Unfortunately Bertha's resources for self-diversion were of the most limited description. Hers was a social, a wholly dependent nature; she could not, like Madeleine, create her own amusement, and make her own occupation. She tried to read, but could not fix her attention; she tried to embroider, but quickly threw down her work; she could only wander in and out of the room, now watching at the window as though she expected some one; now sitting down and jumping up again; now turning over books and papers, and looking about for something, she did not know what, until she had thrown the room into complete disorder; and certainly her restless flitting backward and forward would have half distracted any one less absorbed than the countess. During one of Bertha's fits of contemplation at the window, she exclaimed,—
"Here comes Maurice, at last! I thought he would never be here!"
"I think my father is decidedly improving," said Maurice, as he entered. "I feel certain he recognized me to-day, and I thought he attempted to pronounce my name."
A faint light gleamed in the eyes of the countess at these words, but it was quenched by those which followed.
"Madeleine, he always seems to know, and he evidently likes to have her near him. His eyes wander after her when she leaves the room, and to-day, I thought he tried to smile when she returned."
"He is better then; it will soon be possible to move him; he can soon have that care whichshouldbe most acceptable to every son, and, I trust, has ever been to mine."
The countess made this assertion proudly, in spite of the deep wound she had received through her son's recognition of Madeleine; she had tried to forget that blow, or to persuade herself that it had not been dealt.
Maurice did not know what answer to make, and remained silent.
"Aunt, you would not think of having cousin Tristan brought here until he is nearly well,—that is, well enough to walk about,—would you?" asked Bertha; and her accents expressed her disapproval of such an attempt.
"He shall come the very moment that it is possible! Do you suppose that I would submit to his remaining where he is one instant longer than is absolutely necessary?"
No reply to this declaration was needed or expected. Maurice returned to Madeleine's house with a sense of thankfulness that the count's seizure had taken place where it did.
Gaston and the housekeeper were the watchers beside the count that night, taking the places of Madeleine and Maurice at midnight,—this exchange having now become the established rule for alternate nights.
In spite of the iron-like constitution, and iron-like character of the countess,—in spite of her valiant, her desperate struggles,—her strength began to fail under the pressure of her hidden sorrow. She was unwilling to admit that she was subject to bodily any more than to mental infirmities. She belonged to that rare class described by the poet when he speaks of one who
"Scarce confessesThat his blood flows, or that his appetiteIs more to bread than stone."
"Scarce confessesThat his blood flows, or that his appetiteIs more to bread than stone."
And though she had been suffering for days from a low nervous fever, neither her words nor actions gave the slightest indication that she was not in her usual health. But, one morning, when she endeavored to rise, her limbs refused to support her,—her head swam,—it was with difficulty that she poured out a glass of water to cool her parched and burning lips, and she was so fearful of falling (there seemed something positively awful to her in the possibility ofprostration, perhaps on account of the fall it typified) that she staggered back to bed and there remained.
Neither Bertha's persuasions, nor those of Maurice, could induce her to allow a physician to be summoned. Maurice suggested Dr. Bayard, who was attending Count Tristan, but the countess was even more opposed to him than to any other medical attendant. Was he not aware of her relationship to themantua-maker? Had he not seen Count Tristan recognize that humble and degraded relative when he did not know his own mother?—his own son? No,—she never allowed physicians to approach her; she never had need of them; she had none now, so she affirmed.
Bertha was not particularly well fitted to preside in a sick-room, and her maid, Adolphine, was versed in the arts of the toilet alone. She could have made the most charming cap for an invalid, but would have proved particularly clumsy in smoothing a pillow for the head by which the cap was to be worn. Yet the countess obstinately refused to have a proper attendant engaged. She wanted nothing, she said, except to be left to herself,—not to be disturbed,—not even to be accosted.
The position of Maurice grew far more painful than ever. He could no longer devote himself exclusively to his father. Even though he could, in reality, do nothing for his grandmother, yet he felt bound to pass a portion of the day by her side; for Bertha was too much distressed and too inefficient to be left with no assistance save that of her frivolous maid. Madeleine longed to seek her aunt, and make some few, needful arrangements for her comfort; but she could not doubt that her presence would do more harm than good. All that she could effect was to instruct Maurice, as far as possible, in the requirements of a sick-room, and to have prepared, in her own kitchen, the light food suitable to an invalid, which it would be difficult to obtain in a hotel. Every day delicate broth, beef tea as clear as amber, panada, simple jellies, and choice fruit were sent to Bertha for her aunt, without the knowledge of the countess; indeed, the only nourishment the invalid tasted was provided by the thoughtful Madeleine.
A fortnight passed on. At its close the vigorous constitution of the countess, united to her powerful volition, gained a victory over her malady. She had remained unshaken in her resolution not to receive medical advice; she had taken noremedies,—used no precautions; yet the fever had been conquered. Her strength began to return, and she insisted upon leaving her bed, and being dressed, not as befits an invalid, but in her usual precise andsoignéstyle. Adolphine timidly suggested that a wrapper would be more comfortable than her ordinary attire, and a morning cap would allow her to repose her head. The countess awed her into silence by remarking:
"I keep my chamber no longer. I shall dress in a manner suitable to the drawing-room."
During the progress of the tedious toilet, it was more than once apparent that she was battling against a sense of faintness; but even this discomfort did not induce her to allow a single pin to be less conscientiously placed, a single curl less carefully smoothed. Adolphine did not dare to betray that she perceived the failure of her mistress' strength, and had not courage to offer her a glass of water. When the folds of her heavy black silk dress were adjusted, her collar and sleeves, of rich lace, arranged, her girdle tightly clasped with a buckle of brilliants which was an heirloom, and her snowy hair ornamented with a Parisian head-dress of mingled lace, velvet, and flowers, she contemplated herself in the mirror as complacently as though she perceived no change in her shrunken, haggard, altered features, and rose up to proceed to thesalon.
