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

FAIRY FINGERS.

CHAPTER I.

NOBLESSE.

They were seated in the drawing-room of an ancient château 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 Sêvres 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 château."

"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 protégée 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 château 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, naïvely.

"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 Caradaré'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 château 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 rôle 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 Sêvres 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 château 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 château.

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 château, 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 Sêvres 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 Château 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 Château 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 Château 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 château 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 Château 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 château, 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 Château 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 Château 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 château 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 Château 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 Sêvres 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 Sêvres 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 château. 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 château.

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 château 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 tête-à-tête, 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 châlet. 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 châlet, 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 châlet 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 château. 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 château?"

"I have let—let—letters for the count. He intrusted me yes—es—esterday with a package to take with me to the Château 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 château 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 château 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 Château 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 tête-à-tête. 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 châlet, 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 château?"

M. de Bois could not well refuse.

He left the châlet 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 châlet, 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 château. 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 châlet, 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 château. 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 manœuvre 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 châlet, 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 vâlet 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 château. 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 château, 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 château 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 château, 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 garçon, 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 château 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 châlet, 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 Château 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 Château 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 châlet 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 Château 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, naïvely.

"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 château,—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 Château 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 fête. 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 château, 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 Château 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 château, 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 châlet 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 châlet 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 châlet, 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 château, 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 Château 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 châlet. 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 châlet, nor in the garden. I have called until I am hoarse. I picked up this handkerchief in the châlet,—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 châlet. 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 château 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 château, 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 château 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 châlet," 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 château, 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 châlet,—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 châlet, 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 depôt. 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 château 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 Château 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 Château 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 château, 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 châlet; 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 châlet 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."