Fairy Fingers
by Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie · English · Gutenberg #24664 · 1,089,610 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Fairy Fingers
Author: Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie
Release date: February 21, 2008 [eBook #24664]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY FINGERS ***
Produced by Julia Miller and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
FAIRY FINGERS.
* * * * *
_IN PRESS:_
BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME,
THE MUTE SINGER;
A Novel.
* * * * *
FAIRY FINGERS.
A Novel.
BY
ANNA CORA RITCHIE,
AUTHOR OF "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS," "MIMIC LIFE,"
"TWIN ROSES," "ARMAND," "FASHION," ETC.
* * * * *
"Labor is Worship."
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY.
MDCCCLXV.
* * * * *
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by
GEO. W. CARLETON.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
for the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Noblesse, 7
II. The Cousins, 17
III. Madeleine, 24
IV. Proposals, 38
V. Heart-beats, 43
VI. Unmasking, 55
VII. A Crisis, 68
VIII. Flight, 79
IX. The Empty Place, 94
X. The Humble Companion, 109
XI. Pursuit, 116
XII. The Sister of Charity, 121
XIII. Weary Days, 131
XIV. Diamonds and Emeralds, 139
XV. The Embroidered Handkerchief, 148
XVI. A Voice from the Lost One, 155
XVII. "Chiffons," 166
XVIII. Maurice, 173
XIX. The Aristocrats in America, 179
XX. The Incognita, 186
XXI. The Cytherea of Fashion, 195
XXII. Meeting, 200
XXIII. Noble Hands made Nobler, 213
XXIV. Feminine Belligerents, 226
XXV. The Message, 237
XXVI. Meeting of Lovers, 241
XXVII. Count Tristan's Policy, 249
XXVIII. Lord Linden's Discovery, 254
XXIX. A Contest, 260
XXX. Bertha, 268
XXXI. A Surprise, 278
XXXII. The Nobleman and Mantua-maker, 283
XXXIII. Madame De Gramont, 294
XXXIV. Half the Wooer, 298
XXXV. A Revelation, 305
XXXVI. The Suitor, 311
XXXVII. A Shock, 314
XXXVIII. The Mantua-maker's Guests, 323
XXXIX. Ministration, 330
XL. Recognition, 340
XLI. Unbowed, 345
XLII. Double Convalescence, 352
XLIII. Outgeneralled, 357
XLIV. A Change, 364
XLV. Reparation, 375
XLVI. A Mishap, 380
XLVII. Inflexibility, 387
XLVIII. The New England Nurse, 392
XLIX. Ronald, 405
L. A Secret Divined, 409
LI. Seed Sown, 415
LII. A Lover's Snare, 420
LIII. Resistance, 426
LIV. An Unexpected Visit, 431
LV. Amen, 435
LVI. The Hand of God, 442
LVII. Conclusion, 453
* * * * *
FAIRY FINGERS.
CHAPTER I.
NOBLESSE.
They were seated in the drawing-room of an ancient château in
Brittany,--the Countess Dowager de Gramont and Count Tristan, her only
son,--a mansion lacking none of the ponderous quaintness that usually
characterizes ancestral dwellings in that locality. The edifice could
still boast of imposing grandeur, especially if classed among "fine
ruins." Within and without were harmoniously dilapidated, and a large
portion of the interior was uninhabitable. The limited resources of the
count precluded even an apologetic semblance of repairs.
The house was surrounded by spacious parks and pleasure-grounds, in a
similarly neglected condition. Their natural beauty was striking, and
the rich soil yielded fruits and flowers in abundance, though its only
culture was received from the hands of old Baptiste, who made his
appearance as gardener in the morning, but, with a total change of
costume, was metamorphosed into butler after the sun passed the
meridian. In his button-hole a flower, which he could never be induced
to forego, betrayed his preference for the former vocation.
The discussion between mother and son was unmistakably tempestuous. A
thunder-cloud lowered on the noble lady's brow; her eyes shot forth
electric flashes, and her voice, usually subdued to aristocratic
softness, was raised to storm-pitch.
"Count Tristan de Gramont, you have taken leave of your senses!"
A favorite declaration of persons thoroughly convinced of their own
unassailable mental equilibrium, when their convictions encounter the
sudden check of opposition.
As the assertion, unfortunately, is one that cannot be disproved by
denial, the count sank resignedly behind the shield of silence. His
mother returned to the attack.
"Do you mean me to understand that, in your right mind, you would
condescend to mingle with men of business?--that you would actually
degrade yourself into becoming a shareholder, or manager, or director,
or whatever you please to term it, in a railway company?--_you_, Count
Tristan de Gramont! The very proposal is a humiliation; to entertain it
would be an absurdity--to consent, an impossibility. I repeat it, you
have taken leave of your senses!"
"But, my dear mother," answered the count, with marked deference, "you
are forgetting that this railway company chances to be an American
association; my connection with it, or, rather, its very existence, is
not likely to be known here in Brittany,--therefore, my dignity will not
be compromised. The only valuable property left us is the transatlantic
estate which my roving brother purchased during his wanderings in the
New World, and bequeathed to my son, Maurice, for whom it is held in
trust by an American gentleman. The members of the association, who
desire to interest me in their speculation, assert that the proposed
railroad may pass directly through this very tract of land. Should that
be the case, its value will be greatly increased. At the present moment
the estate yields us nothing; but the advent of this railroad must
insure an immense profit. We estimate that, by judicious management, the
land may be made to bring in"--
His mother interrupted him with a haughty gesture. "_'Speculation!'_
_'yield!'_ _'profit!'_ _'bring in!'_ What language to grow familiar to
the lips of a son of mine! You talk like a tradesman already! My son,
give up all idea of this plebeian enterprise!"
The count did not answer immediately. He seemed puzzled to determine
what degree of confidence it was necessary to repose in his stately
mother. After a brief pause, he renewed the conversation with evident
embarrassment.
"It is very difficult to make a lady, especially a lady of your rank,
education, and mode of life, understand these matters, and the
necessity"--
"It ought to be equally difficult to make the nobleman, my son,
comprehend them," answered the countess, freezingly.
The count rejoined, as though driven to extremity, "It is the very fact
of my being a nobleman, that has made these people, Americans as they
are, and despisers of titles as they profess to be, seek me with
eagerness. The _prestige_ of my _title_, and the promise of obtaining
some privileges respecting Maurice's Maryland estate, are all that I can
contribute toward the success of their undertaking. It is true I am a
nobleman; but even rank, my dear mother, must have the means of
sustaining its existence, to say nothing of preserving its dignity. Even
rank is subject to the common, vulgar need of food and raiment and
shelter, not to mention the necessity of keeping horses, carriages,
domestics, and securing other indispensable but money-consuming
luxuries. Our narrow income is no longer sufficient to meet even our
limited expenditures. The education of Maurice at the University of
Paris, and your own charities, have not merely drained our purse, but
involved us in debt. I hail the offer made me by this American company,
because it may extricate us from some very serious difficulties. I am
much mortified at your resolute disapproval of the step I contemplate."
Count Tristan de Gramont was a widower, the father of but one child. It
must not be supposed that, although he seriously purposed embarking in a
business enterprise, he had failed to appropriate a goodly share of that
pride which had both descended by inheritance, and been liberally
instilled into his mind by education. His character was strongly stamped
with the Breton traits of obstinacy and perseverance, and he was gifted
with an unaristocratic amount of energy. When an idea once took
possession of his brain, he patiently and diligently brought the embryo
thought to fruition, in spite of all disheartening obstacles. He was
narrow-minded and selfish when any interests save his own and those of
his mother and son were at stake. These were the only two beings whom he
loved, and he only loved them because they were _his_--a portion of
_himself_; and it was merely himself that he loved through them. In a
certain sense, he was a devoted son. His education had rendered him
punctilious, to the highest degree, in the observance of all those forms
that betoken filial veneration. He always treated his august mother with
the most profound reverence. He paid her the most courteous
attentions,--opened the doors when she desired to pass, placed
footstools for her feet, knelt promptly to pick up the handkerchief or
glove she dropped, was ever ready to offer her his arm for her support,
and seldom combated her opinions.
The first time he had openly ventured to oppose her views was in the
conversation we have just related.
She looked so regal, as she sat before him in a richly carved antique
chair, which she occupied as though it had been a throne, that, in spite
of the blind obstinacy with which she refused to see her own interests
and his, Count Tristan could not help regarding her with admiration.
She was still strikingly handsome, notwithstanding the sixty winters
which had bleached her raven locks to the most uncompromising white.
Those snowy tresses fell in soft and glossy curls about her scarcely
furrowed countenance. Her forehead was somewhat low and narrow; the
face, a decided oval; the nose, almost straight; the eyes almond-shaped,
and of a jetty blackness, flashing out from beneath brows that were
remarkable for the fine, dark line that designated their arch. The mouth
was the least pleasing feature,--it was too small, and unsuggestive of
varied expression; the lips not only lacked fulness, but wore a
supercilious curl that had become habitual.
Her form was considerably above the medium height, and added to the
sense of grandeur conveyed by her presence. Her carriage was erect to
the verge of stiffness, and her step too firm to be quite soundless.
Advancing years had not produced any unseemly _embonpoint_, nor had her
figure fallen into the opposite extreme, and sharpened into meagre
angularity; its outline retained sufficient roundness not to lose the
curves or grace.
She had made no reply to her son's last remark, which forced him to
begin anew. He thought it politic, however, to change the subject.
"You remember, my mother, that some seven of our friends are engaged to
dine with us to-morrow. I trust you will not disapprove of my having
invited two American gentlemen to join the party. After the letters of
introduction they brought me, I was forced to show them some attention
and"--
He paused abruptly, without venturing to add that those gentlemen were
directors of the railway company of which he had before spoken.
"My son, you are aware that I never interfere with your hospitalities,
but you seem to have forgotten that my Sêvres china is only a set for
twelve, and I can use no other on ceremonious occasions. With Bertha and
Madeleine we have one guest too many."
"That is a matter readily arranged," replied the count. "Madeleine need
not appear at table. She is always so obliging and manageable that she
can easily be requested to dine in her own room. In fact, to speak
frankly, I would _rather not_ have her present."
"But, should she be absent, Bertha will be annoyed," rejoined Madame de
Gramont.
"Bertha is a simpleton! How strange that she does not see, or suspect,
that Madeleine always throws her into the background! I said a while
ago, my mother, that _your charities_ had helped to drain our purse, and
this is one which I might cite, and the one that galls me most. Here,
for three years, you have sheltered and supported this young girl,
without once reflecting upon the additional expense we are incurring by
your playing the benefactress thus grandly. It is very noble, very
munificent on your part; still, for a number of reasons, I regret that
Madeleine has become a permanent inmate of this château."
"Madeleine was an orphan," replied the countess, "the sole remaining
child of the Duke de Gramont, your father's nephew. When she was left
homeless and destitute, did not the _honor of the family_ force me to
offer her an asylum, and to treat her with the courtesy due to a
relative? Have we not always found her very grateful and very
agreeable?"
"I grant you--very agreeable--_too_ agreeable by half," returned the
count; "so agreeable that, as I said, she invariably throws your
favorite Bertha into the shade. I confess that the necessity of always
reserving for this young person, thrust upon us by the force of
circumstances, a place at table, a seat in the carriage, room upon every
party of pleasure, makes her presence an inconvenience, if not a
positive burden. And will you allow me to speak with great candor? May I
venture to say that I have seen you, my dear mother, chafed by the
infliction, and irritated by beholding Bertha lose through contrast with
Madeleine?"
His mother replied with animation: "Bertha is my grandniece,--the
granddaughter of my only sister; the ties of blood, if nothing more,
would bind me more closely to her than to Madeleine. Possibly there may
have been times when I have not been well pleased to see one so dear,
invariably, though most inexplicably, eclipsed. Bertha may shine forth
in her most resplendent jewels,--her most costly and exquisite Parisian
toilet; Madeleine has only to enter, in a simple muslin dress, a flower,
or a knot of ribbons in her hair, and she draws all eyes magnetically
upon her."
"That is precisely the observation I have made," answered Count Tristan;
"and, my mother, have you never reflected how seriously your _protégée_
may interfere with our prospects respecting Maurice?"
The countess started. "Impossible! He could not think of Madeleine when
a union with Bertha would be so much more advantageous."
"Youth does not think--it chooses by the attraction it experiences
towards this or that object," answered the count. "Before Maurice last
returned to the university, nine months ago, his admiration for
Madeleine was unmistakable. Now that he is shortly to come home, and for
an indefinite period,--now that our plans must ripen, I have come to the
conclusion that Madeleine must be removed, or they will never attain
fruition; she must not be allowed to cast the spell of her dangerous
fascination over him; something must be done, and that before Maurice
returns; in a fortnight he will be here."
Before the countess could reply, a young girl bounded into the room,
with a letter in one hand, and a roll of music in the other.
It would be difficult to find a more perfect type of the pure blonde
than was manifested in the person of this fair young maiden. The word
"dazzling" might be applied without exaggeration to the lustrous
whiteness of a complexion tinged in the cheeks as though by the
reflection of a sea-shell. Her full, dewy lips disclosed milky rows of
childlike teeth within. Her eyes were of the clearest azure; but, in
spite of their expression of mingled tenderness and gayety, one who
could pause to lay the finger upon an imperfection, would note that
something was wanting to complete their beauty;--the eyebrows were too
faintly traced, and the lashes too light, though long. The low brow,
straight, slender nose, the soft curve of the chin, the fine oval of the
face, were obviously an inheritance. At a single glance it was
impossible not to be struck with the resemblance which these classic
features bore to those of the countess. But the sportive dimples,
pressed as though by a caressing touch, upon the cheeks and chin of the
young girl, destroyed, even more than the totally opposite coloring, the
likeness in the two countenances. The hair of the countess had been
remarkable for its shining blackness, while the yellow acacia was not
more brightly golden than the silken tresses of Bertha,--tresses that
ran in ripples, and lost themselves in a sunny stream of natural curls,
which seemed audaciously bent on breaking their bounds, and looked as
though they were always in a frolic. In vain they were smoothed back by
the skilful fingers of an expert _femme de chambre_, and confined in an
elaborate knot at the back of Bertha's small head; the rebellious locks
_would_ wave and break into fine rings upon the white brow, and lovingly
steal in stray ringlets adown the alabaster throat, ignoring
conventional restraint as sportively as their owner.
Bertha de Merrivale, like Madeleine, was an orphan, but, unlike
Madeleine, an heiress. The Marquis de Merrivale, Bertha's uncle, was
also her guardian. He allowed her every year to spend a few months with
her mother's relatives, who warmly pleaded for these annual visits. Her
sojourn at the château de Gramont was always a season of delight to
Bertha herself, for she dearly loved her great-aunt, liked Count
Tristan, enjoyed the society of Maurice, and was enthusiastically
attached to Madeleine.
"A letter! a letter from Maurice!" exclaimed Bertha, dancing around her
aunt as she held out the epistle.
The countess broke the seal eagerly, and after glancing over the first
lines, exclaimed, "Here is news indeed! We did not expect Maurice for a
fortnight; but he writes that he will be here to-morrow. How little time
we shall have for preparation! And I intended to order so many
improvements made in his chamber, and to quite remodel"--
"Oh, of course, everything will have to be remodelled for the Viscount
Maurice de Gramont! Nothing will be good enough for _him_! Every one
will sink into insignificance at _his_ coming! We, poor, forlorn
damsels, will henceforth be of no account,--no one will waste a thought
on _us_!" said Bertha.
"On the contrary," replied her aunt, "I never had your happiness more in
my thoughts than at this moment. Be sure you wear your blue brocade
to-morrow, and the blue net interwoven with pearls in your hair, and
that turquoise set which Maurice always admired."
"Be sure that I play the coquette, you mean, as my dear aunt did before
me," answered Bertha, merrily. "No, indeed, aunt, that may have done in
_your_ day, but it does not suit _ours_. We, of the present time, do not
wear nets for the express purpose of ensnaring the admiration of young
men; or don our most becoming dresses to lay up their hearts in their
folds. I am going to seek Madeleine to tell her this news, and I have
another surprise for her."
"What is it?" inquired the countess, in an altered tone.
"This great parcel of music, which I sent to Paris to obtain expressly
for her. But I have something else which she must not see to day,--this
bracelet, the exact pattern of the one my uncle presented to me upon my
last birthday, and Madeleine shall receive this upon her birthday; that
will be _to-morrow_."
As she spoke, she clasped upon her small wrist a band of gold, fastened
by a knot formed of pearls, and gayly held up her round, white arm
before the eyes of the count and countess.
The latter caught her uplifted hand and said gravely, "Bertha, music and
bracelets are very appropriate for _you_, but they do not suit
Madeleine. Madeleine is poor, worse than poor, wholly dependent upon"--
"There you are mistaken, aunt," returned Bertha, warmly. "As _I_ am
rich, she is not poor;--that is, she will not always be poor, and she
shall _not_ be dependent upon any one--not even upon _you_. I mean to
settle upon her a marriage portion if she choose to marry, and a
handsome income if she remain single."
"Very generous and _romantic_ on your part," replied the countess,
ironically; "but, unfortunately for her, you have no power at present
over your own property; you cannot play the benefactress without the
consent of your guardian, and that you will never obtain."
"But if I marry, I will have the right," answered Bertha, naïvely.
"You will have the consent of your husband to obtain, and that will be
equally difficult."
"That is true, but I am not discouraged. I suppose when I am of age I
shall have the power, and I need not marry before then. I am sixteen,
nearly seventeen; it will not be so _very_ long to wait, and I am
determined to serve Madeleine."
"Many events may occur to make you change you mind before you attain
your majority. Meanwhile you are fostering tastes in Madeleine which are
unsuited to her condition. I know you think me very severe, but"--
"No, no, aunt, you are never severe toward me; you are only too kind,
too indulgent; you spoil me with too much love and consideration; and it
is because you _have_ spoiled me so completely that I mean to be saucy
enough to speak out just what I think."
Bertha seated herself on the footstool at her aunt's feet, took her hand
caressingly, and with an earnest air prattled on.
"It is with Madeleine that you are severe, and you grow more and more
severe every day. You speak to her so harshly, so disdainfully at
times, that I hardly recognize you. One would not imagine that she is
your grandniece as much as I am,--that is, _almost_ as much, for she was
the grandniece of the Count de Gramont, my uncle. You find incessant
fault with her, and she seems to irritate you by her very presence. Oh!
I have seen it for a long time, and during this last visit I see it more
than ever."
"Bertha!" commenced her aunt, in a tone which might have awed any less
volatile and determined speaker.
"Do not interrupt me, aunt; I have not done yet, and I _must_ speak. Why
do you put on this manner towards Madeleine? You _do put it on_,--it is
not natural to you,--for you are kind to every one else. And have you
not been most kind to her also? Were you not the only one of her proud
relatives who held out a hand to her when she stood unsheltered and
alone in the world? Have you not since then done everything for her?
Done everything--but--but--but _love her_?"
"Bertha, you are the only one who would venture to"--
"I know it, aunt,--I am the only one who would venture, so grant me one
moment more; I have not done yet. Madeleine cannot be an incumbrance,
for who is so useful in your household as she? Who could replace her?
When you are suffering, she is the tenderest of nurses. She daily
relieves you of a thousand cares. When you have company, is it not
Madeleine who sees that everything is in order? If you give a dinner, is
it not Madeleine who not only superintends all the preparations, but
invents the most beautiful decorations for the table,--and out of
nothing--out of leaves and flowers so common that no one would have
thought of culling them, yet so wonderfully arranged that every one
exclaims at their picturesque effect? When you have dull guests,--guests
that put me to sleep, or out of patience,--is it not Madeleine who
amuses them? How many evenings, that would have been insufferably
stupid, have flown delightfully, chased by her delicious voice!"
"You make a great virtue of what was simply an enjoyment to herself. She
delights as much, or more, in singing than any one can delight in
hearing her."
"That is because she delights in everything she does; she always
accomplishes her work with delight. She delighted in making you that
becoming cap, with its coquettishly-disposed knots of violet ribbons;
she delighted in turning and freshening and remaking the silk dress you
wear at this moment, which fits you to perfection, and looks quite new.
She delighted in embroidering my cousin Tristan that pretty velvet
smoking-cap he has on his head. She delighted in making me the wreath
which I wore at the Count de Caradaré's concert the other evening, and
which every one complimented me upon. It was her own invention;--and did
not you yourself remark that there was not a head-dress in the room half
as beautiful? Everything she touches she beautifies. The commonest
objects assume a graceful form beneath her fingers. The "_fingers of a
fairy_" my cousin Maurice used to call them, and, there certainly is
magic in those dainty, rapidly-moving hands of hers. They have an art, a
skill, a facility that partakes of the supernatural. Madeleine is a
dependent upon your bounty, but her magic fingers make her a very
valuable one; and, if you would not think it very impertinent, I would
say that we are all _her debtors_, rather than _she ours_. There, I have
done! Now, forgive me for my temerity,--confess that you have been too
severe to Madeleine, and promise not to find fault with her any more."