Her first steps were so feeble and uncertain that Adolphine started forward involuntarily, to offer her arm; but a look from her mistress made her draw back, and the tread of the countess grew firmer as she entered the drawing-room. She did not sink into the nearest seat, but crossed the apartment to the arm-chair which she was accustomed to occupy; but she had hardly sat down, before her eyes closed and her head fell back; her face was as white as that of the dead. Adolphine caught up a bottle of cologne; but she stood in such fear of the countess, that without using the restorative she ran to summon Bertha. Bertha approached her aunt in great alarm, but sprinkled the cologne on her face with lavish hands, applied it to her nostrils, and bathed her temples. In a few moments Madame de Gramont opened her eyes and said,—
"A little on my handkerchief, Bertha. Adolphine carelessly forgot to give me any."
Her proud, unconquered spirit would not admit the passing insensibility of its mortal part. There was nothing to be done except for her niece and maid to appear unconscious of the weakness which she herself ignored. Adolphine placed a footstool beneath her mistress' feet and retired. Bertha went to the window and looked out,—a favorite amusement of hers, as we are aware.
The fortnight had been one of severe privation and discipline to her. She had not once seen Madeleine, for she could not have left her aunt, except when Maurice was with her, and the countess would not have permitted her niece to go forth unprotected by Maurice or her maid, and the latter could not be spared. The escort of Bertha's affianced husband Madame de Gramont would have considered highly improper.
Gaston's visits, though he came every day, were brief and unsatisfactory; for the countess, who could not forbid them, (as she felt inclined to do), ordered the large folding-doors which divided her chamber from the drawing-room to be left open, and desired Adolphine to take her work into the latter apartment. Conversation in an ordinary tone was quite audible to the countess, and could not but be heard by Adolphine, who had a tolerable knowledge of English. What lover cares to converse to more than one listener?
Bertha pined for the fresh air,—for a drive in the country, or, better still, a stroll in the capitol grounds with Gaston; but this latter was a happiness almost as far out of her reach as the paradise which she deemed it foreshadowed.
The countess had grown highly irascible during her illness, and as Bertha and her maid were the only ones upon whom she had a chance of venting her spleen, she spared neither. She experienced a sick longing for her native land; she more than ever detested the republican country in which she was sojourning, and she heaped upon Bertha the bitterest reproaches as the instigator of the exile which had been followed by so many calamities. The countess never condescended to remember that her wealthy young relative had liberally borne all expenses since they left the Château de Gramont, where its owners had no longer the means of residing. Of this fact she might be supposed to be ignorant, as she never vouchsafed a thought tomoney matters; it, however, had been made known to her by Count Tristan before she consented to the journey; but thetrivial circumstancewas quickly forgotten.
While Bertha was dreamily looking out of the window, and wondering when she would be freed from this prison-like life, she heard the door open, and turned quickly, hoping to greet the all-brightening presence. It was Robert, Madeleine's servant, who entered bearing a silver salver. Bertha had not supposedthat the countess would, without warning, occupy her usual place in the drawing-room, and had not guarded against Robert's being seen. The young girl was so much discomposed that she stood motionless, aghast, expecting some terrible outburst from her aunt. Robert had admitted the countess at each of her compulsory visits to the residence of "Mademoiselle Melanie," and it seemed hardly possible that she would not recognize him again. Bertha ought to have known Madame de Gramont better than to have supposed she would have stooped to bestow glances enough upon a servant of Madeleine's, or, indeed, any servant, to know his features. Robert placed the salver upon the table, and either because he was naturally a silent man, or because the presence of the countess struck him dumb, or because he had no message to deliver that morning, retired without speaking. Bertha looked anxiously at her aunt; the immobility of her features was reassuring.
The salver bore a pitcher of admirably prepared chocolate, made by Madeleine herself, a plate carefully covered with a napkin, containing a delicate species of Normandy cake, to which the countess had been particularly partial in Brittany (Madeleine had remembered the recipe), and a dish of enormous strawberries, served, according to the French custom, with their stems. It occurred to Bertha, for the first time, that perhaps there was a cipher upon Madeleine's plate which would betray from whence it came; she examined a spoon before she ventured to present the tray to her aunt. The silver only bore the letter "M." Bertha, considerably relieved, but still flurried by the peril she had just escaped, placed a small table before Madame de Gramont, then poured out and handed her the chocolate in silence, fearing to provoke some question.
The countess, who was growing faint again, gladly accepted the nourishing beverage, and even ate several cakes. She seemed to enjoy them, for it was long since she had spoken in so pleasant a tone as when she remarked,—
"These cakes remind me of our noble old château; one would hardly suppose that they would be found in America."
Bertha suspected who had made the cakes, and, to draw her aunt's attention away from them, said,—
"What delicious strawberries! And how fragrant they are!"
The countess took one by the stem, and dipped it in the sugar, but with a disparaging look. It was large and juicy, and possessed a rich flavor and an aromatic odor which French strawberries can seldom boast; but the countess would not have admitted the superiority even of American fruit over that of herown country, and after tasting a few of the strawberries returned to the cake which reminded her of her forsaken home.
How fared it with Count Tristan during the fortnight in which he had not seen his august mother? Under judicious and tender care, he had steadily, rapidly improved. His mental faculties had been sufficiently restored for him to recognize every one around him, but his memory was still clouded, and his thoughts sadly confused. He had partially recovered his articulation, though his speech continued to be thick and at times unintelligible. His limbs also had been partly freed from the thraldom of paralysis, but were still heavy and numb, as though they had long worn chains. He clung to Madeleine more eagerly than ever, and seemed to be disturbed and uncomfortable except when she was near him. He had a vague consciousness that she was the medium through which all good flowed in to him, and often repeated, as he held her hand,—
"You,—you—yes, you, Madeleine, you saved us all! Good angel—good angel!"
