"I hasten to send you good news, my dearest Bertha. At Rennes I visited the Prefecture to examine the list of passports, knowing that Madeleine must have obtained one to travel unmolested. I found that her passport had been taken out for England. This confirmed my impression that she had joined Lady Vivian in Scotland. The passport which, as you are aware, requires two responsible witnesses, was signed by Messrs. Picard and Bossuet. I sought those gentlemen to extract further information from them, but, singularly enough, both had left Brittany the day after Madeleine. I cannot conceive how she obtained their signatures, for surely she had no acquaintance with them. Following this clew I started immediately for Edinburgh, and arrived here on Wednesday evening. I had no difficulty in finding the residence of Lady Vivian. She is in London, but is expected home shortly. I had an interview with her venerable housekeeper, who answered all my inquiries withgreat patience. From her I learned that Lady Vivian was accompanied by a young French lady whom she had recently engaged as adame de compagnie. The housekeeper could not remember her foreign name, but when I mentioned Mademoiselle de Gramont, she said it sounded like that. She had been informed that the young lady was very accomplished and belonged to an excellent family; also that Lady Vivian had first heard of her during her late visit in Brittany. In answer to the question whether this young lady arrived with Lady Vivian in London, the housekeeper replied that she did not,—she had joined her ladyship only a few days ago. Thus I feel certain that Madeleine is found. I leave for London at once, and, not many days after you receive this letter, you may expect to see us both; for I will never cease my supplications until Madeleine yields and returns with me to the Château de Gramont. I know what joy this intelligence will give you, my dear little cousin, and my joy is increased by the reflection of yours."
"I hasten to send you good news, my dearest Bertha. At Rennes I visited the Prefecture to examine the list of passports, knowing that Madeleine must have obtained one to travel unmolested. I found that her passport had been taken out for England. This confirmed my impression that she had joined Lady Vivian in Scotland. The passport which, as you are aware, requires two responsible witnesses, was signed by Messrs. Picard and Bossuet. I sought those gentlemen to extract further information from them, but, singularly enough, both had left Brittany the day after Madeleine. I cannot conceive how she obtained their signatures, for surely she had no acquaintance with them. Following this clew I started immediately for Edinburgh, and arrived here on Wednesday evening. I had no difficulty in finding the residence of Lady Vivian. She is in London, but is expected home shortly. I had an interview with her venerable housekeeper, who answered all my inquiries withgreat patience. From her I learned that Lady Vivian was accompanied by a young French lady whom she had recently engaged as adame de compagnie. The housekeeper could not remember her foreign name, but when I mentioned Mademoiselle de Gramont, she said it sounded like that. She had been informed that the young lady was very accomplished and belonged to an excellent family; also that Lady Vivian had first heard of her during her late visit in Brittany. In answer to the question whether this young lady arrived with Lady Vivian in London, the housekeeper replied that she did not,—she had joined her ladyship only a few days ago. Thus I feel certain that Madeleine is found. I leave for London at once, and, not many days after you receive this letter, you may expect to see us both; for I will never cease my supplications until Madeleine yields and returns with me to the Château de Gramont. I know what joy this intelligence will give you, my dear little cousin, and my joy is increased by the reflection of yours."
The count broke off without reading the concluding lines of the letter, and remarked,—
"Maurice came to a hasty conclusion. If Lady Vivian'sdame de compagnieshould prove to be Madeleine, as itmaybe, there is no certainty that she will yield to his persuasions and return to us. Madeleine is very obstinate and self-willed. You must pardon me, Bertha, for throwing a damper upon your hopes, but I would spare you too severe disappointment."
"I shallnotbe disappointed. I feel sure Maurice has discovered Madeleine:thatis all I ask for the present. You may be right about her refusing to return here,—I dare say you are; butthatwill not make me miserable, which I should be if we could not find her at all. I mean to ask my uncle's permission to allow Madeleine to reside with us. I do not see how he can refuse, and he is very indulgent; so that, whether Madeleine consents to return here, or not, we shall not be wholly parted."
Bertha did not suspect into what a fury her words were lashing the count, nor did she divine the machinations already at work within his perfidious spirit to defeat her kindly purpose.
Rapidly as Maurice travelled from Edinburgh to London, the distance seemed interminable to his impetuous spirit. Multitudes of arguments were driven through his mind in long array, and he was impatient to prove their power in persuading Madeleine to return. Was it possible that she could refuse to see their force? If calm reasoning, if entreaties and prayers failed to move her, he would test the potency of a threat,—she should learn that he had vowed never to return to his paternal home, never to forgive those who had driven her forth by their cruelty, untilshehad proclaimed their pardon by again taking up her abode at the Château de Gramont. Madeleine, who shrank from all strife, who moved in an atmosphere of harmony, which seemed to envelop her wherever she went, would not lift her hand to sever the sacred bond of union between father and son, grandmother and grandchild. Whatever anguish it might cost her to yield, however great her sacrifice, she would endure the one and accept the other rather than become the instrument that, with fatal blow, struck such an unholy severance.
Maurice vividly pictured to himself his approaching interview under a tantalizing variety of circumstances. Now he imagined that he saw Madeleine only in the presence of her new friends,—that she was cold and reserved, and allowed him no opportunity of uttering a word that could reachherear alone. Now he fancied she had granted him a private interview,—that she was sitting by his side, but resolute, unconvinced, unmoved, while he besieged her with arguments, appealed to her with all the passionate fervor that convulsed his soul, portrayed in darkest colors the fearful results of her inflexibility. Now he painted her overwhelmed by his reasoning, melted by his application, terrified by that terrible menace, and finally consenting to his petition.
It was past ten o'clock when the train reached the London terminus. The loquacious Edinburgh housekeeper had informed him that Lady Vivian was the guest of Lady Augusta Langdon. The lateness of the hour forbade a visit that night; yet, after having engaged a room at Morley's hotel, he could nothelp strolling in the direction of Grosvenor Square, and was soon searching for the number he had written upon his tablets. It was easily found, and Maurice stood before one of the most sumptuous of the magnificent edifices which adorn that aristocratic locality. The windows were thrown open, and the richly embroidered lace curtains drawn back, for the evening was more than usually sultry. He crossed to the opposite side of the street, and took up a position which enabled him to distinguish forms moving about the spacious drawing-room. With what straining eyes and breathless anxiety he scrutinized them! Now he saw a lady of noble carriage walking to and fro,—thatmight be Lady Langdon; by and by he caught sight of a gaunt, ungainly figure, and recognized Lady Vivian. Who would have believed that a glimpse of that angular, unsymmetrical form could ever have called such radiance to the eyes of a young and handsome man?—could have kindled such a glow upon his cheeks?—could have quickened his pulses with so joyful a motion?
