femme de chambre_, whom Maurice had often seen
in Paris,--a being all fluttering ribbons and alluring smiles and
graceful courtesies and coquettish airs,--made her appearance.

"Madame has received the card of monsieur _le vicomte_," she began, with
a sugary accent and soft manner, which reminded one strongly of the
tones and deportment of her mistress. "Madame would not treat monsieur
as a stranger, and therefore sent _me_,"--here, with her head on one
side, she courtesied again, bewitchingly,--"to say that we have a new
valet,--an ignorant fellow, for it is impossible to procure a decent
domestic in America,--and this untrained creature has to be drilled into
_les usages_: he has forgotten that madame only receives on Saturday.
Madame, however, would see _M. le vicomte_ at any time that was
possible."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," returned Maurice, "for I am very
desirous of having the pleasure of paying my respects."

"Madame is preparing for a _matinee_, at the Spanish Embassy. She is
just _coiffe_, and monsieur should see what a magnificent head I have
made for her. Notwithstanding my success with her head she is at this
moment in deep distress: her dress has not yet arrived; we expect it
every moment! Madame's agitation is overpowering. She is quite unequal
to encountering a disappointment of this crushing nature. She begs
monsieur will excuse"--

Before she could finish the sentence, the marchioness herself appeared,
wrapped in a delicate, rose-colored _robe-de-chambre_, prodigally
adorned with lace and embroidery.

"My dear M. de Gramont, I meant to excuse myself; but as I am forced to
wait for that tantalizing dress, a few moments with you, _en attendant_,
will divert my thoughts. I had heard from M. de Bois, that the Countess
de Gramont and her son, with Mademoiselle de Merrivale, are honoring
Washington by their presence; but I was informed that _you_ were not
here. You see I paid you the compliment of inquiring."

As she spoke, she glanced at the mirror opposite, and arranged the long
sprays of feathery flowers that were mingled with her braided tresses.

"I am highly flattered at not being forgotten," replied Maurice. "I only
arrived this morning, and hastened to pay my respects."

"And you ought to be very much flattered that I can spare you an
instant, at such a critical moment. Here is my toilet for this _matinee_
at a dead stand-still, because that tiresome dress has not come. It is
one I ordered expressly for the occasion, and, I assure you, it is a
perfect triumph of art,--a victory gained over great obstacles. Let me
tell you, nothing is more difficult to manage than an appropriate
costume for a _matinee_. One's toilet must be a delicate compromise
between ball attire and full visiting dress, but Mademoiselle Melanie
has hit the _juste milieu_; and succeeded in carrying me through all the
perils of Scylla and Charybdis. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" (stamping her tiny
slippered foot) "will that dress never come?"

"It must be very trying!" said Maurice, endeavoring to assume a tone of
sympathy.

"Trying? it is _killing_! Imagine my state of mind. I cannot go
_without_ this dress: all my other toilets have been seen more than once
in public; and this one was sure to create a sensation,--was planned for
this very occasion!"

"I fear my visit is inopportune, and ought to be shortened," replied
Maurice, for the agitated manner and troubled look of Madame de Fleury
made him feel that he must be an intruder. "I will only remain long
enough to know if you will receive my grandmother, my father, and my
cousin, Mademoiselle Bertha, to-morrow; they are very"--

"Hush!" cried Madame de Fleury, raising her finger and listening with an
eager countenance. "Was that not a ring? Patrick is opening the door.
Hush! let me listen! It is the dress,--it must be the dress!" and she
made several rapid steps toward the door, but returned to her seat as
the servant passed through the entry with empty hands. "This is
terrible! I have not my wits about me; I do not know what I am doing or
saying!"

"I am truly concerned," observed Maurice, who had risen to depart. "May
I tell the Countess de Gramont that you will receive her to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? Yes, certainly. I do not remember any engagement, but I can
think of nothing at this moment. If that tormenting dress would only
arrive! I fear it will never be here! It is the first time Mademoiselle
Melanie ever disappointed me; she is punctuality itself. This waiting is
torture, and completely upsets me,--turns my brain; it will throw me
into a nervous fever. You, insensible men, cannot feel for such a
position; you do not know the importance of a toilet."

"We must be very dull if we do not know how to appreciate those of
Madame de Fleury," replied Maurice, bowing courteously. "Pray, do not
include me in the catalogue of such sightless individuals. I will bid
you adieu until to-morrow, when you will allow me to accompany my
grandmother?"

"You are always welcome. Pray tell the countess I shall be charmed to
see her, and say the same to that cruel Mademoiselle Bertha,--though I
ought not to forgive her treatment of my brother. Say to her that he is
yet unconsoled. Good gracious! That dress certainly is not coming! If it
were to arrive at this moment I should be obliged to hasten; and to give
the _finishing_ touches to a toilet in a hurried and discomposed manner
is to run the risk of spoiling the general effect. What _can_ have
happened to Mademoiselle Melanie? Hark! is not that some one? Did you
not hear a ring? I am not mistaken; some one _did_ come in. It is the
dress at last!"