That her ministry in the sick-room was so grateful to the sufferer was not surprising; for a gentle, efficient hand which knows precisely how to make a pillow yield the best support,—a low, soft, yet encouraging voice,—a cheerful, yet sympathizing face,—a soundless step,—garments that never rustle,—movements that make no noise,—are among the chief blessings to an invalid.
The count seemed less happy at the sight of his son; his mind was haunted by an undefined fear that there was something Maurice would learn which would make him shrink from his father,—which would disgrace both; the sufferer had quite forgotten that the discovery he dreaded had already been made. When he looked at Maurice he often muttered the words,—
"Unincumbered,—no mortgage,—of course it's all right,—power of attorney untouched,—leave all to me!"
At other times he would plead, in broken sentences, for pardon, and denounce himself as a villain who had ruined his only son.
It was a somewhat singular coincidence that the very morning the countess had risen and dressed for the first time for a fortnight, Count Tristan appeared to be so much more restless than usual that Madeleine suggested he should be conducted to her boudoir. Maurice assisted him to rise, enveloped him in a comfortablerobe de chambre, and, with the help of Robert, led him to that pleasant, peace-breathing apartment, where she had arranged an easy-chair with pillows, had opened the doors of the conservatory to admit the odorous air, and had shaded the windows that the light might be softened to an invalid's eyes.
He smiled placidly and gratefully as he looked toward the flowers, and stretched out his hand to Madeleine. She took her place on a low seat, her little sewing-chair, and, unbidden, sang some of the wild, old strains to which he had often listened in the ancient château. The sigh he heaved was one of pleasure, as though his heart felt too full, but not of care. Madeleine sang on, ballad after ballad, for she could not pause while he appeared to be so calmly happy, and her voice only died away as she felt the hand that clasped hers relax its hold, and, looking up, she found that her patient was gently slumbering.
Maurice had sat listening and gazing as one spellbound, but Madeleine roused him by saying,—
"It is long past your usual hour for visiting your grandmother. Had you not better go? I think it likely your father will sleep some time. The change of scene and the fresh air have lulled him into a tranquil slumber."
"And your voice had nothing to do with his rest?" asked Maurice, tenderly.
"Any old crone's would serve as well for a lullaby," she answered, playfully. "Now go, and be sure you find out whether the countess liked the chocolate and those Normandy cakes."
Madame de Gramont welcomed Maurice that morning with more animation than she had evinced during her illness. He did not anticipate finding her in the drawing-room; and was even more surprised to see her not in an invalid'sdéshabille, but dressed for visitors; not reclining, but sitting up almost as stiffly as in the days of her grandeur. He congratulated her upon her convalescence with mingled warmth and astonishment.
"Thank you, I am quite well," she replied; though her colorless lips and wan, sunken face solemnly contradicted the words. "How is your father?" This question was asked apparently with newly-awakened anxiety; for of late she had made no inquiries, but listened in silence to Maurice's daily report, and turned sullenly from him as though he were responsible for its unfavorable nature.
He now answered in an unusually cheerful tone,—
"My father is better, much better, to-day; improving fast, I think."
Some of the old triumphant light flashed out of the countess' black eyes as she ejaculated,—
"Thank God! Then he can be brought here at once!"
Maurice perceived his mistake too late. He had not foreseen that the countess would have drawn this conclusion from the intelligence just communicated.
"My dear grandmother, you cannot think of desiring to remove my father at present?"
"Cannot think of it? What other thought fills my mind night and day? Hemustbe removed from that house. I saymust, the very instant his life would not be perilled by the attempt. Better that it should have been placed in jeopardy than that he should have remained there thus long."
"We will talk of this when he is more decidedly convalescent," returned Maurice, perceiving that some generalship must be employed to protect his father. "I will let you know how he progresses, and we will make all the necessary arrangements for his change of abode in due season."
The countess was too shrewd not to see through this answer, and she was quite competent to return Maurice's move by generalship of her own; for, in the battle of life, it is the tactics of womanhood that oftenest win the day. She allowed the conversation to drop; and Maurice secretly rejoiced at her having, as he supposed, yielded the point. He chatted awhile with Bertha; then his eyes chanced to fall upon the salver which Madeleine had prepared. It called to mind her request.
"What have you here? Chocolate? Did you find it well made?"
The countess took no notice of the inquiry.
"These are very fine strawberries," persisted Maurice. "Did you enjoy them? And these cakes,"—he tasted one,—"used to be favorites of yours."
The countess checked a rising sigh; for her aversion to betraying even a passing emotion was insuperable. "They reminded me of Brittany," she said, involuntarily.
"You liked them, then? They are to your taste?" questioned her grandson, hoping to be able to tell Madeleine that her labors had been rewarded.
But the countess answered coldly,—
"I find very little in this country, even though the object be imported, which is to my taste."
She did not open her lips again until Maurice was taking his leave. Then she said,—
"Has your father's physician been to see him to-day?"
"No; he had not come when I left, though it was past his usual hour."
"Let him know that I wish to see him," ordered the countess.
Had Maurice suspected her object he would not have replied so cordially,—
"I am truly glad that you will accept medical aid at last. You look very feeble."
The countess considered such a suggestion an insult; and drew herself up as she replied,—
"You are mistaken. I am far from feeble. Feebleness does not belong to my race. My strength does not forsake me readily; it will last while I last. Still you may inform your father's physician that I desire to see him."
"I will send him to you at once. You shall certainly see him to-day."
"Thank you."
These two words were spoken dryly by the countess, and with an emphasis which might have struck Maurice and caused him to suspect her intentions and possibly to frustrate them, had he not been so thoroughly convinced that her own state required medical care, and had he not known that her stoical fortitude made it easier for her to suffer than to admit that shecouldsuffer.
Maurice found Madeleine where he had left her. The count had just awakened, much refreshed. He was softly stroking her head and saying with the same indistinct utterance, "Good angel! good angel!"
