Maurice, when he opened the door of his grandmother's drawing-room, found the apartment vacant. The countess was still in her own chamber issuing orders to the bewildered Adolphine, whose packing process advanced but indifferently. Bertha had retired to her room. Maurice passed into his father's apartment, where Mrs. Gratacap sat knitting, and, in a few words, told her what had occurred.

"Poor dear!" cried the compassionate nurse. "I feared it would be so. I saw it coming this last week; and a third stroke is a death-knell—that's certain! But it will be a blessed escape for the poor dear; so don't take on, Mr. Morris" (this was her nearest approach to saying "Maurice"). "You'll need all your spirit to get along with the old lady; though, if she were the north pole itself, I should think this blow would break up her ice."

"Will you have the goodness to desire my cousin to come here? I had better tell her first," said Maurice.

Mrs. Gratacap withdrew and quickly returned accompanied by Bertha who was trembling with alarm; for the messenger had lost no time in making the sad communication.

"I cannot tell my grandmother, Bertha, in the presence of Adolphine. Will you not beg your aunt to come to me in the drawing-room?" said Maurice.

Bertha had scarcely courage to obey, she had such a dread of witnessing the countess's agitation; for she felt certain it would take the form of anger against Madeleine and Maurice. With hesitating steps the young girl entered the apartment where the countess sat. She had been much irritated by Adolphine's stupidity, and cried out,—

"Positively, Bertha, this maid of yours has been totally spoiled by her residence in this barbarous country. She is worth nothing; she has no head; and she even presumes to offer her advice and suggest what would be the best mode of packing this or that! It is fortunate for us that this is our last day in this odious city, and that we shall soon be on our way back to Brittany. But Adolphine is completely ruined; there is no tolerating her."

"I am very sorry," said Bertha, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

"You need not cry about it," retorted the countess, angrily. "How often have I tried to impress upon you that this habit of evincing emotion is, in the highest degree, plebeian! Tears are very well for a milk-maid, but exceedingly unbecoming a lady. They are an unmistakable sign of vulgar breeding. I cannot endure to see a niece of mine with so little self-control."

Bertha removed her handkerchief and tried to force back her tears, as she said,—

"Maurice begs to speak to you for a moment."

"Very good. Can he not come to me?"

"He entreats that you will go into the drawing-room."

"Do you mean to intimate," asked the countess, sternly, "that my grandson ventures to summon me to his presence, instead of coming to mine? What indignity am I to expect next? Since he has forgotten his duty and the deference due to me, go and remind him."

"He has something very serious to tell you," faltered Bertha; "he wants you to hear it there,—it is so sad."

Bertha, in spite of her aunt's contemptuous glances, could not help burying her face in her handkerchief again.

"What absurdity!" sneered the countess; but she began to experience a vague sensation of uneasiness.

"Come! come! do come!" pleaded Bertha.

"Since it seems the only way to put an end to this hysterical exhibition of yours, Bertha, I will go and reprove Maurice for his lack of respect."

But the countess did not literally carry her threat into execution; for, noticing the absence of Count Tristan, she said hurriedly,—

"Where is your father?"

"Pray sit down one moment, my dear grandmother"—

She interrupted him by asking again, more anxiously,—

"Where is your father?"

"I will explain, but"—

"Why do you not answer my question?" she cried with increased violence. "Where is your father?"

Could Maurice answer "At Madeleine's?" He still hesitated, and the countess, with more rapid steps than she was wont to use, hastened to Count Tristan's bedroom.

Mrs. Gratacap greeted her with "Oh, poor dear, don't take on about it! We couldn't but expect that it would come soon, and"—

The countess did not wait to hear the close of her sentence, but with a cold horror creeping through her veins, hurried back to Maurice, and once more asked, imperiously,—

"Maurice, where is your father? I command you to answer at once! I will hear nothing but the answer to that question."

Driven to extremity, Maurice replied, "My father is at Madeleine's!"

"Miserable boy! How did you dare to set my wishes at defiance? You shall repent this,—be sure you shall! How had you the audacity to fly in the face of my command?"

