Another week passed on. The day preceding that on which the countess and her party were to set out on their journey had arrived. All the necessary preparations were progressing duly.

Maurice, from the hour that he had learned Madeleine's secret, had lived in such a dream of absolute happiness that he felt as though he could ask for nothing more,—as though the cup presented to his lips was too full of joy for the one, ungrateful drop of an unfulfilled desire to find room. He comprehended Madeleine's character too thoroughly,—respected all her instincts and principles of action too entirely, again to urge his suit, or seek to obtain her promise that she would one day be his; she was his in spirit,—he could openly recognize her as his,—that sufficed! and he believed it would still suffice (if her sense of duty remained unaltered) through his whole earthly existence; for all his days would be brightened by her love, and the privilege of loving her.

Bertha, after her first, petulant outbreak, had also ceased to press Madeleine on the subject of her possible marriage, and with meek demureness reconciled herself to the uncertainty of the future, and the certainty of tormenting her lover in the present.

M. de Bois's devotion to Madeleine sealed his lips. Madeleine had formed a resolution which she declared unalterable. Bertha had announced a determination dependent upon Madeleine's, and the suitors of the two cousins had only to submit and hope.

The labor of packing Madame de Gramont's wardrobe, as well as that of Bertha, devolved upon Adolphine; she had not quite filled the trunks of her young mistress when she was summoned by the countess. This was on the morning of the day preceding the one appointed for their departure. Adolphine was heedless and forgetful to a tantalizing degree. The countess deemed herself compelled to superintend her movements; that is to sit in an arm-chair and look on; the lofty lady would not have deigned to assist by touching an article, though she now and then issued an order or indulged in a rebuke, and by her presence greatly retarded Adolphine's operations.

Count Tristan had driven out every day. His mother and Maurice always accompanied him. This morning, when Maurice went to announce to his grandmother that the carriage was at the door, he found her watching Adolphine, who was on her knees before an open trunk.

"It will be impossible for me to accompany you to-day," said the countess. "I will speak to your father; it will be his last drive, and he must excuse me."

She rose and passed into the drawing-room where Count Tristan was waiting.

"My son," said his mother, raising her voice as she now always did when she spoke to him, seeming to imagine that by this means she could make him comprehend better. He was not, however, in the least afflicted with deafness, and the loud tone was more likely to startle him than to calm the perturbation which was usually apparent when she addressed him. "My son, you are to take your airing this morning without me. You understand that this will be your last drive in this detestable city. You perfectly comprehend, I hope, that you leave here to-morrow; and before long we shall be safely within the time-honored walls of the old chÂteau which we ought never to have left."

The proposed change had been so constantly impressed upon the count's mind by his mother that he seemed, at times, to be thoroughly aware of it; yet at others the recollection faded from his memory. At first, when the voyage was mentioned, he would remonstrate in a piteous, feeble, fretful way, declaring that he would not go; but of late he had appeared to yield to the potency of Madame de Gramont's will.

Maurice offered his arm to the count and they left the room. As the door closed after them, Count Tristan turned, as though to assure himself that it was shut, then looked at Maurice significantly and nodded his head, while a smile brightened his countenance. It was so long since Maurice had seen him smile that even that strange, half-wild, inexplicable kindling up of the wan face was pleasant to behold. As they descended the stair, the count looked back several times, and gave furtive glances around him, smiling more and more; then he rubbed his hands and chuckled as though at some idea which he could not yet communicate. At the carriage-door he paused again, and again looked all around, continuing to rub his hands, then fairly laughed out. Maurice began to be alarmed at this unaccountable mirth. They entered the carriage and the coachman drove in the usual direction; but the count exclaimed impatiently,—

"No—no—that's not the way! stop him! stop him!"

Maurice, at a loss to comprehend his father's wishes, did not immediately comply with his request, and the count, with unusual energy, himself caught at the check-cord and pulled it vehemently.

"This is not the way,—not the way to Madeleine's!"

Then Maurice comprehended his father's exultation; he had conceived the project of visiting Madeleine! But what was to be done? The countess would be enraged if she discovered Count Tristan had seen Madeleine; and the agitation caused by the interview might prove harmful to him. Yet would it not do him more injury to thwart his wishes? And would it not be depriving Madeleine of an inestimable joy?

The count grew impatient; he shouted out, in a clearer tone than he had been able to use since his first seizure, "To Madeleine's! To Madeleine's, I say! I will see Madeleine!"