"I will confess that she has the most charming advocate in the world,"
answered the countess with affection.
"Madeleine must not see this bracelet until to-morrow; so I must hasten
to lock it up," resumed the young girl; "after that I will let her know
that our cousin will be here to honor her birthday. How enchanted she
will be! But she makes entirely too much of him,--just as you all do.
The instant she hears the news, away she will fly to make preparations
for his comfort. I shall only have to say, 'Maurice is coming,' and what
a commotion there will be!"
Bertha tripped away, leaving the countess alone with her son.
"Is she not enchanting?" exclaimed the former, as Bertha disappeared.
"Maurice will have a charming bride."
"Yes, _if_ the marriage we so earnestly desire ever take place."
"IF? IF? I intend that it _shall_ take place. It is my one dream, my
dearest hope!" said the countess.
"It is mine also," replied the count; "and yet I have my doubts--my
fears; in a word, I do not believe this union ever _will_ take place if
Madeleine remain here."
The countess drew herself up with indignant amazement. "What do you
mean? Do you think Madeleine capable of"--
"I do not think Madeleine capable of anything wrong; but she has such
versatility of talent, she is so fascinating, her character is so
lovable, that I think those talents and attractions capable of upsetting
all our plans and of making Maurice fall deeply in love with her."
"But is not Bertha fascinating, and lovely as a painter's ideal?" asked
the countess.
"Yes, but it is not such a striking, such an impressive, such a
bewitching, bewildering style of beauty," replied her son. "Mark my
words: I understand young men. I know what dazzles their eyes and turns
their heads. If Maurice is thrown into daily communication with Bertha
and Madeleine, it is Madeleine to whom he will become attached."
"It must not be!" said the countess, emphatically, and rising as she
spoke. "It shall not!"
"I echo, it shall not, my mother. But we must take means of prevention.
It is most unfortunate that Maurice returns a fortnight before we
expected him. I had my plans laid and ready to carry into execution
before he could arrive. Now we must hasten them."
"What is your scheme?" asked his mother.
"Madeleine has other relations, all richer than ourselves. I purpose
writing to each of them, and proposing that they shall receive her, not
for three years, as we have done, but that they shall each, in turn,
invite her to spend three months with them. They surely cannot refuse,
and her life will be very varied and pleasant, visiting from house to
house every three months, enjoying new pleasures, seeing new faces,
making new friendships. And her relatives will, in reality, be our
debtors, for Madeleine is the most charming of inmates. She is always so
lively, and creates so much gayety around her; she has so many resources
in herself, and she is so _useful_! In fact, we are bestowing a valuable
gift upon these good relatives of hers, and they ought to thank us, as I
have no doubt they will."
The countess approved of her son's plan to rid them of their dangerously
agreeable inmate, and the count, without further delay, sat down to pen
the projected epistles.
CHAPTER II.
THE COUSINS.
Bertha's prediction was verified, and the whole château was thrown into
confusion by preparations for the coming of the young viscount. Old
Baptiste forsook his garden-tools for the whole day, to play in-door
domestic. Gustave, who daily doubled his _rôle_ of coachman with that of
_valet_, slighted his beloved horses (horses whose mothers and
grandmothers had supplied the de Gramont stables from time immemorial)
to cleanse windows, brighten mirrors, and polish dingy furniture.
Bettina, the antiquated _femme de chambre_ of the countess, who also
discharged the combined duties of housekeeper and housemaid, flew about
with a bustling activity that could hardly have been expected from her
years and infirmities. Elize, the cook, made far more elaborate
preparations for the coming of the young viscount than she would have
deemed necessary for the dinner to be given to her master's guests. This
band of venerable domestics had all been servants of the family before
the viscount's birth, and he was not only an idol among them, but
seemed, in a manner, to appertain to them all.
The countess, alone, did not find the movement of gladness around her
contagious. The coming of Maurice before the departure of Madeleine,
distressed her deeply; but small troubles and great were incongruously
mingled in her mind, for, while she was tormented by the frustration of
her plans, she fretted almost as heartily over that set of Sêvres
porcelain which, with the addition of her grandson, would not be
sufficient for the expected guests, even if Madeleine dined in her own
chamber. Besides, the arrival of Maurice made _that_ arrangement out of
the question. He would certainly oppose her banishment, just as Bertha
had done; and the day, unfortunately, was Madeleine's birthday. This
circumstance would give her cousins additional ground for insisting upon
her presence at the festive board. The countess saw no escape from her
domestic difficulties, and was thoroughly out of humor.
Before Madeleine had awoke that morning, Bertha had stolen to her
bedside and clasped the bracelet upon her arm. Light as was Bertha's
touch, it aroused the sleeper, and she greeted her birthday token with
unfeigned gratitude and delight. But Madeleine had few moments to spend
in contemplation of the precious gift. She dressed rapidly, then
hastened away to make the château bright with flowers, to complete
various preparations for the toilet of her aunt, to perform numerous
offices which might be termed menial; but she entered upon her work with
so much zest, she executed each task with such consummate skill, she
took so much interest in the employment of the moment, that no labor
seemed either tedious or debasing.
Maurice de Gramont had just completed his twenty-first year when he
graduated with high honor at the University of France. After passing a
fatiguing examination, he had gladly consented to act upon his father's
suggestion, and devote a few weeks to enjoyment in the gay metropolis.
The count had no clew to the cause of his sudden return to Brittany.
"Aunt, aunt! There is the carriage,--he is coming!--Baptiste, run and
open the gate!" cried Bertha, whose quick eyes had caught sight of a
coach which stopped at the farther end of a long avenue of noble trees,
leading to the château.
Baptiste made all the speed which his aged limbs allowed; Gustave
hastened to throw open the front door; Bertha was on the porch before
the carriage drew up; the count and countess appeared at the entrance
just as Maurice sprang down the steps of the lumbering vehicle.
His blue eyes sparkled with genuine joy, and his countenance glowed with
animation, as he embraced his grandmother warmly, kissed his father,
according to French custom, then turning to Bertha, clasped her extended
hands and touched either cheek lightly with his lips. She received the
cousinly salutation without any evidence of displeasure or any token of
confusion.
As the maiden and youth stood side by side, they might easily have been
mistaken for brother and sister. The same florid coloring was remarkable
in the countenances of both, save that the tints were a few shades
deeper on the visage of Maurice. His eyes were of a darker blue; his
glossy hair was tinged with chestnut, while Bertha's shone with
unmingled gold; but, like Bertha's, his recreant locks had a strong
tendency to curl, and lay in rich clusters upon his brow, distressing
him by a propensity which he deemed effeminate. His mouth was as ripely
red as hers, but somewhat larger, firmer, and less bland in its
character. His eyebrows, too, were more darkly traced, supplying a want
only too obvious in her countenance. The resemblance, however,
disappeared in the forehead and classic nose, for the brow of Maurice
was broad and high, and the nose prominent, though finely shaped.
His form was manly without being strikingly tall. It was what might be
designated as a noble figure; but the term owed its appropriateness
partly to his refined and graceful bearing.
"My dear father, I am so glad to see you!--grandmother, it is refreshing
to find you looking as though you bade defiance to time;--and you, my
little cousin, how much you have improved! How lovely you have grown! A
year does a great deal for one's appearance."
"Yours, for instance," replied Bertha, saucily. "Well, there was
abundant room for improvement."
Maurice replied to her vivacious remark with a laugh of assent, and,
looking eagerly around, asked, "Where is Madeleine?"
"Madeleine is busy as usual," answered Bertha. "I warrant she is in some
remote corner of the château, mysteriously employed. She does not know
that you have arrived."
"And is she well? My father never once mentioned her in his letters. And
has she kept you company in growing so much handsomer during the last
year?"
"_Her_ beauty needed no heightening!" exclaimed Bertha, affectionately.
"But she develops new talents every day; she sings more delightfully
than ever; and lately she has commenced drawing from nature with the
most wonderful ease. You should see the flowers she first creates with
her pencil and then copies with her needle! I really think her needle
can paint almost as dexterously as the brush of any other artist."
The count exchanged a look with his mother, and whispered, "Do stop
her!"
The latter turned quickly to her grandson, and said, "Are you and Bertha
determined to spend the morning out of doors? Come, let us go in."
As they entered the drawing-room, the countess pointed to a seat beside
her.
"Maurice, leave your chattering little cousin, and sit down and give us
some account of yourself. What have you been doing? How have you been
passing your time?"
Maurice obeyed; Bertha placed herself on the other side of her aunt; the
count took a chair opposite.
"Behold a most attentive and appreciating audience!" cried Bertha. "Now,
Mr. Collegian and Traveller,--hero of the hour!--most noble
representative of the house of de Gramont! hold forth! Let us hear how
you have been occupying your valuable time."
"In the first place, I have been studying tolerably hard, little cousin.
It seems very improbable, does it not? The midnight oil has not yet
paled my cheeks to the sickly and interesting hue that belongs to a
student. Still the proof is that I have passed my examination
triumphantly. I will show you my prizes by and by, and they will speak
for themselves. Next, I have joined a debating society of young students
who are preparing to become lawyers. Our meetings have afforded me
infinite pleasure. At our last reunion, I undertook to plead a cause,
and achieved a wonderful success. I had no idea that language would flow
so readily from my lips. I was astonished at my own thoughts, and the
facility with which I formed them into words, and they say I made a
capital argument. I received the most enthusiastic congratulations, and
my associates, in pressing my hand, addressed me, not as the Viscount de
Gramont, but as the _able orator_. I really think that I could make an
orator, and that I have sufficient talent to become a lawyer."
"A lawyer!" exclaimed the countess with supreme disdain. "What could
introduce such a vulgar idea into your head? A lawyer! There is really
something startling, something positively appalling in the vagaries of
the rising generation! A lawyer! what an idea!"
"It is something more than an _idea_, my dear grandmother: it is a
project which I have formed, and which I cherish very seriously,"
replied Maurice.
"A project,--a project! I like projects. Let us hear your sublime
project, Mr. Advocate," cried Bertha.
"The project is simply to test the abilities which I am presumptuous
enough to believe I have discovered in myself, and to study for the bar.
My father wrote me that he intended to become a director in a railway
company, and descanted upon the advantage of embarking in the
enterprise. He also confided to me, for the first time, the real state
of our affairs,--in a word, the empty condition of our treasury. Why
should my father occupy himself with business matters and I live in
idleness? Once more, I repeat, I am convinced I have sufficient ability
to make a position at the bar, and with my father's consent, and yours,
grandmother, I propose to commence my law studies at once."
"A pettifogger! impossible! I, for one, will never countenance a step so
humiliating! It is not to be thought of!" replied his grandmother, in a
tone of decision.
"No, Maurice, your project is futile," responded his father. "My joining
this railroad association is quite a different matter. I shall in
reality have nothing to do. It is only my name that is required;
besides, America is so far off that nobody in Brittany will be aware of
my connection with the company. Your becoming a lawyer would be a public
matter. I cannot recall the name of a single nobleman in the whole list
of barristers"--
"So much the better for me! My title may, _in this solitary instance_,
prove of service to me. It may help to bring me clients. People will be
enchanted to be defended by a viscount."
"You conjure up a picture that is absolutely revolting!" cried the
countess, warmly. "_My grandson_ pleading to defend the rabble!"
"Why not, if the rabble should happen to stand in need of defence?"
"Why not?--because you should ignore their very existence! What have you
and they in common?"
Maurice was about to reply somewhat emphatically, but noticing his
grandmother's knitted brow, and his father's troubled expression, he
checked himself.
The countess added, with an air of determination that forbade
discussion, "Maurice, you will never obtain my consent, never!"
"But if I may not study for the bar, what am I to do?" asked the young
man with spirit.
"Do?" questioned the countess, proudly. "What have the de Gramonts done
for centuries past? Do nothing!"
"_Nothing?_ Thank you, grandmother, for your estimate of my capacities
and of the sluggish manner in which my blood courses through my veins.
Doing _nothing_ was all very well in dead-alive, by-gone days, but it
does not suit the present age of activity and progress. In our time
everything that has heart and spirit feels that labor is a law of life.
Some men till the earth, some cultivate the minds of their fellow-men,
some guard their country's soil by fighting our battles; that is, some
vocations enable us to live, some teach us how to live, and some render
it glorious to die. Now, instead of adopting any of these pursuits, I
only wish to"--
"To become a manufacturer of fine phrases, a vender of words!" replied
the countess, disdainfully.
"An advantageous merchandise," answered Maurice,--"one which it costs
nothing, to manufacture but which may be sold dear."
"Sold? You shock me more and more! Never has one who bore the name of de
Gramont earned money!" replied the countess, with increased _hauteur_.
"Very true, and very unfortunate! We are now feeling the ill effects of
the idleness of our ancestors. It is time that the new generation should
reform their bad system," replied Maurice.
"Maurice"--began his father.
"My dear father, let me speak upon this subject, for I have it greatly
at heart. I have an iron constitution, buoyant spirits, a tolerably good
head, a tolerably large heart, an ample stock of imagination, an
unstinted amount of energy, and an admiration for genius; now, all these
gifts--mind, heart, imagination, spirit, energy--cry out for
action,--ask to vindicate their right to existence,--need to find vent!
_That_ is one ground upon which I plant my intention to become a lawyer.
Another is that a man of my temperament, liberal views, and tendencies
to extravagance, also needs to have the command of means"--
"Have we ever restricted you, Maurice?" asked his father, reproachfully.
"No, it is only yourselves you have restricted. But do you suppose I am
willing to expend what has been saved through your economy? Until lately
I never knew the actual state of our finances. Now I see the necessity
for exertion, that I may be enabled to live as my tastes and habits
prompt."
"That you may obtain by making an advantageous marriage," remarked the
countess, forgetting at the moment that Bertha was present.
"What! owe my privileges, my luxuries, my very position, to my wife?
Never! Every manly and independent impulse within me rises in arms
against such a suggestion; while the emotion I experienced when I felt I
could become something _of myself_,--that I had talents which I could
employ,--that I had a future before me,--renown to win,--great deeds to
achieve,--filled me with a strange joy hitherto unknown. I tell you, my
father, there is a force and fire in my spirit that must have some
outlet,--must leap into action,--_must_ and _will_!"
"It shall find an outlet," replied the countess, "without making you a
hired declaimer of fine words,--a paid champion of the low mob. Let us
hear no more of this absurd lawyer project. The matter is settled: you
will never have your father's consent, nor mine."
"Then I warn you," exclaimed Maurice, starting up, and speaking almost
fiercely. "You will drive me into evil courses. I shall fall into all
manner of vices for the sake of excitement. If I cannot have occupation,
I must have amusement, I shall run in debt, I may gamble, I may become
dissipated, I may commit offences against good taste and good morals,
which will degrade me in reality; and all because you have nipped a
pure intention in the bud. The root that bore it is too vigorous not to
blossom out anew, and the chances are that it will bring forth some less
creditable fruit. You will see! I do not jest; I know what is in me!"
"Content! we will run the risk!" replied the countess, trying to speak
cheerfully.
The grave manner of Maurice and his impressive tone, as he stood before
her with an air half-threatening, half-prophetic, made her experience a
sensation of vague discomfort.
"We will trust you, for you are a de Gramont, and cannot commit a
dishonorable action. Now, pray, go to your room and make your toilet. We
are expecting guests to dinner."
Maurice turned away without uttering another word, without even heeding
the hand which Bertha stretched in sympathy towards him; and, with a
clouded brow and slow steps, ascended to his own apartment.
CHAPTER III.
MADELEINE.
"Fourteen at table, and the Sêvres set only sufficient for twelve! Truly
it _is_ untoward, but I wish, my dear aunt, you would not let it trouble
you so much. If you will allow the two extra plates to be placed before
Bertha and myself, we will endeavor to render them invisible by our
witchcraft. Do compliment us by permitting the experiment to be tried."
"Bertha is entitled to the best of everything in my mansion," answered
the countess, unsoothed by this proposition.
"_That_ I admit," was Madeleine's cordial reply; "but to meet this
unlooked-for emergency, I thought you might possibly consent to let her
exert her witchery in making an intrusive plate disappear from general
view."
"And you, it seems, are quite confident of possessing witchcraft potent
enough to accomplish the same feat!"
Madeleine, without appearing to be hurt by the taunting intonation which
pointed this remark, replied frankly, "I suppose I must have been guilty
of imagining that I had; but, indeed, it was unpremeditated vanity. I
really did not reflect upon the subject. I was only anxious to get over
the dilemma in which we are placed by these troublesome plates."
"Not _premeditated_ vanity, I dare say," remarked the countess, dryly;
"only vanity so spontaneous, natural, and characteristic that
_premeditation_ is out of the question."
Madeleine remained silent, and went on with her task, dexterously
rolling around her slender fingers her aunt's soft, white curls, and
letting them lightly drop in the most becoming positions.
The toilet of the countess for her son's dinner-party was in process of
completion.
She wore a black velvet dress, which, after being on duty for a fabulous
number of years, and finally pronounced past all further active service,
had been resuscitated and remodelled, to suit the style of the day, by
Madeleine. We will not enter into a description of the adroit method by
which a portion of its primitive lustre had been restored to the worn
and pressed velvet, nor particularize the skilful manner in which the
corsage of the robe had been refashioned, and every trace of age
concealed by an embroidery of jet beads, which was so strikingly
tasteful that its double office was unsuspected. Enough that the
countess appeared to be superbly attired when she once more donned the
venerable but rejuvenated dress.
The snow-white curls being arranged to the best advantage, Madeleine
placed upon the head of her aunt a dainty cap, of the Charlotte Corday
form, composed of bits of very old and costly lace,--an heir-loom in the
de Gramont family,--such lace as could no longer be purchased for gold,
even if its members had been in a condition to exchange bullion for
thread. This cap was another of the young girl's achievements, and she
could not help smiling with pleasure when she saw its picturesque
effect. The countess, in spite of the anxious contraction of her dark
brows, looked imposingly handsome. Hers was an old age of positive
beauty,--a decadence which had all the lustre of
"The setting moon upon the western wave."
It was only when her features were accidentally contrasted with those of
such a mild, eloquent, and soul-revealing face as the one bending over
her that defects struck the eye,--defects which the ravages of time had
done less to produce than the workings of a stern and haughty character.
But Madeleine's countenance how shall we portray? The lineaments were
of that order which no painter could faithfully present by tracing their
outline correctly, and no writer conjure up before the mind by
descriptive language, however minutely the color of eyes, complexion,
and hair might be chronicled. Therefore our task must necessarily be an
imperfect one, and convey but a vague idea of the living presence.
It was a somewhat pale face, but pure and unsallow in its pallor. The
vivid blood rushed, with any sudden emotion, to cheek and brow, but died
away as quickly; for late hours, too little sunlight, fresh air, and
exercise, forbade the flitting roses to be captured and a permanent
bloom insured. The hue of the large, dreamy eyes might be called a light
hazel; but that description fails to convey an impression of their rare,
clear, topaz tint,--a topaz with the changing lustre of an opal: a
combination difficult to imagine until it has once been seen. The
darkly-fringed lids were peculiarly drooping, and gave the eyes a look
of exceeding softness, now and then displaced by startling flashes of
brilliancy. The finely-chiselled mouth was full of grave sweetness,
decision, and energy, and yet suggestive of a mirthful temperament. The
forehead was not too high, but ample and thoughtful. The finely-shaped
head showed the intellectual and emotional nature nicely balanced.
Through the long, abundant chestnut hair bright threads gleamed in and
out until all the locks looked burnished. They were gathered into one
rich braid and simply wound around the head. At the side, where the
massive tress was fastened, a single cape jasmine seemed to form a clasp
of union. A more striking or becoming arrangement could hardly have been
devised.
Madeleine was somewhat above the ordinary stature, and her height,
combined with the native dignity of her bearing, would have given her an
air of stateliness, but for the exceeding grace which dispelled the
faintest shadow of stiffness,--a stiffness very noticeable in the formal
carriage of the countess.
The wardrobe of the young girl was necessarily of the most limited and
uncostly character; and, though she was dressed for a ceremonious
dinner, her attire consisted merely of a sombre-hued barege, made with
the severest simplicity, and gaining its only pretension to full dress
by disclosing her white, finely-moulded neck and arms. Her sole ornament
was the bracelet which had been Bertha's birthday gift.
While giving the last, finishing touches to her aunt's toilet, Madeleine
talked gayly. Hers was not one of those bright, silvery voices which
make you feel that, could the sounds become visible, they must _shine_;
but there was a rich depth in her tones, which imparted to her lightest
words an intonation of feeling, and told the hearer that her vocal
chords were in close communication with her heart. Though her
countenance did not lack the radiance of youthful gladness, there was so
much thought mingled with its brightness that even her mirth conveyed
the impression that she had suffered and sorrowed.
