With electric rapidity flashed the news through Washington that Mademoiselle Melanie, the fashionable dressmaker, was a lady of rank,—a heroine,—a being hardly inferior to those disguised princesses who figure in popular fairy tales. Numberless romantic stories were fabricated and circulated, and the startling and improbable motives assigned for her incognita bore witness to the fertile imagination of the American public.

It may well be imagined that there was but one all-engrossing theme discussed in the working-rooms of Mademoiselle Melanie's establishment. Mademoiselle Victorine was not a little disgusted when she learned that a secret of such moment had been so successfully concealed from her. But the quick-witted foreigner had too much tact to betray her ignorance by evincing astonishment in the presence of the employÉes, or the patrons of Mademoiselle Melanie. On the contrary, Mademoiselle Victorine gave them to understand that she had all along been the repository of Mademoiselle de Gramont's secrets, and knew more of her past history and future plans than was yet suspected.

Madeleine's thoughtful kindness prompted her to make a brief explanation to Ruth Thornton, whom she had so long treated as a friend, or younger sister. Ruth was moved and gratified by the unsought confidence; but her genuine, up-looking veneration for Madeleine could not be increased by the knowledge that she was the daughter of the late Duke de Gramont. Madeleine concluded her narrative by saying,—

"One may be very poor, and very dependent, and yet be the daughter of a duke; and even a duke's daughter may find it less irksome to earn her own bread than to eat the bread of charity."

Ruth asked, tremblingly, "But now will all go on as before? Will your noble relatives permit you to continue your present life?"

"My relatives can exert no influence which will turn me from the path I have chosen," replied Madeleine, divining her young protegÉe's thoughts. "While Count Tristan remains in my house, you will act as my representative. When he is restored, or, rather, when he is no longer my guest, I shall resume my former duties."

Ruth's sinking heart was lifted up by this assurance, and the cloud that had gathered upon her sweet face passed away, and left it as placid as Madeleine's own. Madeleine's tranquillizing influence over others was one of her most remarkable traits. She was not merely calm and self-possessed herself, but her presence communicated a steadfast, hopeful calmness that was irresistible.

The beau monde had decided that as Mademoiselle de Gramont's family had claimed her, she would unhesitatingly abandon her humble occupation, and assume her legitimate position in the social sphere; and great were the lamentations over the noble couturiÈre's supposed abdication of her throne.

The next question to be settled was whether her former patrons should recognize and visit her as an equal, ignoring their previous acquaintance. Madame de Fleury was the first to reply to that query. We will not make ourselves responsible for the assertion that she was prompted by purely disinterested motives, and the unqualified admiration with which Mademoiselle Melanie had long since inspired her. It is just possible that other incentives had their weight in her light head, and that believing herself about to be deprived of the inventive genius which had rendered her toilet the glory and delight of her life, she might have determined to preserve Mademoiselle Melanie's friendship that she might secure her advice on all important occasions. Be that as it may, Madame de Fleury immediately left cards for Mademoiselle de Gramont, and her example was followed by the Countess Orlowski, and a host of other ladies, who conscientiously walked in her footsteps.

The morning of the third day after Count Tristan's seizure passed much in the same manner as the second. Maurice conducted his grandmother and Bertha to Madeleine's residence. The countess was as silent, as frigid, as immovable as before. She took the same seat, kept the same unbent position, appeared to be as completely abstracted from what was passing around her, as on the day previous. Madeleine absented herself, and Bertha soon stole to her side. M. de Bois, whose vigils, it appeared, had not fatigued him sufficiently for extra repose to be requisite, joined them at an early hour.

About noon, Maurice hastily entered Madeleine's boudoir and said, "I think there is some change in my father; his face is much paler and his eyes appear to be wandering about with a faint sign of consciousness; the motion of his right hand is restored, for he has lifted it several times. Pray come to him, Madeleine."

"I only banished myself in the fear that my presence would not be agreeable to the countess," replied Madeleine. "Do you think it will not now pain her to see me?"

"I cannot tell, but you must come."

Madeleine obeyed.

The countess had risen and was bending over the bed.

"My son! Tristan, my son! do you not hear your mother?" she cried, in a hollow, unnatural voice.

His eyes still gazed restlessly about, with a helpless, hopeless, supplicating look.

