Maurice did not suspect how Bertha was employed at that moment, and how much his heart would have had cause to rejoice if she proved successful in her undertaking. She was so happy herself in her betrothed that she was possessed by a strong desire to make some effort by which a like felicity might be secured to Madeleine. It had been one of the day-dreams of Bertha's girlhood that she and Madeleine should receive their wedding rings in the same hour. Gaston was entreating his fiancÉe to name a period, even though it might be some months hence (only a few days before, we think, he declared himself content with knowing that he might hope for this crowning joy at the most distant date), when he might call her his.

Bertha replied, tantalizingly, "The time depends upon Madeleine, not upon me. She must name the day."

"May she, indeed?" asked M. de Bois, joyfully, for he was convinced that he could influence Madeleine's decision.

"Yes, she will name it in naming the day for her own wedding. I have always intended that we should be married together."

M. de Bois's countenance fell.

"But Mademoiselle Madeleine is not even engaged."

"Is she not? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," returned Gaston.

"But she loves some one,—does she not?" questioned Bertha, artfully.

"She has said she did," was the cautious response.

"Then, if she loves some one, we have only to find out who it is and bring them together, and get them to understand each other, and help them to fix the day. Would not that be charming?"

"Yes, very," replied M. de Bois; but he sighed as he spoke, remembering how improbable it was that anything of the kind would take place.

Bertha had a suspicion that he must have some knowledge of Madeleine's mysterious lover, and her idea of the perfect confidence that ought to exist not only between husband and wife, but a lover and his betrothed bride, would of itself have been sufficient inducement to make her endeavor to discover the secret.

"You have been near Madeleine all these years that she has been lost to us."

"Yes, happily for me; and if she can only say happily for her, I should be proud as well as thankful."

"She does,—I am sure she does say so," responded Bertha, affectionately. "What could she have done without you? It was because you were so much to Madeleine that you became so much to—to—that is so—so—I mean"—

Many a sentence of Gaston's had she finished when his words became entangled through confusion; it was but a fair return for him to conclude this one of hers, though perhaps he did so in a manner that added to her embarrassment.

Bertha recovered herself, and shook back her curls as though they were in fault. Then looking up archly in Gaston's face she said,—

"And if I wanted an excuse for what I have done, could I have found a better?"

"Not easily," returned the delighted lover, "and I excuse you for a piece of bad taste which has rendered me the happiest and proudest of men."

"But we were talking of Madeleine," persisted Bertha; "you know every one whom she knows,—do you not?"

"What, all her patrons? Heaven forbid!"

"No,—no,—you are very tantalizing,—I did not mean those. I mean the persons who visit her: you know them all?"

"Most of them, I believe."

"Then you must be acquainted with this invisible lover of hers!"

Now was M. de Bois puzzled. Bertha saw the advantage she had gained.

"You must have seen him,—you must know all about him,—and I must know also. Not to satisfy my curiosity,—do not imagine that!—I am not in the least curious; but because I want to assist Madeleine. I want to judge whether nothing can be done to bring about her union with him."

"Nothing,—I fear, nothing," replied M. de Bois, sadly.

"Then you do know who he is? There, you have admitted that you did!"

"Are you laying snares for me, then, sweet Bertha? But I shall not let you exult over my falling into one of these well-laid traps. I only said I feared nothing could be done to bring about Mademoiselle Madeleine's union with any one."

"But you know whom she loves?"

"She has never told me."

"But you at least suspect?"

"What right have I to suspect? And you know I am dull,—I did not even suspect whom her cousin Bertha loved."

Bertha hung her head for a moment, but quickly returned to the attack.

"Tell me, at least, whom you think Madeleine prefers."

"I have no right to do that,—it would not be fair to Mademoiselle Madeleine,—she would never forgive me!"

"Ah, then you and I may have secrets from each other? That is the inference I shall draw if you refuse," said Bertha, provokingly.

This was a most distasteful suggestion to Gaston, who had a masculine touch of jealousy in his composition,—just enough to make him desire to monopolize Bertha entirely. He was not willing that she should have a thought which she could not communicate to him; to hide anything from him was to rob him! Was his an exceptional case, or are men in general as exigeant?

"Well, you do not answer?" Bertha observed.

"I should be grieved if I had not your whole confidence, now and ever," he replied.

"So shall I be if I have not yours. Should one exact more than one is willing to give? Tell me who it is that you suspect Madeleine of loving. Tell me at once!"

"I cannot,—I have no right!"

"I think you have no right to withhold the knowledge from me."

"I think so too," answered Gaston, sorely perplexed; "and yet I must not tell you! Will you not be generous enough to pity me, and ask me no more?"

Bertha only pouted at this appeal; but Gaston must have found some means of soothing her, for, by and by, she said, coquettishly,—

"Of course, I only wanted to know on Madeleine's account and on yours."

