The marvellous change in the bearing of Gaston de Bois, by which Maurice was struck, had been wrought by a triad of agents. A man who had passed his life in indolent seclusion, who had plunged into a tangled labyrinth of abstruse books, not in search of valuable knowledge, but to lose in its mazes the recollection of valueless hours; who had allowed his days to drag on in aimless monotony; who had fallen into melancholy because he lacked a healthy stimulus to rouse his faculties out of their life-deadening torpidity; who had allowed his nervous diffidence to gain such complete mastery over him that it tied his tongue, and clouded his vision, and confused his brain; who had despised himself because he was keenly conscious that his existence was purposeless and profitless;—this man, subjected to the sudden impetus of an occupation for which his mental acquirements and sedentary habits alike fitted him, found his new life a revelation. He had emerged from the dusty, beaten, grass-withered path his feet had spiritlessly trodden from earliest youth, and entered a field of bloom and verdure where the very stir of the atmosphere exhilarated, where the labor to be performed called dormant capacities into play and tested their strength, where each day's achievement gave the delightful assurance of latent powers within himself hitherto unrecognized,—in a word, where his manhood was developed through the regenerating virtue, the glorious might, the blessed privilege of work!

The second cause which had contributed to bring about the happy metamorphosis in Gaston de Bois sprang out of the hope-inspiring words Madeleine had dropped on that day which closed so darkly on the duke's orphan daughter. Those few, passing, precious words had fallen like fructuous seed and struck deep root in Gaston's spirit; and, as the germs shot upward, every branch was covered with blossoms of hope which perfumed his nights and days. He dared to believe that Bertha did not look upon him with disdain,—that she sympathized with the misfortune which debarred him from free intercourse with society,—that a deeper interest might emanate from this compassionate regard. The possibility of becoming worthy of her no longer appeared a dream so wild and baseless; but he was too modest, too distrustful of himself, to have given that golden dream entertainment had it not been inspired by Madeleine's kindly breath.

The third cause which combined with the two just mentioned to revolutionize his character will unfold itself hereafter.

The more cognizant M. de Bois became that powerful influences were vivifying, strengthening, and bringing order out of confusion in his own mind, the more troubled he felt in pondering over the disordered mental condition of Maurice. During a whole month after their accidental encounter in the street he called repeatedly at the lodgings of the viscount, but never once found him at home. Half discouraged, yet unwilling to abandon the hope of an interview, he persisted in his fruitless visits. One morning, to his unbounded satisfaction, when he inquired of the concierge if M. de Gramont was within, an affirmative answer was returned. Gaston could hardly credit the welcome intelligence, and involuntarily repeated the question.

"Ah, yes, poor young gentleman! he's not likely to be out again soon!" replied his informant, in a pitying tone.

Without waiting for an explanation of the mysterious words, M. de Bois quickly ascended to the fifth story, and, being admitted into the antechamber by a neat-looking domestic, knocked at the door of the apartment which was indicated to him.

The voice of a stranger bade him enter. He turned the doorknob with shaking hand. The room was so small that it could be taken in at a single glance. It was a plain, almost furniture-less apartment. In the narrow bed lay Maurice. His eyes—those great, blue eyes which so strongly resembled Bertha's—were glittering with the wild lights of delirium; fever burned on his cheeks and seemed to scorch his parched lips. The fair, clustering curls were matted and tangled about his brow; his arms were tossing restlessly about. He sprang up into a sitting posture as Gaston appeared at the door, and gazed at him eagerly; then stared around, peering into every corner of the chamber, as though in quest of some one. Those searching glances were followed by a look of blank despair that settled heavily upon his pain-contracted features as he sank back and closed his eyes.

Beside the bed sat a woman, clad in the shapeless dress of black serge, and wearing the widely projecting white bonnet and cape, black veil, white band across the brow, and beneath the chin, which compose the attire of a sister de bon secours. She was one of that community of self-abnegating women, who, bound by holy vows, devote their lives to the care of the suffering, and are the most skilful, tender, and zealous nurses that France affords.