"My dear father," said Maurice, taking the hand which the count had again lifted and let fall.

No sign of recognition followed.

"What do you think of his state, Madeleine? Is he not better?"

His cousin softly drew near, and taking in her own the hand Maurice had dropped, said, "You know us, Count Tristan, do you not?"

His eyes, as though drawn by her voice, turned quickly, and fastened themselves upon her face; his hands made a nervous clutch, his lips moved, but the sounds were thick and indistinct, yet the first syllable of her name was audible to all.

"Do not try to speak," said Madeleine, soothingly; "you have been very ill; you are still weak; do not endeavor to make any exertion."

He continued to look at her beseechingly, and to clasp her hand more and more tightly,—so tightly that it gave her positive pain, and his quivering lips again made a fruitless effort to utter her name.

"Tristan, my son!" exclaimed the countess, motioning Madeleine to move aside.

Madeleine attempted to obey, but could not release her hand from its imprisonment.

Count Tristan did not appear to hear, or rather to recognize the voice of his mother, although she continued to address him in a loud tone, and to beg, almost to command, him to listen to her. Maurice also spoke to him, but without making any impression on his mind. There was no meaning in his gaze when it rested on the faces of either; but his eyes, the instant they fell upon Madeleine's countenance, grew less glassy, more living, and through them the darkened soul looked dimly out.

Whatever might have been the internal sufferings of the countess, they did not conquer her stoicism. She resumed her seat, and her lips were again sealed; their close compression and ashy hue alone told that the torture of the mental rack upon which she was stretched had been augmented.

As soon as Madeleine felt the count's hand relaxing its firm grasp, she withdrew hers, though he made a faint attempt to detain her. As she retired from the bed, his eyes followed her, and his lips moved again.

"You are not going, Madeleine?" questioned Maurice. "My father evidently knows you,—wants you near him; you are the only one he recognizes; do not leave us!"

Was that low, stifled sound which reached their ears, in spite of the firmly-compressed lips of the countess, an inward sob or groan?

As Madeleine sat down, Dr. Bayard entered. Maurice related what had passed, and the doctor requested Madeleine to address the patient. That he made an effort to reply was unmistakable. Dr. Bayard then spoke to the count, but without attracting his attention. He desired Maurice to accost him, but no better result ensued. He signified to the countess that she should do the same; but the agony of beholding her son recognize, cling to one toward whom she entertained the bitterest enmity, while the voice of his mother—his mother who loved him with all the strength of her proud nature—was unheeded, became intolerable. She rose up, not quickly, but with all her wonted stateliness, and with a firm and measured pace walked out of the room. She had no definite purpose,—she did not know where she was going, or where she wished to go,—but she could not abide the sight forced upon her eyes in that chamber.

"Maurice, attend your grandmother," whispered Madeleine.

Maurice had not thought of stirring, but he rose and opened the door of the adjoining room.

"Leave me! I would be alone!" said the countess, as he entered.

He returned to his father's side.

Dr. Bayard was giving his orders to Madeleine. A crisis had just passed, he said. Count Tristan was better; there was reason to hope that he would recover. One side was still paralyzed and there was partial paralysis of the tongue. His mind, too, was in a torpid state, but might gradually awaken. As Madeleine was the person whom he recognized, it would be well for her to remain near him and minister to his wants. Madeleine was more than content.

An hour passed and the countess did not return to her son's bedside. Maurice, at Madeleine's suggestion, ventured to intrude upon her. She appeared to be lost in a deep revery, and did not raise her eyes at his approach.

"I fear you are not well, my grandmother; will you not allow me to conduct you home?"

"I am well," she answered bitterly, "but I will go. My presence is of no use here; my own son ignores it!"

She spoke as though the invalid had refused to recognize her for the express purpose of adding a fresh insult to those which an evil fortune, a malicious chance (to use her own expressions), had heaped upon her head.

Without again visiting her son's chamber, she entered the carriage which Maurice had ordered; he took his seat opposite to her, and neither remembered, until they entered the hotel, that Bertha was left behind.

"I was thinking so much of my poor father that I quite forgot Bertha," he said, apologetically. "I will return for her at once."

"Yes, go, go!" was all the countess replied.