At the sight of Maurice the old troubled look passed again over his face, and he whispered hoarsely,—
"He shall never know. Never, never let him know. It would kill me! kill me!"
Maurice had told Madeleine how much better he had found his grandmother, and was giving her the gratifying intelligence that Madame de Gramont had said the cakes reminded her of Brittany (the highest praise possible for her to bestow on anything), when the doctor entered.
His patient, he said, had made marvellous progress; but that was owing, in a great measure, to admirable nursing; and he nodded approvingly to Madeleine.
"If physicians had only at their disposal a train of well-informed, efficient, conscientious nurses to distribute among their patients, medical services might be of some use in the world; but, as it is, we might make a new application of the old proverb, that God sends us dinners, and the devil sends us cooks who make the dinners valueless; a physician gives his orders and prescriptions, and a careless nurse renders them null."
Dr. Bayard was not a man who dealt in compliments, even in a modified form; he was sagacious, abrupt, straightforward, and at times spoke his mind rather sharply. He had been impressed by Madeleine's unremitting care of his patient, and, in declaring that the count's convalescence was, in a large degree, due to her prudence and vigilance, he simply said what he thought.
"I am glad to see you have removed your charge to this room," he continued. "Change of scene and of air is always good, when practicable. I recommend a short drive to-morrow. I never keep an invalid imprisoned one hour longer than is necessary."
Maurice delivered his grandmother's message; and Dr. Bayard promised to call upon her before his return home. The claims upon his time, however, were so numerous that it was evening before he reached Brown's hotel. The countess would not, even to herself have admitted that she could be subject to such an unaristocratic sensation as impatience; but we are unable to hit upon any other word to express the state of unquiet anxiety with which she awaited his coming.
He was announced at last.
At that hour in the day, it was not unnatural for Dr. Bayard to be in a great hurry to get home to his dinner; and consequently his manners were even more blunt and informal than usual. Without losing a minute, he took a seat in front of the lady whom he supposed to be his patient, looked scrutinizingly into her face and said,—
"Well, and what's the matter? A touch of fever, I suspect. We shall soon bring that under."
Without further ceremony he placed his fingers on her wrist.
The countess drew her hand away, as though something loathsome had dared to pollute her; and the bright red fever spot on either cheek deepened into the crimson of wrath.
"Sir, I am perfectly well. I did not send for you to ask your advice concerning myself."
Dr. Bayard drew back his chair an inch or two, but made no apology.
"I am the mother of Count Tristan de Gramont whom you are attending."
Dr. Bayard bowed.
"I hear that he is much better."
"Much better," was the physician's laconic reply.
"It would no longer be dangerous for him to be removed from his present most unfit abode," the countess asserted rather than interrogated.
Dr. Bayard, in answering the queries of patients, or those of their families, did not follow the practice of physicians in general, but adhered to the exact truth. He replied, "It would not be dangerous, madame, but it would be unwise,—confounded folly, I might say. He is very comfortable where he is, and he has capital care. I do not believe there is such another nurse as Mademoiselle Melanie in Christendom."
If fiery arrows ever flash from human eyes, as some who have felt their wound declare they do, such darts flew fast and thick from the eyes of the countess as she regarded him.
"Sir, it is not a question of nurses. A mother is the fittest person to watch beside her son."
Dr. Bayard differed with her, but did not give her the benefit of his private opinion.
"As Count Tristan is in a state to be removed, I will give orders to have him brought here to-morrow. I suppose it is too late to-night?" observed the countess.
"I have already said that I do not see the necessity of his being moved at all, until he is perfectly restored," persisted the doctor.
"It is enough that I see it!" remarked the countess, frigidly. "I believe my inquiries only extended to asking your medical opinion as to thedangernot theproprietyof moving my son."
"Then I have nothing more to say," replied the physician, rising. "I have already stated that his removal, if advisable in other respects, would not be dangerous. Allow me to wish you good-evening."
Though Dr. Bayard's visit had highly irritated Madame de Gramont, exultation prevailed over all other emotions.
Bertha had been present during the interview, and albeit she was filled with grief at the prospect of Madeleine's sorrow and mortification, she had not the moral courage to remonstrate.
The countess was up betimes on the morrow. It may be that her strength had really returned; it may be that excitement supplied its place; but there was no recurrence of the feebleness which she had not been able wholly to conceal on the day previous. Before Bertha was dressed for breakfast her aunt hadsent to borrow her writing-desk (having no correspondents, the countess did not travel with one of her own), and Bertha experienced a heart-sickening foreboding at the request. When she entered the drawing-room, Madame de Gramont was writing slowly and elaborately, as though she were preparing some document which was to pass into the hands of critical judges; but she never wrote in any other manner. A hasty, impulsive, dashing off of words and ideas would have lacked dignity. The whole character of the haughty lady might easily have been read in the stiff but elegant hand, the formal and carefully constructed phrases, the icy tenor of her simplest missive.
She folded the note, told Bertha where to find her seal with the de Gramont arms, impressed it carefully upon the melted wax, desired Bertha to ring the bell, and bade her send the note at once to Maurice. The countess could not have stooped to name to the servant the residence of the mantua-maker.
Though Madame de Gramont expected that her command would be instantly obeyed, she was too little used to attend to household matters, or bestow a thought upon the comfort of others, to give any orders concerning her son's room, or even to reflect that additional care in its preparation was needed for an invalid.
Count Tristan had passed the best night with which he had been favored since his attack. He had slept so uninterruptedly that Gaston and Mrs. Lawkins (whose turn it was to replace Madeleine and Maurice) had followed the invalid's example and travelled with him to the kingdom of Morpheus.
In the morning he expressed a desire to rise. The first words he uttered showed that his articulation was clearer. Madeleine had arranged the pillows in his arm-chair and placed it where he could look into the conservatory. He walked into the boudoir supported only by Maurice. There was a rare amount of stamina, a wondrously recuperative power in the de Gramont constitution, as was manifested both by mother and son.