The only daughter of the Duke de Gramont, at eighteen she suddenly found
herself an orphan and wholly destitute. Her father was one of that large
class of impoverished noblemen who keep up appearances by means of
constant shifts and desperate struggles, of which the world knows
nothing. But he was a man of unquestionable intellect, and had given
Madeleine a much more liberal education than custom accords to young
French maidens of her rank.
The accident of his birth the Duke de Gramont regarded as a positive
misfortune, and daily lamented the burden of his own nobility, for it
was a shackle that enfeebled and enslaved his large capacities.
He once said to his young daughter, "You would have been far happier as
a peasant's child; I should have had a wider field of action and
enjoyment as an humble laborer; we should both have been more truly
_noble_. I envy the peasants who have the glorious privilege of doing
just that which they are best fitted to do; who are not forced to
_vegetate_ and call vegetation existence,--not compelled to waste and
deaden their energies because it is an aristocratic penalty,--not doomed
to glide into and out of their lives without ever living enough to know
life's worth."
Such words sank into Madeleine's spirit, took deep root there, and,
growing in the bleak atmosphere of adversity, bore vigorous fruit in
good season.
She had known only the intangible shadow of pomp and luxury, while the
substance was actual penury. But her inborn fertility of invention, her
abundant resources, her tact in accommodating herself to circumstances,
and her inexhaustible energy, had endowed her with the faculty of making
the best of her contradictory position, and the most of the humblest
materials at her command.
Though she had several wealthy relatives, the Countess de Gramont was
the only one who offered her unsheltered youth an asylum. Perhaps we
ought not to analyze too minutely the motives of the noble lady, for
fear that we might find her actuated less by a charitable impulse than
by pride which would not allow it to be said that her grandniece ever
lacked, or had to solicit, a home. Be that as it may, the orphan
Madeleine became a permanent inmate of the Château de Gramont.
Her gratitude was deep, and found expression in actions more eloquent
than words. She was thankful for the slightest evidence of kindness from
her self-constituted protectors. She even exaggerated the amount of
consideration which she received. She was not free from the hereditary
taint of _pride_; but in her it took a new form and unprecedented
expression. The sense of indebtedness spurred her on to discover ways by
which she could avoid being a burden upon the generosity of her
benefactors,--ways by which her obligations might be lightened, though
she felt they could never be cancelled. She became the active, presiding
spirit over the whole household; her skilful fingers were ever at work
here, there, and everywhere; and her quick-witted brain was always
planning measures to promote the interest, comfort, or pleasure of all
within her sphere. The thought that an employment was menial, and
therefore she must not stoop to perform it, never intruded, for she had
an internal consciousness that she dignified her occupation. What she
accomplished seemed wonderful; but, independent of the rapidity with
which she habitually executed, she comprehended in an eminent degree the
exact value of time,--the worth of every minute; and the use made of her
_spare moments_ was one great secret of the large amount she achieved.
The toilet of the countess for the dinner was completed, but she kept
Madeleine by her side until they descended to the drawing-room.
Madeleine had not yet welcomed Maurice, who had retired to his chamber
to dress before she was aware of his arrival. When she entered the
_salon_ with the countess, he was sitting beside Bertha, but sprang up,
and, advancing joyfully, exclaimed, "Ah! at last! I thought I was never
to be permitted to see the busy fairy of the family, who renders herself
invisible while she is working her wonders!"
He would have approached his lips to Madeleine's cheek, but the countess
interfered.
"And why," asked Maurice, in surprise which was not free from a touch of
vexation,--"why may I not kiss my cousin Madeleine? You found no fault
when I kissed my cousin Bertha just now!"
"That is very different!" replied the countess, hastily.
"Different! What is the difference?" persisted Maurice.
"There is none that I can discover. Both are equally near of kin,--both
my cousins,--both second cousins, or third cousins, some people would
call them; the one is kin through my grandmother, the other through my
grandfather. What _can_ be the difference?"
"_My will_ makes the difference!" answered the countess, in a severe
tone. "Is not _that_ sufficient?"
"It ought to be so, Maurice," Madeleine interposed, without appearing to
be either wounded or surprised at her aunt's manner. "If not, I must add
_my will_ to my aunt's." Then, as though in haste to change the subject,
she said, extending her hand, "I am very, _very_ glad to see you,
Maurice."
"You have not changed as much as my pretty Bertha here," remarked
Maurice. "She has gained a great deal in the last year. But you,
Madeleine, look a little paler than ever, and a little thinner than you
were. I fear it is because you still keep that candle burning which last
year I used to notice at your window when I returned from balls long
after midnight. You will destroy your health."
"There is no danger of _that_," answered Madeleine, gayly. "I am in most
unpoetically robust health. I am never ailing for an hour."
"Never ailing and never weary," joined in Bertha. "That is, she never
complains, and never admits she is tired. She would make us believe that
her constitution is a compound of iron and India-rubber."
Maurice took a small jewel-case from his pocket, and, preparing to open
it, said, "Nobody has yet asked why I am here one fortnight before I was
expected. Has curiosity suddenly died out of the venerable Château de
Gramont, that none of the ladies who honor its ancient walls by their
presence care to know?"
"We all care!" exclaimed Bertha.
"That we do!" responded Madeleine. "Why was it, Maurice?"
"The reason chiefly concerns you, Madeleine."
"Me! You are jesting."
"Not at all; I came home because I remembered that to-day was your
twenty-first birthday. I would not be absent upon your birthday, though
I did not know that your reaching your majority was to be celebrated by
a grand dinner."
"Madeleine's birthday was not thought of when your father invited his
friends to dinner," remarked the countess, curtly.
Maurice went on without heeding this explanation.
"I have brought you a little birthday token. Will you wear it for my
sake?"
As he spoke, he opened the case and took out a Roman brooch.
Madeleine's eyes sparkled with a dewy lustre that threatened to shape
itself into a tear. Before she could speak, Bertha cried out,--
"A dove with a green olive-branch in its mouth,--what a beautiful
device! And the word '_Pax_' written beneath! That must be in
remembrance that Madeleine not only bears peace in her own bosom, but
carries it wherever she goes. Was not that what you intended to suggest,
Cousin Maurice?"
"You are a delightful interpreter," replied the young man.
"Yet she left me to read the sweet meaning of her own gift," said
Madeleine, recovering her composure. "See, a band of gold with a knot of
pearls,--a '_manacle of love_,' as the great English poet calls it,
secured by purity of purpose."
As she fastened the brooch in her bosom, she added, "I am so rich in
birthday gifts that I am bankrupt in thanks; pray believe _that_ is the
reason I thank you so poorly."
The countess impatiently interrupted this conversation by summoning
Maurice to her side.
As he took the seat she pointed out, he said, in an animated tone, "I
have not told you all my good news yet. Listen, young ladies, for some
of it especially concerns you. On my way here, I encountered the
equipage of the Marchioness de Fleury. She recognized me, ordered her
carriage to stop, and sent her footman to apprise me that she was on her
way to the Château de Tremazan, and to beg that I would pause there
before going home, as she had a few words to say to me. I gladly
complied. At the château I found quite a large and agreeable company. I
need not tell you that the amiable host and hostess received me with
open arms."
The countess remarked, approvingly, "Our neighbors the Baron and
Baroness de Tremazan are among the most valued of my friends. I have no
objection to their making much of you."
"Nor have I," answered Maurice, vivaciously. "But, to continue"--
Bertha interrupted him: "I have so often heard the Marchioness de Fleury
quoted as a precedent, and her taste cited as the most perfect in Paris,
that I suppose she is a very charming person;--is she not?"
A comical expression, approaching to a grimace, passed over the bright
countenance of Maurice, as he answered, "_Charming?_ I suppose the term
is applicable to her. At all events, her toilets are the most charming
in the world: she dresses to perfection! In her presence one never
thinks of anything but the wonderful combination of colors, and the
graceful flowing of drapery, that have produced certain artistic effects
in her outward adorning. She is style, fashion, elegance, taste
personified; consequently she is very _charming as an exhibition of the
newest and most captivating costumes_,--as an inventor and leader of
modes that become the rage when they have received her stamp."
"But her face and figure,--are they not remarkably handsome?" asked
Bertha.
"Her figure is the _fac-simile_ of one of those waxen statues which are
to be seen in the windows of some of the shops in Paris, and would be
styled faultless by a mantua-maker, though it might drive a sculptor
distracted if set before him as a model. As for her face, the novel
arrangement of her hair and the coquettish disposition of her
head-ornaments have always so completely drawn my attention away from
her countenance, that I could not tell you the color of her eyes, or the
character of any single lineament."
"Perhaps, too," suggested Madeleine, "she is so agreeable in
conversation, that you never thought of scanning her features."
"Of course she is agreeable,--that is, in her own peculiar way; for she
has an archly graceful manner of discussing the only subjects that
interest _her_, and always as though they must be of the deepest
interest to _you_. If you speak to her of her projects for the winter or
the summer, she will dwell upon the style of dress appropriate in the
execution of such and such schemes. If you express your regret at her
recent indisposition, she will describe the exquisite _robes de chambre_
which rendered her sufferings endurable. If you mention her brother, who
has lately received an appointment near the person of the emperor, she
will give you a minute account of the most approved court-dresses. If
you allude to the possibility that her husband (for such is the rumor)
may be sent as ambassador to the United States, she will burst forth in
bitter lamentations over the likelihood that American taste may not be
sufficiently cultivated to appreciate a Parisian toilet, or to comprehend
the great importance of the difficult art of dressing well. If you give
the tribute of a sigh to the memory of the lovely sister she lost a year
ago, she will run through a list of the garments of woe that gave
expression to her sorrow,--passing on to the shades of second, third,
and fourth mourning through which she gradually laid aside her grief.
You laugh, young ladies. Oh, very well; but I declare to you she went
through the catalogue of those mourning dresses, rehearsing the periods
at which she adopted such and such a one, while we were dancing a
quadrille. In short, the Marchioness de Fleury is an animated
fashion-plate!--a lay-figure dressed in gauze, silk, lace, ribbon,
feathers, flowers, that breathes, talks, dances, waltzes!--a
mantua-maker's, milliner's, hair-dresser's puppet, set in motion,--not a
woman."
"Has she really no heart, then?" questioned Bertha.
"I suppose that, anatomically speaking, a bundle of fibres, which she
courteously designates by that name, may rise and fall somewhere beneath
her jewel-studded bodice; but I doubt whether the pulsations are not
entirely regulated by her attire."
"You are too severe, Maurice," remarked his grandmother, rebukingly.
"The Marchioness de Fleury is a lady of the highest standing and of
great importance."
"Especially to the Parisian modistes who worship her!" replied Maurice.
"But, while we are discussing the lady herself, I am forgetting to tell
you her reasons for delaying me half an hour. It was to inquire whether
you would be disengaged to-morrow morning, as she purposes paying you a
visit to make a proposition which she thinks may prove agreeable to the
Countess de Gramont and Count Tristan."
"We are ever proud to receive the Marchioness de Fleury," responded the
countess, graciously.
"I dare say you think I have emptied my budget of news," Maurice went
on; "but you are mistaken: several bits of agreeable intelligence remain
behind. At the Château de Tremazan, I saw three of our relatives on the
de Gramont side, Madame de Nervac, the Count Damoreau, and M. de
Bonneville. They inquired kindly after you, Madeleine, and I told them
you were the most"--
The countess interrupted him with the inquiry, "Are they upon a visit of
several days?"
"I believe so. Now for the last, most pleasant item. As there are so
many lively young persons gathered together at the château, some one
proposed an impromptu ball. Madame de Tremazan seized upon the idea, and
commissioned me to carry invitations to the Countess dowager de Gramont,
Mademoiselles Madeleine and Bertha, and Count Tristan, for the evening
after to-morrow. I assured her in advance that the invitations would be
accepted;--was I not right?"
"Oh, yes," replied Bertha; "I am so glad!"
"We will enjoy a ball greatly!" exclaimed Madeleine.
"And so will I!" said Maurice. "I engage Madeleine for the first
quadrille, and Bertha for the first waltz."
"And we both accept!" answered his cousins, with girlish delight.
"Not so fast, young ladies," interrupted the countess. "It is quite out
of the question for you to attend a ball of such magnificence as may be
expected at the Château de Tremazan."
"And why not, aunt?" asked Bertha, in a disappointed tone. "You surely
will not refuse your consent?"
"I deny you a pleasure very unwillingly, dear child, but I am forced to
do so. You did not expect to appear at any large assemblies while you
were in Brittany, and you have brought no ball-dress with you. You have
nothing ready which it would be proper for you to wear at such a
brilliant reunion; for the de Tremazans are so rich that everything will
be upon the most splendid and costly scale. Mademoiselle Bertha de
Merrivale cannot be present upon such an occasion, unless she is attired
in a manner that befits her rank and fortune. I, also, have no dress
prepared."
"What a pity, what a pity!" half sighed, half pouted Bertha.
"It is too bad, too provoking!" ejaculated Maurice.
"If there be no obstacle but the lack of a ball-dress for yourself and
for Bertha, aunt," remarked Madeleine, "we may console ourselves; for we
will go to the ball."
"Oh, you dear, good, ingenious Madeleine!" exclaimed Bertha, throwing
her arms around her cousin. "I wonder if the time ever _will_ arrive
when you have not some resource to extricate us from a difficulty?"
"Madeleine forever! Long live Madeleine!" shouted Maurice, with
enthusiasm.
"And now, good, fairy godmother, where is the robe of gold and silver to
deck your Cinderella?" asked Bertha.
"I did not promise gold and silver apparel; you must be content
with a toilet simple, airy, fresh, and spring-like as yourself.
And for you, aunt, I will arrange an autumn arraying,--a costume
soft, yet bright, like the autumn days which the Americans call
'Indian summer,'--something which will almost make one wish to fall
into the sere and yellow leaf of life in the hope of resembling you."
"But how is it possible to make two ball-dresses between this time and
night after next?" inquired the countess, evidently not at all averse
to the project, if it could be carried into execution.
"I answer for the possibility!" replied Madeleine.
"Yes, Madeleine answers for it!" repeated Maurice.
"Madeleine answers for it!" echoed Bertha; "and you know Madeleine has
_the fingers of a fairy_; she can achieve whatever she undertakes. But
your own dress, Madeleine?"
"Do not be uneasy about that; we will think of that when the others are
ready."
"But if you do not wear a dress that becomes you?" persisted Bertha.
"Why, then I shall have to look at yours, and, remembering that it is my
handiwork, be satisfied."
"There is no one like you, Madeleine!" burst forth Maurice,
uncontrollably,--"no one! You never think of yourself; you"--
"But, as some one is always good enough to think of me, I deserve little
credit on that account," rejoined Madeleine.
"Who could help thinking of you?" murmured Maurice, tenderly.
The countess had not heard the enthusiastic encomium of Maurice, nor his
last, involuntary remark. The young man had risen and joined his
cousins. His father had taken the vacant seat beside the countess, and
was talking to her in a low tone. From the moment he learned that
Madeleine's relatives were accidentally assembled at the Château de
Tremazan, he had determined to seize that favorable opportunity, and
send them the letters requesting that they would by turns offer a home
to their poor and orphan relative. These letters, though written upon
the day previous, fortunately had not yet been posted. Count Tristan
whisperingly communicated his intention to his mother, and received her
approval.
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of M. Gaston de Bois,
who invariably arrived before other guests made their appearance. M. de
Bois was such a martyr to nervous timidity, that he could not summon
courage to enter a room full of company, even with some great
stimulating compensation in view. On the present occasion, though only
the family had assembled, his olive complexion crimsoned as he advanced
towards the countess, and his expressive, though irregular and not
strictly handsome features became almost distorted; he unconsciously
thrust his fingers through his hair, throwing it into startling
disorder, and twisted his dark moustache until it stood out with
sufficient ferocity to suit the face of a brigand in a melodrama.
But the most painful effect of this bewildering embarrassment evinced
itself when he attempted to speak. His utterance became suddenly
impeded, and, the more violent his efforts to articulate, the more
difficult it seemed for him to utter a distinct sentence. He was
painfully near-sighted; yet he always detected the faintest smile upon
the countenance of any one present, and interpreted it into an
expression of derision.
These personal defects, however, were liberally counterbalanced by
mental attributes of a high order. His constitutional diffidence caused
him to shun society; but he devoted his leisure to books, and was an
erudite scholar, without ever mounting the pompous stilts of the pedant.
All his impulses were noble and generous, though his best intentions
were often frustrated by that fearful self-consciousness which made him
dread the possibility of attracting attention. There was a slight shade
of melancholy in his character. Life had been a disappointment to him,
and he was haunted by a sense of the incompleteness of his own
existence.
His estate joined that of the Count de Gramont, and was even more
impoverished. Gaston de Bois led a sort of hermit-like life in the
gloomy and empty château of his ancestors. He chafed in his confinement,
like a caged lion ready to break loose from bondage. But the lion freed
might take refuge in his native woods, while Gaston, if he rushed forth
into the world, knew that his bashfulness, his stammering, his
near-sightedness, would render society a more intolerable prison than
his solitary home.
At the Château de Gramont he was a frequent guest, for the countess and
her son held him in the highest esteem.
After saluting his host and hostess, he warmly grasped the hand of
Maurice, and then addressed Madeleine, with but little hesitation
apparent in his speech; but when he turned to Bertha, and essayed to
make some pleasant remark, he was suddenly seized with a fit of hopeless
stammering.
The beaming smile with which Bertha greeted him was displaced by an
expression almost amounting to compassion. Madeleine, with her wonted
presence of mind, came to his aid; finished his sentence, as though he
had spoken it himself; and went on talking _to him_ and _for him_, while
he regarded her with an air of undisguised thankfulness and relief.
Between Madeleine and Gaston de Bois there existed that sort of
friendship which many persons are sceptical that a young and attractive
woman and an agreeable man can entertain for each other without the
sentiment heightening into a warmer emotion. But love and friendship are
totally distinct affections. A woman may cherish the truest, kindliest
friendship for a man whom it would be impossible for her to love; nay,
in whom she would totally lose her interest if he once presented himself
in the aspect of a lover; and we believe a certain class of men are
capable of experiencing the same pure and kin-like devotion for certain
women.
M. de Bois felt that he was comprehended by Madeleine,--that she
sympathized with his misfortunes, appreciated the difficulties of his
position, and, without pretending to be blind to his defects, always
viewed them leniently: thus, in her presence he was sufficiently at ease
to be entirely himself; his _amour propre_ received fewer wounds, and he
was conscious that he appeared to better advantage than in the society
of other ladies.
Madeleine, on her side, had more than once reflected that there was no
one to whom she could more easily turn to impart a sorrow, intrust a
secret, solicit a favor, or receive consolation and advice,--no one in
whom she could so thoroughly confide, as M. de Bois.
Gaston had only commenced to regain his self-possession when the two
American gentlemen, Mr. Hilson and Mr. Meredith, were announced.
The countess received them with a freezing formality which would have
awed any visitors less unsuspicious of the cause of this augmented
stateliness.
They were both gentlemen who held high positions in their own country;
they had brought letters to Count Tristan de Gramont, with a view of
enlisting his interest in the railway company of which we have before
spoken; they had been cordially received by him, and invited to partake
of his hospitality; it therefore never occurred to either of them that
the haughty demeanor of the countess was designed to impress them with a
sense of their inferiority.
Mr. Hilson was what is termed a "self-made" man,--that is, he owed
nothing to the chances of birth; he had received little early
cultivation, but he had educated himself, and therefore all the
knowledge he had acquired was positive mental gain, and brought into
active use. He had inherited no patrimony, and started life with no
advantages of position; but he had made his own fortune, and earned his
own place in the social sphere. He had been one of the most successful
and scientific engineers which the United States ever produced, and was
now the president of an important railroad, and a highly influential
member of society.
Mr. Meredith was born in the State of Maryland,--a "man of family," as
it is styled. He had not encountered the difficulties and experienced
the struggles of his associates; his was therefore a less strong, less
highly developed, character. He had travelled over the larger portion of
Europe, yet preferred to make his home in America; he had once retired
from business, but, finding that he was bored to death without the
necessity for occupation, connected himself with the railroad company of
which Mr. Hilson was president.
The other guests were gentlemen residing or visiting in the
neighborhood. They were the Marquis de Lasalles, the Count Caradore,
Messieurs Villiers, Laroche, and Litelle. The two former, being the most
important personages, occupied seats at table on the right and left of
the countess. Gaston de Bois was well pleased to find himself beside
Madeleine; for he was opposite to Bertha, and could feast his eyes upon
her fair, unclouded face, and now and then he spoke to her in glances
which were far more eloquent than his tongue.
Mr. Hilson sat on the other side of Madeleine. A few naturally suggested
questions about his native land unloosed his tongue, and she soon became
deeply interested in the information he gave her concerning
America,--the habits, views, and aspirations of its people.