"Mine?" exclaimed Gaston.

"Yes, yours; because if I had discovered who this lover was, I might have given him some valuable hints, and all might come right very quickly; as it is, you may have to wait a long time for a bride."

"I? Why, I am not Mademoiselle Madeleine's lover!"

"No, but you are very dependent upon him. You cannot encircle your bride's finger with a wedding-ring until he passes one on the taper finger of his."

"Bertha, that is unreasonable!" remonstrated Gaston.

"All the more womanly! Of course it is unreasonable; I never laid claim to being reasonable; but, on the other hand, I am obstinate. When Madeleine names the day for her marriage she names the day for mine."

"But if she should never marry, and that is possible."

"Then I never shall!" said Bertha, with a petulant little air of determination which looked only too real.

M. de Bois had no opportunity at that moment to test the effect of his newly-acquired eloquence, for Maurice entered.

"Bertha, will you believe that I have escorted my grandmother home and actually forgotten you? The carriage waits, and I am deputed to see you safely to the hotel."

"Do you suppose I shall accept as an escort one who thought me of too little importance to bear me in mind?" asked Bertha, who was not wanting in feminine tact, that sixth sense of womanhood, which becomes wonderfully quickened when love sharpens the faculties.

Gaston joined in; "My dear fellow, you could scarcely hope to be treated civilly after such a confession. But I will do my utmost to relieve you in this unpleasant predicament. Mademoiselle Bertha refuses you as an escort—but, as she cannot return alone, I will take your place."

"And you may dismiss your carriage," returned Bertha. "I prefer to walk."

"And you really will not let me accompany you?" asked Maurice. "What will my grandmother say?"

"No doubt we shall hear that when we reach the hotel," was the young lady's saucy reply.

But they did not hear; for the countess had closed her door, and did not open it again until she summoned Adolphine to undress her.

The watchers beside Count Tristan that night were Madeleine and Maurice. The count was somewhat restless and often muttered unintelligible words; but he continued to recognize Madeleine and seemed pleased to have her near him. Maurice did not fall asleep again; he and Madeleine talked, in whispers, the whole night through, with the exception of those brief intervals when the count was awake. The themes of conversation were so abundant, so self-increasing, there was always so much which remained untold, that the topics of interest appeared to be inexhaustible.

Madeleine had given orders that Ruth and Mrs. Lawkins should commence their watch at five o'clock; but she could hardly believe that hour had arrived when the housekeeper entered, followed by Ruth. Maurice declared that he was not in the slightest degree fatigued, or sleepy, and did not need rest; but Madeleine, with smiling imperativeness, ordered him to bed; and certainly Maurice, when he obeyed, slept remarkably sound for a man who was not in the least fatigued or sleepy, and who was inclined to battle against sleep because he could not bear to lose the consciousness of being beneath the same roof as the one so long loved, so long and vainly sought; and because it was a joy inexpressible to lie still and think over all the words she had just uttered, and to picture her face until it seemed actually before him. Yet, in spite of this delightful occupation, inexorable sleep would suddenly fling her mantle over his senses, and even refused to grant him the happiness of continuing his blissful dreams in her own realm.

Maurice sought his grandmother the next morning, at the usual hour, and carried her the tidings that Count Tristan moved his limbs more freely, and that he had even spoken several words which could be comprehended. She gave no sign of preparing to accompany her grandson, and, after waiting awhile, he asked,—

"Will you and Bertha be ready soon? It is later than usual."

"I shall not go," replied the countess slowly, and as though it cost her a great effort to force out the words.

Maurice made no remonstrance; he well knew that to endeavor to alter a resolution of hers would be a fruitless attempt.

"And you, Bertha?" he inquired.

Bertha looked toward the countess: "Perhaps you would not like me to leave you?"

"All leave me!" she almost groaned out. "Why not you?"

"I will stay with my aunt," replied Bertha, without hesitation.

And she remained all day beside the afflicted, but ever haughty, countess. They did not converse, for the latter rarely spoke, even in answer to Bertha's questions, and Bertha could invent no mode of arousing and amusing her.

M. de Bois, not finding Bertha at Madeleine's, came to the hotel; but his presence was obviously very distasteful to the countess. She did not withdraw, she would have suffered martyrdom (as she did) rather than commit the impropriety of leaving Bertha alone with her lover; but she sat with knitted brows, her stony eyes turned scrutinizingly upon them, listening to and passing judgment upon every word they uttered, and looking a rebuke if Bertha ventured to smile. The icy chill of such a presence rendered Bertha and Gaston so thoroughly uncomfortable, that the young girl, although she was one of those beings who could hardly bear to live out of the sight of those she loved best, felt relieved when Gaston rose and bade her adieu. His visit had been brief, yet it seemed longer than all the combined hours they had passed together during the last three days. The visage of the countess relaxed somewhat after Gaston had gone, but she remained lost in thought without further noticing her niece. Bertha was, at least, spared the nervous unrest produced by those piercing eyes ever upon her.