Not long after, a group of young ladies clustered together, just beneath the chandelier, to examine some object which one of them held in her hand; and now the heart of Maurice throbbed so tumultuously that its beats became audible. He had singled out one maiden whose height and graceful proportions distinguished her from her companions,—Madeleine! Her face was turned from him; but surely that statuesque outline, that slender, flexible throat, that exquisitely-shaped head, about which he thought he traced the coronal braid that usually crowned her noble brows,—these could belong to Madeleine only! Could he fail to recognize them anywhere or at any distance? The longer he gazed the more certain he became that it was she herself,—that she was found at last! How eagerly he watched to see her turn, and render "assurance doubly sure" by revealing her lovely countenance! She remained some time in the same position; then the little group dispersed, and she glided away, but not in the direction of the window. The eyes of Maurice never moved from the place where she had disappeared, though he was conscious of attracting the attention of passers-by, and now and then a whispered comment of derision fell upon his ear.
Several equipages drove up to Lady Langdon's door, and her guests gradually departed. Soon after the drawing-room was deserted, the lights were extinguished, the windows closed. Other lights brightened the casements above. Still Maurice remained riveted to the spot, unreasonably hoping to behold Madeleine for one fleeting moment again. By and by, one window after another grew dark; but not until the last light went out could he force himself to turn away and retrace his steps to the hotel.
"Will the dawn never come?" How often that question rises involuntarily to the lips, through the long night of expectation that precedes a wished-for day!Time—that is, the sense of its duration—is but another word forstate,—state of mind. The length or briefness of the hour is so completely governed by the mood of one's spirits that it becomes easy for those who have learned this truth from experience to conceive a thousand years but as a day to the blessed,—a day of torture, an age to the miserable; and to comprehend thattime itselfcan have no existence, and its computation must be replaced bystatein the eternal hereafter where we shall live in the spirit only.
"Will the dawn never come?" Maurice repeated hundreds of times as that night dragged its leaden, lagging feet with the slow movement of centuries.
The dim, late London morning came at last to bring with it a new perplexity. It would be a breach of etiquette to call upon Lady Vivian at too early an hour; yet, how was Maurice to curb the headlong rush of his impatience until the prescribed period for ceremonious visits arrived? A stranger in London, it might be supposed that the numberless noteworthy objects by which he was environed might have diverted his attention; but one engrossing thought so completely filled his whole being that it rendered him blind to all the marvels of art or beauties of nature. Yet to remain imprisoned at the hotel was out of the question. He concluded to spend his morning in Hyde Park, chiefly because it was not far distant from Grosvenor Square. But the attractions of the noble park, through which he listlessly sauntered, and of the adjacent Kensington Gardens, to which he unconsciously extended his rambles, were entirely lost upon the abstracted wanderer. Grand old trees, romantic walks, delicious flowers, had no existence for him; the whole world was one great, hueless, formless void, in which he beheld nothing but the spectral image mirrored in his own soul.
He had decided not to pay his visit until after one o'clock; but, before the sun reached its meridian, he absolved himself from the propriety of waiting, and, with rapid steps, once more took his way to Lady Langdon's residence.
The door was opened by a solemn footman.
"Is Lady Vivian at home?"
"Not at home, sir."
"Is Mademoiselle de Gramont—I mean the young lady who accompanied Lady Vivian—at home?"
"Not at home, sir."
"Can you tell me when I shall be likely to find them?"
"Her ladyship gave no orders on the subject, sir."
Maurice stood perplexed, and hesitating.
"Your card, if you please, sir," suggested the demure domestic.
"No, I will call again by and by."
Maurice walked directly back to the park. His suspense was intolerable; he could only endure it for another hour, and then returned to Lady Langdon's.
The same staid attendant reappeared at his knock.
"Has Lady Vivian returned?"
"Not returned, sir."
"Can you tell me when I may depend upon seeing her? I call upon a matter of great importance."
The stately footman looked as though he were pondering upon the propriety of making any satisfactory answer to this question.
Maurice repeated the inquiry with such an anxious intonation, such a perturbed air, that the stolid domestic, accustomed to behold only the conventional composure which allows no pulse to betray its beating, was moved out of the even tenor of his way by astonishment.
"Lady Vivian went with my lady and a large party to Hampton Court. Their ladyships will probably spend the day."
"The day!" exclaimed Maurice, in an accent of consternation.
The footman evidently thought that he had proffered more than sufficient information, and made a dignified attempt to put a close to the interview, by extending his hand, and saying, "I will see that your card reaches her ladyship."
"No, there is no need of my leaving a card: I shall return. At what hour does Lady Langdon dine?"
"At seven, sir."
"I will take the liberty of calling after dinner."
The footman looked as though he decidedly thought it was a liberty, and Maurice turned slowly away from the closing door.
What could be done to shorten the endless hours that stretched their weary length between that period and evening? Hampton Court! What was to prevent his going to Hampton Court? Hemight meet Lady Vivian and Madeleine, there; nothing was more likely, since they were to spend the day. His spirits revived as he signalled an empty cab, and requested to be driven as rapidly as possible to Hampton Court. He took no note of the length of time occupied in reaching his destination: it was a relief to be in motion, and to know that every moment brought him nearer a locality where the lost one might be found.
Was he more likely to encounter her in the palace or in the grounds? he asked, internally, as he sprang out of the cab. He would try the palace first. He strode through its magnificent apartments, one after another, without noticing their gorgeous grandeur, without glancing at their superb decorations, without wasting a look upon the wondrous products of brush, or chisel, or loom. His disconcerted guide paused before each world-renowned master-piece in vain; Maurice hurried on, and silenced him by saying that he was in search of a friend.
Neither Lady Vivian nor Madeleine was to be seen. They were doubtless rambling in the beautiful pleasure-grounds.
Maurice took his way through noble avenues of trees,—through groves, gardens, conservatories,—without letting his eyes dwell upon any object but the human beings he passed. Still no Madeleine. He made the tour of the palace the second time, and then traversed the grounds once more. The result was the same. Lady Vivian must have returned home.
It was growing late. He reëntered his cab, and ordered the driver to take him to Morley's Hotel; paid the exorbitant price which the man, knowing he had to deal with a stranger, demanded, and took refuge in his chamber, without remembering that he had not broken his fast since morning, until a waiter knocked at the door to know if he would dine.
Yes; dinner might assist in whiling away the time. But it helped less effectually than he had anticipated; for to dine without appetite is a tedious undertaking. His own busy thoughts supplied him with more than sufficient food, and precluded all sense of hunger.
Maurice had but a slight acquaintance with Lady Vivian. An evening visit certainly was notselon les regles; but all ceremony must give way before the urgency of his mission. He compelled himself to wait until nine o'clock before he again appeared in Grosvenor Square.
That imperturbable footman again! The very presence of the automaton chilled and dispirited the impatient visitor.
"Is Lady Vivian at home?"
"Her ladyship is indisposed and has retired, sir."
"Can I see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"
"Whom, sir?"
"The young lady who accompanies Lady Vivian."
"She is with Lady Vivian; but I will take your card, sir."
Maurice had no alternative and handed his card.
"Say that I earnestly beg to see her for a few moments."
Did he imagine that human machine could deliver a message which conveyed the suggestion that any one very earnestly desired anything in creation?
The viscount was ushered into the drawing-room. A long interval, or one Maurice thought long, elapsed before the messenger returned.
"The ladies will be happy to see you, sir, to-morrow, at two o'clock."