After listening for some time, she almost involuntarily murmured, with a
half-sigh, "I should like to visit America."
There was something in her own nature which responded to the spirit of
self-reliance, energy, and industry, which are so essentially American
characteristics.
Bertha sat between the Marquis de Lasalles and Maurice. She was in the
highest spirits, and looked superlatively lovely. The brow of the
countess gradually smoothed as she noticed how gayly the heiress chatted
with her cousin.
The two plates which intruded into the Sêvres set had been a terrible
eyesore to Madame de Gramont at first; but Madeleine's suggestion had
been acted upon,--they were placed before the young ladies, and, as the
countess rose from the table, she comforted herself with the reflection
that they had escaped observation.
The gentlemen accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, and then
Maurice lured Madeleine to the piano, and was soon in raptures over the
wild, sweet melodies which she sung with untutored pathos. His
grandmother could scarcely conceal her vexation. Approaching the singer,
she took an opportunity, while Bertha and Maurice were searching for a
piece of music, whisperingly to suggest that Baptiste was old and
clumsy, and the Sêvres set in danger until it was safely locked up
again.
Madeleine murmured, in return, "I will steal away unnoticed and attend
to it."
She stole away, but not unperceived, for one pair of eyes was ever upon
her. She found so much besides the valuable china that demanded
attention, and her aid was so heartily welcomed by the old domestics,
who had become confused by the multiplicity of their duties, that it was
late in the evening before she reappeared in the drawing-room. The
guests were taking their leave.
"I am highly flattered by the interest you have expressed in my
country," said Mr. Hilson, in bidding her adieu. "If you should ever
visit America, as you have expressed the desire to do, and if you should
pass through Washington, as you certainly will if you visit America,
will you not promise to apprise me? Here is my address?" and he placed
his card in her hands.
Madeleine looked not a little surprised and embarrassed at this
unexpected and informal proceeding, which she knew would greatly shock
the countess; but, taking the card, answered, courteously, "I fear
nothing is more unlikely than that I should cross the ocean; but, if
such an unlooked-for event should ever occur, I promise certainly to
apprise you."
CHAPTER IV.
PROPOSALS.
On the morrow, at the usual hour for visitors, the count and his mother
sat in the drawing-room awaiting the promised guest. Maurice, at Count
Tristan's solicitation, had very unwillingly consented to postpone his
customary equestrian exercise, and was sauntering in the garden,
wondering over the caprice that prompted his father to desire his
presence at the expected interview. The tramp of hoofs broke his
revery; and a superb equipage, drawn by four noble horses,
postilion-mounted, dashed up the long avenue that led to the château. He
hastened to the carriage-door, and aided the Marchioness de Fleury to
alight.
The living embodiment of graceful affability, she greeted him with a
volley of slaying smiles; then, with an air which betrayed her
triumphant certainty of the execution done, glided past him into the
drawing-room, almost disappearing in a cloud of lace, as she made a
profound obeisance to the countess, and partially rising out of her
misty _entourage_ in saluting Count Tristan.
Her voice had a low, studied sweetness as she softly syllabled some
pleasant commonplaces, making affectionate inquiries concerning the
health of the countess, and simulating the deepest interest as she
apparently listened to answers which were in reality unheard. Ere long,
she winningly unfolded the object of her visit. Her brother, the young
Duke de Montauban, had prayed her to become his ambassador. He recently
had the felicity of meeting the niece of the Countess de Gramont,
Mademoiselle Bertha de Merrivale. He had been struck and captivated by
her grace and surpassing beauty; he now charged his sister to apprise
the family of Mademoiselle Bertha that he sought the honor of her hand
in marriage, and hoped to obtain a favorable response to his suit.
The consternation created by those words did not escape the quick eyes
of the marchioness. The count half rose from his seat, white with
vexation, then sat down again, and, making an attempt to hide his
displeasure, answered, in a tone of forced courtesy,--
"Though Mademoiselle Bertha de Merrivale is my mother's grandniece, we
have no control over her actions or inclinations. Her uncle, the Marquis
de Merrivale, who is her guardian, is morbidly jealous of any influence
exerted over his niece, even by relatives equally near."
The Countess de Gramont, though she also had been greatly disconcerted,
recovered herself more quickly than her son, and answered, with such an
excess of suavity that it had the air of exaggeration,--
"We feel deeply indebted for the proposed honor. An alliance with a
nobleman of the high position and unblemished name of the Duke de
Montauban is all that could be desired for my niece; but, as my son has
remarked, her guardian is very punctilious respecting his rights, and
would not tolerate an interference with her future prospects. I beg you
will believe that we are highly flattered by the proposal of the Duke
de Montauban, though we have no power to promote his suit."
Maurice could not help wondering why his father looked so thoroughly
vexed, and why his grandmother made such an effort to conceal her
displeasure by an assumption of overacted gratification.
The Marchioness de Fleury betrayed neither surprise, disappointment, nor
emotion of any kind, except by gently tapping the ground with the
exquisitely gaitered little foot that peeped from the mazes of her ample
drapery.
She answered, in the most honeyed voice, "Oh! I was misinformed, and I
knew that your charming niece was at this moment visiting you."
Then, spreading her bespangled fan, and moving it gently backward and
forward, though the day was far from sultry, she dismissed the subject
by asking Maurice if he had delivered Madame de Tremazan's invitations
to the ball.
Almost before he had concluded his reply, she rose, and, with the most
enchanting of smiles, courtesied, as though she were making a reverence
in a quadrille of the Lancers, and the lace cloud softly floated out of
the room, the human being it encircled being nearly lost to sight when
it was in motion.
Maurice could not resist the impulse to turn to his father, and express
his amazement that the complimentary proposals made for Bertha by the
Marchioness de Fleury had been so definitely declined, adding, "If my
little cousin had been already engaged, you could not more decidedly
have shut the door upon the duke."
The count bit his lips, and strode up and down the room.
The countess replied, "We have other views for Bertha,--views which we
trust would be more acceptable to herself; but here she comes, and I
have a few words to say to her in private. Take a turn with your father
in the park, Maurice, while I talk to your cousin."
She gave the count a significant glance as she spoke.
Father and son left the room as Bertha entered.
For some minutes the two gentlemen walked side by side in silence.
Finding that his father did not seem inclined to converse, Maurice
remarked, abruptly,--
"Now that the visit of the marchioness is over, I shall take my
postponed ride, if you have no further need of me."
"I _have_ need; let your horse wait a few moments longer," replied the
count. "Can you conceive no reason why we did not for one instant
entertain the proposition of the Marchioness de Fleury?"
"None: it was made entirely according to rule; and, if you will allow me
to say so, common courtesy seemed to demand that it should have been
treated with more consideration."
"Suppose Bertha's affections are already engaged?" suggested the father.
"Ah, that alters the aspect of affairs; but it is hardly possible,--she
is so young, and appears to be so heart-free."
"Still, I think she has a preference; and, if I am not mistaken, her
choice is one that would give us the highest satisfaction."
"Really!" ejaculated Maurice, unsuspiciously. "Whom, then, does she
honor by her election?"
"A very unworthy person!" rejoined the count, in a tone of irritation,
"since he is too dull to suspect the compliment."
"You cannot mean"--began Maurice, in confused amazement, but paused,
unwilling to finish his sentence with the words that rose to his lips.
"I mean a most obtuse and insensible young man, walking by my side, who
has learned to interpret Greek and Latin at college, but not a woman's
heart."
"Impossible! You are surely mistaken. Bertha has only bestowed upon me a
cousinly regard," answered Maurice, evidently more surprised and
embarrassed than pleased by the unexpected communication.
"I presume you do not expect the young lady herself to make known the
esteem in which she holds you, undeserving as you are? You must take our
word for her sentiments. What this alliance would be to our falling
house, I need not represent; it is not even necessary that you should
enter into the merits of this side of the question. You must see that
Bertha is beautiful and lovable, and would make the most delightful
companion for life. Is this not so?"
"Yes, she is beautiful, lovable, and would make a delightful companion,"
answered Maurice, as though he echoed his father's words without knowing
what he said.
"Is she not all you could desire?"
"All,--all I could desire as--as--as a _sister_!" replied Maurice.
"But the question is now of a wife!" rejoined the count, angrily. "Are
you dreaming, that you pore upon the ground and answer in that strange,
abstracted manner?"
Maurice looked up, as if about to speak, but hesitated, dubious what
reply would be advisable.
The count went on.
"Maurice, your grandmother and I have this matter deeply at heart.
Besides, Bertha loves you; you cannot treat her affection with disdain.
Promise me that you will at once have an understanding with her, and let
this matter be settled. It must not be delayed any longer. Why do you
not reply?"
"Yes,--you are right. I ought to have an understanding with her,--_I
will have!_" replied Maurice, still in a brown study.
"That is well; and let it be as soon as possible,--to-day, or to-morrow
at the latest,--before this ball takes place,--before you meet the
Marchioness de Fleury again."
Maurice answered, hastily, "You need not fear that I desire any delay.
You have put an idea into my head which would make suspense intolerable.
I will speak to her without loss of time. And now will you allow me to
wish you good-morning? My horse has been saddled for an hour."
Saying this, he walked toward the stable and called to Gustave, who at
once appeared, leading the horse. The viscount vaulted upon its back,
and, starting off at full gallop, in a few moments was out of sight.
His father was mystified, doubtful of the real feelings of Maurice, and
uncertain what course he meant to pursue, but well assured that he would
keep his word; and, if he did, it would be impossible for him to
introduce this delicate subject without compromising himself,--nay,
without positively offering himself to Bertha. The very mention of such
a theme would be a proposal; and, with this consolatory reflection, he
returned to the château.
As he passed the drawing-room, he caught a glimpse of Bertha, sitting at
his mother's feet. The latter was holding both of the young girl's
hands, and talking to her earnestly. Bertha's countenance wore an
expression of maidenly confusion and perplexity which, even if the count
had not been aware of his mother's intentions, would have betrayed the
nature of her discourse.
CHAPTER V.
HEART-BEATS.
Maurice must have found his equestrian exercise particularly agreeable
upon that day, for he returned to the château so late that no one saw
him again until the family assembled at dinner.
Bertha was unusually silent and _distrait_, not a single smile rippled
her slumbering dimples, and she answered at random. She did not once
address Maurice, to whom she usually prattled in a strain of merry
_badinage_, and he evinced the same constraint toward her.
As soon as the ladies rose from table, Madeleine retired to her own
chamber. Her preparations for the morrow demanded all her time. The
count retreated to the library. Maurice and Bertha were on the point of
finding themselves _tête-à-tête_, for the countess just remembered that
she had a note to write, when her little plot to leave the cousins
together was frustrated by the entrance of the Marquis de Lasalles.
The clouds suddenly melted from Bertha's countenance when the dull old
nobleman was announced. She greeted him with an air of undisguised
relief, as though she had been happily reprieved from an impending
calamity. The lively warmth of her salutation attracted the marquis to
her side, and he remained fascinated to the spot for the rest of the
evening. The countess was too thoroughly well-bred to allow herself to
look annoyed, or, even in secret, to acknowledge that she wished the
marquis elsewhere; but she was disconcerted, and puzzled by the
unaccountable change in Bertha's deportment.
So passed the evening.
The next morning, when Bertha appeared at breakfast, every one, Maurice
perhaps excepted, remarked that she seemed weary and dispirited. Her
brilliant complexion had lost something of its wonted lustre; her
usually clear blue eyes looked heavy and shadowed; her rosy mouth had a
half-sorrowful, half-fretful expression. It was evident that some
nightmare preyed upon her mind, and had broken the childlike sound
sleeping that generally visited her pillow. When the ball that was to
take place that evening was mentioned, she brightened a little, but
quickly sank back into her musing mood.
"You must give me some assistance this morning, Bertha," said
Madeleine, as she poured a few drops of almond oil into a tiny cup.
"Your task shall be to gather, during your morning walk, this little
basket full of the greenest and most perfect ivy leaves you can find,
and bring them to the _châlet_. Then, if you feel inclined to aid me
further, I will show you how to impart an emerald brilliancy to every
leaf by a touch of this oil and a few delicate manipulations."
"I suspect you are inventing something very novel and tasteful,"
remarked Bertha, with more indifference than was natural to her.
"You shall judge by and by," replied Madeleine, as she left the room,
with the cup in her hand.
She carried it, with her work, to a dilapidated summer-house, embowered
by venerable trees. Madeleine's taste had given a picturesque aspect to
this old _châlet_, and concealed or beautified the ravages of time. With
the assistance of Baptiste, she had planted vines which flung over the
outer walls a green drapery, intermingled with roses, honeysuckle, and
jasmine; and, within doors, a few chairs, a well-worn sofa, a table, and
footstool gave to the rustic apartment an appearance of habitableness
and comfort. This was Madeleine's favorite resort when the weather was
fine, and not a few of the magic achievements of her "fairy fingers" had
been created in that romantic and secluded locality. There was glamour,
perhaps, in the sylvan retreat, that acted like inspiration upon hands
and brain.
Bertha usually flitted about her as she worked, wandering in and out,
now and then sitting down for a few moments, and reading aloud, by fits
and starts, or occasionally taking up a needle and making futile efforts
to busy herself with the womanly implement, but always restless, and
generally abandoning her attempt after a brief trial; for Bertha frankly
confessed that she admired industry in her cousin without being able to
practise it in her own person.
This morning, however, Madeleine sat alone; the fleecy tarlatan, that
rolled in misty whiteness around her, gradually assuming the shape of
female attire. Bettina had been despatched to Rennes on the day previous
to procure this material for Bertha's ball-costume, and had not returned
until late in the evening; yet the dress was cut out and fitted before
Madeleine closed her eyes that night. The first auroral ray of light
that stole into her chamber the next day fell upon the lithe figure of
the young girl folding tucks that were to be made in the skirt,
measuring distances, placing pins here and there for guides; and, as the
dawn broke, she sat down unwearily, and sent her needle in and out of
the transparent fabric with a rapidity of motion marvellous to behold.
After a time, the rickety door of the _châlet_ was unceremoniously
pushed open, and old Baptiste entered. He deposited a basket filled with
ivy leaves upon the table, and said that Mademoiselle Bertha desired him
to gather and deliver them to Mademoiselle Madeleine.
"Has she not taken her usual walk this morning, then?" asked Madeleine,
in surprise.
"No, mademoiselle; Mademoiselle Bertha only came to me as I was weeding
the flower-beds, and immediately went back to the château. Have I
brought mademoiselle enough ivy?"
"Quite sufficient, thank you; but I did not mean to consume your time,
my good Baptiste. I thought Mademoiselle Bertha would take pleasure in
selecting the ivy herself."
"Mademoiselle Madeleine knows how glad I always am to serve her,"
answered Baptiste.
For another hour Madeleine sat alone, singing, in a soft murmur, as she
sewed, while
"Her soul was singing at a work apart
Behind the walls of sense."
The sound of a manly step upon the pathway silenced her plaintive
melody. The next moment the vines, that formed a verdant curtain about
the otherwise unprotected casement, were gently drawn back, and a face
appeared at the window.
"I thought I should find you here on this bright morning, Mademoiselle
Madeleine. May I en--en--enter?" asked Gaston de Bois, speaking with so
much ease that his only stammer came upon the last word.
"If you please."
"A noble slave of the needle," he continued, still looking in at the
window. "The daughter of a duke, with the talents of a dressmaker!
_Where_ will ge--ge--genius next take up her abode?"
"Genius--since you are pleased to apply that sublime appellation to my
poor capacities for wielding the most familiar and harmless weapon of my
sex--is no respecter of persons, as you see. You are an early visitor
to-day, M. de Bois. Of course, you are on your way to the château?"
"I have let--let--letters for the count. He intrusted me
yes--es--esterday with a package to take with me to the Château de
Tremazan, where I was engaged to pass the evening, and I have brought
him the replies. But before I play the postman, let me come in and talk
to you, since you are the only person I can ever manage to talk to at
all."
"Come in then, and welcome."
Gaston accepted the invitation with alacrity. He took a seat, and,
regarding her work, remarked, "This must be for to-night's ball; is it
your own dress?"
"Mine? All these tucks for a dress of _mine_? No, indeed, it is
Bertha's, and I hope she will like the toilet I have planned; each tuck
will be surmounted by a garland of ivy, left open at the front, and
fastened where it breaks off, on either side, with blush roses. Then
among her luxuriant curls a few sprigs of ivy must float, and perhaps a
rose peep out. You may expect to see her looking very beautiful
to-night."
M. de Bois sighed, and remained silent for a moment. Then he resumed the
conversation by asking, "And the dress will be ready in time?"
"Before it is needed, I trust, for it is now well advanced. Fortunately
my aunt's dress was completed last night. But it was not new,--only a
fresh combination of materials that had already been employed. Yet she
was kind enough to be highly pleased."
"Well she might be! You are always wor--wor--working for the good of the
whole family."
"What other return can I make for the good I have received?" replied
Madeleine, with emotion. "Can I ever forget that, when I was left alone
in the world, without refuge, without friends, almost without bread, my
great-aunt extended to me her protection, supplied all my wants,
virtually adopted me as her own child? Can I offer her too much
gratitude in return? Can I lavish upon her too much love? No one knows
how well I love her and all that is hers! How well I love that dwelling
which received the homeless orphan! People call the old château dreary
and gloomy; to me it is a palace; its very walls are dear. I love the
trees that yield me their shade,--the parks that you no doubt think a
wilderness,--the rough, unweeded walks which I tread daily in search of
flowers,--this ruined summer-house, where I have passed hours of
delicious calm,--all the now familiar objects that I first saw through
my tears, before they were dried by the hand of affection; and I reflect
with joy that probably I shall never quit the Heaven-provided home which
has been granted me. I have been so very happy here."
"Real--eal--eally?" asked Gaston, doubtingly. "I fancied sometimes, when
I saw the Countess and Count Tristan so--so--so severe to you, that"--
"Have they not the right to find fault with me when I fail to please
them? That is only what I expect, and ought to bear patiently. I will
not pretend to say that sometimes, when I have been misunderstood, and
my best efforts have failed to bring about results that gratify them,--I
will not say that my heart does not swell as though it would burst; but
I console myself by reflecting that some far off, future day will come
to make amends for all, and bring me full revenge."
"Re--re--revenge! You re--re--revenge?" cried Gaston, in astonishment.
"Yes, _revenge_!" laughed Madeleine. "You see what a vindictive creature
I am! And I am positively preparing myself to enjoy this delightful
revenge. I will make you the confidant of my secret machinations. This
old château is lively enough now, and the presence of Bertha and Maurice
preserve to my aunt the pleasant memory of her own youth. But by and by
Maurice will go forth into the world, and perhaps we shall only see him
from time to time, at long intervals. Bertha will marry"--
At these words M. de Bois gave a violent start, and, stammering
unintelligibly, rose from his seat, upsetting his chair, walked to the
window, brought destruction upon some of Madeleine's vines by pulling
them violently aside, to thrust out his head; then strode back, lifted
the fallen chair, knocking down another, and with a flushed countenance
seated himself again.
Madeleine went on, as if she had not noticed his abrupt movement.
"Solitude and _ennui_ might then oppress the Countess and even Count
Tristan, and render their days burdensome. I am laying up a store of
materials to enliven these scenes of weariness and loneliness. I have
made myself quite a proficient in _piquet_, that I may pass long
evenings playing with the count; I have noted and learned all the old
airs that his mother delights to hear, because they remind her of her
girlhood, and I will sing them to her when she is solitary and
depressed. I will make her forget the absence of the dear ones who must
leave such a void in her life; in a thousand ways I will soften the
footsteps of age and infirmity as they steal upon her;--that will be the
amends time will bring me,--that is the _revenge_ I seek."
"Ah! Mademoiselle Mad--ad--adeleine, you are an angel!"
"So far from an angel," answered Madeleine, gayly, "that you make me
feel as though I had laid a snare, by my egotism, to entrap that
ill-deserved compliment. Now let us talk about yourself and your own
projects. Do you still hold to the resolution you communicated to me in
our last conversation?"
"Yes, your advice has decided me."
"I should have been very impertinent if I had ventured to give you
advice. I can hardly be taxed with that presumption. We were merely
discussing an abstract question,--the use of faculties accorded us, and
the best mode of obtaining happiness through their employment; and you
chose to apply my general remarks to your particular case."
"You drew a picture which made me feel what a worth--orth--orthless
mortal I am, and this incited me to throw off the garment of
slothfulness, and put on armor for the battle of life."
"So be it! Now tell us what you have determined upon."
"My unfortunate imped--ed--ediment is my great drawback. Maurice hopes
to become a lawyer; but that profession would be out of the
ques--es--estion for me who have no power to utter my ideas. I could not
enter the army, for what kind of an officer could I make? How should I
ever manage to say to a soldier, 'Go and brave death for your
coun--oun--ountry'? I should find it easier to do myself than to say it.