When the count was comfortably seated, Madeleine placed before him a little table with his breakfast so neatly arranged that merely to look at it gave one an appetite. She served him herself, and the tranquil pleasure he felt in receiving what he ate from her hands was unmistakable. His own hands were still weak and numb, and she cut up the delicate broiled chicken, and broke the bread, disposed his napkin carefully, and then steadied the cup of chocolate which he tried to carry to his lips. Maurice stood watching her, just as he always did; for it wasdifficult for him to remove his eyes from her face when she was present, though, in truth, when she was absent he saw her before him hardly less distinctly.
The trio was thus agreeably occupied when the note of the countess was placed in the hands of Maurice. His consternation vented itself in an irrepressible groan, which made Madeleine and the count look up.
The latter trembled with alarm, and, his haunting fear coming back, he asked, in a terrified tone,—
"What has happened? What do they want? What would they make you believe? No harm of me,—you wont! you wont! Here's Madeleine will make all right!"
"Do not trouble yourself," said Madeleine, soothingly; "there are no business matters to fret you now."
Her sweet, quieting voice, or the assurance, calmed him, and he repeated once more, for the thousandth time, "Good angel! good angel!"
"It is a note from my grandmother," said Maurice, biting his lips. "She has seen Dr. Bayard, and insists on carrying out certain views of hers, and she informs me that she has his permission to do so."
Madeleine had not nerved herself against this blow; it fell heavily upon her; she could not at once resign the precious privilege of ministering to her afflicted relative; and she could not hope that the countess would allow her to approach him if he were removed to the hotel.
"Surely she will not be so cruel! It will harm him,—it will retard his recovery."
"I will see her, at once, and try what argument and remonstrance can do," replied Maurice.
And he set forth on his difficult mission.
A moment's reflection convinced Madeleine that if the countess had received the doctor's consent, she would prove inexorable. There was no resource but to submit as patiently as possible. Count Tristan must be reconciled to the change, and to effect that was the task now before her. She tried to break the news gently; she told him his mother had not seen him of late because she had been ill; and now, hearing he was so much better, she desired him to return to the hotel that he might be nearer to her.
The count answered peevishly, "No—no,—I'll not go! I'm better here,—better with you, my good angel!"
"But if Madame de Gramont is determined," said Madeleine, "I have no right, no power to resist her authority."
"Can I not stay? Let me stay!" he pleaded, pathetically.
"I would be only too thankful if you could; but you know the wishes of the countess cannot be disregarded."
"I cannot go! It will kill me if I go back! I am better here. I'm safe with you! I'll not go!"
He seemed so much distressed that Madeleine dismissed the subject by saying, "Maurice has gone to see his grandmother; we need not torment ourselves until he returns."
The count was easily satisfied, and the remembrance of his trouble soon faded from his mind. Madeleine asked him if she should sing, and he nodded a pleased assent. She could not give voice to any but the saddest melodies, for a sorrowful presentiment that she would never sing to him again, filled her mind. She continued to charm away his cares by the witchery of her accents until Maurice returned. The result of his advocacy was quickly told. The countess was inflexible, and awaited her son.
The strongest heart will sometimes betray that it is overtaxed through the pressure of a sorrow which appears trivial contrasted with the stupendous burdens it has borne unflinchingly; the firmest spirit is sometimes crushed at last, by the weight of a moral "feather" that breaks the back of endurance. Madeleine's courage proved insufficient to encounter calmly this new trial. She could not see that poor, wretched, brain-shattered sufferer, that proud man bowed to the dust, clinging to her with such a strange, perplexed, yet steady grasp, and know that she could no longer tend, amuse, and soothe him! Her composure was forsaking her, and she could only hurriedly whisper to Maurice,—
"I will pack your father's clothes; make him comprehend that we have no alternative; reconcile him if you can. Since he must go, it had better be at once; the countess is no doubt anxiously expecting him."
She passed into the count's room, gathered together all his wearing apparel, and knelt down beside his trunk. Her heartswelled as though it would burst; she bowed her head upon the trunk she was about to open, and sobbed aloud!
Madeleine's tears were not like Bertha's,—mere summer rain which sprang to her eyes with every passing emotion, and fell in sun-broken showers that freshened and brightened her own spirit. Madeleine seldom wept, and when the tears came, they sprang up from the very depth of her true heart, in a hot, bitter current which was less like the bubbling of a fountain than the lava bursting from a volcano. It is ever thus with powerful, yet self-controlled natures, and Madeleine's equanimity in the midst of trials which would have prostrated others, was not a lack of keen, quick sensibility, but an evidence of the supremacy she had gained by discipline over her passions.
Madeleine wept and wept, forgetting the work before her, the time that was passing, the necessity for action! All the tears that she might have shed during the last few weeks, if it were her nature to weep as most women weep, now rushed forth in one passionate torrent. She did not hear a step approaching; she was hardly conscious of the encircling arm that raised her from the ground, nor was she startled by the voice that said,—
"Madeleine! my own Madeleine! Is it you sobbing thus?"
"I feelthis!O Maurice, I feelthis!My aunt has never had power to make me feel so much since that day in the littlechâletwhen my eyes were opened,—when she cast me off, and I stood alone in the world."
"Ah Madeleine, dearest and best beloved, if you had only loved me then,—if I could only have taught you to love me,—you would not have stood alone! I should have battled against every sorrow that could come near you; or, at least, have borne it with you. O Madeleine, why could you not love me?"
For one instant Madeleine was tempted to throw herself in his arms and confess all. The high resolves of years of self-denial were on the verge of being broken in one weak moment; but the very peril, the very temptation calmed her suddenly. She brushed away her tears, and, gently withdrawing the hand Maurice held, said, in broken accents,—
"I have caused you too much pain in other days, Maurice. I should not have added more by allowing you to witness my weakness. Help me to be strong; for you see I have sore need of help."