Another night and another morning to struggle through, haunted by the murderous desire of killing that which could never be restored,—time!But here, at least, was a definite appointment,—a fixed period when he should certainly see Madeleine; this was a great step gained.
He had heard some gentlemen, at the hotel, loud in praise of Charles Kean's impersonation of "King John," which was to be represented that evening, and the recollection of their encomiums decided him to visit the Princess' Theatre.
Our powers of appreciation are limited, governed, crippled or expanded, by the mood of the moment, and a performance, which might have roused him to a high pitch of enthusiasm at another time, now seemed dull and tedious. But duller and more tedious still was the night that followed. And when morning came, how was he to consume the hours between breakfast and two o'clock? He must go somewhere; must keep on his feet; must give his restless limbs free action. He bethought him of St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey. These majestic edifices were associated with the memory of those who had done with time, and might assist him in the time-annihilating process which was then his chief object. He was mistaken; he could not interest himself in monuments to the dead; he was too closely pursued by a living phantom. He walked through the aisles, the chapels, the crypt, with as much indifference as he had wandered through Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens, and Hampton Court.
The appointed hour drew near, at last, and with rising excitement he ordered the coachmen to drive to Grosvenor Square, number ——. It was just two,—hardly two, perhaps. Theinevitable footman received his card, with the faintestsoupçonof a grin, and conducted him to the drawing-room.
Lady Vivian entered a few moments afterwards. She was delighted to see him,—very flattered at his visit. When did he come to London? Would he make a long stay? How did he leave their friends in Brittany?
Maurice replied as composedly as possible to her inquiries, and then asked, "May I be allowed to see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"
"Mademoiselle de Gramont!" exclaimed Lady Vivian, raising her bushy eyebrows.
"Yes, she is with you. She is engaged as your humble companion,—is she not?"
"No, I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance."
If a bullet had passed through Maurice, he could not have sprung from his seat with a wilder bound, and hardly have dropped back more motionless.
Lady Vivian looked at him in amazement,—asked what had happened. Was he ill? Would he take anything? He had been very much fatigued, perhaps. He was so very pale! She felt quite alarmed; really it was distressing.
Making a desperate effort to recover from the stunning blow, he faltered out, "I heard that you made Mademoiselle de Gramont a proposition to"—
"To become my humble companion? Yes, I did so at the request of Count Damoreau. But she definitely declined, and I felt much relieved, for she was entirely too handsome for that position. Shortly afterward I heard of a young person who suited me much better. I thought it was a mistake of the footman's, last night, when he said you desired to see the young lady who accompanied me. It was somewhat singular to have one's humble companion included in a visit to one's self! Now I comprehend that you thought she was your cousin. I hope you are feeling better; your color is coming again."
Maurice was not listening. He had lost Madeleine anew. The agony of a second bereavement, the mystery that enveloped her fate, the dreadful uncertainty of tracing her, pressed upon him and rent his soul with fiercer throes than before. Muttering some hurried apology, he rose, staggered toward the door, and, to the amazement of the stoical footman, who was greatly scandalized thereby, the pertinacious stranger fairly reeled past him into the street.
Maurice, when he took his abrupt leave of Lady Vivian, did not return to the hotel. He felt as though he could not breathe, could not exist, shut within four walls, with the oppressive weight of his new disappointment crushing and stifling his spirit. He traversed the streets with a rapid pace, not knowing nor caring whither he went, if he only kept in motion. His own torturing thoughts pursued him like haunting fiends, driving him mercilessly hither and thither, and he sped onward and onward, as though by increased celerity he could fly from his intangible persecutors.
Now sprang up the tantalizing suggestion, that, as Lady Vivian had never seen Madeleine, the latter had presented herself under a feigned name, for the sake of concealing her rank, and baffling the friends who sought to discover her abode. Was notthatvery possible, very natural? He recalled the tall, finely-moulded form, of which he had caught a glimpse in Lady Langdon'ssalon, and for awhile he cherished this chimera; then its place was usurped by one more painful: Madeleine was perhaps travelling alone, subjected by her very beauty to the curious scrutiny, the heartless insults of brutal men; and, perchance, through her ignorance of the world, trapped into some snare from which she could never be extricated unharmed. Then his mind was filled with the horrible idea that, in her friendliness and despair, finding no place of refuge on earth, she had flung away her burdensome life with violent hands. Nothing was more improbable than that a being endowed with her self-controlled, serene, sorrow-accepting temperament, should be driven to such an act of unholy madness. Yet Maurice allowed the frightful fantasy to work within his brain until it clothed itself with a shape like reality, and drove him to the verge of distraction.
Where could she have gone?Where? oh, where?
Hundreds of times he asked himself that perplexing question! All the pursuing demons seemed to shout it in his ears, and defy him to answer. If she had escaped the perils he most dreaded, where had she hidden herself? Perhaps she had only taken out a passport for England, with a view of throwing those who soughtto track her steps, off the right scent. If she had gone to England, her passport must have beenvisédas she passed through Paris. If it had not been presented at thebureau des passeports, she must have remained in Paris. If she had conceived any plans by which she thought to earn a livelihood, where could they so well be carried into execution? In that great city she might reasonably hope to be lost in the crowd, and draw breath untraced and unknown. If she had left the metropolis, the fact could easily be ascertained by examining the list of passports. Maurice walked on and on, until gradually the clamorous city grew silent, and the streets were deserted. Besides the vigilant police, only a few, late revellers, with uncertain steps, and faces hardly more haggard than his own, passed him, from time to time. Still he walked, carrying his hat in his hand, that the night-breeze might cool his fevered brow.
There was a stir of wheels again, a waking-up movement around him; shop-windows lifting their shutter-lids, and opening their closed eyes; men and women bustling forward, with busy, refreshed morning faces. Another day had dawned and brought its weight of anguish for endurance. Maurice had paced the streets all night. The light that struck sharply upon his bloodshot eyes first made him aware of the new morning. The season for action then had arrived; the night had flown as a hideous dream. He did not know into what part of London he had wandered, but hailed a cab, sprang in, and gave the order to be driven to Morley's. The distance seemed insupportably long. He was now tormented by the fear that he should not reach his destination in time to take the first train for Dover. When he alighted at the hotel, he learned that in less than an hour the train would start. He dashed off a few, incoherent, sorrowful lines to Bertha, hastily crammed his clothes into his trunk, paid his bill, drove to the station, and secured a seat one moment before the railway carriages were in motion.
After he had crossed the channel, and entered a railway coach at Calais, utter exhaustion succeeded to his state of turbulent wretchedness. Nature asserted her soothing rights, and poured over his bruised spirit the balm of sleep. With reviving strength came renewed hope, and when he awoke at the terminus, in Paris, he was inspired with the conviction that he should find Madeleine in that vast metropolis,—a conviction as firm as the belief he had entertained that he would behold her in Scotland, and afterwards that he would discover her in London. He hastened to thebureau des passeports, and examined the list. Nopassport had beenvisédto which her name was attached. It was then certain that she was still in Paris. But what method could he devise for a systematic search? He thought of the argus-eyed, keen-scented police, who, with the faintest clew, can trace out any footprint once made within the precincts of the far-spreading barriers; but could he drag his cousin's name before those public authorities? Could he describe her person to them, and enter into details which would enable them to hunt her down like a criminal? Delicacy, manly feeling, forbade. He must seek her himself, unaided, unguided; and a superstitious faith grew strong within him that, through his unremitting search, never foregone, never relaxed, he would discover her at last.