Some diplomatic position I _might_ possibly fill. As speech, according
to Talleyrand, was given to men to disguise their thoughts, a man who
st--st--stammers is not in much danger of making known his private
medita--a--ations."
"That is ingenious reasoning," replied Madeleine. "I hope something will
grow out of it."
"It is grow--ow--ing already. Yesterday, at the Château de Tremazan, I
had a long interview with the Marquis de Fleury. He expects to be sent
as ambassador to the United States. We are old friends. We talked, and I
tol--ol--old"--
"You told him your views," said Madeleine, aiding him so quietly and
naturally that her assistance was scarcely noticeable. "And what was
concluded upon? for your countenance declares that you have concluded
upon something. If the marquis goes to America, you will perhaps
accompany him?"
"Yes, as sec--sec--sec--"
"As secretary?" cried Madeleine. "That will be an admirable position.
But America--ah! it is a long, long distance from Brittany! This is good
news for you; but there are two persons to whom it will cause not a
little pain."
"To who--o--om?" inquired Gaston, with suppressed agitation.
"To my cousin Bertha, and to me."
"Mademoiselle Ber--er--ertha! Will _she_ heed my absence?
She--she--she,--will she?" asked Gaston, confusedly.
"Yes--but take care; if you let me see how deeply that idea affects you,
you will fail to play the diplomat in disguising your thoughts, for I
shall divine your secret."
"My secret,--what--what secret? What is it you divine? What do you
imagine? I mean."
"That you love Bertha,--love her as she deserves to be loved?"
"I? I?" replied M. de Bois, trying to speak calmly; but, finding the
attempt in vain, he burst forth: "Yes, it is but too true; I love her
with my whole soul; I love her passionately; love her despairingly,--ay,
_despairingly_!"
"And why _despairingly_?"
"Alas! she is so rich!" he answered, in a tone of chagrin.
"True, she is encumbered with a large and _un_-encumbered estate."
"A great misfortune for me!" sighed Gaston.
"A misfortune which you cannot help, and which Bertha will never
remember when she bestows her heart upon one who is worthy of the gift."
"How can she ever deem _me_ worthy? Even if I succeed in making myself a
name,--a position; even if I become all that you have caused me to dream
of being,--this dreadful imped--ed--ediment, this stammering which
renders me ridiculous in the eyes of every one, in her eyes even,
will"--
"Your stammering is only the effect of timidity," answered Madeleine,
soothingly. "Believe me, it is nothing more; as you overcome your
diffidence and gain self-possession, you will find that it disappears.
For instance, you have been talking to me for some time with ease and
fluency."
"To _you_, ah, yes; with _you_ I am always at my ease,--I have always
confidence. It is not difficult to talk to one for whom I have so much
affection,--_so much_, and yet not _too much_."
"That proves fluent speech possible."
"But to any one else, if I venture to open my heart, I hesitate,--I get
troubled,--I--I stammer,--I make myself ridic--ic--iculous!"
"Not at all."
"But I do," reiterated Gaston, warmly. "Fancy a man saying to a woman
he adores, yet in whose presence he trembles like a school-boy, or a
culprit, 'I--I--I--lo--ov--ov--ove you!'"
"The fact is," began Madeleine, laughing good-naturedly.
"_There! there!_" cried M. de Bois, with a gesture of impatience and
discouragement; "the fact is, that you laugh yourself,--_you_, who are
so forbearing!"
"Pardon me; you mistook"--
"You could not help it, I know. It is precisely that which discourages
me. And yet it is very odd! I have one method by which I can speak for
five minutes at a time without stopping or hesitating."
"Indeed! Why, then, do you not always employ that magical method in
society?"
"It would hardly be admissible in polite circles. Would you believe
it?--it is very absurd, but so is everything that appertains to us
unfortunate tongue-tied wretches."
"Tell me what your method is."
"I--I--I do not dare; you will only laugh at me again."
"No; I promise I will not."
"Well, then, my method is to become very much animated,--to lash myself
into a state of high excitement, and to hold forth as though I were
making an exordium,--to talk with furious rapidity, using the most
forcible expressions, the most emphatic ejaculations! Those unloose my
tongue! My words hurl themselves impetuously forward, as zouaves in
battle! Only, as you may conceive, this discourse is not of a very
classic nature, and hardly suited to the drawing-room,--especially, as I
receive great help, and rush on all the faster, for a few interjections
that come under the head of--of--of swear--ear--earing!"
"_Swearing?_" was all Madeleine could say, controlling a strong
inclination to merriment.
"Yes, downright swearing; employing strong expletives,--actual oaths!
Oh, it helps me more than you can believe. But just imagine the result
if I were to harangue Mademoiselle Bertha in this style! She
would--would--"
"Would think it very original, and, as she has a joyous temperament, she
might laugh immoderately. But she likes originality, and the very oddity
of the discourse might impress her deeply. Then, too, she is very
sympathetic, and she would probably be touched by the necessity which
compelled you to employ such an extraordinary mode of expression."
"Ah, if that were only true!"
"I think it _is_ true."
"Thank you! thank you!"
Madeleine was opening a skein of silk, and, extending it to M. de Bois,
she said: "Will you assist me? It is for Bertha I am working. Will you
hold this skein? It will save time."
Gaston, well pleased, stretched out his hands. Madeleine adjusted the
skein, and commenced winding.
"Besides, who knows?" she went on to say. "It seems to me very possible
that the very singularity of such an address might captivate her, and
give you a decided advantage over lovers who pressed their suit in
hackneyed, stereotyped phrases."
"You think so?"
"I should not be surprised if such were the case, because Bertha has a
decided touch of eccentricity in her character."
"If I only dared to think that she had ever given me the faintest
evidence of favorable regard!"
"When she sees you embarrassed and hesitating, does she not always
finish your sentences?"
"Is it pos--pos--pos--" stammered Gaston.
"Possible?" said Madeleine. "Yes, I have observed that she invariably
does so if she imagines herself unnoticed. I have besides remarked a
certain expression on her transparent countenance when we talked of you,
and she has dropped a word, now and then,"--
"What--what--what words? But no, you are mocking me cruelly! It cannot
be that she ever thinks of me! I have too powerful a rival."
"A rival! what rival?" asked Madeleine, in genuine astonishment.
"The Viscount Maurice."
The silken thread snapped in Madeleine's hand.
"You have broken the thread," remarked M. de Bois; "I hope it was not
owing to my awkward hold--old--olding."
"No, no," answered Madeleine, hurriedly, and taking the skein out of his
hand, but tangling it inextricably as she tried to draw out the threads.
"You--you--you--think my cousin Maurice loves Bertha?" she asked, hardly
aware of the pointedness of her own question.
"I do not exactly say _that_; but how will it be possible for him to
help loving her? Good gracious, Mademoiselle Madeleine! what have I said
to affect you? How pale you have become!"
Madeleine struggled to appear composed, but the hands that held the
snarled skein trembled, and no effort of will could force the retreating
blood back to her face.
"Nothing--you have said nothing,--you are quite right, I--I--I dare
say."
"Why, you are just as troubled and embarrassed as I was just now."
"I? nonsense! I'm--I'm--I'm only--only--"
"And you stammer,--you actually stammer almost as badly as I do!"
exclaimed Gaston, in exultation. "Ah, Mademoiselle Madeleine! I have
betrayed to you _my_ secret,--you have discovered _yours_ to me!"
"Monsieur de Bois, I implore you, do not speak another word on this
subject! Enough that, if _I had a secret_, there is no one in the world
to whom I would sooner confide it."
"Why, then, do you now wish to hide from me the preference with which
you honor your cousin?"
Madeleine replied, in a tremulous tone, "You do not know how deep a
wound you are probing, how heavy a grief you"--
"Why should it be a grief? What obstacle impedes your union?"
"An insurmountable obstacle,--one that exists in my own heart."
"How can that be, since that heart is his?"
"Those to whom I owe everything," replied Madeleine, "cherish the
anticipation that Maurice will make a brilliant marriage. Even if my
cousin looked upon me with partial eyes, could I rob my benefactors of
that dearest hope? Could I repay all their benefits to me by causing
them such a cruel disappointment? I could never be so ungrateful,--so
guilty,--so inhuman. Therefore, I say, the obstacle lies in my own
heart: that heart revolts at the very contemplation of such an act. I
pray you never to speak to me again on this subject; and give me your
word that no one shall ever know what I have just confided to you,--I
mean what you suspect--what you suspect, it may be, _erroneously!_"
"I promise you on the honor of a gentleman."
"Thank you."
A step was heard on the path leading to the summer-house.
Gaston looked towards the open door and said, "It is the count."
At the same moment he withdrew to the window.
Madeleine, who had risen, resumed her seat, and, as she plied her
needle, half buried her agitated face in the white drapery which lay in
her lap.
The count entered with downcast eyes, and flung himself into a chair.
He had not perceived that any one was present. Madeleine found it
difficult to command her voice, yet could not allow him to remain
unaware that he was not alone.
After a brief interval, she said, in a tolerably quiet tone, "I am
afraid you have not chosen a very comfortable seat. I told Baptiste to
remove that chair, for its legs are giving signs of the infirmities of
age."
At the sound of her voice the count glanced at her over his shoulder,
and said, brusquely, "What are you doing there?"
"Playing Penelope, as usual."
The count returned harshly, "Always absorbed in some feminine frippery,
just as if"--
"Just as if I were a woman!" answered Madeleine, forcing a laugh.
"A woman in your position should find some less frivolous employment."
Madeleine replied, in a tone of badinage that would have disarmed most
men, "How cruelly my cousin pretends to treat me! He actually makes
believe to scold me when I am occupied with the interests of his
family,--when I am literally _shedding my blood_ in their behalf!" she
added playfully, holding towards him the white dress upon which a slight
red stain was visible; for the needle grasped by her trembling hands had
pricked her.
"Good heavens, Madeleine! when will you lay aside those intolerable airs
and graces which you invariably assume, and which would be very charming
in a young girl of sixteen,--a girl like Bertha; but, in a woman who has
arrived at your years,--a woman of twenty-one,--become ridiculous
affectation?"
M. de Bois, enraged at the injustice of this rebuke, could control
himself no longer, and came forward with a lowering visage. The count
turned towards him in surprise.
"Ah, M. de Bois, I was not aware of your presence. I must have
interrupted a _tête-à-tête_. You perceive, I am, now and then, obliged
to chide."
Gaston answered only by a bow, though his features wore an expression
which the count would not have been well pleased to see if he had
interpreted aright.
"But," continued the latter, "we are most apt to chide those whom we
love best, as you are aware."
"I am a--a--ware," began M. de Bois, trying to calm his indignation, yet
experiencing a strong desire to adopt his new method of speaking
fluently by using strong interjections.
The count changed the subject by asking, "Did you deliver the letters,
of which you had the goodness to take charge, to the Count Damoreau,
Madame de Nervac, and Monsieur de Bonneville?"
"Our relatives!" exclaimed Madeleine, unreflectingly. "Have you
forgotten that you will see them to-night at the ball? But I beg pardon;
perhaps you had something very important to write about."
"It _was_ very important," answered the count, dryly.
"I im--im--imagined so," remarked M. de Bois, "by the sensation the
letters created. Madame de Nervac turned pale, and the Count Damoreau
turned red, and M. de Bonneville gnawed his nails as he was reading."
"Had they the kindness to send answers by you, as I requested?"
"Yes, the object of my early vi--vi--visit was to deliver them. I heard
Mademoiselle Madeleine singing as I passed the _châlet_, and paused to
pay my respects."
He drew forth three letters, and placed them in the count's hand.
The latter seized them eagerly, and seemed inclined to break the seals
at once, but changed his mind, and putting them in his pocket, said,
"Shall I have the pleasure of your company to the château?"
M. de Bois could not well refuse.
He left the _châlet_ with the count, but, after taking a few steps,
apologized for being obliged to return in search of a glove he had
dropped. He went back alone. Madeleine was occupied with her needle as
when he left her. There were no traces of tears upon her cheeks; there
was no flush, no expression of anger or mortification upon her serene
countenance.
M. de Bois regarded her a moment in surprise, for he had expected to
find her weeping, or looking vexed, or, at all events, in a state of
excitement.
"Is the count often in such an amiable temper?" he asked.
"No; pray, do not imagine _that_; he is evidently troubled to-day. You
saw how preoccupied he was. Something has gone wrong, something annoys
him. He did not mean to be harsh."
"And _you_ can excuse him? Well, then _I_ cannot! I felt as though I
must speak when he rated you so unreasonably. And, if I had spoken, I
should certainly have had my tongue loosened by swearing; perhaps I
shall yet"--
"Pray, M. de Bois," urged Madeleine, "do not try to defend me, or
allude to what you unfortunately heard. It will only make my position
more trying."
"So I fear; but I have something to say to you. _You_ have given _me_
good counsels; you must listen to some I have to give you in
return,--but not now. You are going to the ball to-night?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Perhaps I may find an opportunity of talking to you there."
Saying these words, he picked up the glove, and hastened to rejoin the
count, who was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to remark the
length of his friend's absence.
CHAPTER VI.
UNMASKING.
Madeleine, left alone in the old _châlet_, remained for some time
absorbed in her work, which progressed rapidly. The ivy leaves were
dexterously polished, and a graceful garland laid above every tuck of
the transparent white dress. The last leafy band was nearly completed,
when the door again creaked upon its rusty hinges, and the young girl,
looking up, beheld Maurice.
"Is not Bertha here?" he asked, in a tone that sounded very unlike his
usual cheerful voice. "I came to seek her, and felt sure she must be
with you."
"I have not seen her since early morning," answered Madeleine. "She
promised to bring me this basket full of ivy leaves, but sent Baptiste
instead."
"I looked for her in the library, the _boudoir_, the drawing-room, and
the garden, before I came here," Maurice continued, in the same grave
tone. "She has disappeared just at the moment when I have made up my
mind to have an understanding without further delay."
Madeleine's speaking countenance betrayed her surprise, for it seemed
strange that Maurice should desire an especial interview with his
cousin, whom he saw at all hours; and stranger still that he appeared to
be so much disturbed.
"How serious you look, Maurice! Are you troubled? Has anything occurred
to cause you unhappiness?"
"I can have no disguises from you, Madeleine. I am thoroughly sick at
heart. In the first place, my father and my grandmother have violently
opposed my determination to embark in an honorable and useful career of
life;--_that_ threw a cloud over me almost from the hour I entered the
château. I tried to forget my disappointment for the moment, that no
shadow might fall upon your birthday happiness; besides, I clung to the
hope that I might yet convince them of the propriety, the policy, the
actual necessity of the step I propose to take. My father, yesterday,
stunned me with a piece of intelligence which renders me wretched, yet
forces me to act. I have given him my promise; there is no retreat. I
must bring this matter to a climax, be the sequence what it may; and yet
I dread to make the very first movement."
"I am too dull to read the riddle of the sphinx, and your words are as
enigmatical. I have not begun to find their clew," replied Madeleine,
pausing in the garland she was forming, and letting the ivy drop
unnoticed around her.
The first impulse of Maurice was to gather the fallen leaves; the second
prompted him gently to force the dress, she was so tastefully adorning,
out of her hands, and toss it upon the table.
"I see your task is nearly completed, and Bertha's toilet for the ball
will be sufficiently picturesque to cause the Marchioness de Fleury to
die of envy; can you not, therefore, rest from your labors, good fairy
dressmaker, and talk awhile with me? I need consolation,--I need
advice,--and you alone can give me both."
"I?" Madeleine spoke that single word tremulously, and a faint flush
passed over her soft, pale face.
"_You_, Madeleine, you, and _you_ only!"
"There is Bertha, at last," she exclaimed, rising hastily, and
approaching the door. "Do you not see her blue dress yonder through the
trees? Bertha! Bertha!" and, leaving Maurice, she went forth to meet
Bertha.
"Where have you hidden yourself all the morning, little truant? Why!
what has happened to distress you? Your eyes look as though you had been
weeping. Dear Bertha! what ails you?"
"I could not bear it any longer," almost sobbed Bertha, laying her head
upon her cousin's shoulder. "I could not help coming to you, though I
wanted to act entirely upon my own responsibility, and I had determined
not even to consult you, for I am always fearful of getting you into
trouble with my aunt."
Madeleine was so completely mystified that she could only murmur half
to herself, "More enigmas! What can they mean?"
Then, passing her arm around Bertha's slender waist, they walked to the
summer-house. The position of Bertha's head caused her bright ringlets
completely to veil her face, and it was not until after she entered the
_châlet_, and shook the blinding locks from before her eyes, that she
saw Maurice. She drew back with a movement of vexation and confusion
never before evinced at his presence,--clung to Madeleine as though for
protection, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
"Maurice came here expecting to find you with me," observed Madeleine.
"He wanted to speak to you."
"Did he?--yes, I know he did. I know what he is going to say; I kept out
of his way on purpose, until I could make up my mind about it all; I
mean, I thought it best to postpone; but it does not matter,--I would
rather have it over; no,--I don't mean _that_,--I mean"--
Bertha's perturbation rendered any clearer expression of her meaning out
of the question.
Madeleine took up the dress, which Maurice had flung upon the table, and
said, "When you return to the house, Bertha, will you not come to my
room and try on your dress? It is just completed."
"Stay, stay, Madeleine!" exclaimed Bertha and Maurice together.
"You see, we _both_ desire you to stay," added Maurice; "therefore you
cannot refuse. We have no secrets from you,--have we, Bertha?"
"_I_ had none until yesterday; but my aunt is inclined to be so severe
with Madeleine, that I feared I might make mischief by taking her into
my confidence. Do not go, Madeleine. Sit down, for you _must_ stay. If
you go, I will go with you; and Maurice wants to speak to me,--I mean, I
want to speak to him,--that is to say, he intends to"--
Madeleine resumed her seat.
"Since you so tyrannically insist upon my remaining, I will finish this
garland while you are having your mysterious explanation."
Maurice approached Bertha with a hesitation which had some slight touch
of awkwardness. Feeling that it was easier to induce _her_ to break the
ice than to take the first step upon this delicate ground himself, he
remarked, "You wanted to speak to me; what did you desire to say, my
dear little cousin?"
Bertha looked up innocently into his face, as though she was scanning
his features for the first time.
"What my aunt says is all very true. You _are_ exceedingly handsome; I
never denied it, except in jest; and you _are_ decidedly agreeable,
except now and then; and you _have_ a noble heart,--I never doubted it;
and a fine intellect,--though I do not know much about _that_; and any
woman might be proud of you,--that is, I dare say most women would."
"And I have a little cousin who is an adroit flatterer, and who is
herself beautiful enough for a Hebe, and whose fascinations are
sufficiently potent to captivate any reasonable or unreasonable man."
"Oh! but that is not to the point. I did not mean that we should
exchange compliments. What I want to say is that such an attractive and
agreeable young man as you are will naturally find hosts of young girls,
who would any of them be proud to be chosen as his wife."
"And you, with your grace and beauty, your lovable character, and your
large fortune, will have suitors innumerable, from among whom you may
readily select one who will be worthy of you."
"But that is not to the point either! I told my aunt that I was not
insensible to all your claims to admiration. I assure you I did you
ample justice!"
"You were very kind and complimentary, little cousin; but I said as much
of you to my father. I gave him to understand that I acknowledged you to
be one of the most charming beings in the world, and that I thought the
man to whom you gave your hand would be the happiest of mortals, and
that I did not believe _that man_ could value you more as a wife than I
should as a sister."
"_A sister! A sister!_ Oh! I am so glad!--a _sister_? You do not really
love me, then?"
"Have I said that?"
"You have said the same thing, and I am overjoyed! I can never thank you
half enough!"
"_You_ do not love _me_ then?" asked Maurice.
"I love you with all my heart! I never loved you half as well as at this
moment!--that is as--as--a _brother_; for you love me as a _sister_,
while my aunt declared you hoped to make me your wife,--that you were
crazily in love with me, and that if I refused you, I should ruin all
your future prospects, for the blow would almost kill you. I cannot tell
you how chagrined I was at the deplorable prospect. And it's all a
mistake,--is it not?"
"My father assured me that you had formed the most flattering attachment
for me. Is that a mistake also?" inquired Maurice, skilfully avoiding
the rudeness of a direct reply to her question.
"Oh! I never cared a straw for you except as the dearest cousin in the
world!"
"But why," asked Maurice, resuming his usual gay tone of raillery, "why,
if I am the incomparable being you pretend to think me, why are you so
particularly averse to becoming my wife? What do you say to that? I
should like to have an explanatory answer, little cousin; or else you
must take back all your compliments."
"Not one of them!" replied Bertha, merrily. "I am so charmed with you at
this moment that I feel inclined to double their number. Yet there is a
reason why I should have refused you, even if you had offered yourself
to me."