The marchioness started up joyfully, with clasped hands, and an
expression of deep gratitude. A servant entered with a note; she
snatched it petulantly and tossed it into the card-basket unopened.

"How vexatious! Only a note! It is _too_ cruel! I shall never, never
pardon Mademoiselle Melanie if she disappoints me. But that's easy
enough to say, difficult enough to carry into execution. In reality I
could not exist without her; and Mademoiselle Melanie knows _that_ as
well as I do. She is so sought after that her exhibition-rooms are
crowded from morning until night. It is now a favor for her to receive
any new customers, and I believe she has some thirty or forty workwomen
in her employment. Of course, you have heard of Mademoiselle Melanie?"

"I have not had that pleasure; she is a mantua-maker, I presume,"
returned Maurice, repressing a smile.

"I suppose that is what, strictly speaking, we must call her; but she is
the very Queen of Taste, the Sovereign of Modistes. She has a genius
that is extraordinary,--it is magic,--it is inspiration! A touch of her
hand transforms every one who approaches her. What figures she has made
for some of these American women! What charms she has developed in them!
What an air and grace she has imparted to their whole appearance! She
makes the most vulgar look elegant, and the elegant, divine! Another
ring. Now Heaven grant it may be the dress at last!"

The marchioness was again disappointed: it was only another note, which
shared the fate of the former.

"Oh, I shall not survive this!" she ejaculated, dropping into an
arm-chair; "and that horrid little Mrs. Gilmer will triumph in my
absence. You know Mrs. Gilmer?"

"I have not that honor," returned Maurice, who, impatient as he was to
take his leave, found it impossible to depart while the marchioness
chose to detain him.

"She attempts to pass herself off for a belle, and even tries to take
precedence of _me_, ignoring all the customs of good society; but,
doubtless, the poor thing is actually ignorant of them, and should be
pardoned and pitied for her ill-breeding. She is the wife of Gilmer, the
rich banker. It is to Mademoiselle Melanie that she is indebted for all
her social success. Mademoiselle Melanie positively _created_ her, and
she never wears anything made by any one else. It is all owing to
Mademoiselle Melanie that the men surround her as they do, and try to
persuade themselves that she is pretty. Pretty! with her turn-up nose,
and colorless hair and eyes. Her husband is immensely rich; and, as
wealth rules the day in this country, she takes good care that the depth
of his purse shall be known; for that purpose she loads herself with
diamonds,--always diamonds. She has not the least idea of varying her
jewels; even Mademoiselle Melanie could not make her comprehend that
art. I wonder she does not have a dress contrived of bank-notes! _That_
would be novel, and it would also prove a capital way of announcing her
opulence!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXII.

MEETING.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Countess de Gramont rose up majestically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Madeleine!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She receives you?" questioned the count.

"Always," answered Madeleine, smiling again.

"She esteems you?" persisted the count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The countess here interposed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This version of Madeleine's position seemed to strike both the countess
and her son as not merely possibly, but probably, correct.

"I always thought," returned the count, "that Madeleine was a young
person who, in the end"--

His mother finished the sentence, in a tone of pride, "would prove
herself worthy of the family to which she belongs."

The loud ringing of the street door-bell attracted the attention of the
group assembled in the drawing-room. A well-known voice exchanged a few
words with the servant, and Gaston de Bois entered. His manner was
unusually perturbed, and he looked around the room as though in search
of some one.

The instant he appeared, Bertha exclaimed, "Oh, M. de Bois! M. de Bois!
We are all so much rejoiced! Madeleine, our own Madeleine, is found at
last! She is here,--here in this very house, at this very moment!"

"I--I--I knew it!" answered M. de Bois, with a mixture of embarrassment
and exultation.

"You knew it? How could you have known it?" asked Maurice, eagerly.

"I saw her car--ar--arriage at the door."

"_Her_ carriage? She has a carriage of her own, then?" inquired the
count.

"Yes, and the most superb horses in Washington."

"You knew, then, that she was here?" cried Maurice, with emotion; "you
knew it, and you never told us?"

"I knew it, but I was forbidden to tell you. I hoped you would meet; I
felt sure you would. I did not know how or when; but, from the moment
you put your foot in this city, I looked for this meeting. I was
strongly impelled to bring it about, but my promise withheld me."

"Of course, you could not break a promise; that explanation is quite
satisfactory," remarked Bertha. "I am sure you would have given us a
hint but for your promise."