His plan was sufficiently vague and wild. He resolved to scour Paris from end to end, scanning every face that passed him, until the light shone upon hers, and kindled up once more his darkened existence.
When he last returned from Brittany, he had engaged one small, plain apartment in the Rue Bonaparte, theLatinquarter of the city,—a favorite locality of students. Here he again took up his abode, or, rather, here he passed his nights; he could scarcely be said to have a dwelling-place by day. From dawn until late in the evening he wandered through the streets, peering into every youthful countenance that flitted by him, quickening his pace if he caught sight of some graceful female form above the ordinary stature, and plunging onward in pursuit, with his heart throbbing madly, and his fevered brain cheating him with phantoms. His search became almost a monomania. His mind, fixed strainingly upon this one, all-engrossing object, lost its balance, and he could no longer reason upon his own course, or see its futility, or devise a better. The invariable disappointment which closed every day's search, by some strange contradiction, only confirmed him in the belief that Madeleine was in Paris, and that he would shortly find her there; that he would meet her by some fortunate chance; would be drawn to her by some mysterious magnetic instinct. Every few days he visited thebureau des passeports, to ascertain whether her passport had been presented to beviséd.
To the friends he daily encountered he scarcely spoke, but hurried past them with hasty greeting, and a painfully engrossed look, which caused the sympathetic to turn their heads and gaze after him, wondering at the disordered attire and unsettled demeanor of the once elegant and vivacious young nobleman, who had graced the most courtly circles, and was looked upon as the very "glass of fashion and mould of form."
Maurice had been nearly a month in Paris, passing his days in the manner we have described, when, for the first time, he encountered Gaston de Bois. The former would have hastened on, with only the rapid salutation which had grown habitual to him, but M. de Bois stopped with outstretched hand, and said,—
"Where have you hidden yourself? I have been expecting to see you ever since I came to Paris; but I could not discover where you lod—od—odged."
"My lodgings are in the Rue Bonaparte, numero —," returned Maurice, abruptly; "but I am seldom at home."
"You will allow me to take my chance of finding you?" asked M. de Bois, forcibly struck by his friend's altered appearance. "Or," he added, "you will come to see me instead? I am at the Hotel Meurice at present."
"Thank you," said Maurice, absently, and glancing around him at the passers-by as he spoke. "Good-morning."
M. de Bois would not be shaken off thus unceremoniously. He was too much distressed by the evident mental condition of the viscount. He turned and walked beside him, though conscious that Maurice looked annoyed.
"When we parted, did you go to Scotland, as you pro—o—po—sed?" inquired Gaston.
"Yes; but Lady Vivian was in London. I sought her there. She knew nothing of my cousin. I returned to Paris; for I am sure Madeleine is here."
"Here?" almost gasped M. de Bois, stopping suddenly.
Maurice walked on without even noticing the strange confusion that arrested his companion's steps.
The latter recovered himself and rejoined him, asking, in as unconcerned a tone as he could command, "What has caused you to think so?"
"I am certain of it;—her passport was taken out for England, but it has not beenvisédin Paris. She must be here still, and I know that I shall find her. I have walked the streets day after day, hoping to meet her, and I tell you I shall—I must!"
M. de Bois, whose equanimity had only been disturbed for a moment, shook his head sorrowfully, saying, "I fearnot; it does not seem likely."
"To me itdoes. Fifty times I have thought I caught sight of her, but she disappeared before I could make my way through some crowd to the spot where she was standing. This will not last forever,—ere long we shall meet face to face."
"I hope so! I heartily hope so! I would give all I possess, though that is little enough, to have it so!"
These words were spoken with such generous warmth, that Maurice was moved. He had not before noticed the change in his Breton neighbor,—a change the precise opposite to the one which had taken place in himself, yet quite as remarkable.
Gaston's address was no longer nervous and flurried; he had gained considerable self-command and repose of manner. The air of uncomfortable diffidence, which formerly characterized his deportment, had disappeared, and given place to a manly and cheerful bearing.
"If he loves Madeleine," thought Maurice, "how can he look so calm while she is—God only knows where, and exposed to what dangers?"
"Have you heard from Mademoiselle Ber—er—ertha?" asked M. de Bois, with some hesitation.
"Yes, several times. My cousin Bertha was broken-hearted at the news I sent her from London; but I trust that soon"—
He did not conclude his sentence: his wan face lighted up; his restless, straining eyes were fastened upon some form that passed in a carriage. Without even bidding M. de Bois good morning, he broke away and pursued the carriage; for some time he kept up with it, then Gaston saw him motion vehemently to a sleepy coachman, who was lazily driving an empty fiacre. The next moment Maurice had opened the door himself and leaped into the vehicle; it followed the carriage the young viscount had kept in view, and soon both were out of sight.
The imagination of Maurice had become so highly inflamed that forms and faces constantly took the outline and lineaments of those ever-present to his mind. And when, after some exhausting pursuits, he approached near enough for the illusive likeness to fade away, or when the shape he was impetuously making towards was lost to sight before it could be neared, he always felt as though he had been upon the eve of that discovery upon which all his energies were concentrated.
After their accidental encounter Gaston de Bois called upon Maurice repeatedly, but never found him at home.
Bertha continued to write sorrowful letters teeming with inquiries. Maurice answered briefly, as though he could not spare time to devote to his pen, but always giving her hope that the very next letter would convey the glad intelligence which she pined to receive. Four months was the limit of her yearly visit to the Château de Gramont, and the period of her stay was rapidly drawing to a close. She wrote that in a few days her uncle would arrive and take her back to his residence in Bordeaux.The language in which this communication was made plainly indicated that she would rejoice at the change. She touched upon the probability of seeing Maurice before she left; but he was unmoved by the half-invitation; nothing could induce him to leave Paris while he cherished the belief that Madeleine was within its walls.
Count Tristan wrote and urged him to return home; but the summons was unheeded. He could not have endured, while his mind was in this terrible state of incertitude, to behold again the old château, which must conjure up so many harrowing recollections. Then, too, his natural affection for his father and his grandmother was embittered by the remembrance of their persecution of Madeleine. Until she had been found,—until he could hear from her own lips (as he knew he should) that she harbored no animosity towards them,—he could not force himself to forgive their injustice and cruelty. She alone had power to soften his heart and cement anew the broken link.
