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 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 to them, prevailed. She handed the handkerchief to Count Tristan.

"Before you go to Rennes, will you not return this handkerchief to M. de Bois? As it was picked up in the chÂlet, he must have been there lately,—possibly this morning. Perhaps he knows something of Madeleine's flight. Oh, he must know!—he must! Make him tell you,—implore him to tell you!"

The count took the handkerchief, saying, "It is an admirable suggestion of yours, my dear Bertha. I will go to M. de Bois at once. Meantime, do not spoil your beautiful eyes with weeping. Never fear,—we will have Madeleine back shortly; and if you will only be consoled, I promise to forgive her all the anxiety she has occasioned us."

Count Tristan found M. de Bois at home, burrowing among musty volumes, which were the daily companions of his solitude. When he received his handkerchief, a violent fit of stammering rendered the words he attempted to utter wholly incomprehensible, and the count made no effort to understand them. He proceeded to inform M. de Bois of Madeleine's sudden disappearance, and of the great unhappiness it had caused, adding that he came to him as a neighbor, to ask his advice concerning the best method of tracking the fugitive.

If M. de Bois offered any counsel (which his guest pretended to imagine he did), the impediment in his speech increased to such an extent that his suggestions were unintelligible. His perturbation might have passed for surprise at the startling intelligence so abruptly communicated; but it could hardly be translated into sorrow or sympathy, and was a very imperfect simulation of astonishment.

"I am going to Rennes, for the purpose of making inquiries at the railroad depÔt. Will not that plan be a good one?" asked the count.

"Ver—ver—ery good," stammered M. de Bois.

"Can you think of any mode that will facilitate my search?"

"I fear not,—none at all; I am very dull in such m—m—matters."

The count took his leave, congratulating himself that his neighbor had not been subjected to the scrutiny of the Countess de Gramont or Bertha, and especially of Maurice, whose absence at this crisis he looked upon as doubly fortunate.

Count Tristan returned to the chÂteau with as dejected a mien as he could assume.

Bertha was watching at the window, and ran out to meet him. "What news? When did M. de Bois lose his handkerchief? When did he last see Madeleine?"

"Dear child, I am deeply pained not to bring more cheering information. M. de Bois must have dropped his handkerchief some days ago,—the morning after the ball; he has not been here since; he has no recollection of the circumstance; he has not seen Madeleine at all."

"Was he not amazed to hear that she had gone?"

"Very much confounded; the shock quite bewildered him. We consulted about the best means of tracing her at Rennes. You may rest assured that M. de Bois was totally ignorant of her intention to leave us. And, if you will allow me to make a suggestion, I would charge you not to let him suspect, when you meet, that you for a moment imagine he was in Madeleine's confidence. It would be highly indelicate,—the very supposition would be derogatory to her dignity. I have said all that was necessary to him, and, as he had nothing to do with the affair, it is a topic which cannot with propriety be touched upon again."

"Assuredly not," coincided the countess. "Madeleine, with all her faults, would not so entirely forget her own self-respect as to have a clandestine understanding with a young man. I cannot believe she would disgrace herself and us by such unmaidenly conduct."

"Unmaidenly! Would it be unmaidenly?" questioned Bertha, innocently. "If it would be an impropriety to confide in M. de Bois, then Madeleine certainly has not made him her confidant. Oh, my poor Madeleine! It is dreadful to think that she must have gone away alone,—quite alone!"

"You may well call it dreadful, Bertha. An occurrence of this kind has never blotted the annals of our family! What will be said of her and of us? Such a step, taken by a woman of her birth, will set hundreds of tongues discussing our domestic concerns; our names will be bandied about from lip to lip; our affairs will be in all sorts of common people's mouths. Hasten, for heaven's sake, my son, and find Madeleine before this story gets wind."

Count Tristan dutifully obeyed,—that is to say, he assumed an appearance of compliance, for in a few moments he was galloping toward Rennes.

Evening set in before he returned. His long absence had kindled in the minds of the countess and Bertha a hope that he had discovered some clew, and the latter had worked herself up to such a pitch of excitement that she almost anticipated the return of Madeleine in Count Tristan's company. Her disappointment when, at last, he entered, looking weary and dejected, was proportionate to her expectations. He had made all possible search,—so he said,—and no information concerning the fugitive could be gathered; she was gone! He feared they must now wait patiently until they heard from her. She would doubtless write soon,—a letter might come at any moment. Very possibly she had changed her mind in regard to Lady Vivian's offer, and had accepted it without communicating her intention, because she feared her aunt's displeasure. This was the most likely explanation of her sudden departure. He had called at the ChÂteau de Tremazan, and Lady Vivian had left for Scotland two days after the ball. Madeleine was doubtless at this moment on her way to Edinburgh.

The count, though he made this assertion with an air of perfect credence, did not, for a moment, believe that such was Madeleine's destination; but he thought to check persistent inquiries which might accidentally bring to light some fine thread that would lead to the discovery of her retreat.

"Oh, if she goes to Lady Vivian, we will make her return at once,—will we not, aunt?" asked Bertha, catching eagerly at this new hope. "But Madeleine told me distinctly that she had no intention of accepting Lady Vivian's offer."

"There would be no harm in changing her mind," observed the count. "You will find that she has done so; therefore, give yourself no more uneasiness at present."

Bertha would very gladly have followed the count's advice; but, even if she had made the effort, it would have been impossible to drive anxiety for Madeleine out of her thoughts. Several times during the evening she started up, thinking that she heard her voice; if a step echoed in the antechamber, she turned eagerly to the door, her blue eyes greatening with expectation. Once, when the roll of wheels sounded in the distance, she uttered a cry of joy and rushed out upon the porch. Every moment she grew more and more restless and feverish; and when the usual hour for retiring came, she wandered into Madeleine's room, instead of her own, and once more minutely examined the whole chamber. There might, perhaps, be a note somewhere which she had overlooked: after the most diligent search, none was to be found. There were pens, ink, and paper upon the little table which Madeleine generally used, but not a word of writing was visible.

The sight of pen and ink suggested an idea which had not before occurred to Bertha. She sat down and wrote to Maurice. She poured out all her grief upon paper, and it was soothed as if dropped into words upon the blank sheet before her. How often a full heart has had its burden lifted and lightened at the pen's point, as if the sorrow it recorded grew less heavy beneath the calming touch of that potent instrument!