"I almost gave one in spite of it. I found it harder to keep silent than
I used to find it to speak; and that was difficult enough."

"But have the goodness to unravel to us this grand mystery," demanded
the count. "Madeleine is married--married to Count Orlowski, the Russian
ambassador."

"A nobleman of position!" added the countess.

"How did this come about?" inquired the count.

M. de Bois looked stupefied.

"Who--who--said she was married?" he gasped out. "Why do you imagine
that she is mar--ar--arried?"

"She is _not_--_not_ married then? _Say she is not!_" broke in Maurice,
hanging upon the reply as though it were a sentence of life or death.

"No--no--not married at all--not in the least married."

Maurice did not answer, but the sound that issued from his lips almost
resembled the sob of hysteric passion.

"Tell us quickly all about her!" besought Bertha, impatiently.

"Yes, speak! speak!" said the countess, imperiously.

"Speak!" echoed the count.

"Gaston, my dear friend, pray speak,--speak quickly!" Maurice besought.

"I wi--is--ish I could! That's just what I wa--an--ant to do! But it's
not so easy, you bewil--il--ilder me so with questions. But the time has
come when you must know that she has the hon--on--onor--the honor--the
honor to be"--

"Go on, go on!" urged Maurice.

"I wish I could! It's not so easy to expla--plai--plain."

The rustling of a silk dress made him turn. The Marchioness de Fleury,
in the most captivating spring attire, stood before them.

"Ah! here is Madame de Fleury, and she will tell you herself better than
I can," said M. de Bois, apparently much relieved.

The marchioness saluted her guests with excessive cordiality, softly
murmured her gratification at their visit, and added apologetically,--

"I must entreat your pardon for allowing you to wait; it was not in my
power to be more punctual; a terrible accident--the first of the kind
which has ever occurred to me--is my excuse. Do not imagine, my dear
viscount," turning to Maurice with a fascinating smile, "that I had
forgotten my appointment; but, at the Russian embassy, yesterday, I was
prevailed upon to promise that I would be present at the senate to-day
to hear the speech of a Vermont orator, a sort of Orson Demosthenes, who
has gained great renown by his rude but stirring eloquence. We ladies
have been promised admission (which is now and then granted) to the
floor of the house, instead of being crammed into the close galleries.
It will be a brilliant occasion. I invited the Countess Orlowski to
accompany me. If all had gone well I should have been ready to receive
your visit before she came."

The brow of the countess smoothed a little as she answered, "I felt
confident, madame, that there must have been _some_ explanation."

"Ah! I fear you are displeased with me," resumed Madame de Fleury,
playfully. "But I will earn my pardon. You will be compelled to forgive
me; M. de Fleury meets me at the capitol, and I will deliver this letter
of the count's into his hand, and make him promise, blindfold, to
consent to any request that it may contain."

"Madame," returned the count, bowing to the ground, "I shall never be
able to express my gratitude. You can hardly form a conception of the
favor you are conferring upon me. That letter is of the highest
importance, and my indebtedness beggars all expression."

"To be frank with you, count," answered Madame de Fleury, "you owe me
nothing. You are only indebted to the advocate you chose,--one whom I
never refuse,--one to whom I feel under the deepest obligation,
especially this morning,--one who is so modest that she can seldom be
induced to ask me a favor, or to allow me to serve her. Thus, you see,
it is but natural that I should seize with avidity upon this
opportunity."

The count looked at his mother triumphantly; and, as the face of the
marchioness was turned toward Bertha, he whispered, "Shall I not tell
her that Madeleine is our niece?"

The countess seemed disposed to consent, for the words of Madame de
Fleury had gratified as much as they astonished her.

The marchioness addressed the Countess de Gramont again. "I trust,
madame, that you will allow me to waive ceremony, and take a liberty
with you, since it is in the hope of being some service. I should like
to reach the capitol before the oration commences; and, if this letter
must be delivered to M. de Fleury immediately, my going early will
enable me to have a few moments' conversation with him, which I probably
shall not get after the orator rises. Will you excuse me, if I tear
myself away? And will you give me the pleasure of your company to-morrow
evening? To-morrow is my reception-day, and some of my friends honor me
in the evening. I am _desolee_ at this apparent want of courtesy, but I
am sure you see the necessity."

The countess bowed her permission to Madame de Fleury's departure, and
the count overwhelmed her with thanks. The countess would herself have
taken leave, but anxiety to learn something further of Madeleine, caused
her to linger.

The marchioness now addressed her valet, who was standing in the hall
waiting orders.

"Patrick, when Madame Orlowski calls, beg her to pardon my preceding her
to the capitol; say that I will reserve a seat by my side."

"Then the lady who just visited you was _not_ Madame Orlowski?" inquired
the count, more puzzled than ever.