"Is it because you like somebody else better?"
"No, no," answered Bertha, hastily; "how can you suggest such an idea?
But I suppose _you do so because that is your reason_ for desiring to
refuse my hand?"
"I shall be obliged to think my suggestion correct, unless you tell me
why you are so glad to escape becoming my wife."
"It was because," said Bertha, approaching her rosy mouth to his ear,
and speaking in a low tone, "because there is another woman, who is far
more worthy of you, who would make you a better wife than I could, and
who--who does not exactly _hate_ you."
"Another woman?"
"Hush! do not speak so loudly. There is nothing in the world I desire so
much as to see that other woman happy; for there is no one I love half
so well."
"The garland is finished!" Madeleine broke in, starting up abruptly, for
she had caught the whispered words. "Come, Bertha, we must hasten back
to the château. I must try on your dress immediately."
"Oh, since it is finished, we have plenty of time," said Bertha. "It is
quite early in the day yet, and Maurice and I are deeply interested in
our conversation. We were never before such fast friends and devoted
cousins."
"Never," replied Maurice.
"But the dress may need some alteration," persisted Madeleine. "Pray,
pray come!"
She spoke almost imploringly, and in an excited tone, which the mere
trying on of a dress did not warrant.
"Oh, you dear despot! I suppose you must be obeyed."
Bertha snatched the ivy-garlanded dress, and bounded away. Madeleine
would have followed, but Maurice seized her hand detainingly.
"One moment, Madeleine,--grant me one moment!"
"Not now. Bertha will be waiting for me!" And she made an effort to free
her imprisoned hand.
"You shall tell her that you were taken captive, and she will forgive
you, if it be only for the sake of your _jailer_. There's vanity for
you!"
"But my arrangements for this evening are not all completed. It is
growing late, Maurice; I entreat you to release me; I _cannot_ remain--I
_must_ go!"
"Not until I have spoken to you. The time has come when you must hear
me."
Madeleine felt that there was no escape, and, forcing herself to assume
an air of composure, answered, "Speak, then; what can you have to say,
Maurice, to which I ought to listen?"
"Must I tell you? Have you not divined? Must I show you my heart? If no
responsive pulse in your own has revealed to you what is passing in
mine, I am truly unfortunate,--I have been deceived indeed!"
"Maurice, Maurice! for the love of Heaven"--
"You do well to say for the love of Heaven; for I love Heaven all the
better for loving a being who bears the impress of Heaven's own glorious
hand! Yes, Madeleine, ever loved,--loved from the first hour we met."
The rustling of silk interrupted his sentence. Madeleine tremblingly
withdrew her hand. The Countess de Gramont stood before them! Her tall
figure dilated until it seemed to shut out all the sunlight beyond; her
countenance grew ashy with suppressed rage; her black eyes shot out
glances that pierced like arrows; not a sound issued from her
tightly-compressed lips.
Maurice, recovering himself, tried to assume an unconcerned air, and
stooped to gather some of the ivy leaves scattered around him. Madeleine
bowed her head as a culprit who has no defence to make, and no hope of
concealment to cling to as a last refuge.
The countess broke the painful silence, speaking in a hollow, scornful
tone: "I am here at an unfortunate moment, it seems!"
There was no reply.
"Perhaps I ought to apologize for disturbing you," she continued,
sarcastically.
"Not at all--not at all," said Maurice, who felt that it was his duty to
answer and shield Madeleine, as far as possible, from his grandmother's
displeasure.
"Why, then, is Madeleine covered with confusion? Why did she so quickly
withdraw her hand? How--how came it clasped in yours?"
"Is she not my cousin?" answered Maurice, evasively. "Have I no right to
show her affection? Must I renounce the ties of blood?"
"It is not you, Maurice, whom I blame," said the countess, trying to
speak less sternly. "It is Madeleine, who should not have permitted this
unmeet familiarity. I well know by what arts she has lured you to forget
yourself. The fault lies with her."
For the first time the countess beheld a flash of indignation in the
eyes Madeleine lifted from the ground.
"Madame--aunt!" she began.
The countess would not permit her to proceed.
"I know what I say! You have too much tact and quickness not to have
comprehended our hopes in regard to Maurice and Bertha; and it has not
escaped my notice that you have sought, by every artful manoeuvre in
your power, to frustrate those hopes."
"I?" ejaculated Madeleine, aghast at the charge, and too much bewildered
to be able to utter a denial.
"Yes, _you!_ Have you not sought to fascinate Maurice by every species
of wily coquetry? Have you not"--
"Grandmother!" cried Maurice, furiously.
"Be silent, Maurice,--it is Madeleine to whom I am addressing my
remarks, and her own conscience tells her their justice."
"Aunt, if ever by word, or look, or thought"--
"Oh! it was all done in the most apparently artless, natural,
_purposeless_ manner! But the same end was always kept steadily in view.
What I have witnessed this morning convinces me of your aims. Your
movements were so skilfully managed that they scarcely seemed open to
suspicion. The most specious coquetry has governed all your actions. You
were always attired more simply than any one else; but by this very
simplicity you thought to render yourself remarkable, and attract a
larger share of attention. You always pretended to shun observation,
that you might be brought into more positive notice. You affected to
avoid Maurice, that he might feel tempted to follow you,--that he might
be lured to seek you when you were alone, as you were a moment
ago,--that he might"--
Maurice could restrain his ire no longer. He broke forth with
vehemence,--"Grandmother, I cannot listen to this injustice. I cannot
see Madeleine so cruelly insulted. Were it my mother herself who spoke,
I would not stand by and see her trample thus upon an innocent and
defenceless heart."
Madeleine turned to Maurice beseechingly. "Do not utter such words to
one whom you are bound to address with reverence;--do not, or you will
render my sufferings unendurable!"
"Your _sufferings_?" exclaimed the countess, catching at a word that
seemed to imply a reproof, which galled the more because she knew it was
deserved. "Your _sufferings_? That is a fitting expression to drop from
your lips! I had the right to believe that, far from causing you
_suffering_, I had put an end to your suffering when I threw open my
doors to admit you."
"You misunderstood me, aunt. I did not intend to say"--
"You have said enough to prove that you add ingratitude to your other
sins. And, since you talk of _sufferings_, I will beg you to remember
the sufferings you have brought upon us,--you, who, in return for all
you have received at my hands, have caused my very grandson to treat me
with disrespect, for the first time in his life. _Your_ sufferings? I
can well conceive that she who creates so much affliction in the house
that has sheltered her,--she who so treacherously pierces the hearts
that have opened to yield her a place,--she who has played the viper
warmed upon almost a mother's bosom,--she may well have sufferings to
wail over!"
Madeleine stood speechless, thunderstruck, by the rude shock of these
words. The countess turned from her, and, preparing to leave the
_châlet_, bade Maurice give her his arm. He silently obeyed, casting a
look of compassionate tenderness upon Madeleine. But she saw it not; all
her vast store of mental strength suddenly melted away! For the first
time in her life she was completely crushed, overwhelmed,--hopeless and
powerless. For a few moments she remained standing as motionless as one
petrified; then, with a heart-broken cry, dropped into a seat, and
covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively,--sobbed as though
all the sorrows of her life were concentrated in the anguish of that
moment, and found vent in that deluge of tears,--that stormy whirlwind
of passion! All the clouds in the firmament of her existence, which she
had, day after day, dispelled by the internal sunshine of her patient,
trustful spirit, culminated and broke in that wild flood. Hope was
drowned in that heavy rain; all the flowers that brightened, and the
sweet, springing herbs that lent their balm to her weary pilgrimage,
were beaten down into the mire of despair. There was no ark, no Ararat;
she was alone, without refuge, on the waste of waters.
Her heavy sobs prevented her hearing the entrance of Bertha, and it was
only when the arms of the young girl were fondly twined about her, that
she became aware of her presence.
"Madeleine, dear, dear Madeleine! What has happened? Why do you weep
thus?"
"Do not speak to me, Bertha!" replied Madeleine in a stifled voice. "You
cannot, cannot help me; there is no hope left,--none, none! My father
has died to me again to day, and I am alone once more!--alone in a
desert that has no place of shelter for me, but a grave beneath its
swathing sands!"
Her tears gushed forth with redoubled violence.
"Do not treat me so cruelly! Do not cast me off!" pleaded Bertha, as her
cousin tried to disengage herself from her encircling arms. "If you are
wretched, so am I--_because_ you are! Only tell me the reason for this
terrible sorrow. I was awaiting you in your room; but, as you did not
come, I felt sure my cousin Maurice had detained you."
At those last words an involuntary cry of intense suffering burst from
Madeleine's lips.
"Then I saw my aunt and Maurice returning together, and Maurice appeared
to be talking in an excited manner, and my aunt looked blacker than any
thunder-cloud. Still you did not come, and I went in search of you. Tell
me why I find you thus?--you, who have always borne your griefs with
such silent fortitude. What _has_ my aunt said or done to you?"
"She has ceased to love me,--she has ceased to esteem me,--she even
repents of the benefits she has conferred upon me."
"No, no, Madeleine; you are mistaken."
"Oh, I am not mistaken,--my eyes are opened at last. The thin, waxen
mask of assumed kindness has melted from her face! I am a burden to
her,--an encumbrance,--an offence. She only desires to be rid of me!"
"You,--the fairy of good works in her household? What could she do
without you? It is only excitement which makes you imagine this."
"I never guessed, never dreamed it before; but I have wilfully deceived
myself. _Now_ all is too clear! A thousand recollections rise up to
testify to the truth; a thousand suspicions, which I repulsed as
unworthy of me and of her, return to convince me; words and looks,
coldness and injustice, slights and reproaches start up with frightful
vividness, and throw a hideous light upon conduct I never dared to
interpret aright."
"What looks? what words? what actions?" asked Bertha, though her heart
told her with what a catalogue she could answer her own question.
"They could not be rehearsed in an hour or in a day. But it is not to my
aunt alone that my presence is offensive. Cousin Tristan also chafes at
the sight of his dependent relative. I have seen it when I took my seat
at table; I have seen it when room was made for me in the carriage; I
have seen it on numberless occasions. His glances, his accents, his
whole demeanor, have seemed to reproach me for the place I occupied, for
the garments I wore, for the very bread I ate,--the bread of bitter,
bitter charity! And oh!" she groaned, "_must this be so still?_ _Must_ I
still accept these bounties, which are begrudged me? _Must_ I still be
bowed to the dust by the weight of these charities? Alas! I _must_,
because I have nothing of my own,--because I am nothing of myself!"
"Madeleine! one of these days"--
Madeleine did not heed her. "Oh, my father! my father! To what torturing
humiliations you subjected me in bequeathing me nobility with poverty!
Well may you have wished that you had been born a peasant! Had I been a
peasant's child, I might have lived by, and rejoiced in, honest labor!
Had I been the daughter of a mechanic, I might have gained my bread by
some useful trade. Had I even been the child of some poor gentleman, I
might have earned a livelihood by giving lessons in music, in drawing,
by becoming a governess, or teaching in a school. But, the daughter of
the Duke de Gramont, it is one of the curses of my noble birth that I
must live upon charity,--charity unwillingly doled out and thrown in my
face, even when I am receiving it with meekness!"
"But, Madeleine, if you will but listen to me"--
Madeleine went on bitterly. "And I am young yet,--young and strong, and
capable of exertion; and I have dared to believe that, while one is
young, some of the benefits received could be repaid by the cheerful
spirit of youth,--by the performance of needful offices,--by hands ever
ready to serve, and a heart ever open to sympathize; but, if I am an
encumbrance, an annoyance while I am _young_, what an intolerable burden
I must become when youth passes away! Then I shall either be repulsed
with aversion, or sheltered with undisguised reluctance,--forced to
remember every moment that the hospitality I receive is an _alms_! Oh!
it is too horrible! Death would be a thousand times preferable."
"And you can forget how dreadful it would be for us, who love you, to
lose you?"
"I forget _everything_, except the misery of my own degraded position! I
ask for nothing save that God, in his mercy, will free me from it, I
care not how! I look despairingly on all sides, and see no escape! I am
bound, hand and foot, by the chains of my own noble birth, and shut
within the iron walls of circumstance. I struggle vainly in my
captivity; no way of freedom is open to me! And yet I can never again
resign myself to passive endurance."
"If you only knew how wretched you make me by talking in this strain!"
"I make you wretched, as I have made all others, by my presence
here,--yes, I know it! You see how ungrateful, how selfish misery has
rendered me, since I am cruel even to you whose pure love I never
doubted."
Before Bertha could make a fresh attempt to console her cousin, Baptiste
entered, bearing a letter. He looked dismayed when he beheld Madeleine's
face of woe, and Bertha's tearful countenance; but the latter checked
his glance of inquiry by asking abruptly what he wanted.
Still regarding Madeleine with an expression of deep concern, he
replied, "The _vâlet_ of Count Damoreau has just left this letter for
Mademoiselle Madeleine, and desired that it should be delivered to her
at once."
"Very well; that will do."
Bertha took the letter, and motioned to Baptiste to withdraw.
"What _can_ Count Damoreau have to write to you about? Do open the
letter and tell me."
"Not now, Bertha. Leave me to myself for a little while. I scarcely know
what I am doing or saying. I entreat you to leave me!"
"Madeleine, if I were in trouble, I would not send you from me."
"Go, if you love me! And you--_you_, at least, _do_ love me!"
"_If_ I love you? I will even leave you to prove that I do; but it is
very hard."
Bertha walked slowly away, taking the path that led from the château. In
a few moments she paused, turned suddenly, and quickened her steps in
the opposite direction, prompted by an impulse to seek Maurice and tell
him of Madeleine's grief. Perhaps he might have the power to console
her.
Count Tristan had been prevented opening the letters which M. de Bois
had delivered. When the two gentlemen reached the château, several
visitors were awaiting the count, and their stay was protracted. The
instant his guests took their leave, he hastened to the library, which
his mother entered at the same moment. He listened impatiently as she
briefly recounted the scene which had taken place in the summer-house.
"The time has come when we must put an end to this madness," answered
the count; "and I trust that I hold the means in my hands. These are the
replies of Madeleine's relations."
He broke one of the seals, and glanced over the contents of the letter,
gnawing his under lip as he read.
"Well, my son, what reply?"
"This letter is from M. de Bonneville. He writes that his château is
only large enough for his own family,--that it would be a great
inconvenience to have any addition to his home circle; and _we_--I
suppose _we_ have not been inconvenienced for the last three years"--
"I am not astonished at such a reply from M. de Bonneville. I expected
nothing else. Give me Madame de Nervac's letter. She is a charming
woman, whom every one admires and respects, and I know her kindness of
heart."
The count handed the letter. His mother opened it, and read,--
"MY DEAR COUSIN:
"Are you not aware that a woman of any tact, who has still
some claims to admiration, could hardly commit the absurd
_faux pas_ of establishing in her own house, and having
always by her side, a person younger and handsomer than
herself? To consent to your proposition concerning Madeleine
would therefore be a suicidal act"--
"This is insupportable!" ejaculated the count. "It seems that we are to
be forced into continuing to bear this burden, though it may bring us
to ruin. What insupportable vanity Madame de Nervac betrays! You see
what her kindness of heart is worth!"
"There is still one letter to open," remarked his mother, clinging to a
faint hope.
"Oh, it will be a repetition of the others,--you may be sure of that!"
He tore it open angrily; but, glancing at the first lines, exclaimed,
"What do I see? Have we found one reasonable and charitable person at
last? The Count Damoreau writes,--
"'A thousand thanks, my dear cousin for the opportunity you
afford me of being useful to that lovely and unfortunate
relative of ours. I have always regarded her with admiration
and affection, and always appreciated the noble generosity
which prompted your kindness to the orphan.'"
"The count is a man endowed with most excellent judgment," remarked the
countess with complacency.
Her son continued reading the letter,--
"'I am at this moment about to make a number of necessary
repairs in my château, which will cause me to absent myself
for some time. I shall probably spend a year or two on the
continent.'"
"So much the better! He will doubtless take Madeleine with him,"
suggested the countess.
Count Tristan in an altered tone read on,--
"'As I shall travel entirely _en garçon_, of course it will
be impossible for Madeleine to accompany me, but an
admirable opportunity presents itself for placing her in a
situation that is very suitable. My friend, Lady Vivian, of
Edinburgh, who forms one of the party here, is in search of
an humble companion. I have spoken to her ladyship
concerning Madeleine. She made some slight demur on account
of the young lady's attractive person, but finally consented
to offer her this situation.'"
"A de Gramont hired out as an humble companion! What an indignity!"
ejaculated the countess.
The count continued reading,--
"'I will myself write to Madeleine and apprise her of what I
have done, and present the many advantages of such a
position.'"
"She must not receive the letter!" said the countess, earnestly. "She is
capable of accepting this offer for the sake of wounding us. But Count
Damoreau has insulted us grossly. How has he dared to entertain such an
offer for a member of our family,--one in whose veins flows the same
untainted blood? Why do you not speak, my son? But indignation may well
deprive you of speech!"
"I can only say that in _some manner we must at once rid ourselves of
Madeleine_."
"I would rather see her dead than in a situation which disgraced her
noble name," answered the countess, violently.
"I quite agree with you," returned the count, with a sardonic look;
"but, unfortunately, life and death are not in our hands!"
As he spoke, there was a gleam in his malignant eye, almost murderous.
His foot was lifted to crush the worm in his path, and, could he have
trodden it out of existence in secret, the deed would have been
accomplished with exultation. His hatred for Madeleine had strengthened
into a fierce passion as his fears that Maurice loved her threatened to
be confirmed. Far from sharing his mother's indignation at the proposal
of Count Damoreau, he had made up his mind to force Madeleine into
acceptance, if no other presented itself for freeing the château from
her presence.
CHAPTER VII.
A CRISIS.
Count Tristan was in the heat of argument with his haughty mother, when
the door of the library opened, and Madeleine entered. One who had
beheld the tempestuous burst of grief, the torrent of tears, the
heart-rending despair that convulsed her frame but half an hour before,
in the little _châlet_, would scarcely have recognized the countenance
upon which the eyes of the Countess de Gramont and her son were now
turned. Not the faintest shadow of that whirlwind of passionate anguish
was left upon Madeleine's face, unless it might be traced in the great
calm which succeeds a heavy storm; in the death-like pallor which
overspread her almost rigid features; in the steady light that shone
from her soul-revealing eyes; in the firm outline of her colorless
lips; in the look of heroic resolve which imparted to her noble
lineaments a higher beauty than they ever before had worn.
She approached Count Tristan with an unfaltering step, holding a letter
in her hand. That letter had given a sudden check to her vehement
sorrow, and restored her equilibrium.
"I have received this communication from Count Damoreau."
As she spoke, she extended the epistle to the count, who for one instant
quailed before her clairvoyant eyes. It seemed as though a prophetic
judgment spoke out of their shining depths.
He took the letter mechanically, without opening it. His gaze was
riveted, as though by a magnetism too powerful for him to resist, upon
her purposeful countenance.
Madeleine went on,--
"Count Damoreau tells me that you and my aunt desire to withdraw your
protection from me; that you feel I have sufficiently long enjoyed the
shelter of your roof; that you wish to provide me with some other
asylum."
There was no hesitation in her voice as she uttered these words. She
spoke in a tone rendered clear and quiet by the dignity of self-respect.
"Count Damoreau had no authority to write in such a strain to you,"
observed the countess, with asperity.
"There is his letter. He informed me that he has the Count Tristan's
authority. To prove it, he encloses the letter yesterday delivered to
him by M. Gaston de Bois."
Count Tristan was too thoroughly confounded to attempt any reply. He was
painfully aware of the unmistakable character of that epistle.
"Count Damoreau announces to me," continued Madeleine, undisturbed,
"that he is unable to comply with your request, and extend an invitation
for me to join his family circle; and that my other relatives have also
declined to accede to a solicitation of yours that they should by turns
receive me as an inmate. He adds that his friend, Lady Vivian, is
seeking an humble companion to accompany her to Scotland; and he trusts
that I will thankfully accept this situation."
"It is an insult,--a deliberate insult to us and you!" broke forth the
countess.
Madeleine's lips trembled with a half smile.
"I do not deem it an insult to myself: I am as thankful as Count
Damoreau can desire me to be; but I decline his well-intentioned
offer."
Count Tristan ground his teeth, and cast upon Madeleine a glance of fury
and menacing detestation. Their eyes met, and she returned the look with
an expression which simply declared she recognized what was passing in
his mind.
"You did right to decline: I should never have permitted you to accept,"
remarked the countess, in a somewhat softer tone.
She deemed it politic to conciliate Madeleine for the present, fearing
that she might be driven to take some humiliating step which would cast
a reflection upon her kindred.
"I regret that my son has acted hastily. If you conduct yourself with
the propriety which I have the right to demand, you will still find a
home in the Château de Gramont, and in myself the mother I have ever
been to you."