Just beyond the good "sister" stood a young man, poring over a piece of paper, which had the appearance of a medical prescription: a spirited-looking youth, whose harmonious and intellectual cast of features was heightened to rare beauty by richly mellow coloring, and the silken curves of a beard and moustache unprofaned by a razor,—curves softly traced above the fresh, rubious lips, and gracefully deepening about the cheeks and chin,—curves that disappear forever when the civilized barbarism of shaving has been accepted.

He came forward when M. de Bois entered, and accosted him in an earnest, rapid tone.

"I hope, sir, you are a friend of this gentleman. Am I right in my supposition?"

"Yes—yes—what—what has happened?" asked M. de Bois, his countenance plainly betokening his alarm.

"I occupy the adjoining apartment," continued the stranger. "My name is Walton. Three nights ago I was startled by the sound of some object falling heavily near my door, followed by a deep groan. I found this gentleman lying on the ground, apparently insensible. I carried him into his chamber, laid him upon the bed, and summoned the concierge. The name inscribed upon her book is the Viscount Maurice de Gramont, and his last residence the chÂteau of his father, Count Tristan de Gramont, in Brittany, near Rennes. I took upon myself the responsibility of calling a physician,—Dr. Dupont,—and, through his advice, of engaging this good 'sister,' one of the 'soeurs de bon secours,' as a nurse. Dr. Dupont wrote to his patient's father; but no answer has been received. I have been with your friend very constantly. You perceive he has a raging fever; he talks a great deal, but too incoherently to be able to answer any questions or to give any directions."

This information was communicated with a quick, energetic intonation, while the speaker stood fanning Maurice, and preventing the hand which he flung about from striking against the wall. There was a confident rapidity in the stranger's movements, a vigorous manliness and self-dependence in his bearing, strikingly dissimilar to the deportment which usually characterizes young Parisians at the same age. Though he spoke the French language with fluent correctness, a slightly foreign accent betrayed to M. de Bois that he was not a native of France.

Gaston thanked him as warmly as his troublesome impediment permitted, and said that he would himself write to the Count de Gramont. Then, bending over his friend, took his hot, unquiet hand, and spoke to him again and again. His voice failed to touch any chord of memory and cause it to vibrate in recognition. Maurice was muttering the same word over and over; Gaston hardly needed to bow his head to catch the imperfect sound; he knew, before he heard distinctly, that it was the name of "Madeleine."

"Had you not better write your letter immediately?" asked young Walton. "Will you walk into my room? I do not see any writing materials here. Mine are at your service."

Gaston, as he followed the stranger into the adjoining chamber, could not but be struck by the easy, off-hand, decided manner in which he spoke, and the promptitude with which he desired to accomplish the work to be done.

Mr. Walton's sitting-room, which was separated from his bed-chamber, was much larger than the apartment of Maurice. It had an air of great comfort, if not of decided elegance, and testified to the literary and artistic taste of its occupant. The walls were decorated with fine photographic views, and some early efforts in painting. Here stood an easel, holding an unfinished picture; there an open piano; further on a convenient writing-table; in the centre another table covered with books and portfolios; materials for writing and sketching were scattered about with a bachelor's disregard for order.

"I will clear you a space here," said he, sweeping the contents of one table upon another, already overburdened. "Everything is in confusion; for I have been working at odd moments. I could not make up my mind to go to the studio. I would not leave that poor fellow until somebody claimed him. What an interesting face he has! If he were only better, I would make a sketch. His countenance is just my beau ideal of the young Saxon knight in a historical picture I am painting. A man always finds materials for art just beneath his hand, if he only has wit and thrift to stoop and gather them as he goes. But I fear I am interrupting you. Make yourself at home. I will leave you while you are writing. Really, I cannot express how glad I am that you have come at last. I have been looking for you—that is, for somebody who knew M. de Gramont—every moment for two days."