"No, indeed; she is worth a thousand Madame Orlowski's!"

The count's glance at his mother seemed again to ask her permission to
allow him to announce that Madeleine was their relative.

"We felt certain that she was one of the magnates"--began the count.

The marchioness interrupted him.

"She is better than that; she has all the magnates of the land--that is
the female magnates--at her feet. The foreign ladies swear by her, rave
about her; and, as for the Americans, they are demented, and would
gladly pave her path with gold,--that being their way of expressing
appreciation. Madame Manesca passes whole mornings with her,--Madame
Poniatowski talks of no one else. She enchants every one, and offends no
one. For myself, I have only one fault to find with her,--I owe her only
one grudge; if it had not been for her aid, that impertinent little Mrs.
Gilmer would not have had such success in society. If I could succeed in
making her close her doors against Mrs. Gilmer, what a satisfaction it
would be! Then, and then only, should I be content!"

The count could restrain himself no longer.

"We are highly gratified to hear this, madame. It concerns, us more
nearly than you are aware; the lady is not wholly a stranger to us; in
fact, she--she"--

"Indeed? she was so little known in Paris that you were fortunate in
finding her out. I appreciated her there, but I did not know how much
actual credit was due to her, for she had not then risen to her present
distinction. I confess she is the one person in America without whom I
could not exist."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the countess.

"And I cannot be grateful enough to her," continued the marchioness,
"for her visit this morning, for she never goes out, or, so seldom, that
I did not dare to expect, to even _hope_ for her presence; yet her
conscientiousness made her come; she suspected that I was in difficulty,
and hastened here."

"It is like her; she was always charming, and so thoughtful for others!"
observed the count, as complacently as though this were an opinion he
had been in the habit of expressing for years.

"You may well say charming," responded Madame de Fleury; "and what
knowledge she possesses of all the requirements, the most subtle
refinements of good society! What polished manners she has! What choice
language she uses! What poetical expression she gives to her sentiments!
I often forget myself when I am talking to her, and fancy that I am
communicating with a person of the same standing as myself; and, without
knowing what I am doing, I involuntarily treat her as an equal!"

"_An equal?_ Of course, most certainly!" answered the countess, aghast.

The amazement of the count, Maurice, and Bertha, sealed their lips.

"Her taste, her talent, her invention is something almost supernatural,"
continued the marchioness, enthusiastically; for, now that she was
launched upon her favorite theme, she had forgotten her haste. "She sees
at a glance all the good points of a figure; she knows how to bring them
out strongly; she discovers by intuition what is lacking, and
dexterously hides the defects. I have seen her convert the veriest dowdy
into an elegant woman. And, when she gets a subject that pleases her,
she perfectly revels in her art. Look at this dress for instance,--see
by what delicate combinations it announces the spring."

The marchioness was struck with the consternation depicted in the
countenances of her visitors.

Bertha was the only one who could command sufficient voice to falter
out, "That dress, then"--

"It is her invention," replied the marchioness, triumphantly. "Any one
would recognize it in a moment, as coming from the hands of
Mademoiselle Melanie. Though she has such wonderful creative fertility,
her style is unmistakable. There was never mantua-maker like her!"

"_A mantua-maker! a mantua-maker!_" exclaimed the countess and her son
at once, in accents of disgust and indignation.

"Ah, I see you do not like to apply that epithet to her, and you are
right. She should not be designated as a mantua-maker, but a great
artist,--a true artist,--a fairy, who, with one touch of her wand, can
metamorphose and beautify and amaze!"

At that moment, a servant announced that the Countess Orlowski waited in
her carriage, and desired him to say that she feared she was late.

"You will excuse me then?" murmured the marchioness. "I must hasten to
execute my mission for Mademoiselle Melanie, since it was she who so
warmly solicited me to undertake this delicate little transaction, and I
would not disappoint her for the world. Pray, do not forget to-morrow
evening. _Au revoir._"

She floated out of the room, leaving the countess and her son speechless
with rage and indignation.

Bertha and Maurice stood looking at each other, and then at M. de Bois,
the only one who expressed no surprise, but seemed rather more gratified
than moved when he beheld the countess sink back in her chair, and apply
her bottle of sal volatile to her nose. The shock to her pride had been
so terrible, that she appeared to be in danger of fainting.




CHAPTER XXIII.

NOBLE HANDS MADE NOBLER.


After the Marchioness de Fleury had departed, leaving her astonished
guests in her drawing-room, M. de Bois was the first to break the
silence.

"And you, Mademoiselle Bertha, are you also horrified at this
rev--ev--evelation?" he asked.

"I?" answered Bertha, making an effort to collect herself. "No, I can
never be horrified by any act of Madeleine's, for she could never be
guilty of an action that was unworthy. I am only so much astonished that
I feel stunned and confused, just as Maurice does; see, how bewildered
he looks!"