The marvellous change in the bearing of Gaston de Bois, by which Maurice was struck, had been wrought by a triad of agents. A man who had passed his life in indolent seclusion, who had plunged into a tangled labyrinth of abstruse books, not in search of valuable knowledge, but to lose in its mazes the recollection of valueless hours; who had allowed his days to drag on in aimless monotony; who had fallen into melancholy because he lacked a healthy stimulus to rouse his faculties out of their life-deadening torpidity; who had allowed his nervous diffidence to gain such complete mastery over him that it tied his tongue, and clouded his vision, and confused his brain; who had despised himself because he was keenly conscious that his existence was purposeless and profitless;—this man, subjected to the sudden impetus of an occupation for which his mental acquirements and sedentary habits alike fitted him, found his new life a revelation. He had emerged from the dusty, beaten, grass-withered path his feet had spiritlessly trodden from earliestyouth, and entered a field of bloom and verdure where the very stir of the atmosphere exhilarated, where the labor to be performed called dormant capacities into play and tested their strength, where each day's achievement gave the delightful assurance of latent powers within himself hitherto unrecognized,—in a word, where his manhood was developed through the regenerating virtue, the glorious might, the blessed privilege ofwork!
The second cause which had contributed to bring about the happy metamorphosis in Gaston de Bois sprang out of the hope-inspiring words Madeleine had dropped on that day which closed so darkly on the duke's orphan daughter. Those few, passing, precious words had fallen like fructuous seed and struck deep root in Gaston's spirit; and, as the germs shot upward, every branch was covered with blossoms of hope which perfumed his nights and days. He dared to believe that Bertha did not look upon him with disdain,—that she sympathized with the misfortune which debarred him from free intercourse with society,—that a deeper interest might emanate from this compassionate regard. The possibility of becoming worthy of her no longer appeared a dream so wild and baseless; but he was too modest, too distrustful of himself, to have given that golden dream entertainment had it not been inspired by Madeleine's kindly breath.
The third cause which combined with the two just mentioned to revolutionize his character will unfold itself hereafter.
The more cognizant M. de Bois became that powerful influences were vivifying, strengthening, and bringing order out of confusion in his own mind, the more troubled he felt in pondering over the disordered mental condition of Maurice. During a whole month after their accidental encounter in the street he called repeatedly at the lodgings of the viscount, but never once found him at home. Half discouraged, yet unwilling to abandon the hope of an interview, he persisted in his fruitless visits. One morning, to his unbounded satisfaction, when he inquired of theconciergeif M. de Gramont was within, an affirmative answer was returned. Gaston could hardly credit the welcome intelligence, and involuntarily repeated the question.
"Ah, yes, poor young gentleman! he's not likely to be out again soon!" replied his informant, in a pitying tone.
Without waiting for an explanation of the mysterious words, M. de Bois quickly ascended to the fifth story, and, being admitted into the antechamber by a neat-looking domestic, knocked at the door of the apartment which was indicated to him.
The voice of a stranger bade him enter. He turned the doorknob with shaking hand. The room was so small that it could be taken in at a single glance. It was a plain, almost furniture-less apartment. In the narrow bed lay Maurice. His eyes—those great, blue eyes which so strongly resembled Bertha's—were glittering with the wild lights of delirium; fever burned on his cheeks and seemed to scorch his parched lips. The fair, clustering curls were matted and tangled about his brow; his arms were tossing restlessly about. He sprang up into a sitting posture as Gaston appeared at the door, and gazed at him eagerly; then stared around, peering into every corner of the chamber, as though in quest of some one. Those searching glances were followed by a look of blank despair that settled heavily upon his pain-contracted features as he sank back and closed his eyes.
Beside the bed sat a woman, clad in the shapeless dress of black serge, and wearing the widely projecting white bonnet and cape, black veil, white band across the brow, and beneath the chin, which compose the attire of a sisterde bon secours. She was one of that community of self-abnegating women, who, bound by holy vows, devote their lives to the care of the suffering, and are the most skilful, tender, and zealous nurses that France affords.
Just beyond the good "sister" stood a young man, poring over a piece of paper, which had the appearance of a medical prescription: a spirited-looking youth, whose harmonious and intellectual cast of features was heightened to rare beauty by richly mellow coloring, and the silken curves of a beard and moustache unprofaned by a razor,—curves softly traced above the fresh, rubious lips, and gracefully deepening about the cheeks and chin,—curves that disappear forever when the civilized barbarism of shaving has been accepted.
He came forward when M. de Bois entered, and accosted him in an earnest, rapid tone.
"I hope, sir, you are a friend of this gentleman. Am I right in my supposition?"
"Yes—yes—what—what has happened?" asked M. de Bois, his countenance plainly betokening his alarm.
"I occupy the adjoining apartment," continued the stranger. "My name is Walton. Three nights ago I was startled by the sound of some object falling heavily near my door, followed by a deep groan. I found this gentleman lying on the ground, apparently insensible. I carried him into his chamber, laid him upon the bed, and summoned theconcierge. The name inscribed upon her book is the Viscount Maurice de Gramont, and his last residence the château of his father, Count Tristan de Gramont, in Brittany, near Rennes. I took upon myself the responsibility of calling a physician,—Dr. Dupont,—and, through his advice, of engaging this good 'sister,' one of the 'sœurs de bon secours,' as a nurse. Dr. Dupont wrote to his patient's father; but no answer has been received. I have been with your friend very constantly. You perceive he has a raging fever; he talks a great deal, but too incoherently to be able to answer any questions or to give any directions."
This information was communicated with a quick, energetic intonation, while the speaker stood fanning Maurice, and preventing the hand which he flung about from striking against the wall. There was a confident rapidity in the stranger's movements, a vigorous manliness and self-dependence in his bearing, strikingly dissimilar to the deportment which usually characterizes young Parisians at the same age. Though he spoke the French language with fluent correctness, a slightly foreign accent betrayed to M. de Bois that he was not a native of France.
Gaston thanked him as warmly as his troublesome impediment permitted, and said that he would himself write to the Count de Gramont. Then, bending over his friend, took his hot, unquiet hand, and spoke to him again and again. His voice failed to touch any chord of memory and cause it to vibrate in recognition. Maurice was muttering the same word over and over; Gaston hardly needed to bow his head to catch the imperfect sound; he knew, before he heard distinctly, that it was the name of "Madeleine."
"Had you not better write your letterimmediately?" asked young Walton. "Will you walk into my room? I do not see any writing materials here. Mine are at your service."
Gaston, as he followed the stranger into the adjoining chamber, could not but be struck by the easy, off-hand, decided manner in which he spoke, and the promptitude with which he desired to accomplish the work to be done.
Mr. Walton's sitting-room, which was separated from his bed-chamber, was much larger than the apartment of Maurice. It had an air of great comfort, if not of decided elegance, and testified to the literary and artistic taste of its occupant. The walls were decorated with fine photographic views, and some early efforts in painting. Here stood an easel, holding an unfinished picture; there an open piano; further on a convenient writing-table; in the centre another table covered with books and portfolios; materials for writing and sketching were scattered about with a bachelor's disregard for order.
"I will clear you a space here," said he, sweeping the contents of one table upon another, already overburdened. "Everything is in confusion; for I have been working at odd moments. I could not make up my mind to go to the studio. I would not leave that poor fellow until somebody claimed him. What an interesting face he has! If he were only better, I would make a sketch. His countenance is just my beau ideal of the young Saxon knight in a historical picture I am painting. A man always finds materials for art just beneath his hand, if he only has wit and thrift to stoop and gather them as he goes. But I fear I am interrupting you. Make yourself at home. I will leave you while you are writing. Really, I cannot express how glad I am that you have come at last. I have been looking for you—that is, for somebody who knew M. de Gramont—every moment for two days."