Unfortunately Bertha's resources for self-diversion were of the most limited description. Hers was a social, a wholly dependent nature; she could not, like Madeleine, create her own amusement, and make her own occupation. She tried to read, but could not fix her attention; she tried to embroider, but quickly threw down her work; she could only wander in and out of the room, now watching at the window as though she expected some one; now sitting down and jumping up again; now turning over books and papers, and looking about for something, she did not know what, until she had thrown the room into complete disorder; and certainly her restless flitting backward and forward would have half distracted any one less absorbed than the countess. During one of Bertha's fits of contemplation at the window, she exclaimed,—

"Here comes Maurice, at last! I thought he would never be here!"

"I think my father is decidedly improving," said Maurice, as he entered. "I feel certain he recognized me to-day, and I thought he attempted to pronounce my name."

A faint light gleamed in the eyes of the countess at these words, but it was quenched by those which followed.

"Madeleine, he always seems to know, and he evidently likes to have her near him. His eyes wander after her when she leaves the room, and to-day, I thought he tried to smile when she returned."

"He is better then; it will soon be possible to move him; he can soon have that care which should be most acceptable to every son, and, I trust, has ever been to mine."

The countess made this assertion proudly, in spite of the deep wound she had received through her son's recognition of Madeleine; she had tried to forget that blow, or to persuade herself that it had not been dealt.

Maurice did not know what answer to make, and remained silent.

"Aunt, you would not think of having cousin Tristan brought here until he is nearly well,—that is, well enough to walk about,—would you?" asked Bertha; and her accents expressed her disapproval of such an attempt.

"He shall come the very moment that it is possible! Do you suppose that I would submit to his remaining where he is one instant longer than is absolutely necessary?"

No reply to this declaration was needed or expected. Maurice returned to Madeleine's house with a sense of thankfulness that the count's seizure had taken place where it did.

Gaston and the housekeeper were the watchers beside the count that night, taking the places of Madeleine and Maurice at midnight,—this exchange having now become the established rule for alternate nights.

In spite of the iron-like constitution, and iron-like character of the countess,—in spite of her valiant, her desperate struggles,—her strength began to fail under the pressure of her hidden sorrow. She was unwilling to admit that she was subject to bodily any more than to mental infirmities. She belonged to that rare class described by the poet when he speaks of one who

And though she had been suffering for days from a low nervous fever, neither her words nor actions gave the slightest indication that she was not in her usual health. But, one morning, when she endeavored to rise, her limbs refused to support her,—her head swam,—it was with difficulty that she poured out a glass of water to cool her parched and burning lips, and she was so fearful of falling (there seemed something positively awful to her in the possibility of prostration, perhaps on account of the fall it typified) that she staggered back to bed and there remained.

Neither Bertha's persuasions, nor those of Maurice, could induce her to allow a physician to be summoned. Maurice suggested Dr. Bayard, who was attending Count Tristan, but the countess was even more opposed to him than to any other medical attendant. Was he not aware of her relationship to the mantua-maker? Had he not seen Count Tristan recognize that humble and degraded relative when he did not know his own mother?—his own son? No,—she never allowed physicians to approach her; she never had need of them; she had none now, so she affirmed.

Bertha was not particularly well fitted to preside in a sick-room, and her maid, Adolphine, was versed in the arts of the toilet alone. She could have made the most charming cap for an invalid, but would have proved particularly clumsy in smoothing a pillow for the head by which the cap was to be worn. Yet the countess obstinately refused to have a proper attendant engaged. She wanted nothing, she said, except to be left to herself,—not to be disturbed,—not even to be accosted.

The position of Maurice grew far more painful than ever. He could no longer devote himself exclusively to his father. Even though he could, in reality, do nothing for his grandmother, yet he felt bound to pass a portion of the day by her side; for Bertha was too much distressed and too inefficient to be left with no assistance save that of her frivolous maid. Madeleine longed to seek her aunt, and make some few, needful arrangements for her comfort; but she could not doubt that her presence would do more harm than good. All that she could effect was to instruct Maurice, as far as possible, in the requirements of a sick-room, and to have prepared, in her own kitchen, the light food suitable to an invalid, which it would be difficult to obtain in a hotel. Every day delicate broth, beef tea as clear as amber, panada, simple jellies, and choice fruit were sent to Bertha for her aunt, without the knowledge of the countess; indeed, the only nourishment the invalid tasted was provided by the thoughtful Madeleine.