The countess had now recovered her voice, and said, in a tone trembling
with indignation, "It is _infamous_!"

"A degradation we could never have anticipated!" rejoined Count Tristan.

"She has disgraced her family,--disgraced our proud name forever!"
responded the countess.

"Do not say that, aunt!" pleaded Bertha. "She has not even used your
name, though it is as rightfully hers as yours. Do you not observe that
she has only allowed herself to be called by her middle name, and that
every one speaks of her as Mademoiselle Melanie?"

Bertha, as she spoke, bent caressingly over her aunt, and took her hand.
But the attempt to soften the infuriated aristocrat was futile.

The countess replied, with increasing wrath, "I tell you she has
humiliated herself and us to the last degree! She has brought shame upon
our heads!"

Gaston de Bois was walking up and down the room, thrusting his fingers
through his hair, flinging out his arms spasmodically, and, now and
then, giving vent to a muttered ejaculation, which sounded alarmingly
emphatic. When he heard these words, he could restrain himself no
longer. He came boldly forward, and planting himself directly in front
of the countess, unawed by her forbidding manner, exclaimed,--

"No, madame; that I deny! Mademoiselle de Gramont has brought no shame
upon her family!"

"She no longer belongs to my family!" retorted the countess. "I disown
her henceforward and forever!"

"And you do rightly, my mother," added the count. "We will never
acknowledge her, never see her again! Maurice and Bertha, we expect that
you will abide by our determination."

Maurice did not reply; he stood leaning against the mantel-piece, lost
in thought, his eyes bent down, his head resting upon his hands.

Bertha, however, answered with spirit. "I make no promise of the kind.
Nothing could induce me to cast off my dear Madeleine!"

M. de Bois seized her hand, and, involuntarily carrying it to his lips,
said, with mingled enthusiasm and veneration, "You are as noble as I
thought you were! I knew you would not forsake her!"

Bertha raised her eyes to his face with an expression which thrilled
him, as she answered, "You will defend her, M. de Bois; you, who can
perhaps disperse the cloud of mystery by which her life has been
enveloped for the last four years. You will tell my aunt how Madeleine
has lived,--what she has done. You will tell us _all about her_."

"That I will, gladly!" replied he. "That is, _if I can_. I never in my
life so much desired the pow--ow--ower of spee--ee--eech!"

He broke off, and, in an undertone, gave vent to certain exclamations
which indistinctly reached the ears of the countess and Bertha.

Their amazed looks did not escape his notice, and he continued: "Ladies,
I ought to ask your pardon; possibly my expressions have sounded to you
somewhat profane; I am under the sad necessity of using very strong
language. I cannot loosen my tongue except by the aid of these forcible
expletives, and I must--_must_ speak! For I, who have known all
Mademoiselle Madeleine's noble impulses, can best explain to you her
con--on--onduct."

The last word, which was the only one upon which he stammered, was
followed by another emphatic ejaculation.

Bertha, without heeding this interruption, asked, "And have you known
where Madeleine was concealed all this time?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, I knew."

"And it was you who assisted her to leave Brittany?"

"It _was_ I! That was about the first good action which brightened my
life, and--and--and"--(another muttered oath to assist his articulation)
"and I hope it was only a commencement."

"Tell us--tell us everything quickly," prayed Bertha.

"Mademoiselle Madeleine, when she determined to leave the Chateau de
Gramont,--when she resolved to cease to be dependent,--when, in spite of
her noble birth, which was to her only an encumbrance, she purposed to
gain a livelihood by honest industry,--confided her project to me. And
what good she did me in making me feel that I was worthy enough of her
esteem to be trusted! She first committed to my charge her family
diamonds, her sole possession, and ordered me to dispose of them"--

"Her diamonds! those which have been in her family for generations! What
sacrilege!" cried the countess, in accents of horror.

"Pardon me, madame; it would have been sacrilege, she thought, and so
did I, if she had kept them when their sale could have prevented her
being the unhappy recipient of the unwilling _charity_ of her
relatives."

"Go on--go on!" urged Bertha. "How did she leave the chateau? How could
she travel?"

"I obtained her a passport, for it would have been running too great a
risk if she had attempted to travel without one. The passport had to be
signed by two witnesses. Fortunately, two of my friends at Rennes were
about to leave the country; I selected them as witnesses, because they
could not be questioned; I told them the whole story, and bound them to
secrecy. We took out the passport for England to divert pursuit; but,
Mademoiselle Madeleine only went to Paris, and it was not necessary that
her passport should be _vised_ if she remained there."

"But the diamonds,--they were those Madame de Fleury wore and which I
recognized!" exclaimed Bertha.