"Mother!" at that word Madeleine's glacial composure melted. "A
_mother!_--oh, my aunt, thank you for that word! You do not know how
much good it does me to hear it from your lips! But the Château de
Gramont can never more be my home. That is settled: I came to tell you
so."
"What do you mean?" asked the count, with a gleam of ill-disguised
satisfaction.
"I mean that I purpose shortly to quit this mansion, _never to return_!"
"Then you _do_ intend to accompany Lady Vivian to Scotland?" he
inquired.
"You--my niece--_a de Gramont_--become the humble companion of Lady
Vivian!" exclaimed the countess, in wrathful astonishment. "Can you even
contemplate such an alternative?"
"No, madame," returned Madeleine, with an emphasis which might have been
interpreted into a tone of pride. "I shall _not_ become the humble
companion of any lady."
"With whom do you expect to live?" demanded the count.
"I shall live alone."
"_Live alone_, at your age,--without fortune, without friends? It is
impracticable,--impossible!" replied her aunt, decisively.
"I have reached my majority. I shall try to deserve friends. I have some
small possession: the family diamonds of my mother still remain to me."
"But your noble name."
"Rest assured that it will never be disgraced by me!"
"I tell you that your project is impossible," maintained the countess,
resolutely. "I forbid you to even attempt to put it into execution. I
forbid you by the gratitude you owe me. I forbid you in the name of all
the kindnesses I have lavished upon you!"
"And do you not see, my aunt, it is because I would still be grateful
for these kindnesses that I would go hence? From the moment I learned I
was a burden to you, that my presence here was unwelcome, this was no
longer my home. If I leave you now, the memory of your goodness only,
will dwell in my heart. If I were to remain longer, each day my presence
would become more intolerable to you; each day your words and looks
would grow colder and harsher; each day I should feel more degraded in
my own eyes. _You_ would spoil your own benefactions: _I_ perhaps, might
forget them, and be stained with the crime of ingratitude. No, let us
now part,--now, while I may still dare to hope that you will think of me
with tenderness and regret,--now, while I can yet cherish the
recollection of the happy days I have passed beneath your roof. My
resolution is taken: it is unalterable. I could not rest here. You will,
perhaps, accord me a few days to make needful preparations; then I must
bid you farewell."
She turned to quit the room, but encountered Maurice and Bertha, who had
entered in time to hear the last sentence.
Bertha, on leaving her cousin, had sought Maurice and told him of
Madeleine's prostrating sorrow. They hastened back to the _châlet_
together, but she had disappeared. They were in search of her when they
entered the library.
"Bid us farewell, Madeleine?" cried Bertha. "What do you mean? Where are
you going? Surely you will never leave us?"
"I must."
"But my aunt will not let you; Cousin Tristan will not let you; Maurice
will not let you. Speak to her, some of you, and say that she shall not
go."
"Bertha," answered the count, "you do not know all the circumstances
which have caused Madeleine to form this resolution; and, if my mother
will pardon me for differing with her, I must say, frankly, that I
approve of the course Madeleine has chosen. I honor her for it. I think
she acts wisely in remaining here no longer!"
Then Maurice came forward boldly, and placing himself beside Madeleine,
with an air of manly protection, spoke out,--
"And _I_ agree with you, my father. I honor Madeleine for her
resolution. I think she acts wisely in remaining here no longer."
"O Maurice, Maurice! how can you speak so? Don't let her go, unless you
want to make me miserable!" pleaded Bertha.
Madeleine's hueless face was overspread with a brilliant glow as she
cast upon Maurice one hasty look of gratitude.
"I speak what I mean. Madeleine cannot, without sacrificing her
self-respect, accept hospitality which is not freely given,--protection
which is unwillingly accorded. She cannot remain here as an inferior,--a
dependent; one who is under daily obligation,--who is merely tolerated
because she has no other place of refuge. My father, there is only _one_
position in which she _can_ remain in the Château de Gramont, and that
is as an equal; as its future mistress; as your daughter; _as my wife!_"
The countess was stricken dumb with rage; and a sudden revulsion of
feeling toward the shrinking girl, whose deep blushes she interpreted
into a token of exultation, made her almost as willing to drive her
forth, no matter whither, as her son himself.
Bertha, with an exclamation of delight, flung her arms joyfully about
Madeleine's neck.
"Maurice, are you mad? Do you forget that you are my son?" was all that
the count could gasp out, in his indignant amazement.
"It is as your son that I speak; it is as the inheritor of your
name,--that name which Madeleine also bears."
"You seem to have forgotten"--began his father.
Maurice interrupted him,--
"I have not forgotten that I have not reached my majority, and that your
consent is necessary to render Madeleine my wife."
(Our readers are doubtless aware that the law in France fixes the
majority of a young man at twenty-five, and that he has no power to
contract marriage or to control property until that period.)
"But, believe me, my father, even if this were not the case, I should
not desire to act without your approval, and I know I could never induce
Madeleine to forego your consent to our union. But what valid objections
can you have? You desired that Bertha should become my wife. Is not
Madeleine precisely the same kin to me as Bertha? Is she not as good, as
beautiful?"
"Oh, a thousand times better and lovelier!" exclaimed Bertha, with
affectionate enthusiasm.
"There is but one difference: she is poor and Bertha is rich. Think you
Bertha's fortune could have one feather's weight in deciding my choice?
I thank Heaven for teaching me to account it more noble, more honorable,
to ask what the woman I would marry _is_, than to inquire what she
_has_."
His father made a vain attempt to speak. Maurice went on without
noticing the futile effort.
"But this is not all: I dare to hope that Madeleine's heart is mine,
while Bertha's is not. My father, you requested that Bertha and I should
have an understanding with each other; and we have had one. Bertha has
told me that she does not love me. Is it not so, Bertha?"
"I told you that I loved you with all my heart, as the dearest, most
delightful cousin in the world!" answered Bertha, naïvely.
"Just as I love you!" replied Maurice, smiling upon her tenderly. "But,
as a lover, you definitely rejected me,--did you not?"
"Oh, yes; just as you refused me. We are perfectly agreed upon that
point," she rejoined, with childlike frankness and simplicity.
"For shame, Maurice!" said the countess, in a tone of angry rebuke.
"Grandmother, hear me out. For once my heart must speak, even though it
may be silent forever after. I feel that my whole future destiny hangs
upon the events of this moment. You love me as a de Gramont should love;
you love me with an ambition to see me worthy of my name,--to see that
name rendered more lustrous in my person. How far that is possible, my
father's decision and yours this hour will determine. I am ardent,
impetuous, fond of excitement, reckless at times,--as prone, I fear, to
be tempted to vice as to be inspired by virtue. If you withhold your
consent to my union with the only woman I can love,--if you drive me to
despair,--I am lost! Every pure and lofty aspiration within my nature
will be crushed out, and in its place the opposite inclination will
spring. I warned you before, when you thwarted the noblest resolution I
ever formed. There is yet time to save me from the evil effects of that
disappointment, and to spare me the worst results of _this_. If you
grant me Madeleine"--
"Maurice, for pity's sake!" supplicated Madeleine, extending her clasped
hands toward him.
Maurice caught the outstretched hands in his, and bent over her with an
expression of ineffable love irradiating his countenance.
"Do not speak yet, Madeleine; do not answer until you have heard
me,--until you have well comprehended my meaning. You do not know the
thousand perils by which a young man is beset in Paris,--the siren lures
that are thrown in his way to ensnare his feet, be they disposed to
walk ever so warily. You do not know that your holy image, rising up
before me, shining upon the path I trod, and beckoning me into the right
road when I swerved aside, has alone saved me from falling into that
vortex of follies and vices by which men are daily swallowed up, and
from which they emerge sullied and debased. You do not know that, while
I am here beside you, listening to the sound of your voice, holding your
hand, gazing upon your face, I feel like one inspired, who has power to
make his life glorious and keep it pure! Madeleine, would you have me
great, distinguished? I shall become so if it be your will. Would you
have me lift up our noble name? It shall be exalted at your bidding.
Would you reign over my soul and keep it stainless? It is under your
angel guardianship. Madeleine, best beloved, will you not save me?"
Madeleine only answered with a look which besought Maurice to forbear.
"Is your rhapsody finished at last?" asked Count Tristan, scornfully.
"Is any one else to be permitted to speak?"
"It seems there is but one person whose voice is of any importance to
your son," sneered the countess, "and that is Madeleine. It is for _her_
to speak; it is for her to accomplish her work of base ingratitude; it
is for her to give the last finishing stroke to the fabric she has
secretly been laboring to build up for the last three years."
Madeleine--who, when the voice of Maurice was sounding in her ears, had
been unable to control the agitation which caused her breast to heave,
and her frame to quiver from head to foot, while confusion flung its
crimson mantle over her face--grew suddenly calm when she heard these
taunts. The same icy, pallid quietude with which, but a few moments
before, she entered the library, returned. She withdrew the hands
Maurice had clasped in his, lifted her bowed head, and stood erect,
preparing to reply.
"Speak!" commanded the count, furiously. "Speak! since _we_ are nothing
and nobody here, and _you are everything_. Since you are sole arbiter in
this family, speak!"
Madeleine could not at once command her voice.
The countess, arguing the worst from her silence, cried, with
culminating wrath, "Speak, viper! Dart your fangs into the bosom that
has sheltered you: it is bared to receive the deadly stroke; it is ready
to die of your venom! Nothing remains but for you to strike!"
"Take courage, dearest Madeleine," whispered Bertha. "They will not be
angry long. Speak and tell them that you love Maurice as he loves you,
and that you will be the happiest of women if you become his wife."
"Well, your answer, Mademoiselle de Gramont?" urged the countess.
"It will be an answer for which I have only the pardon of Maurice to
ask," said Madeleine, speaking slowly, but firmly. "Maurice, my cousin,
I shall never be able to tell you,--you can never know,--what emotions
of thankfulness you have awakened in my soul, nor how unutterably
precious your words are to me. Thus much I may say; for the rest, _I can
never become your wife!_"
"You refuse me because my father and my grandmother have _compelled_ you
to do so by their reproaches,--their _menaces_, I might say!" cried
Maurice, wholly forgetting his wonted respect in the rush of tumultuous
feelings. "This and this only is your reason for consigning me to
misery."
The fear that she had awakened unfilial emotions in the bosom of Maurice
infused fresh fortitude into Madeleine's spirit.
"No, Maurice, you are wrong. If my aunt and Count Tristan had not
uttered one word on the subject, my answer to you would have been the
same."
"How can that be possible? How can I have been so deceived? There is
only _one_ obstacle which _can_ discourage me, only one which can force
me to yield you up, and that is an admission, from your own lips, that
your affections are already bestowed,--that your heart is no longer
free."
Madeleine, without hesitation, replied in a clear, steady, deliberate
tone, looking her cousin full in the face, and not by the faintest sign
betraying the poniard which she heroically plunged into her own devoted
breast,--
"My affections are bestowed; my heart is _no longer free!_"
"Madeleine, Madeleine! you do not love Maurice,--you love some one
else?" questioned Bertha, in sorrowful astonishment.
Maurice spoke no word. He stood one moment looking at Madeleine as a
drowning man might have looked at the ship that could have saved him
disappearing in the distance. Then he murmured, hardly conscious of his
own words,--
"And I felt sure her heart was mine! O Madeleine! may you never know
what you have done!"
"Forgive me if you can, Maurice. Be generous enough to pardon one who
has made you suffer. A bright future is before you. The darkness of this
hour will gradually fade out of your memory."
"Say, rather, that you have taken from me my future,--withdrawn its
guiding star, and left me a rayless and eternal night. But why should I
reproach you? What right had I to deem myself worthy of you? You love
_another_. All is spoken in those words: there is nothing more for me to
say, except to thank you for not discarding me without making a
confession which annihilates all hope."
There was a dignity in his grief more touching than the most passionate
outburst would have been. Even his grandmother, in spite of her joy at
Madeleine's declaration, was not wholly unmoved as she contemplated him.
Count Tristan's exultation broke through all polite disguise,--
"Madeleine has atoned for much of the past by her present conduct; it
has restored her in a measure to"--
Madeleine, as far as her gentle nature permitted, experienced an
antipathy toward Count Tristan only surpassed by that which he
entertained for her. The sound of his voice grated on her ears; his
commendation made her doubt the wisdom and purity of her own act; his
approval irritated her as no rebuke could have done. Without waiting for
him to conclude his sentence, she grasped Bertha's hand, whispering, "I
cannot stay here; I am stifling; come with me."
They left the room together, and took their way in silence to
Madeleine's chamber. Bertha carefully closed the door, and, drawing her
cousin down into a seat, placed herself beside her, and strove to read
her countenance.
"Madeleine, is it possible? How mistaken I have been! You do not love
our cousin Maurice. Poor Maurice! It is a dreadful blow to him. And you
love some one else. But whom? I know of no gentleman who comes here
often,--who is on an intimate footing at the château,--except"--
A painful suspicion for the first time shot through her mind, and made
her pause. Could it be Gaston de Bois whom Madeleine preferred? She
always treated him with such marked courtesy. There was no one else,--it
must be he! Bertha could not frame the question that hovered about her
lips, though to have heard it answered in the negative would have made
her heart leap for joy.
Madeleine was too much absorbed by her own reflections to divine those
of her cousin.
"At all events," said Bertha, trying to rally and talk cheerfully,
though she could not chase that haunting fear from her thoughts, "my
aunt is no longer angry with you, and cousin Tristan was well pleased.
They will treat you better after this, and your home will be happier."
"_My home?_" ejaculated Madeleine, in a tone that made Bertha start.
"Yes, yours, until you exchange it for that of the favored lover, of
whose name you make such a mystery."
"_That will never be!_"
"Never? Does he not love you, then? But I know he does,--he must. Every
one loves you; no one can help it,--you win all hearts!"
"_Count Tristan's, for instance_," remarked Madeleine, bitterly.
"Ah, not _his_, that is true. How wickedly he looked at you when Maurice
pictured how dear you were to him! I noticed Cousin Tristan's eyes, and
they frightened me. He looked positively fiendish; and when Maurice
said"--
To hear those precious words Maurice had spoken,--those words which she
could never more forget,--repeated, was beyond Madeleine's powers of
endurance: she sprang up, exclaiming, "Do not let us talk of these
matters any more to-day, Bertha. It is growing late,--almost six
o'clock. It is time for you to dress for dinner. And you have not
forgotten the ball to-night?"
"I could not bear to go now. I am sure Maurice will not go; and
you,--would you go, even if we did?"
"You will not refuse me a favor, Bertha, though it may cost you some
pain to grant it? Go to this ball, and persuade, entreat Maurice to go.
If you do not, you will draw down my aunt's displeasure upon me anew,
for she will know why you remain at home,--especially as it will be
impossible for me to appear in public to-night."
"I would do anything rather than have my aunt displeased with you again;
and then there is the beautiful dress you have taken such pains to
make."
"I should be very much disappointed if you did not wear it this evening.
Now let us prepare for dinner."
As she spoke, Madeleine commenced her own toilet. Bertha stood looking
at her as she unbound her long silken hair, and, after smoothing it as
carefully as was her wont, rapidly formed the coronal braid, and wound
the rich tress about the regal head.
"I cannot comprehend you, Madeleine: you are a marvel to me. A couple
of hours ago you were almost frantic with grief,--I never saw any one
weep so immoderately; and now you are as serene as though nothing had
happened. If your lips were not so very, very white, and your eyes had
not such a fixed, unnatural look, I could almost think you had forgotten
that anything unusual had occurred."
"Forget it yourself, dear, and make ready for dinner."
Bertha obeyed at least part of the injunction, still wondering over
Madeleine's incomprehensible placidity.
The young maidens entered the dining-room together. Maurice came in
late. The meal passed almost in silence, though the Countess and Count
Tristan made unusual efforts to keep up a conversation.
Bertha was right in imagining Maurice had lost all inclination to appear
at the ball. When she brought up the subject, he answered impatiently
that he did not intend to go. His grandmother heard the remark, and made
an especial request that he would change that decision and accompany
them. Bertha added her entreaties; but Maurice seemed inclined to rebel,
until she whispered,--
"If you stay at home, my aunt will say it is Madeleine's fault, and she
will be vexed with her again. Madeleine begged you would spare her this
new trial, and bade me entreat you to go."
Maurice looked across the table, for the first time during dinner, and
found Madeleine's eyes turned anxiously upon him.
"I will go," he murmured.
His words were addressed rather to her than to Bertha. A scarcely
perceptible smile on the lips of the former was his reward.
No comment was made upon Madeleine's determination to remain at home.
But the tone of the countess to her niece, when she was officiating as
usual at her aunt's toilet, was gentler than she had ever before used.
Not the faintest allusion to the events of the morning dropped from the
lips of either.
At last the carriage drove from the door, and Madeleine was left alone
with her own thoughts. The mask of composure was no longer needed, yet
there was no return of the morning's turbulent emotion.
Are not great trials sent to incite us to great exertions, which we
might not have the energy, the wit, perhaps the _humility_, to
undertake, but for the spurring sting of that especial grief? Madeleine
had resolutely looked her affliction full in the face; had grown
familiar with its sternest, saddest features; had bowed before them,
and dashed the tears from her eyes, to see more clearly as that sorrow
pointed out a path which all her firmness would be taxed in treading,--a
path which she had never dreamed existed for her, until it had been
opened, hewn through the rocks of circumstance by that day's heavy
blows, that hour's piercing anguish.
Her greatest difficulty lay in the necessity of concealing the step she
was about to take from her aunt, whose violent opposition would throw a
fearful obstacle in the way. It was easier to avoid than to surmount
such a barrier; but if it could not be avoided, it _must_ be surmounted.
In that decision she could not waver.
CHAPTER VIII.
FLIGHT.
Can there be a more dreary solitude, to a mind writhing under the throes
of some new and hidden sorrow, than a brilliant ballroom? The stirring
music jars like harshest discord upon the unattuned ear; the glaring
lights dazzle the pained vision until utter darkness would seem
grateful; the merry voices and careless laughter catch a tone of bitter
mockery; the gayly apparelled forms, the faces decked with soulless
smiles, are more oppressive than all the apparitions with which a
fevered imagination can people the gloomiest seclusion. Maurice soon
found the festive scene at the Château de Tremazan intolerable, and took
refuge in the illuminated conservatory, the doors of which were thrown
invitingly open. It was mid-summer, but the flowers had been restored to
brighten their winter shelter during the fête. He had thought to find
himself alone; but yonder, bending over richly-tinted clusters of
azaleas and odorous heliotropes, a group of youthful heads unconcernedly
thrust their lifeless chaplets in challenging contrast with nature's
living loveliness, while flowing robes recklessly swept their floral
imitations against her shrinking originals. In a different state of mind
Maurice might not have been struck by the incongruous contact of the
painted semblance with the blushing reality; but now it reminded him too
keenly that the sphere within which he was bound, a social Ixion upon
the petty wheel of conventionalism, was one grand combination of
artificial trivialities and senseless shams. Goaded beyond endurance by
the reflection, he impatiently made his escape into the open air.
Bertha had never mingled with a gay crowd in so joyless a mood. The
presence of the heiress created no little sensation; but good-breeding
kept its manifestation within such delicate limits that she was
unconscious of its existence. She was not even aware that it was a sign
of her own importance when the Marchioness de Fleury glided up to Count
Tristan, on whose arm Bertha was leaning, and, in a softly cadenced
voice, asked if she had not the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle de
Merrivale. In reply, the count presented Bertha. As she returned the
courtesy of the marchioness, she could not help remembering the
declaration of Maurice, that he had never perused the countenance of the
distinguished belle, because his attention was irresistibly riveted upon
the wondrous details of her toilet: for Bertha found her own eyes
involuntarily wandering over the graceful folds of the amethyst velvet,
and the exquisite disposition of the _point de Venise_ by which it was
elaborately ornamented; the artistic head-dress in perfect accordance
with the costly robe, and the Cleopatra-like drops of pearls which
seemed to have been showered over the wearer from brow to foot.
Bertha's eyes were too ingenuous not to betray their occupation; but
those of the marchioness seemed only to be looking, with the most
complimentary expression of interest, into the face of her new
acquaintance, while, in reality, she was scanning Bertha's picturesque
attire, and longing to discover by what tasteful fingers it had been
contrived; examining the polished ivy intertwined among her bright
ringlets, and the half-blown roses just bursting their sheaths in a
glossy covert of amber tresses; and wondering that a coiffure with such
poetic taste could have existed unknown in Brittany. As the marchioness
stood, dropping sweet, meaningless words from her dewy lips, Bertha's
hand was claimed by the Duke de Montauban, and she was led to the dance.
She was moving through the quadrille with a languid, unelastic motion,
very unlike her usual springing step, when she caught sight of M. de
Bois, standing at a short distance, with his face turned toward her. The
smile that accompanied her bow of greeting drew him nearer. As the dance
ended, and her partner was reconducting her to the countess, M. de Bois
overcame his timidity sufficiently to join her.
