The Doctor declared that evening that Esperance had congestion of the brain, and that specialists who were sent for from Paris confirmed the diagnosis. The Dowager would not hear of having her taken away. The Tower of Saint Genevieve was put entirely at the Darbois's disposal. Twos sister were sent for, and Jeanette volunteered to do the heavy work. All the other servants were forbidden to approach the Tower.

The Countess Styvens, accompanied by the Duke de Castel-Montjoie, the Prince and Princess de Bernecourt, and the Baron van Berger, had taken the body of her son to be buried in the great family mausoleum which she had raised to the memory of her husband at her country place of Lacken.

Maurice and Genevieve were greatly relieved when they learned that the Countess had not remained. In her crises of delirium Esperance talked and talked….

"Albert, no, no, I do not love him … I love the Duke…. Yes, he saved my life, but my father is going to tell him…. I cannot keep this collar…. It is cold, cold, it strangles me, I am stifling…. I am going to die…. Yes, Albert, you shall clasp the chain every morning … and every evening…. No, my head is not too low, I can see the beauty of Perseus better. He is coming?… He is coming to cut off the long arms that hold me…. The blood, there, the blood running slowly!… No, Albert, do not die, I will love you, the Duke will go!…"

In spite of her trusting confidence, the poor mother must have come to wonder and perhaps to understand.

When Esperance regained consciousness the worst danger was over. Only
Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender had heard the complete revelation.

Jeanette knew too, but Genevieve, who understood that she was there to keep the Duke informed, found her very docile and repentant and did not send her away. The Countess, to whom they had sent a daily bulletin for three weeks, found that Esperance, if not cured, was at least on the way to convalescence. She would still pass many hours when she failed to recognize people. A kind of coma took possession of her every now and then and kept her for days together in a kind of lethargy.

The season was getting late, and all the house guests had left. The Dowager Duchess did not wish to return to Paris, although her son, who had become a deputy as she wished, invited her to come and stay with him. The Prince de Bernecourt had had to once more take up his post, but his wife had stayed to keep her friend company, and because she loved the "little Darbois," as she called her. The Duke de Morlay was visiting friends whose ChÂteau was about an hour's journey away. He came every day for news from the Duchess, and from his goddaughter Jeanette.

A month went by. The young girl, now convalescent, was strong enough to be moved.

"We will take her to Penhouet for a month," said FranÇois Darbois's note to the Countess, "and when she is quite cured we will send her to you in Brussels."

The Duke was in despair at the idea of hearing that Esperance was to go away. He complained to Maurice whom he saw every day, "Can I not see Esperance?"

"Yes, but only for a few seconds," said the young painter. "I believe that you will have to wait several months before you can renew your love. She is convalescent, but not cured. Here is a proposal for you: I am going to marry Mlle. Hardouin in two months. Come to our wedding. Your presence will seem quite natural, for you have treated me as a friend. I am very much attached to you and I am sure that my cousin will be very happy with you when you are married."

"But will she be well in two months?"

"The Doctor assures us that she will be quite herself, and it is by his advice that we have set that date for our marriage."

"Do you think Mlle. Hardouin would accept me as a witness?"

She will be delighted, and I thank you. Genevieve has no relations except her elder sister, who brought her up."

"I hope that this marriage will recall Esperance's promise to her.
Meantime I shall go to Italy for about the two months. Will you see if
I may say good-bye to her?"

"I will go now."

He was soon back again.

"My cousin expects you."

It was more than a month since the Duke had seen Esperance. He was painfully shocked by the change in her pretty face. She looked hardly real. Her eyes were enormous. Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender were with her.

"Here is the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche who has come to say good-bye to you."

Esperance turned her eyes towards the Duke.

"It is a long time since I have seen you," she said simply.

And her voice sounded like the tone of a distant harp.

"You have been very ill!"

"I have been very ill, I believe, but I cannot remember very well. I feel as if I had had heavy blows in my brain; sometimes I hear dreadful calls and then everything is quiet again. And then sometimes I see a piece of a picture, no beginning, no end, sometimes horrible, sometimes lovely. Why, now I remember," she spoke gently with a charming smile, "that you are part of all my visions, but I do not know any more how, or why…. And Albert, where is he? Why does he not come? He must come and undo the collar…. Ah! my God, my God, I am wandering you see, nothing is clear yet."

She raised her arms.

"My God, my God, have pity on me or take me at once. I do not want to lose my mind!"

She took the Duke's hand.

"Say you are not sorry that you loved me?"

"I love you always!"

She clapped her hands with a silvery laugh, "Genevieve, Genevieve, he loves me still."

And she hid her head on the young girl's arm. Maurice led the Duke away, overcome. He looked questioningly at the painter.

"No, she will not be light-headed long, the Doctors all agree about that, but her memory will have to come back by degrees a little at a time. She recognized you. She remembered her love and yours. That is a great step. Her youth, her love, and time will be, I believe, certain restorers."

The Duke left soon after they had taken Esperance away.

In Belgium the Countess had prepared for her beloved daughter. This beautiful woman of forty, so charming, so handsome in her mauve mourning, had already become an old woman whose movements were ever slow and sad. Her back was bent, from constantly kneeling beside her son's grave. Her black clothes reflected the deeper gloom of her expression. And to those who had seen her a few months before, she was almost unrecognizable.

Poor little Esperance regained her health very slowly. Her mind seemed entirely clear only on one subject, the theatre. Little by little she remembered everything connected with her art. She repeated with Genevieve and Jean Perliez the scenes they had given at the Competition. She worked hard on Musset's On ne badine pas avec l'amour; then busied herself with preparations for her friend's marriage. She did not know that the Duke was to be a witness.

"But," she would often object, "you must have two witnesses, and you have only one."

"I have two," said Genevieve, "but you must guess the name of the second."