"I made a false step there; but it was just like me to bungle,"
continued Gaston. "I knew that the Jew, Henriques, often had
transactions with the Marquis de Fleury. I took the diamonds to another
Jew from whom I concealed my name, and suggested his taking them to
Henriques, hinting that the marquis would probably become their
purchaser. The marquis is a _connoisseur_ of jewels; and, as you are
aware, at once secured them. The sum realized was sufficient to supply
the simple wants of Mademoiselle Madeleine for years. But this did not
satisfy her,--her plan was to work. When she heard that the diamonds
were in M. de Fleury's possession, she embroidered a robe upon which the
lilies and shamrock were closely imitated, and took her work to Vignon,
Madame de Fleury's dressmaker. Vignon was amazed at the great skill and
taste displayed in the design and execution, and offered to give the
embroiderer as much employment as she desired. Madame de Fleury being
the most influential of Vignon's patrons, the dress was exhibited to
her. She was at once struck and charmed by the coincidence that allowed
her to become the possessor of a dress upon which the exact design of
her new jewels had been imitated. She asked a thousand questions of
Vignon, who gladly monopolized all the credit of inventing this novel
pattern. From that moment Mademoiselle Madeleine's 'fairy fingers'
commenced their marvels under the celebrated _couturiere's_ direction,
and Vignon daily congratulated herself upon the mysterious treasure she
had discovered. Mademoiselle Madeleine now determined to remain in Paris
incognita. She worked night and day, scarcely allowing herself needful
rest; but, alas! she worked with a ceaseless heartache,--a heartache on
your account, Maurice, for she knew how wildly you were searching for
her; and when you fell ill"--

Maurice interrupted him: "It was she who watched beside me at night! I
knew it! I have always been convinced of it. Was I not right?"

"I was bound not to tell you, but there can be no need of concealment
now. Yes, you _are_ right. When the _soeur de bon secours_ we had
engaged to take care of you during the day, left, and would have been
replaced, according to the usual custom, by another to watch through the
night, we told her no watcher was needed before morning. Mademoiselle
Madeleine made herself a garb resembling that worn by the sisterhood;
and, every night, when the good sister we had hired left, Mademoiselle
Madeleine took her place. We thought your delirium would prevent your
recognizing her."

"Probably it did, at first," returned Maurice; "but, for many nights
before I spoke to you; I was conscious, I was sure of her presence."

"When you did speak, I was startled enough," resumed Gaston; "and it was
a sad revelation to Mademoiselle Madeleine; for, when your reason was
restored, she could not venture any more to come near you."

"Did she go to Dresden? How came my birthday handkerchief to be sent
from Dresden?" asked Bertha.

"That was another piece of stupidity of mine. You see what a blockhead I
have been. Mademoiselle Madeleine wished to send some token of assurance
that she thought of you still; but it was necessary that you should not
know she was in Paris. I had the package conveyed to a friend of mine in
Dresden, and desired him to remove the envelope and send the parcel to
Bordeaux, though you were in Paris at the time. It would not have been
prudent to let you suspect that Mademoiselle Madeleine was aware of your
sojourn in the metropolis. But, when the postmark induced Maurice to
start for Dresden, I saw what a fool I had been. It was just like me to
commit some absurdity,--I always do! I could not dissuade Maurice from
going to Dresden; but Mademoiselle Madeleine wrote a note which I
enclosed to my friend, and desired to have it left at the hotel where
Maurice was staying. After that I was more careful not to commit
blunders. The other birthday tokens, you received, Mademoiselle Bertha,
I always contrived to send you by private hand; thus, there was no
postmark to awaken suspicion."

"But how came Madeleine here in America?" inquired Bertha.

"When the Marquis de Fleury was appointed ambassador to the United
States, Mademoiselle Madeleine learned that Madame de Fleury sorely
lamented her hard fate, and mourned over the probability that she would
be obliged to have all her dresses sent from Paris. This would be a
great inconvenience, for she often liked to have a costume improvised
upon the spur of the moment, and completed with fabulous rapidity.
Mademoiselle Madeleine had frequently thought of America, and felt that
the new country must present a field where she could work more
advantageously than in Paris. She desired Vignon to suggest to Madame de
Fleury that one of the assistants in her favorite _couturiere's_
establishment,--the one with whose designs Madame de Fleury was already
acquainted,--might be tempted, by the certainty of the marchioness's
patronage, to visit America. Madame de Fleury was contented, and
immediately proposed that Mademoiselle Melanie should sail in the same
steamer. Vignon allowed two of her work-women to accompany her. The sum
Mademoiselle Madeleine had realized from her diamonds enabled her to
hire a modest house in Washington, and to furnish it tastefully. On her
arrival she sent for Mr. Hilson. Perhaps you remember him, Mademoiselle
Bertha? He once dined at the Chateau de Gramont."