"All that I can offer, Madeleine, you reject," said Maurice, reproachfully. "My heart and life are yours, and you fling them from you."
"Maurice, my cousin, my best friend, spare me! I have no right to listen to this language."
"But the right to hear it from the lips of another," retorted Maurice bitterly.
"Be generous, Maurice. For pity's sake, do not speak on that subject."
There was so much anguish depicted in Madeleine's face that Maurice was conscience-stricken by the conviction that his rashly selfish words had caused her additional pain.
"This is a poor return, Madeleine, for all the good you have done my father,—all the good you have done me,—you have done us all. You see what a selfish brute I am! My very love for you, which should shield you from all suffering, has, through that fatal selfishness, added to your sorrow. Can you pardon me?"
"When you wrong me, Maurice, I will; but that day has yet to come. Leave me for a few moments, and I will complete what I have to do here and join you."
Maurice complied, but slowly and reluctantly, and looking back as he left the room.
Madeleine wept no more; she bathed her face and smoothed her disordered hair, and then collected all the articles scattered about, placed them carefully in the trunk, shut it and locked it, looked about to see that nothing was forgotten, ordered her carriage, and with a composed mien entered the little boudoir.
Maurice must have used some potent argument with his father which reconciled him to his change of habitation, or made him comprehend that resistance was useless, for when Robert announced that the carriage was at the door, and Madeleine brought the count's coat to exchange for his dressing-gown, he allowed her to assist him, only repeating the term of affection so often on his lips.
The count was ready, and Madeleine signed to Maurice not to linger. He gave his arm to his father, and they passed through the entry. Madeleine preceded them; she opened the street door herself; father and son passed out, but without bidding her adieu. The steps of the carriage were let down; just as Maurice was assisting his father to ascend them, the count drew back with native politeness and said,—
"Madeleine first."
Madeleine was still standing in the doorway ready to wave her handkerchief as the carriage drove off.
"Come, Madeleine, come! come! We are waiting for you!" cried the count.
Maurice expostulated in vain; his father insisted that Madeleine should go with them.
"Only get into the carriage, my dear father, while I speak with her."
"Get in before a lady? No—no! We are not backwoodsmen,—are we? Come, Madeleine, come!"
Madeleine saw that argument would not avail with the count; his mind was not sufficiently clear; it only had glimpses of reason which allowed him to comprehend by fits and starts.
Ever quick of decision, she said cheerfully, "Yes, in one moment," and withdrew; but before Maurice had divined her intention, returned, wearing her bonnet and shawl, and sprang into the carriage.
"Drive into the country," was Madeleine's order to the coachman.
Maurice looked at her with inquiring surprise.
"Dr. Bayard said a drive would do your father good. We can first take a short drive, then return, and go to the hotel."
Count Tristan looked happy. The motion of the carriage was agreeable to him, and the fresh air revived him; he gazed eagerly out of the window as though the commonest objects had caught the charm of novelty. His pleasure was of brief duration; for when they had driven about a mile, prudence suggested to Madeleine that it would be well to return before the patient became fatigued. She pulled the check-cord, and herself gave the order, "To Brown's hotel."
Count Tristan paid no attention to the command. The hotel was quickly reached; the carriage stopped; Maurice descended and handed out his father.
"Let me hear good news of you," said Madeleine to Count Tristan, encouragingly, and kept her seat.
Leaning heavily on his son's arm, the count mounted the hotel steps, but he did not comprehend Madeleine's words as an adieu, and turned to speak to her, thinking she was beside him. The coachman was closing the carriage-door preparatory to driving away.
"Madeleine! Madeleine!" cried out the count, stretching his hand imploringly toward her. "Madeleine, come! come!"
Madeleine perceived that Maurice was remonstrating with his father, and trying to lead him on, but that the count would not move, and still cried out, "Come! come!" in a voice of piteous entreaty.
Curious strangers began to collect; Madeleine knew that if the scene continued even a few moments, a crowd would gather, and all manner of inquiries be made of her coachman, the hotel-keepers, the servants. She leaped out of the carriage, hastened to the count's side, and said,—
"I will go upstairs with you; the assistance of Maurice may not be sufficient; lean on my arm also."
And Count Tristan did lean upon her, for his limbs were too feeble to ascend a long flight without difficulty.
The door of the countess'ssalonwas but a few paces from the top of the stair. Madeleine paused, took the count's hand affectionately in hers, and pressed it several times to her lips, saying,—
"Now I must bid you adieu. It would not be agreeable to the countess to see me. She would think my coming with you impertinent. You will not force me to bear the pain of seeing her displeasure? Bid me adieu and let me go!"
The count, easily swayed by her persuasive voice, and inspired with a vague dread of his mother's anger, kissed her forehead, and did not remonstrate, but stood still and watched her gliding swiftly down the stairs.
Maurice had whispered to her, "I will be with you as soon as possible, Madeleine. Be brave, for my sake!"
The countess had only betrayed her anxious expectancy by changing her usual seat to one where she could watch the door, and by looking up eagerly every time it opened. When, at last, Maurice entered, supporting Count Tristan, there was a gleam of mingled joy and triumph in his mother's eye. It was doubtful whether the triumph of having compelled obedience to her commands, and of having wrested her son from Madeleine, did not surpass the joy she experienced in beholding that son once again.
From her greeting, a stranger would hardly have imagined that when she saw him last his life was in imminent peril, and that she had rushed from his presence overcome by grief and mortification. She now received him as though she had cheated herself into the belief that she was doing the honors in her ancestral château, and that his brief absence had no graver origin than some ordinary pleasure party.
"Welcome, my son, welcome!" said she, kissing him on either cheek. "We have missed you greatly; you are thrice welcome for this brief separation."
Count Tristan returned her salutation, but looked strangelyuncomfortable, as though the atmosphere oppressed and chilled him.
"Dear cousin Tristan, I am so glad to see you better; you will soon be quite well again," said Bertha, embracing him far more warmly than his mother had done.