After drawing back the curtains to give M. de Bois more light, and glancing around to see that he was supplied with all he could require, the young artist returned to the apartment of Maurice.

Ronald Walton was born of South Carolinian parents,—their only child. His boyhood was not passed in a locality calculated to develop artistic instincts, nor had his education afforded him artistic advantages, nor had he been thrown into a sphere of artistic associates; yet from the time his tiny fingers could hold brush or pencil he had seized upon engravings of romantic scenery, copied them upon an enlarged scale, and painted them in oil, to the astonishment of his parents and friends. When his young companions extracted enjoyment from fish-hook and gun, and hilariously filled game-bags and fishing-baskets, he sat quietly drinking in a higher, more humane delight before his easel. These tastes, as they strengthened, caused his father, though a liberal and cultivated man, severe disappointment. At times he was even disposed to place a compulsory check upon his son's artist proclivities; but the soft, persuasive voice of the gentle, refined, clear-sighted mother interposed. She had made the most loving study of her child's character, and had faith in his fitness for the vocation he desired to adopt. She pleaded that his obvious gift might be tested, and proved spurious or genuine, before it was trampled under foot as unworthy of recognition; and her heart-wisdom finally prevailed.

Ronald was sent to Paris to study under a distinguished master. During three years he had made golden use of his opportunities. He was remarkable among his fellow-students for his indomitable perseverance, and his power of concentrating all his thoughts upon his work. He experienced a desire to attain excellence for its own sake, not for the petty ambition of excelling others. Thus he became very popular among his associates, and excited their admiration without ever awakening the jealousies of wounded self-love. Though he had determined to devote his life to art, from the conviction that it was the vocation for which he came commissioned from the Creator's hand, there was nothing morbid in his passion for his profession. It was a healthy love of the beautiful in outward form, springing from the love of all which the beautiful typifies, combined with a strong impulse to represent and perpetuate the haunting images of varied loveliness which constantly floated through his brain.

The young Carolinian was called an enthusiast even by his French fellow-students, with whom enthusiasm is an inheritance; but his enthusiasm was allied to a severely critical taste,—a rare combination; and being grafted upon the tree of practicability, indigenous to the soil of his young country, it brought down his ideal conceptions into actual execution.

The philosopher of the present day scouts at enthusiasm; but what agent is half so mighty in giving the needful spur to genius? Enthusiasm kindles a new flame in the chilled soul when the ashes of disappointment have extinguished its fires; enthusiasm reinvigorates and braces the spirit that has become weary and enervated in the oppressive atmosphere of uncongenial entourage; enthusiasm is the cool, refreshing breeze of a warm climate and the blazing log of a cold. Ronald's unexhausted enthusiasm was the secret fountain whose waters nourished laurels for him in the gardens of success.

M. de Bois, when he had concluded his letter, found the art-student at the bedside of Maurice.

"I will post your letter, if you please," said Ronald; "then I will make a moment's descent into the studio, or some of those noisy madcaps will be rushing here after me. I will return, however, before long, if you have no objection."

Hardly waiting for M. de Bois's courteous, but rather slowly-expressed acknowledgment, he hurried away.

For a couple of hours Gaston sat beside Maurice, listening to his indistinct ravings, and tracing out that striking likeness to a countenance he had studied too closely for his own peace. Now and then he exchanged a word or two with the good "sister," as she moistened the lips, or bathed the brow of the sufferer.

The doctor came, but pronounced his patient no better, and threw out a hint that he had some fears the fever was taking the form of typhus; adding a warning in regard to the danger of infection. That intelligence had no influence upon Gaston, who resolved to pass as many hours as possible with his friend. Nor did it affect Ronald Walton, when he returned and heard the physician's verdict.

The two young men for the next four days alternately shared the duties of the holy "sister."