Here the count uttered an exclamation of violent displeasure, but M. de
Bois went on,--

"He had requested Mademoiselle Madeleine if she ever visited America to
let him know. He called upon her at once, and she frankly told him the
story of her trials, and the conclusion to which they had forced her. He
highly approved of her energy, her zeal, and spirit. She made him
promise to keep her rank and name a secret. He brought his wife and
daughter to see her, and they became her stanch, admiring, and helpful
friends. Through them alone, she would quickly have been drawn into
notice; but a more powerful medium to popularity was at work. The
sensation produced by Madame de Fleury's toilets caused all Washington
to flock to the exhibition-rooms of 'Mademoiselle Melanie,' who was
known to be her _couturiere_. Soon, it became a favor for 'Mademoiselle
Melanie' to receive new customers. She was forced to move to the elegant
mansion where she now resides. It is one of the grandest houses in
Washington, and Mademoiselle Melanie has only one more payment to make
before it becomes her own. The fact is, people have gone crazy about
her. Those who seek her merely upon business, when they come into her
presence, are impressed with the conviction that she is not merely
their equal, but their superior, and treat her with involuntary
deference. She is rapidly becoming rich, and she has the glory of
knowing that it is through the labor of her own dainty hands, her own
'fairy fingers!'"

"Oh, all she has done was truly noble!" said Bertha, with enthusiasm.

"It was disgraceful!" cried the countess, fiercely. "She might better
have starved! She has torn down her glorious escutcheon to replace it by
a mantua-maker's sign. She has stooped to make dresses!--to receive
customers! Abominable!"

M. de Bois, for a moment forgetting the courtesy due to the rank and
years of the countess, replied indignantly, "Madame, did she not make
_your_ dresses for three years? Have you not been one of her customers?
An unprofitable customer? The _profit_ was the only difference between
what she did at the _Chateau de Gramont_ and what she does in the city
of Washington!"

"Sir!" exclaimed the countess, giving him a look of rebuke, which was
intended to silence these unpalatable truths.

"You are right, M. de Bois," answered Bertha, not noticing the furious
glance of her aunt. "That was a random shaft of yours, but it hits the
mark, and strikes me as well as my aunt; yet I thank you for it; I thank
you for defending Madeleine; I thank you for befriending her. I shall
never forget it--never!"

Bertha frankly stretched out her hand to him; he took it with joyful
emotion.

"Whom would she have to defend her if I did not, since her family
discard her? Since even an able young lawyer utters not a word to plead
her cause?" he added, looking reproachfully at Maurice. "But she shall
never lack a defender while I live, for I love her as a sister! I
venerate her as a saint. To me she is the type of all that is best and
noblest in the world! The type of that which is greater, more valuable
than glory, more useful than fame, more _noble_ than the blood of
countesses and duchesses--_honest labor!_"

Bertha's responsive look spoke her approval.

"And what do I not owe her, myself?" continued M. de Bois. "It was her
words, long before her sorrows began, which rendered me conscious of the
inert purposelessness of my own existence. It was the effect produced
upon me by those words which made me resolve to throw off my sluggish,
indolent melancholy and inactivity, and rise up to be one of the world's
'_doers_,' not '_breathers_' only. The change I feel in myself came
through her; even the very power of speaking to you thus freely comes
through her, for she encouraged me to conquer my diffidence, she made me
despise my weak self-consciousness, and I cannot offer her a sufficient
return; no, not if I took up arms against the whole world, her own
family included, in her defence! In my presence, no one shall ever
asperse her nobility of word, deed, or act!"

Bertha's speaking eyes thanked him and encouraged him again.

In spite of the manifest rage of the countess he went on,--

"But Mademoiselle Madeleine now holds a position which needs no
champion. She has made that position herself, by her own energy and
industry, and the unimpeachable purity of her conduct. In this land
where _labor_ is a _virtue_, and the most laborious, when they combine
intellect with industry, become the greatest,--in this land it will be
no blot upon her noble name, (when she chooses to resume it) that she
has linked that name with _work_. She will rather be held up as an
example to the daughters of this young country. No one, except Mr.
Hilson, not even her zealous patron, and devoted admirer, Madame de
Fleury, yet knows her history; but every one feels that she merits
reverence, and every one yields her spontaneous veneration. The young
women whom she employs idolize her, and she treats them as the kindest
and most considerate of sisters might. Some among them belong to
excellent families, reduced by circumstances, and she has inspired them
with courage to work, even with so humble an instrument as the needle,
rather than to accept dependence as inevitable. She is fitting them to
follow in her footsteps. If her relatives scorn her for the course she
has pursued, she will be fully compensated for their scorn by the
world's approval."