Maurice hesitated no longer and gave the order. His father's agitation was, every moment, on the increase, though it was now of the most pleasurable nature; he gave vent to little bursts of triumphant laughter, muttering to himself, "I shall see her! I knew I should see her again!"

"My dear father, you will endeavor to be calm,—will you not? I am fearful this excitement will injure you, and my grandmother will never forgive me if you become worse through my imprudence. She must not know that we have been to Madeleine's. It would render her uselessly indignant; but Madeleine will be so overjoyed to see you once more that I could not refuse to comply with your wishes."

The count murmured to himself, rather than replied to his son,—

"Good angel! My good angel! We are going to her! We are very near—there! that's the house yonder. I'd know it among a thousand! Maurice, I'm well! I'm strong! I want nothing now but to see Madeleine! It's all right—is it not? She settled about that mortgage—she obtained us those votes—there's no more trouble! Nobody knows what a scoundrel I have been! I remember all clearly. I am very joyful; I must tell Madeleine; I must say to her that she—she—she brought something of heaven down to me; there must be a heaven, for where else could Madeleine belong?"

Maurice had not heard his father speak as much or as connectedly for a month. His face was pleasantly animated, in spite of its unnatural expression, and he moved his arms about so freely it was evident the weight which had pressed with paralyzing force upon them was removed.

The carriage stopped. Maurice could scarcely prevent his father from springing out before him and without assistance.

The silent Robert looked his surprise and gratification as he opened the street door. While Maurice was inquiring where his mistress would be found, Count Tristan pressed on alone, walking with a firm, rapid step. He entered the first room. It was Madeleine's bed-chamber; the one he himself had occupied during his illness. It was vacant. He passed on, crying out,—

"Madeleine! Madeleine!" He looked into the drawing-room, then into the dining-room, still calling, "Madeleine! Madeleine!"

He hurried on toward the well-remembered little boudoir. There Madeleine was sitting at her desk, quietly sketching. When, to her amazement, she heard the count's voice, she thought it was fancy; but the sound was repeated again and again. Those were surely his tones! She started up and opened the door. Count Tristan was standing only a few paces from it,—Maurice behind him.

"Madeleine! Madeleine! I see you. I am happy. I can die now."

As these words burst from his lips, the count staggered forward and sank on Madeleine's shoulder; for she had involuntarily stretched out her arms toward him. The next instant he slipped through them and dropped heavily upon the floor. One glance at his distorted face, and at the foam issuing from his lips, one sound of that stertorous breathing was enough. Maurice and Madeleine knew that he had been struck with apoplexy for the third time!

Maurice and Robert carried him to the bed he had before occupied; and Madeleine sent for Dr. Bayard in all haste.

The count lay quite still, save for that heavy breathing and the convulsive motion of his features. Madeleine and Maurice stood beside him in silence, with hands interlocked.

Dr. Bayard arrived, looked at the patient, shook his head, and, turning to Maurice, said, in a low tone,—

"There is nothing to be done."

"But see," answered Maurice, clinging to a faint hope, "he is getting over it,—he seems better."

"It is the third stroke," replied the doctor, significantly, as he was leaving the room.

Madeleine heard these words, though they were spoken in an undertone, and she followed Maurice and the physician from the apartment.

"Do you mean," she inquired of the physician, in accents of deep sorrow, "it is impossible for Count Tristan to recover from this shock?"

"My dear young lady, I am unwilling to say that anything is impossible. The longer a physician practises, the more he realizes that we cannot judge of possibilities; but, in my experience, I have never known a case of apoplexy that survived the third stroke."

"He will die, then? Oh, will he die?"

"His life, for the last two months, has been a living death," replied the physician, kindly. "Could you wish to prolong such an existence?"

The doctor took his leave, promising to return, but frankly avowing that his presence was needless. As soon as he had gone, Madeleine said to Maurice, who appeared to be so much stunned by this new blow that he was incapable of reflection,—

"Your poor grandmother,—O Maurice, what a terrible task lies before you! You will have to break this news to her. She must want to see him once more, and he may not linger long. You have not a moment to lose."

"I feel as though I could not go to her," answered Maurice. "What good can she do here? She will only insult you again; and, if my father should revive, her words may render his last moments wretched. Let him die in peace."

Madeleine replied,—

"She may be softened by the presence of the angel of death. She may long to hear one parting word of tenderness from his lips, and utter one in return. Go, I beseech you! Go and bring her!"

And Maurice went.