The countess made no allusion to his illness; she preferred wholly to forget the past.
Maurice led his father to an arm-chair, and asked Bertha to bring a pillow. Under Madeleine's tuition Maurice had become quite expert in promoting an invalid's comfort, and yet he now failed to arrange the pillow satisfactorily. Perhaps his father's chair was not easy, or the one to which he was accustomed was more commodious, or Maurice was more clumsy than usual; for though Bertha also lent her aid, the count kept repeating, fretfully,—
"It's not right,—it does not support my shoulders! You can't do it! Leave it alone! Leave it alone!"
They desisted, and sat down beside him.
The countess had no faculty of starting conversation, and Bertha's merry tongue had of late lost its volubility; she had so often irritated her aunt by her remarks that she had become afraid to speak. Maurice was too sad to be otherwise than taciturn. Thus the reunited little family sat in solemn silence. Count Tristan looked around him drearily for a while, and then having for a moment lost recollection of what had just taken place, exclaimed disconsolately,—
"Where is Madeleine?"
These unfortunate words roused the countess. She rose up as loftily as in her proudest, most unchastened days, and approaching him, asked, in a rebuking voice,—
"Forwhomdo you inquire, my son? Am I to understand that a mother's presence is not all-sufficient for her own child? Is not hers the place by his side? If that place has been, for a season, usurped, should he not rejoice that she to whom it legitimately belongs occupies it once more?"
The count looked awed, and did not attempt to reply. Maurice perceived that he must exert himself to shield his father from as much discomfort as could be warded off, and inquired, without directly addressing either the countess or Bertha,—
"Is my father's room prepared for him? But I suppose that it is. His drive must have fatigued him, and I think he would like to retire."
The countess disclaimed any knowledge of the state of theapartment, signifying that she was not in the habit of occupying herself with matters of this nature. Bertha was equally ignorant, but said she would go and see. Maurice prevented her by going himself.
The room looked as though it had not been entered since the day when he had packed up his father's clothes to move them to Madeleine's, and that was more than a fortnight ago. There was some delay in getting a chambermaid; servants are always busy, yet never to be had in an American hotel; after several ineffectual attempts, he obtained the services of an Irish girl; and he induced Adolphine to lend her aid, that the room might be aired, swept, and put in order more rapidly. Adolphine was rather a hinderance to the bustling Irish help, for a Parisian lady's-maid knows one especial business, and knows nothing else, however simple; she is an instrument that plays but one tune, and she boasts of herspecialityas a virtue. In something more than an hour Adolphine announced that the apartment ofM. le Comtewas in readiness.
Count Tristan was very willing to retire, and after Maurice had played the valet without assistance, his father seemed disposed to sleep, and Maurice closed the blinds and sat down quietly until he perceived that the invalid had fallen into a deep slumber. Henceforth he was to watch beside him, when watching was needed, alone! Those blessed nights, shorter and sweeter than the happiest dreams, when he had sat in the pale light, with that beautiful face beaming opposite to him,—that soft voice sounding melodiously in his ears,—they were gone, never to return!
At that very moment Madeleine herself was haunted by the same reflections. When she drove home alone, and reëntered her house, how desolate and dreary it appeared! How empty and lonely seemed those apartments so lately occupied by the ones nearest of kin and dearest to her heart! She wandered through the rooms, up and down, up and down, with restless feet, pondering upon the singular events of the last few weeks; she had not before had leisure to dwell upon them. Was it indeed true that her roof had sheltered Count Tristan de Gramont?—Count Tristan de Gramont, whose persecutions in other days, had driven her from his own roof, and whose hatred had embittered and blighted her life? And had he learned to depend upon her? to love her? To talk to her, even when his mind wandered, ofgratitude, as though that emotion was ever uppermost in her presence? And Maurice, her dear cousin,—Maurice,the beloved of her soul, who must never know that he was all in all to her,—had he been her guest for more than two weeks? And had she been permitted the joy of promoting his comfort in a thousand little, unnoted, womanly ways? Had he sat at her table? Had they watched together, night and day, by his father's bed?—talking through the night hours, unwearied when the morning broke, unwilling to welcome the first rays of the sun, because their sweet, inexhaustible converse came to an end? Had they shared the happiness of ameliorating Count Tristan's melancholy state, and seeing him daily improve? And now it was all over: she must resume her old course of life, her temporarily laid aside labors! To muse too long upon departed happiness would unfit her for those. Even the sad joy of recollection was denied her.
She sent for Mrs. Lawkins and directed everything to be restored to its usual order. The draperies in the entry were to be taken down;—no, let them remain; Madeleine had been accustomed to see that portion of the house divided from the rest; let them stay. In passing through the drawing-room she noticed Maurice's trunk, which he had not thought of packing. Though it gave her many a pang, because she was forced to realize more keenly that he was surely gone, it was also with a sense of pleasure that she collected together the articles belonging to him and packed them carefully. Hers was a nature peculiarly susceptible to the pure delight of serving, aiding, sparing trouble to those whom she loved. The meanest household drudgery, the severest labor, the most prosaic making and mending, would have gained a charm and been idealized into pleasures, if they contributed to the well-being of those dear to her; but, when performed for the one more precious than all others, they became positive joys.
She left Mrs. Lawkins busied in the arrangement of the apartments, and went upstairs to the workroom, which she had not entered for nearly three weeks. She had not seen any of heremployées, except Ruth, and Mademoiselle Victorine, since they all had learned her rank. Her unexpected appearance created a great commotion. No one but Ruth had expected to behold her in that apartment again. The women all rose respectfully; but an unwonted restraint checked the expression of gratification which her presence ever imparted. Madeleine smilingly bade them to be seated; then passed around the table and spoke to every needle-woman in turn, inquiring after the personal health of each, or asking questions about her family,—for she knew thehistories of all; and then learning particulars concerning the work that had been done, and the work in hand.