All eyes had been riveted upon Gaston, as he spoke, and no one perceived
that Madeleine was standing in the room, a few paces from the door.
Bertha's exclamation first made the others conscious of her presence.

"Madeleine! we know all! Oh, what you must have suffered! How noble you
have been! Madeleine, you are dearer to me than ever, far dearer!"

The tears that ran softly down Madeleine's cheeks were her only answer.

Bertha, as she wiped them away, said, "These are not like the tears you
shed that sorrowful day in the _chalet_, that day when you must have
first made up your mind to leave us. Do you remember how you wept then?
Those were tears of agony! You have never wept such tears since,--have
you, Madeleine?"

"No, never!"

"I could not then comprehend what moved you so terribly; but, at this
moment, I understand all your sensations. Now that we have met again
there must be no more tears. You know that I am of age now; I am
mistress of my own fortune; and you and I must part no more! You must
come and share what is mine. You must have done with work, Madeleine."

"That cannot be, my good, generous Bertha; my day of work has not yet
closed."

"Bertha!" exclaimed the countess, who, until then, had stood trembling
with anger, and unable to command her voice. "Bertha, have you quite
forgotten yourself? Remember that you are under my guardianship, and I
forbid your having any association with Mademoiselle de Gramont."

Madeleine advanced with calm dignity towards the countess, and said
quietly,--

"Madame--aunt"--

The countess interrupted her imperiously.

"Aunt! Do you _dare_ to address _me_ by that title? _You_--a
_dressmaker!_ When you forgot your noble birth, and lowered yourself to
the working-classes, making yourself one with them,--when you demeaned
yourself to gain your bread by your needle, bread which should have
choked a de Gramont to eat,--you should also have forgotten your
relationship to me, never to remember it again!"

"If I did not forget it, madame," answered Madeleine, with calm
self-respect, "I was at least careful that my condition should not
become known to you. I strove to act as though I had been dead to you,
that my existence might not cause you mortification. I could not guard
against the accident which has thrown us together once more, but for the
last time, as far as my will is concerned."

"This meeting was not Mademoiselle Madeleine's fault," cried M. de Bois,
coming to the rescue. "It was my folly,--another blunder of mine! I was
dolt enough to think that you had only to see her for all to be well;
and, instead of warning Mademoiselle Madeleine that you were in
Washington, I kept from her a knowledge which would have prevented your
encountering each other. It was all my imprudence, my miscalculation! I
see my error since it has subjected her to insult; and yet what I did,"
continued he more passionately, and regarding Maurice, as he spoke, "was
for the sake of one who"--

Madeleine, seized with a sudden dread of the manner in which he might
conclude this sentence, broke in abruptly,--

"Were I not indebted to you, M. de Bois, for so many kindnesses, I might
reproach you now; but it was well for me to learn this lesson; it was
well for me to be certain that my aunt would discard me because I
preferred honest industry to cold charity."

"Discard you?" rejoined the countess, furiously. "Could you doubt that I
would discard you? Henceforth the tie of blood between us is dissolved;
you are no relative of mine! I forbid you to make known that we have
ever met. I forbid my family to hold any intercourse with you. I appeal
to my son to say if this is not the just retribution which your conduct
has brought upon you!"

The count answered with deliberation, as though he was pondering some
possibility in his wily mind; as if some idea had occurred to him which
prevented his fully sharing in his mother's wrath, or, rather, which
tempered the expression of his displeasure,--

"Madeleine's situation has rendered this the most proper and natural
course open to us. She could not expect to be formally recognized. She
could not suppose it possible, however much consideration we might
entertain for her personally, that the Countess de Gramont and her
family should allow it to be known that one of their kin is a
dressmaker! Madeleine is too reasonable not to see the impropriety (to
use a mild word) there would be even in such a suggestion."

"I see it very plainly," answered Madeleine, not unmoved by the count's
manner, which was so much gentler than his mother's, and not suspecting
the motive which induced him to assume this conciliatory tone.

The count resumed: "We wish Madeleine well, in spite of her present
degraded position. If circumstances should prolong our stay in
Washington, or in America,--and it is very possible they may do so,--we
will only request her to remove to California or Australia, or some
distant region, where she may live in desirable obscurity, and not run
the risk of being brought into even _accidental_ contact with us."

"No,--no!" exclaimed Bertha, vehemently. "We shall not lose her
again,--we must not! _You_ may all discard her, but _I_ will not! I will
always acknowledge her, and I must see her! She is dearer to me than
ever; I will not be separated from her!"

Did Bertha see the look of admiration with which M. de Bois contemplated
her as she uttered these words?

The countess asked in an imperious tone,--

"Bertha, have you wholly forgotten yourself? I will never permit this
intercourse,--I forbid it! If _you_ are willing to brave my displea