After drawing back the curtains to give M. de Bois more light, and glancing around to see that he was supplied with all he could require, the young artist returned to the apartment of Maurice.
Ronald Walton was born of South Carolinian parents,—their only child. His boyhood was not passed in a locality calculated to develop artistic instincts, nor had his education afforded him artistic advantages, nor had he been thrown into a sphere of artistic associates; yet from the time his tiny fingers could hold brush or pencil he had seized upon engravings of romantic scenery, copied them upon an enlarged scale, and painted them in oil, to the astonishment of his parents and friends. When his young companions extracted enjoyment from fish-hook and gun, and hilariously filled game-bags and fishing-baskets, he sat quietly drinking in a higher, more humane delight before his easel. These tastes, as they strengthened, caused his father, though a liberal and cultivated man, severe disappointment. At times he was even disposed to place a compulsory check upon his son's artist proclivities; but the soft, persuasive voice of the gentle, refined, clear-sighted mother interposed. She had made the most loving study of her child's character, and had faith in his fitness for the vocation he desired to adopt. She pleaded that his obvious gift might be tested, and proved spurious or genuine, before it was trampled under foot as unworthy of recognition; and her heart-wisdom finally prevailed.
Ronald was sent to Paris to study under a distinguished master. During three years he had made golden use of his opportunities. He was remarkable among his fellow-students for hisindomitable perseverance, and his power of concentrating all his thoughts upon his work. He experienced a desire to attain excellence forits own sake, not for the petty ambition ofexcelling others. Thus he became very popular among his associates, and excited their admiration without ever awakening the jealousies of wounded self-love. Though he had determined to devote his life to art, from the conviction that it was the vocation for which he came commissioned from the Creator's hand, there was nothing morbid in his passion for his profession. It was a healthy love of the beautiful in outward form, springing from the love of all which the beautiful typifies, combined with a strong impulse to represent and perpetuate the haunting images of varied loveliness which constantly floated through his brain.
The young Carolinian was called an enthusiast even by his French fellow-students, with whom enthusiasm is an inheritance; but his enthusiasm was allied to a severely critical taste,—a rare combination; and being grafted upon the tree ofpracticability, indigenous to the soil of his young country, it brought down his ideal conceptions into actual execution.
The philosopher of the present day scouts atenthusiasm; but what agent is half so mighty in giving the needful spur to genius? Enthusiasm kindles a new flame in the chilled soul when the ashes of disappointment have extinguished its fires; enthusiasm reinvigorates and braces the spirit that has become weary and enervated in the oppressive atmosphere of uncongenialentourage; enthusiasm is the cool, refreshing breeze of a warm climate and the blazing log of a cold. Ronald's unexhausted enthusiasm was the secret fountain whose waters nourished laurels for him in the gardens of success.
M. de Bois, when he had concluded his letter, found the art-student at the bedside of Maurice.
"I will post your letter, if you please," said Ronald; "then I will make a moment's descent into the studio, or some of those noisy madcaps will be rushing here after me. I will return, however, before long, if you have no objection."
Hardly waiting for M. de Bois's courteous, but rather slowly-expressed acknowledgment, he hurried away.
For a couple of hours Gaston sat beside Maurice, listening to his indistinct ravings, and tracing out that striking likeness to a countenance he had studied too closely for his own peace. Now and then he exchanged a word or two with the good "sister," as she moistened the lips, or bathed the brow of the sufferer.
The doctor came, but pronounced his patient no better, andthrew out a hint that he had some fears the fever was taking the form of typhus; adding a warning in regard to the danger of infection. That intelligence had no influence upon Gaston, who resolved to pass as many hours as possible with his friend. Nor did it affect Ronald Walton, when he returned and heard the physician's verdict.
The two young men for the next four days alternately shared the duties of the holy "sister."
The postal arrangements between Paris and Rennes chanced, at that moment, to be very imperfect; the letter of Dr. Dupont never reached its destination, and that of M. de Bois was delayed on its route. It was not until the fifth day after it was posted that Count Tristan, who obeyed the summons with all haste, arrived in Paris. His son had never once evinced sufficient consciousness to recognize Gaston de Bois, but, the instant the count was ushered into the room, was seized with a fit of frenzy, and broke forth in a torrent of reproaches, upbraided his father with the ruin and death of Madeleine, charged him with having wrought the destruction of his own son, and warned him that he had brought utter desolation upon his ancestral home.
Dr. Dupont, who entered the room during this paroxysm, suggested to the count the propriety of withdrawing. The latter, although every word Maurice uttered inflicted a deadly pang, could not, at first, be induced to tear himself away. The doctor was resolute in pronouncing his sentence of banishment, and declared that the viscount's life might be the sacrifice if he were subjected to further excitement.
We will not attempt to portray the poignant sufferings of the count, who, in spite of his wiliness and worldliness, was passionately attached to his only child,—the central axis upon which all his hopes, his schemes, his whole world moved.
Several times, while the invalid was sleeping, his father ventured to steal into the chamber; but, by some strange species of magnetism, his very sphere seemed to affect the slumberer, who invariably awoke, and recognized, or partially recognized him, and burst out anew in violent denunciations, to which respect would never have allowed him to give utterance, except under the stimulus of delirium. The count writhed and shrank beneath the fierce stabbing of those incisive words, and, in his ungovernable grief, flung himself beside the son, whom he feared death would shortly snatch from his arms, pouring forth assurances Maurice would once have hailed as words of life, but which now fell powerless upon his unheeding ears. While Count Tristan's overwhelming anguish lasted, there was no promise he would not have made to purchase his son's restoration, and no promise he would not have broken, if interest prompted, when the peril was past.
After one of these agitating interviews, the doctor's edict entirely closed the door of the patient's chamber against the count, who was forced to admit the wisdom of the order.
Gaston de Bois and Ronald Walton, between whom a pleasant intimacy was springing up, continued to watch by the bed of Maurice. Another fortnight passed, and though he lay, as it were, in a grave of fire, the doctor's prediction of typhus fever was not verified. At the expiration of this period, Ronald was the first to notice a favorable change, and to discover that the invalid had lucid intervals which showed his reason was reascending her abdicated throne. But he abstained from pointing out the improvement to Gaston, fearing that, in his joy, he might communicate the consolatory intelligence to the count, who would then insist upon seeing his son, and possibly reproduce the evil results by which his former visits had been attended.
Maurice had ceased to moan and mutter, and lay motionless as one thoroughly exhausted. He slept much, waking for but a few moments, and sinking again into a species of half-lethargy. There was something inexpressibly sweet and pleasant in his present calmness; his mind seemed to have been mysteriously soothed and satisfied; the turbulent waves, that dashed him hither and thither against the sharp rocks of doubt and fear, had subsided. His features, especially when he slept, wore an expression of the most serene contentment.
Thesœur de bon secours, who had watched him through the night, had yielded her place to the "sister," who assumed the office of nurse during the day. Gaston entered soon after, and, finding the patient gently slumbering, sat down beside his bed. After a time, Maurice stirred, drew a long breath, and slowly opened his eyes. They met those of his watcher. For some time the invalid gazed at him without speaking, and then said, in a tone that was hardly audible,—
"M. de Bois."