The obsequiousness of Mademoiselle Victorine was perfectly overwhelming, yet she experienced no little disappointment. She had made up her mind that since Mademoiselle Melanie was known to be Mademoiselle de Gramont, she would never again be able to appear among her workwomen, even to superintend their labors, and a large portion of the resigned power must be delegated to the accomplished forewoman. Ruth Thornton, Madeleine's favorite, as Victorine considered her, was in the way; but what were a French woman's wits worth if they could not devise some method of removing a dangerous rival?
Madeleine lingered long enough to beau courantto the present state of affairs, and she found that the business of the establishment had so much increased during her seclusion, that every day, a host of orders had to be declined. This overwhelming influx of patronage was partially attributable to the reports circulated concerning Mademoiselle Melanie's romantic history, and also to the strong desire of the public (a democratic public) to secure the honor of procuring habiliments from the establishment of a dress-maker whose father was a duke.
Madeleine had taken a seat near Ruth, and was listening to Mademoiselle Victorine'shistoriesand suggestions, when Robert made known that Monsieur Maurice de Gramont begged to see Mademoiselle Melanie.
Maurice had left his father as soon as he slept; he was impatient to return to Madeleine. He was tortured by the remembrance of her burst of grief, and her bitter words. The forced composure by which they were succeeded could not hide from him the deep wound she had received. Though the period which had elapsed since his father was conducted from Madeleine's house was so brief, the rooms, grown familiar to Maurice, already wore a different aspect; he actually felt hurt that Madeleine could have made the change thus rapidly. Men are so unreasonable! Maurice resembled his sex in that particular. Then, too, he found his trunk packed, and he knew by whose hand that duty had been performed. Doubtless, he was grateful? Not in the least! It seemed to him that Madeleine was in too much haste to remove the last vestige of his sojourn near her. When she entered the drawing-room he was standing contemplating the neatly filled trunk, and was cruel enough to say,—
"You used yourold magicto make ready for us, Madeleine,and you have used it again to efface all our footprints here. I can hardly persuade myself that I occupied this room."
Madeleine felt the implied reproach; but without answering the unmerited rebuke, she asked, "Is your father doing well?"
"He is sleeping at this moment; but it is very evident that he is going to have a sorrowful time; he will miss you so much; and my grandmother is as cold and hard as though her illness had petrified her more completely than ever."
That was another observation to which Madeleine could find no reply. Without essaying to make an appropriate answer, she said, "It will never do to let the whole burden of nursing your father devolve on you, Maurice; you will be broken down. May I plan for you? You need an experiencedgarde malade. It would be difficult, at short notice, to procure any so reliable, and so well versed in the duties of a nurse as Mrs. Lawkins. Then, too, your father is accustomed to see her near him; and a familiar face will be more welcome than a stranger's. Do you think it would be wrong to engage her without your grandmother's knowing that she had been in my employment?"
"I have no scruples on that head," returned Maurice; "but there are others which I cannot readily get over. She is your house-keeper, and I have heard you say she was very valuable to you. I know that it is exceedingly difficult to obtain good domestics in this country; you cannot replace her at once. How can you spare her?"
"Easily,—easily; do not talk of that. I will speak to her and she will go to you to-morrow morning. Meantime, I advise you to inform the countess that a nurse is coming. One charge more: your father is so much better that instead of wearing yourself out by sitting up with him, it would be wiser to have a sofa, upon which you could take rest, placed beside his bed. M. de Bois will gladly take his turn in watching, but after a few nights, I think Count Tristan will need no one but Mrs. Lawkins."
"Ah, Madeleine"—
Madeleine interrupted him. "One word about the delicacies which you cannot readily procure in a hotel, and which it would deprive me of a great happiness if I could not send. As the countess is now up, and might see and recognize Robert, I will order him to deliver the salver to the waiter who attends upon your rooms. Would it not be advisable to say a few words to this man to prevent any inadvertent remark in the presence of your grandmother?"
"Well thought of. How do you keep your wits so thoroughly about you, Madeleine? How do you manage to remember everything that should be remembered, and at the right moment?"
"If I do,—though I am not disposed to admit that such is the case,—it is simply through the habit of taking the trouble tothink at all, to reflect quietly upon what would be best, what is most needed,—a very simple process."
"And, like a great many other simple but important processes, rare just because itis so simple," remarked Maurice, with great justice.
During this conversation Maurice and Madeleine had been standing where she found him on entering the room; but he had not resolution to tear himself quickly away, and said,—
"Let me sit a little while in your boudoir, and talk to you, Madeleine.Ihave not been able to reconcile myself so quickly to my own change of abode as you seem to have done to our departure from yours."
Was it not surprising that such a noble-minded man as Maurice could make an observation so ungracious, so ungenerous, and one which in his heart he knew was so unjust, to the woman he loved? Yet it would be difficult to find a lover who is incapable of doing the same. Why is it that men, even the best, are at times stirred by an irresistible prompting, themselves, to wound the being whom they would shield from all harm dealt by others with chivalric devotion? Let a woman commit the slightest action that can, by ingenious torturing, be interpreted into a moment's want of consideration for the feelings of her lover, and all his admiration, his tenderness, his reverence, will not prevent his being cruel enough to stab her with some passing word that strikes as sharply as a dagger.
"You think me a true philosopher, then?" replied Madeleine, gravely. But she added, in a lower and less firm tone, while a soft humility filled her mild eyes, "Do you thinkI am reconciled, Maurice?"
"Do you not think I am a heartless, senseless brute to have grieved you? Do not look so sorrowful! You make me hate myself! Ah, you did well not to trust your happiness to my keeping; I was not a fit guardian."
It was far harder for Madeleine to hear him saythatthan to listen to an undeserved reproach; but she led the way to her boudoir without replying, and for the next hour Maurice sat beside her, and they conversed without any jarring note breaking the harmony of their communion.