"I heard no commands on the subject," returned Maurice; "and if I had done so, my father's wishes would still have held the first place. As soon as we left the house he insisted upon going to Madeleine's; he would take no refusal; his affection for her is so strong that"—

"How dare you talk to me of his affection for that artful, designing girl, who is a disgrace to us all,—whose low machinations have placed her beneath my contempt? Henceforth, thank Heaven! we shall be out of the reach of her vile manoeuvres."

This was beyond endurance. Maurice forgot everything but the insulting epithets applied to Madeleine, and said, with a dignity as imposing as Madame de Gramont's own had ever been,—

"My grandmother, never shall such language be applied to Madeleine again in my presence, by you or any one! Madeleine is not merely my cousin, she is the woman I love best and honor most in the world;—the woman who, if I ever marry, will become my wife."

"Never! never!" cried the countess, fiercely. "That shall never be, come what may!"

Maurice, recovering himself somewhat, went on,—

"It is upon a far sadder subject that I wish to speak to you,—I meant to break the news gently,—I hoped to spare you a severe shock, but you force me to come to the point at once. My dear father has had another seizure of the same nature as the two former."

"Parricide!" shrieked the countess, "you have done this! You have killed your father! The agitation occasioned by your taking him to that house and letting him see that unhappy girl has caused this attack; if he should die you will be his murderer!"

What reply could Maurice make which would not enrage her more? The countess went on, furiously,—

"Go,—bring him back to me quickly! He shall not remain there! By all that is holy, he shall not."

"I come to ask you to go to him since he cannot come to you," said Maurice, with as much mildness as he could throw into his tone.

"Yes, I will go, I will go!" replied his grandmother. "I cannot trust you; I will go myself, and see him brought here."

She retired to her own chamber to make ready, and Bertha quickly followed her example.

Meantime Madeleine with Mrs. Lawkins, watched beside the count. His attack was briefer than the former ones. When it was over, he fell into a deep and placid slumber. During that sleep his face changed! Those who have watched the dying and recognized the indescribable expression which marks the countenance when it is "death-struck" will understand what alteration is meant. He waked slowly and gently,—first stirring his hands as though clutching at something impalpable, then gradually opening his eyes. They looked large and glassy, but as they fixed themselves upon Madeleine's face, bespoke full consciousness.

"Madeleine!" he murmured feebly; but his voice was distinct, and pathetically tender. "I am with you again, Madeleine,—that is great happiness,—great comfort, I am going soon, Madeleine;—do you not know it?"

"Oh! I fear so!" answered Madeleine, weeping; "but you do not suffer? You are calm?"

"Very calm,—very happy with my good angel near me. Madeleine, you have much to pardon; but you will pardon,—all,—all!

"I do, I do. If there be anything to pardon, I do, from my soul, a thousand times over."

"You have made me believe in God and his saints, Madeleine, and I bless you."

Madeleine was holding both of his cold hands in hers, and had bowed her head, that his icy lips might touch her forehead; but she rose up suddenly, for she heard the wheels of a carriage stop, and the street door open; she deemed it well to prepare the count.

"I think your mother and Maurice have arrived."

A cloud passed over the face of the dying man, but did not rest there. He was beyond fear! His haughty mother could no longer inspire awe!

A moment after, Maurice opened the door and the countess entered the room. Approaching the bed, as though unconscious of Madeleine's presence, she exclaimed,—

"My son, my son, what brought you here? How could you have paid so little respect to my wishes? I will not reproach you" (this was much for her to say), "only make the effort to let yourself be removed at once."

"I am going fast enough, mother; I am dying!"

"No,—no!" cried the countess, vehemently. "You could not die here! You are not dying! You cannot, shall not die!"

She spoke as though she believed that her potent volition could frighten away the death-angels hovering near, and prolong his life.

Madeleine had attempted to withdraw her hand from his, for his mother had seized the other clay-cold hand; but he said, with a faint smile, "Don't go, Madeleine; do not leave me until I cannot see you and feel you more." Then making a great effort to rally his expiring energies, he continued, "Mother, love Madeleine! We need angels about us to lift us up when we fall. Keep her near you if you would be comforted when the hour that has come to me comes to you!"