"My dear Maurice—dear friend—you are better,—you know me at last," exclaimed Gaston, joyfully.
"I knew you before; you have been the most faithful of friends and nurses. I knew you quite well, and I knewhertoo!"
Gaston bounded from his chair, breathing so hard that hecould scarcely stammer out, "Her! who—o—o—om do you me—e—ean?"
"Madeleine," replied Maurice, confidently.
"Mademoiselle Mad—ad—adeleine; you are dream—eaming!"
"No! I thought so at first, and the dream was so sweet that I would not break it by word or motion, fearing that I should discover it was not reality. But it was nodream. Night after night,—how many I do not know—I could not count,—I have seen Madeleine beside me! When the good 'sister' moved about the room, in the dim light of theveilleuse, in spite of her coarse, unshapely garb, I recognized the outlines of Madeleine's form; notwithstanding the uncouth bonnet, and the white bandage that concealed her hair and brow, and, passing beneath her chin, almost hid her face, I recognized the features of Madeleine. I watched her as she glided about the room, and with her delicate, noiseless, rapidly moving touch created the most perfect order around her. I heard her as she softly sang sweet anthems, and I could not mistake the voice of Madeleine. I felt her hand, her cool, fresh, velvety hand, upon my burning forehead, and it soothed me deliciously. I lay with closed eyes as she bathed my temples, and passed her fingers through my hair to loosen its tangles. I was afraid of frightening her away, or finding I saw but a vision. The water she held to my lips was nectar; when she smoothed my pillow, all pain passed from the temples that rested upon it, throbbing with agony before, and I sank into a sweet slumber,—not unconscious slumber: I knew that I was sleeping; I knew that Madeleine sat there, filling the place of the sister of charity; I knew that when I opened my eyes I should see her,—and I did, again and again. I never once spoke to her; I feared some spell would be broken if I breathed her name. In the morning she disappeared; but I knew she would come again at midnight, when all was quiet, and the light was carefully shaded. M. de Bois, my dear Gaston, I tell youI have seen Madeleine!"
M. de Bois sat still, looking too much astounded to utter a word.
"I see you cannot believe me," Maurice continued. "She never came while you were here, and so you think it is a dream. A happy dream! a dream full of the balm of Gilead! for she has cured me! My brain was a burning volcano until her hand was laid upon my brow, and I gazed in her face, and knew it was no phantom. Do not look so much distressed, my dear Gaston. I am perfectly in my senses."
M. de Bois did not contradict him. Perhaps he remembered the good rule of never opposing a sick man's vagaries. After a pause he said,—
"Maurice, since you are quite yourself, would you not like to see your father?"
The wan face of Maurice flushed slightly.
"Is he here?"
"Yes, he has been here for more than a fortnight. The doctor forbade his entering. Will you not see him now?"
The invalid assented languidly. He had perhaps spoken too much and overtaxed his strength.
The joy of Count Tristan was deep and voiceless when he was once more permitted to embrace his son. He was so fearful of touching upon some painful chord, and of again hearing those frantic ravings, that he had no language at his command. Maurice, in a faint tone, inquired after his grandmother and Bertha, and then seemed too weary to prolong the conversation. Glad at heart, as the count could not but feel, at the wonderful improvement in his son, he was ill at ease in his presence, and seemed always to have some haunting dread upon his mind. It was a relief when the doctor forbade his patient to converse, and hinted that the count should make his visits very brief.
The next day, when M. de Bois entered, Maurice greeted him in a mournful tone.
"She did not come last night. I watched for her in vain. The 'sister,' yonder, went as usual at midnight, and came back in the morning; but, during the night, a stranger took her place."
What could M. de Bois answer? He gave a sigh of sympathy, but did not attempt to make any comment.
"She knows perhaps that my father is here, and she will come no more for fear of being discovered. But I haveseen her, Gaston! I know I have seen her! I could not have lived if I had not. And her countenance was not sad,—it wore a look of patient hope that lent a glory to her face. The very remembrance of that saint-like expression put to shame the despair to which I have yielded."
"I—I—I—am"—
M. de Bois could get no further. If he meant to use any argument to persuade Maurice that it was only a vision, conjured up by his fevered imagination, which he had seen, the attempt would have been vain. Maurice clung to the belief that he had really beheld Madeleine, and that conviction soothed, strengthened, and reanimated him.
Up to this period of his life the vigorous constitution of Maurice had suffered no exhausting drain. His habits had been so regular, his mode of life so simple, that his finephysiquehad been untrifled with, uninjured. As a natural sequence, the first inroads made upon its strength were rapidly repaired. The fever once conquered, in a week he was sufficiently convalescent to walk out, leaning on the arm of Gaston de Bois, or Ronald Walton. His gait was feeble, his form attenuated, his countenance had lost its ruddy glow,—the lines had sharpened until their youthful, healthful roundness was wholly obliterated; but the nervous, untranquil expression had passed away from his face, and the restless glancing from side to side had left his eyes. Through the stimulating medium of fresh air and gentle exercise he gathered new vitality, and the promise of speedy restoration was daily confirmed.
His favorite resort was theatelierof the celebrated master under whose direction Ronald was studying his art. Seated in the comfortable arm-chair devoted to the use of models, Maurice often remained for hours, watching the busy brushes and earnest faces, among which the genius-lighted countenance of the young Carolinian shone conspicuously. On one of these occasions, after sitting for some time lost in thought, when he chanced to turn his head Ronald surprised him by crying out,—
"My dear fellow, don't move! Keep that position another moment,—will you? I am making a sketch of your head. It has just the outline I want for my Saxon Knight after the battle."
Maurice could not but smile at this evidence of the national trait of the young American, who seized upon every material within his reach for the advancement of his art. Ronald's words, too, struck him,—"After the battle!" Well might he resemble one who had passed through a severe conflict; but it was also one who was prepared to fight valiantly anew, and not disposed to succumb to the army of adverse circumstances arrayed against his peace.
It was not possible for a young man, endowed with the impressible temperament of Maurice, to be thrown into constant communication with an associate as full of vigorous activity as Ronald Walton, without being stirred and inspired by the contact. The force, decision, aptitude, promptness, which distinguished Ronald, had constituted him a sort of prince among his fellow-students, who gave him the lead in all their united movements, without defining to themselves his claim to supremacy. Ronald's character was not free from imperfections; but its very faults were essentially national,—were characteristics of that "fast-running nation" which is "indivertible in aim," and incredulous of the existence of the unattainable. His dominant failing was a self-dependence, which, in a weaker nature, would have degenerated into self-sufficiency, but just stopped short of that complacent, puerile egotism, which narrows the mind, and rears its own opinions upon a judgment-seat to pronounce verdicts upon the rest of the world. He never doubted his ability to scale any height upon which he fixed his eyes; he laughed at obstacles; he did not believe in impossibilities; what any other man could accomplish, that he had an internal conviction he might also achieve; and he held the faith of the poet-queen that all men were possible heroes.