The postal arrangements between Paris and Rennes chanced, at that moment, to be very imperfect; the letter of Dr. Dupont never reached its destination, and that of M. de Bois was delayed on its route. It was not until the fifth day after it was posted that Count Tristan, who obeyed the summons with all haste, arrived in Paris. His son had never once evinced sufficient consciousness to recognize Gaston de Bois, but, the instant the count was ushered into the room, was seized with a fit of frenzy, and broke forth in a torrent of reproaches, upbraided his father with the ruin and death of Madeleine, charged him with having wrought the destruction of his own son, and warned him that he had brought utter desolation upon his ancestral home.

Dr. Dupont, who entered the room during this paroxysm, suggested to the count the propriety of withdrawing. The latter, although every word Maurice uttered inflicted a deadly pang, could not, at first, be induced to tear himself away. The doctor was resolute in pronouncing his sentence of banishment, and declared that the viscount's life might be the sacrifice if he were subjected to further excitement.

We will not attempt to portray the poignant sufferings of the count, who, in spite of his wiliness and worldliness, was passionately attached to his only child,—the central axis upon which all his hopes, his schemes, his whole world moved.

Several times, while the invalid was sleeping, his father ventured to steal into the chamber; but, by some strange species of magnetism, his very sphere seemed to affect the slumberer, who invariably awoke, and recognized, or partially recognized him, and burst out anew in violent denunciations, to which respect would never have allowed him to give utterance, except under the stimulus of delirium. The count writhed and shrank beneath the fierce stabbing of those incisive words, and, in his ungovernable grief, flung himself beside the son, whom he feared death would shortly snatch from his arms, pouring forth assurances Maurice would once have hailed as words of life, but which now fell powerless upon his unheeding ears. While Count Tristan's overwhelming anguish lasted, there was no promise he would not have made to purchase his son's restoration, and no promise he would not have broken, if interest prompted, when the peril was past.

After one of these agitating interviews, the doctor's edict entirely closed the door of the patient's chamber against the count, who was forced to admit the wisdom of the order.

Gaston de Bois and Ronald Walton, between whom a pleasant intimacy was springing up, continued to watch by the bed of Maurice. Another fortnight passed, and though he lay, as it were, in a grave of fire, the doctor's prediction of typhus fever was not verified. At the expiration of this period, Ronald was the first to notice a favorable change, and to discover that the invalid had lucid intervals which showed his reason was reascending her abdicated throne. But he abstained from pointing out the improvement to Gaston, fearing that, in his joy, he might communicate the consolatory intelligence to the count, who would then insist upon seeing his son, and possibly reproduce the evil results by which his former visits had been attended.

Maurice had ceased to moan and mutter, and lay motionless as one thoroughly exhausted. He slept much, waking for but a few moments, and sinking again into a species of half-lethargy. There was something inexpressibly sweet and pleasant in his present calmness; his mind seemed to have been mysteriously soothed and satisfied; the turbulent waves, that dashed him hither and thither against the sharp rocks of doubt and fear, had subsided. His features, especially when he slept, wore an expression of the most serene contentment.

The soeur de bon secours, who had watched him through the night, had yielded her place to the "sister," who assumed the office of nurse during the day. Gaston entered soon after, and, finding the patient gently slumbering, sat down beside his bed. After a time, Maurice stirred, drew a long breath, and slowly opened his eyes. They met those of his watcher. For some time the invalid gazed at him without speaking, and then said, in a tone that was hardly audible,—

"M. de Bois."

"My dear Maurice—dear friend—you are better,—you know me at last," exclaimed Gaston, joyfully.

"I knew you before; you have been the most faithful of friends and nurses. I knew you quite well, and I knew her too!"

Gaston bounded from his chair, breathing so hard that he could scarcely stammer out, "Her! who—o—o—om do you me—e—ean?"

"Madeleine," replied Maurice, confidently.

"Mademoiselle Mad—ad—adeleine; you are dream—eaming!"