"Where is Mademoiselle Mad--ad--adeleine?" he inquired. "I have not seen
her."
"She is not here. She would not come," sighed Bertha, stopping abruptly,
though they had not quite reached her chaperone's side.
"Is she ill? She told me this morning that she would certainly be here.
Has anything happened?" asked M. de Bois, speaking as distinctly as
though he had never stammered in his life, and throwing off, in his
growing excitement, all the awkwardness of his constitutional
diffidence.
Bertha could not but remark his anxious expression, and a suspicion,
which she had essayed to banish, once more took possession of her mind.
But she loved Madeleine with such absolute devotion, that this vague,
uncomfortable sensation was quickly displaced by a purer emotion.
Glancing at the countess to see that she was not within hearing
distance, she disengaged her arm from that of the duke, with a bow which
he interpreted into a dismissal, and then, turning eagerly to M. de
Bois, recounted to him, in a low, hurried tone, the occurrences of the
morning. She fancied she heard words which sounded very like muttered
imprecations. He was perhaps putting into practice his new method of
loosening his tongue, and doubtless imagined that the emphatic
utterances were inaudible.
Bertha went on. "It was a terrible blow to Maurice! He felt so sure
until then that Madeleine loved him; so did I. But we were both
mistaken. It is plain enough now that she does _not_."
"What makes it plain? How can you be sure?" asked M. de Bois, becoming
more and more disturbed.
"Her own declaration has placed the fact beyond doubt. She even
confessed that she loved another."
Her listener did not attempt to conceal his consternation at these
words.
"Mademoiselle Madeleine said she loved another! She, who would not stoop
to breathe a word which was not the strictest truth,--_she told you so?_
You heard it yourself? You are _certain, very certain_, Mademoiselle
Bertha?"
"I dare say that I ought not to have repeated this to you," replied
Bertha, who now experienced some self-reproach at betraying her friend's
secret to one whom it, perhaps, so deeply concerned; "but I am very
certain that Madeleine distinctly rejected Maurice, and, when he
attributed her refusal to his grandmother's and his father's disapproval
of his suit, she denied that she was influenced by them, and confessed
that her heart was not free,--that she had bestowed it upon another."
"By all that is heroic, she is a noble woman!" exclaimed M. de Bois,
fervently. "She has the grandest nature! She is incom-com-com"--
"Incomparable," said Bertha, finishing his sentence, and checking a
sigh. "Yes, I never knew any one like her. She has no equal."
"I don't exactly say _that_. I don't mean _that_. She is not
su-su-superior--to"--
Bertha did not assist him by completing _this_ disjointed phrase, even
if she suspected what he desired to say.
At that moment Count Damoreau approached, accompanied by a gaunt,
overdressed lady, with harsh and forbidding features.
"Lady Vivian is looking for Mademoiselle de Gramont. Did she not
accompany you?" inquired the count.
"She intended to do so, but changed her mind."
"She received a letter from me to-day,--did she not?" continued Count
Damoreau.
"Yes, I remember delivering one to her myself, which Baptiste said was
brought by your valet."
"Did she not apprise you of its contents?"
"No. I was not present when she opened the letter."
"Then you do not know how she received my proposition?" remarked Lady
Vivian, in a grating voice. "I begin to be a little doubtful myself how
it will do. Is your cousin as handsome as they say she is?"
"In my eyes she is the most beautiful person in the world," answered
Bertha, in a tone of admiration the sincerity of which could not be
mistaken.
Lady Vivian looked vexed, and replied, "That's a pity. Beauty is a
decided objection in such a position."
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," returned Bertha, with spirit; "but I
cannot perceive that my cousin's position renders her beauty
objectionable."
"Beauty is very suitable to you, my dear; but for an humble companion"--
"An _humble companion_? Madeleine is not my aunt's humble companion, nor
mine. She is"--
"To become _mine_, I believe!" rejoined Lady Vivian, brusquely. "And I
already begin to regret that I acceded to Count Damoreau's wishes."
"Madeleine your ladyship's humble companion? _That_ she shall never be.
O Count Damoreau! how _could_ you have suggested such an idea? I would
go on my knees to implore her not to consent! I am sure your ladyship
will find yourself mistaken."
Bertha, as she said these words, bowed with a degree of hauteur which no
one had ever seen her assume, and, taking M. de Bois's arm, approached
her aunt with a troubled countenance. Before the Countess de Gramont
could ask the cause of her evident disquietude, she said,--
"I wish we could go home, aunt: I am wearied to death. I cannot enjoy
anything to-night. And that horrid Lady Vivian has made me so angry,
talking of Madeleine as her humble companion! Such impertinence! Surely
you would never permit anything of the kind?"
"Never! I do not wonder you were indignant. But do you really wish to
go?"
"Oh, yes. I am stifling here. I never was at such a dull ball. Pray,
pray take me home!"
Her aunt could not refuse a request so vehemently urged, and begged M.
de Bois to seek Maurice. Fearing that Madame de Tremazan would be
mortified by their early departure, the countess took an opportunity to
leave the ballroom, accompanied by her niece and son, without attracting
the observation of the hostess. M. de Bois joined them in the
antechamber, with the intelligence that Maurice was nowhere to be found.
After a second search, and half an hour's delay, the carriage started
without him.
As soon as they reached the château, Bertha bade her aunt good-night,
and hastened to Madeleine's chamber. Madeleine, who did not anticipate
her speedy return, and had not heard her light foot upon the floor, was
sitting beside a small table, her head supported by her hands, and bent
over some object which she contemplated with intense interest. At the
sound of Bertha's voice she hastily closed the lids of a couple of
ancient-looking caskets, which stood before her, and rose from her seat.
"Is it you, Bertha? How soon you have returned!"
"Yes; I was glad to get away. The ball was wretchedly stupid; and, after
that disagreeable Lady Vivian irritated me by talking of you, I could
not stay. She seemed to have the audacity to expect that you would
become her humble companion. _You!_ our noble, _doubly noble_ Madeleine,
the humble companion of any one, but especially of such a coarse person
as Lady Vivian! It was unendurable."
"It is very possible that Count Damoreau assured her I would accept the
proposition she made me through him," was Madeleine's calm reply.
"But you never could have entertained it for a moment?"
"No. There is the answer I have just written to Count Damoreau. You may
read it."
Bertha glanced over the letter approvingly. As she laid it upon the
table, she noticed the caskets.
"What are these, Madeleine?--jewel-cases?"
"They were my mother's diamonds. They have been in the family, I can
hardly tell you for how many generations."
"Do let me see them."
Bertha opened one of the cases. A necklace, brooch, and ear-rings of
brilliants sparkled within. The precious stones emitted a clear lustre
which would have caused a connoisseur at once to pronounce them of the
first water; but their setting was quaint and old-fashioned. The
necklace was composed of diamonds _fleur-de-lis_, divided by emerald
shamrock-leaves. A single _fleur-de-lis_, surrounded by the emerald
shamrock, formed the brooch and ear-rings.
"Some of your ancestors must have come from the emerald isle: so, at
least, we may infer from this shamrock."
"Yes, my great-great-great-grandfather married the beautiful Lady
Katrine Nugent, and these were her bridal jewels. You see that the
shamrock of Erin is mingled with the _fleur-de-lis_ of France."
Bertha unclosed the other case. It held a bracelet and a tiara-shaped
comb. The shamrock and lily were blended as in the necklace.
"These diamonds are very lustrous," said Bertha, clasping the bracelet
admiringly upon her delicate wrist. "But what are you doing with them,
and at this time of night?"
"Looking at them," answered Madeleine, with some hesitation. "I have not
seen them before for years."
"You shall wear them for your bridal _parure_, Madeleine."
Madeleine tried to laugh.
"Then I should carry my whole fortune on my back; all that remains of my
ancient house I should bear, snail-fashion, upon my head and shoulders.
No, little dreamer, of two facts you may rest assured: one is that I
shall never wear these jewels; the other that I never shall be a bride.
Come, let me undress you; your blue eyes are so sleepy they are growing
gray as the heavens at twilight."
The Château de Tremazan was seven miles from his father's mansion, but
Maurice, after his abrupt exit from the conservatory, walked leisurely
home. The next morning, before the count had risen, his son entered the
room, in travelling attire, to make the communication that he had
ordered the carriage to drive him to Rennes, in time to meet the early
train that started for Paris. He trusted his father would offer no
objection, and would make the traveller's apologies to the ladies of the
household, for avoiding the pain of leave-taking. Count Tristan approved
of the journey; and, a few moments later, Maurice leaped into the coach,
glancing eagerly up at a window, surrounded by a framework of jasmine
vines; but no face looked forth; no hand waved a farewell and filled the
vernal frame with a living picture.
The intelligence of his sudden departure was received differently by the
three ladies. The countess was inclined to be displeased that he had
foregone the ceremony of an adieu. Any shortcoming in the payment of the
full amount of deference, which she considered her due, was a great
offence. Of late, Maurice had several times wounded her upon this tender
point, and her sensitiveness was thereby increased.
Bertha was loud in her lamentations over the disappearance of her
cousin. Her deep chagrin revived the hopes of Count Tristan and his
mother, and awakened the welcome suggestion, that he, in reality, held a
tenderer place in her heart than she had ever admitted to herself.
Madeleine's face instinctively brightened when she heard that Maurice
was gone; his departure smoothed away a difficulty from the path she was
about to tread. Count Tristan watched her closely, and was perplexed by
the gleam of genuine satisfaction that illumined her countenance. For
the first time he was half deceived into the belief that the passion of
Maurice was unrequited. He had been puzzled in what manner to interpret
Madeleine's determined rejection of her cousin. He was unable to
comprehend a purity of motive which his narrow mind was equally
incapable of experiencing. He finally attributed her conduct partly to a
dread of her aunt's and his own displeasure, partly to a desire to
render herself more highly valued by Maurice, and to gain a firmer hold
upon his affections.
M. de Bois was an early visitor on the day after the ball, but never had
he seemed more ill at ease, or found more difficulty in controlling his
restless nervousness, or in expressing himself intelligibly. When he
heard that Maurice was on his way to Paris, he dashed down an antique
vase by his sudden movement of vexation, and, in stooping to gather the
fractured china, upset the stand upon which it had stood. This
manifestation of awkwardness, of course, increased his _mal-aise_; and,
although the countess remained as unmoved as though she wholly ignored
the accident, he could not recover his equanimity. Madeleine left the
drawing-room with the fragments of the vase in her hand, and did not
return. After a prolonged and unsatisfactory visit, M. de Bois took his
leave.
As he issued from the château, Baptiste dropped his spade and followed
him, keeping at a short distance behind, until he neared the gate; then
the old gardener approached, looking cautiously around to see that he
was not observed, stealthily held out a note, whispering, "Mademoiselle
Madeleine bade me give this to monsieur," turned on his heel, and walked
away as rapidly as though he feared to be pursued.
The note contained these words:--
"A friend in my great emergency is indispensable to me. I
have no friend in whom I can confide but you. I shall be at
the little _châlet_ to-morrow morning, at five o'clock.
"MADELEINE M. DE GRAMONT."
A radiant change passed over the shadowed features of Gaston de Bois, as
he read these lines. That one so self-reliant as Madeleine proffered him
her confidence, trusted him, appealed to him for aid, was surely enough
to raise him in his own esteem; and he almost forgot the recent
mortification caused by an unfortunate awkwardness and miserable
diffidence, which seemed the haunting demons of his existence.
Impatience chased all slumber from his eyes that night, and the dawn had
scarcely broken when he hastened to the _châlet_ to await the coming of
Madeleine. The appointed time had just arrived, as the watch he
constantly consulted informed him, when she entered the summer-house.
Their interview, occupied but half an hour; but, when M. de Bois left
the _châlet_, his countenance wore an expression of earnestness,
responsibility, and composure, totally opposite to its usual
characteristics.
Madeleine, as she tripped back through the dew, smiled with moist
eyes,--a smile of gratitude rather than of pleasure. More than once she
drew a long breath, as though some heavy pressure had been lifted from
her breast; and, as she dashed away the tears that gathered in her eyes,
she seemed eagerly looking into the distance, as though a mist had
rolled from before her steps, and she now saw her way clearly. All was
silent in the château, and she reached her chamber unperceived.
That day passed as usual, and another, and another. Madeleine never once
alluded to the determination which she had announced to her aunt as
unalterable, and the countess was satisfied that her niece had spoken
under the influence of excitement, without any fixed purpose; and
gradually dismissed from her mind the fear that her dependent relative
would take some rash and dignity-compromising step.
Bertha had not forgotten that Madeleine had declared the Château de
Gramont was no longer her home; but as the latter went through the daily
routine of her wonted avocations as though they were always to continue,
and as no change was apparent in her manner, save that she was more
silent and meditative, and her once ready smiles grew rarer, Bertha,
also, was lulled into the belief that her cousin had abandoned her
intention.
Count Tristan fell into no such error. Madeleine's preoccupied mien, her
unwonted reserve, the tender sadness with which she sometimes gazed
around her, as though bidding farewell to dear, familiar objects,
assured him that she had not spoken lightly, and that her threat would
be carried into execution at no distant period. Well was it for her that
he had come to this satisfactory conclusion, for it spared her further
persecution at his hands.
On the fourth morning after the departure of Maurice, Bertha entered
Madeleine's chamber, according to her custom,--for the young maidens
always descended to breakfast together. Her room was empty.
"She has not waited for me to-day," thought Bertha, hurrying down, and
expecting to find Madeleine in the breakfast-room.
The countess and her son were at table, but Madeleine was not there.
"Has Madeleine breakfasted?" inquired Bertha, cutting short her morning
salutations.
The answer was in the negative.
"Have you not seen her?" she asked.
"No, not this morning," replied the countess.
"I suppose she is taking an early walk," continued Bertha. "It seems odd
that she does not come back, for she is never late."
Bertha seated herself, but the coffee remained untasted before her; and
her head was constantly turned towards the window which commanded a view
of the garden and park. Gustave passed, and she cried out to him,--
"Gustave, have you seen Mademoiselle Madeleine, this morning?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Why, where _can_ she be?" exclaimed Bertha, impatiently. "If you will
excuse me, aunt, I will go in search of her. Since she has not broken
her fast yet, we will breakfast together, as usual." And away darted
Bertha into the garden.
The countess had not attached any importance to Madeleine's absence, and
resumed the conversation with her son.
Through Count Tristan's mind the suspicion at once had flashed that
Madeleine was gone, and he chuckled inwardly at the verification of his
own unspoken predictions. A quarter of an hour passed, and then he
beheld Bertha coming rapidly from the direction of the _châlet_. He felt
no surprise in observing that she was alone. The windows of the
breakfast-room opened to the ground, and she entered by one of
them,--her face crimsoned, her fair hair unbound and floating over her
shoulders, for she had been running.
"I cannot find Madeleine!" she faltered out. "It is very strange! She is
not in the _châlet_, nor in the garden. I have called until I am hoarse.
I picked up this handkerchief in the _châlet_,--it is marked 'G. de
Bois,' yet it is three days since M. de Bois was here; and Madeleine and
I have spent every morning since then at the _châlet_. When could M. de
Bois have dropped this handkerchief there?"
The count took the handkerchief from her hand, and examined the mark
without comment: he could not trust his voice at that moment.
"I presume Madeleine will be here presently, to account for herself,"
remarked the countess, not apparently discomposed. "Take your breakfast,
Bertha; there is no need of your fasting until she chooses to make her
appearance."
Bertha obediently sat down, sipped her coffee for a few moments, and
then, declaring that she wanted nothing more, left the room and returned
to Madeleine's apartment. It was in perfect order, but so it was always;
the bed was made, but Madeleine was in the habit of making her own bed;
there was no sign of change. Bertha opened the wardrobe,--the dresses
Madeleine usually wore were hanging within; she wandered about the room,
examining every nook and corner, hardly conscious of what she was
doing,--what she expected to find or to miss. All at once she remarked
that a few books, which were favorites of Madeleine and once belonged to
her father, had been removed from the table; but what of that?--they
had probably been placed somewhere else. Continuing her almost
purposeless search, Bertha now drew out the drawers of the bureau: they
usually held Madeleine's linen; they were empty! In violent agitation
the kneeling girl sprang to her feet; her undefined fear was taking
shape. She ran to the antechamber and looked for a little trunk which
had come to the château with Madeleine: it was no longer there!
Bertha darted down the stair and rushed into her aunt's presence,
sobbing out in agony of grief,--"She has gone! Madeleine has gone! I
know she has gone, and she will never, never return to us! Her dresses
are there; everything you have given her is there; she has only taken
with her what she had when she came to the château, and she has surely
gone!"
Count Tristan pretended to laugh at Bertha's fears, and maintained that
Madeleine would presently walk in, and feel very much flattered by the
sensation she had created, and by her cousin's lamentations over her
supposed flight; adding, jocosely, that it was not easy for a young lady
to disappear in that dramatic manner, except from the pages of a novel.
The countess, who began to be alarmed, desired her son to ring the bell.
Gustave appeared in answer, and, after being closely questioned, was
desired to summon the other domestics. Bettina and Elise promptly obeyed
the command. Their answers were precisely the same as those of Gustave:
they had not seen Madeleine; they could not imagine where she was.
"Baptiste,--where is he?" asked the countess.
Baptiste was in the garden.
"I am going out,--I will speak to him myself, and also institute further
inquiries to satisfy our dear little Bertha; but I warn her that her
dreams of a romantic adventure, and the flight of a young lady from an
ancient château and her natural protectors, will probably meet with a
sudden check by Madeleine's walking in from a long ramble."
Thus speaking, the count left Bertha to be consoled by his mother, and
went forth in search of Baptiste. Count Tristan well knew that, although
the domestics were all warmly attached to Madeleine, the devotion of
Baptiste was unsurpassed. The count did not, for one instant, doubt that
she had really gone. Some assistance she must have had, and Baptiste's
was the aid she would naturally have selected. He chose to interrogate
the old man himself, to _prevent his giving_ rather than to extract
information from him.
The simple-hearted gardener was not an adept in deception. He was
digging among his flower-beds when his master approached him, and it did
not escape the nobleman's observation that the spade went into the
ground and was drawn out again with increased rapidity as he drew near,
and that the head of Baptiste, instead of being lifted to see who was
coming, was bent down as though he wished to appear wholly engrossed in
his occupation.
"Baptiste?"
"Monsieur?"
The tremulous voice in which that one word was uttered, and his guilty
countenance, scarcely raised as he spoke, were enough to convict him.
"Has Mademoiselle Madeleine passed you in walking out, this morning?"
"No, monsieur. I have been very busy, monsieur; these flower-beds are in
a terrible state; it is not easy for one pair of hands to keep them even
in tolerable order. I have not noticed who passed. I don't generally
look about me,--I"--
"Oh, very well; we thought perhaps you might have seen Mademoiselle
Madeleine to-day, as she must have walked out; but, as you know nothing
at all about her, I will inform the countess and Mademoiselle Bertha."
"I am much obliged to monsieur," replied Baptiste, gratefully.
He could not conceal his thankfulness at escaping the cross-examination
which he had anticipated with the dread natural to one wholly
unpractised in dissimulation.
"This handkerchief of M. de Bois was found in the _châlet_," continued
the count. "I suppose he sometimes strolls over here in the morning, at
an hour too early for visiting; it is very natural, as we are such near
neighbors."
"As monsieur says, it would be very natural."
The count had gained all the information that he desired, and without
letting Baptiste suspect he had betrayed his secret. That Madeleine had
actually fled, that M. de Bois had lent his aid, and that Baptiste had
been taken into their confidence, was indubitable.
The count returned to the château, and joined his mother, who was making
vain attempts to soothe Bertha. The only comfort to which she would
listen was the assurance that, if Madeleine had really gone, she would
be traced and entreated to return to her former home.
The count now thought it politic to assume an air of the deepest
concern.
"I am grieved to bring you such unsatisfactory news; but Baptiste knows
nothing,--he has not seen Madeleine. I am very much shocked, but the
fear that she has really left us forces itself upon me. I will order my
horse and ride over to Rennes. She probably obtained a conveyance last
night or this morning to take her there, as it is the nearest town; and
then, by railroad or stage-coach, she must have proceeded upon her
journey."
"But how could she have obtained a conveyance if none of the servants
were in her confidence? She must have walked, though it is five miles;
but that cannot be, for she could not have carried her trunk. Some one
_must_ have aided her. Oh, who _can_ it be?"
Bertha wiped her streaming eyes with the handkerchief in her hand; it
was the handkerchief found in the _châlet_,--that of Gaston de Bois. It
seemed to answer her question. She hesitated for some moments before she
could persuade herself to communicate her suspicion; but her strong love
for Madeleine, and her desire that she should be restored t
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