The countess did not reply, but the hand she held had grown so clammy, she could no longer refuse to believe that her son might be dying. Still she was not softened; she could not turn to Madeleine and embrace her, as the dying man so obviously desired.

"Maurice," said his father.

Maurice approached, and the countess instinctively drew a step back, to give him room. She had dropped the marble hand, and Maurice took it in his.

"Maurice, you, too, have much to pardon. Madeleine has forgiven,—will not you?"

"Oh, my father, do not speak of that! All is well between us; but, if we must indeed lose you,—tell me,—tell Madeleine that you give her to me. She loves me, she has never loved any other; and I never have loved,—never can love any woman but her. Bid her be my wife, for she has refused to let me claim her without your consent and my grandmother's."

Count Tristan tried to speak, but the words died upon the lips that essayed to form themselves into a smile of assent. He lifted Madeleine's hand and placed it in that of Maurice.

A convulsed groan, or sob, broke from the countess, but it was unheard by her son; his spirit had taken its flight.

It had gone, stained with many evil passions,—perhaps crimes,—but what its sentence was before the High Tribunal, who shall dare to say? That erring spirit had recognized good, and therefore could not be wholly unsanctified by good; it had repented, and therefore sin was no longer loved; all the rest was dark; but He who, speaking in metaphors, forbade the "bruised reed" to be broken, or "smoking flax" to be quenched, might have seen light, invisible to mortal eyes, even about a soul as shadowed as that of Count Tristan de Gramont.

The countess had been the only one who doubted that he would die, yet she was the first to perceive that he was gone. She uttered a piercing, discordant cry, and with her arms frantically extended, flung herself upon the corpse. Her long self-restraint, her curbing back of emotion, made the sudden shock more terrible; she fell into violent convulsions.

Maurice bore her into the adjoining apartment, followed by Madeleine, Bertha, and Mrs. Lawkins. When the convulsions ceased she was delirious with fever.

Madeleine ordered the room Maurice had occupied to be speedily prepared for her reception. Her delirium lasted for many days. Had she recovered her senses, she would assuredly have commanded that the corpse of her son should be removed to the hotel, that his funeral might take place from thence; but Maurice thought it no humiliation that the funeral of the proud Count Tristan de Gramont should move from the doors of that mantua-maker niece who had saved his name from dishonor by the products of her labor.

Count Tristan had few friends, or even acquaintances in Washington. Maurice and Gaston were chief mourners. The Marquis de Fleury and his suite, Mr. Hilson, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Walton, and Ronald, accompanied the corpse to its last resting-place.

Bertha had taken up her residence at Madeleine's. Maurice remained at the hotel,—that is, he slept there, but the larger portion of his hours was passed beneath Madeleine's roof.

That Madeleine was his betrothed was tacitly understood, though no word had been spoken on the subject, and her manner toward him was little changed. She loved him with all the intensity and strength of her large nature, but her love could not, like Bertha's, find expression in words, in loving looks, and caressing ways. Maurice was content, even though he could never know how inexpressibly dear he was to her. His was one of those generous natures which experience more delight in loving than in being loved. He never believed that Madeleine's love could equal his, and he argued that it could not because there was so much more to love in her than there was in him, and a true, pure, holy love, loves the attributes that are lovable rather than the mere person to whom they appertain. Maurice asked but little! A gentle pressure of the hand,—a soft smile,—a passing look of tenderness, though it was certain to be quickly veiled by the dropped lids,—a casual word of endearment timidly, reluctantly spoken, or, oftener, spoken unpremeditatedly and followed by a blush; these were food sufficient for his great passion,—the one passion of his life, to exist upon. Indeed we are inclined to think that with men of his temperament love is kept in a more vigorous, more actively healthy state by its (apparently) receiving only measured response. A woman who is gifted with the power of throwing her soul into looks, and language and loving ways, runs the risk of producing upon certain men an effect approaching satiety. The woman who has instinctive wisdom will never dash herself against this rock; yet few women are wise; fewer give too little of their rich, heart-treasures than too much.