These attributes were precisely those most calculated to impress and charm Maurice, and he regarded Ronald with unbounded admiration, mingled with a sickening sense of regret when he reflected upon the trammels which reined in the ready impulses and crushed the instinctive aspirations which were wrestling within himself.
Count Tristan, as soon as his son was sufficiently restored to travel, suggested that he should return with him to Brittany; but Maurice betrayed such uncompromising reluctance to this proposal that his father thought it wise not to press the point.
Though the count had escaped a calamity, which even to contemplate had almost driven him out of his mind,—though his son's life was spared, and his restoration to vigorous health assured,—at times the father felt as if that son were lost to him forever. An inexplicable reserve had risen up and thrust them asunder. In the count's presence Maurice was always abstracted and pensive; he uttered no complaints, made no petitions. He had come to the conclusion that both were useless; but his opinions and wishes were no longer frankly, boldly, iterated. He and his father stood upon different platforms, with an invisible, but an insurmountable barrier looming up between them. Count Tristan, albeit irritated, galled, grieved, could discover no mode of reëstablishing the olden footing. After spending a monthin Paris, he returned to Brittany, his mind filled with discomforting forebodings, to which he could give no definite shape.
Maurice was once more left in the great, gay capital, his own master,—at liberty to plunge into whatever sea of dissipation, to float idly down whatever tide of pleasure lured him. But he wronged himself when he warned his father, some months previous, that if he were debarred from studying a profession, he might seek excitement, or oblivion, in impure channels, and waste his exuberant energies in degrading pastimes. He spoke on the spur of some vague, restless impulse within him, that clamored for an outlet; but he misjudged himself in imagining that he could be compelled to drown the memory of his disappointment in the wine-cup, the vortex of the gaming-table, or the more fearful maelstrom of siren allurements. To a young heart which has not been sullied by familiar contact with evil, there is no ægis so invulnerable to the assaults of those deadly enemies, who make their attacks in the fascinating garb of licentious liberty, as a strong, pure, life-absorbing attachment. He who wears the shield of a first, stainless affection, carries Ithuriel's spear in his hand, and, at a single touch, the sensual enchanter in his path, however resplendent its disguise, drops the fair-featured mask and shining mantle, and stands revealed in native hideousness. The image of Madeleine, ever present to Maurice, drew around him a protecting circle which nothing vile could enter, and, wherever his own eyes turned, it seemed to him that her heavenly eyes followed. Could he profane their holy gaze by fixing his upon scenes of captivating degradation and rose-crowned vice?
Day after day, as his strength returned, it was but natural that he should grow more and more weary of monotonous indolence, and more and more impatient to escape from its depressing, deadening thraldom. The happy change, which a settled occupation had effected in Gaston de Bois, seemed to add to the discontent of his friend. Sometimes he was on the point of starting for Brittany, and making a fresh appeal to his father; then he was withheld by the dread that an angry discussion would be the only sequence. He knew that his father's pride, sustained by that of his grandmother, was unconquerable, and that the sentence, which condemned him to a dreary, inert, and profitless existence, would only be pronounced upon him anew.
Since his illness he had entirely abandoned his vain search for Madeleine. He always felt as though he had seen her, albeit, when he attempted to reflect upon the likelihood that she hadactually sat beside his couch, and watched over him during his illness, reason essayed to efface the impression which could hardly have been made by the fingers of reality. Even granting that Madeleine, on leaving Brittany, had joined the sisterhood, and proposed to devote her life to holy offices, for which she was richly dowered by nature, was there not a novitiate to be passed? How could she so soon have entered upon her sacred duties? And if by some mysterious dispensation she had been absolved from the probation of a novice, how could she have learned that he was ill? How could she have come to him so promptly? Was it probable that Mr. Walton, an entire stranger, had, by mere accident, selected a nurse from the very society which she had joined? These questions, and others equally difficult to answer, sprang up constantly in his mind, and found no satisfactory solution. Yet the conviction that he had actually beheld her remained unshaken.
Bertha had been apprised by her aunt of the dangerous illness of Maurice, and had written to him when he was unable to read her letters. As soon as he was convalescent, they were placed in his hands.
"My dear Gaston, write a line to my cousin for me," begged Maurice, feeling that he had not strength to reply, and little dreaming what a thrill of joy ran through Gaston's frame at that request.
M. de Bois wrote,—wrote with an eloquence that could never have found utterance through his tongue.
If we may judge from the number of times Bertha perused that letter, or if we may draw an inference from her wearing it about her person (probably that she might be able to refresh her memory with its information concerning her cousin), the epistle was either very difficult of comprehension, or it had some witching spell which drew her eyes irresistibly to its cabalistic characters.
She had not recovered her wonted buoyancy. Beneath her uncle's roof she pined for Madeleine hardly less than at the Château de Gramont.
The Marquis de Merrivale, her guardian, was a bachelor. The chief object of his existence was an endeavor to "take life easy," and guard himself from all vexations and discomforts. His next aim was to pamper the cravings of an epicurean appetite, but always with such judicious ministry that his digestive organs might not be impaired thereby. He was good-natured on principle, because it was too much trouble to get excited andvexed. His equanimity was seldom disturbed, save by his cook's failure in the concoction of a favorite dish.
Count Tristan had drawn largely on his invention when he informed the Marchioness de Fleury that Bertha's uncle was exceedingly tenacious of his rights, and jealous of the interference of his niece's relatives in regard to any future alliance she might form. The marquis never dreamed of troubling his brain with such a minor matter as matrimony. He was inclined to be governed entirely by Bertha's predilection,—to leave the affair wholly to her, throwing off the trouble with the responsibility. He could have no objection to see her affianced to the Duke de Montauban,—he would have had none to her union with Maurice de Gramont. He found it sufficient pleasure to have his bright-faced niece sitting opposite to him at table, so long as she was gay and had a good appetite. If he had thwarted her wishes he would have accused himself of making a base, unkinly attempt to injure her digestion by causing her annoyance. He considered himself quite incapable of so unworthy, so harmful so cruel an action.
When she returned from the Château de Gramont, he was discomposed at finding that she brought back a clouded visage, and seemed perfectly indifferent to the choicest dainties which he caused to be set before her as the most striking mark of his affection. Indeed, he became so uncomfortable when she rejected these delicate attentions day after day, that his mind was gradually prepared to look favorably upon a proposition which Bertha had resolved to make.
She had been at home about a month; they were dining,—that is, her uncle was enjoyingly partaking of the meal that rounded his day, while Bertha's fork played with the oysterpatéon her plate, dividing it into tiny bits, but never lifting one to her mouth. The marquis, after descanting warmly upon the excellence of thepaté, which he highly relished, interrupted his eulogium by saying,—
"My dear child, you have not tasted a morsel of this incomparablepaté! It is a triumph of culinary art! If you will just oblige me by touching a small piece to your lips; the paste is so light it will magically melt! Really, youmust eat!"
"I cannot, uncle."
"Try, try; it disturbs me greatly to see you sitting there looking so gloomy. It will really hurt my digestion, and that would be a frightful calamity. Don't you like Lucien's cooking? I think him a treasure; but if you cannot relish what he prepares he shall receive his dismissal."