"No! I thought so at first, and the dream was so sweet that I would not break it by word or motion, fearing that I should discover it was not reality. But it was no dream. Night after night,—how many I do not know—I could not count,—I have seen Madeleine beside me! When the good 'sister' moved about the room, in the dim light of the veilleuse, in spite of her coarse, unshapely garb, I recognized the outlines of Madeleine's form; notwithstanding the uncouth bonnet, and the white bandage that concealed her hair and brow, and, passing beneath her chin, almost hid her face, I recognized the features of Madeleine. I watched her as she glided about the room, and with her delicate, noiseless, rapidly moving touch created the most perfect order around her. I heard her as she softly sang sweet anthems, and I could not mistake the voice of Madeleine. I felt her hand, her cool, fresh, velvety hand, upon my burning forehead, and it soothed me deliciously. I lay with closed eyes as she bathed my temples, and passed her fingers through my hair to loosen its tangles. I was afraid of frightening her away, or finding I saw but a vision. The water she held to my lips was nectar; when she smoothed my pillow, all pain passed from the temples that rested upon it, throbbing with agony before, and I sank into a sweet slumber,—not unconscious slumber: I knew that I was sleeping; I knew that Madeleine sat there, filling the place of the sister of charity; I knew that when I opened my eyes I should see her,—and I did, again and again. I never once spoke to her; I feared some spell would be broken if I breathed her name. In the morning she disappeared; but I knew she would come again at midnight, when all was quiet, and the light was carefully shaded. M. de Bois, my dear Gaston, I tell you I have seen Madeleine!"

M. de Bois sat still, looking too much astounded to utter a word.

"I see you cannot believe me," Maurice continued. "She never came while you were here, and so you think it is a dream. A happy dream! a dream full of the balm of Gilead! for she has cured me! My brain was a burning volcano until her hand was laid upon my brow, and I gazed in her face, and knew it was no phantom. Do not look so much distressed, my dear Gaston. I am perfectly in my senses."

M. de Bois did not contradict him. Perhaps he remembered the good rule of never opposing a sick man's vagaries. After a pause he said,—

"Maurice, since you are quite yourself, would you not like to see your father?"

The wan face of Maurice flushed slightly.

"Is he here?"

"Yes, he has been here for more than a fortnight. The doctor forbade his entering. Will you not see him now?"

The invalid assented languidly. He had perhaps spoken too much and overtaxed his strength.

The joy of Count Tristan was deep and voiceless when he was once more permitted to embrace his son. He was so fearful of touching upon some painful chord, and of again hearing those frantic ravings, that he had no language at his command. Maurice, in a faint tone, inquired after his grandmother and Bertha, and then seemed too weary to prolong the conversation. Glad at heart, as the count could not but feel, at the wonderful improvement in his son, he was ill at ease in his presence, and seemed always to have some haunting dread upon his mind. It was a relief when the doctor forbade his patient to converse, and hinted that the count should make his visits very brief.

The next day, when M. de Bois entered, Maurice greeted him in a mournful tone.

"She did not come last night. I watched for her in vain. The 'sister,' yonder, went as usual at midnight, and came back in the morning; but, during the night, a stranger took her place."

What could M. de Bois answer? He gave a sigh of sympathy, but did not attempt to make any comment.

"She knows perhaps that my father is here, and she will come no more for fear of being discovered. But I have seen her, Gaston! I know I have seen her! I could not have lived if I had not. And her countenance was not sad,—it wore a look of patient hope that lent a glory to her face. The very remembrance of that saint-like expression put to shame the despair to which I have yielded."

"I—I—I—am"—

M. de Bois could get no further. If he meant to use any argument to persuade Maurice that it was only a vision, conjured up by his fevered imagination, which he had seen, the attempt would have been vain. Maurice clung to the belief that he had really beheld Madeleine, and that conviction soothed, strengthened, and reanimated him.