A fortnight passed on. At its close the vigorous constitution of the countess, united to her powerful volition, gained a victory over her malady. She had remained unshaken in her resolution not to receive medical advice; she had taken no remedies,—used no precautions; yet the fever had been conquered. Her strength began to return, and she insisted upon leaving her bed, and being dressed, not as befits an invalid, but in her usual precise and soignÉ style. Adolphine timidly suggested that a wrapper would be more comfortable than her ordinary attire, and a morning cap would allow her to repose her head. The countess awed her into silence by remarking:

"I keep my chamber no longer. I shall dress in a manner suitable to the drawing-room."

During the progress of the tedious toilet, it was more than once apparent that she was battling against a sense of faintness; but even this discomfort did not induce her to allow a single pin to be less conscientiously placed, a single curl less carefully smoothed. Adolphine did not dare to betray that she perceived the failure of her mistress' strength, and had not courage to offer her a glass of water. When the folds of her heavy black silk dress were adjusted, her collar and sleeves, of rich lace, arranged, her girdle tightly clasped with a buckle of brilliants which was an heirloom, and her snowy hair ornamented with a Parisian head-dress of mingled lace, velvet, and flowers, she contemplated herself in the mirror as complacently as though she perceived no change in her shrunken, haggard, altered features, and rose up to proceed to the salon.

Her first steps were so feeble and uncertain that Adolphine started forward involuntarily, to offer her arm; but a look from her mistress made her draw back, and the tread of the countess grew firmer as she entered the drawing-room. She did not sink into the nearest seat, but crossed the apartment to the arm-chair which she was accustomed to occupy; but she had hardly sat down, before her eyes closed and her head fell back; her face was as white as that of the dead. Adolphine caught up a bottle of cologne; but she stood in such fear of the countess, that without using the restorative she ran to summon Bertha. Bertha approached her aunt in great alarm, but sprinkled the cologne on her face with lavish hands, applied it to her nostrils, and bathed her temples. In a few moments Madame de Gramont opened her eyes and said,—

"A little on my handkerchief, Bertha. Adolphine carelessly forgot to give me any."

Her proud, unconquered spirit would not admit the passing insensibility of its mortal part. There was nothing to be done except for her niece and maid to appear unconscious of the weakness which she herself ignored. Adolphine placed a footstool beneath her mistress' feet and retired. Bertha went to the window and looked out,—a favorite amusement of hers, as we are aware.

The fortnight had been one of severe privation and discipline to her. She had not once seen Madeleine, for she could not have left her aunt, except when Maurice was with her, and the countess would not have permitted her niece to go forth unprotected by Maurice or her maid, and the latter could not be spared. The escort of Bertha's affianced husband Madame de Gramont would have considered highly improper.

Gaston's visits, though he came every day, were brief and unsatisfactory; for the countess, who could not forbid them, (as she felt inclined to do), ordered the large folding-doors which divided her chamber from the drawing-room to be left open, and desired Adolphine to take her work into the latter apartment. Conversation in an ordinary tone was quite audible to the countess, and could not but be heard by Adolphine, who had a tolerable knowledge of English. What lover cares to converse to more than one listener?

Bertha pined for the fresh air,—for a drive in the country, or, better still, a stroll in the capitol grounds with Gaston; but this latter was a happiness almost as far out of her reach as the paradise which she deemed it foreshadowed.

The countess had grown highly irascible during her illness, and as Bertha and her maid were the only ones upon whom she had a chance of venting her spleen, she spared neither. She experienced a sick longing for her native land; she more than ever detested the republican country in which she was sojourning, and she heaped upon Bertha the bitterest reproaches as the instigator of the exile which had been followed by so many calamities. The countess never condescended to remember that her wealthy young relative had liberally borne all expenses since they left the ChÂteau de Gramont, where its owners had no longer the means of residing. Of this fact she might be supposed to be ignorant, as she never vouchsafed a thought to money matters; it, however, had been made known to her by Count Tristan before she consented to the journey; but the trivial circumstance was quickly forgotten.

While Bertha was dreamily looking out of the window, and wondering when she would be freed from this prison-like life, she heard the door open, and turned quickly, hoping to greet the all-brightening presence. It was Robert, Madeleine's servant, who entered bearing a silver salver. Bertha had not supposed that the countess would, without warning, occupy her usual place in the drawing-room, and had not guarded against Robert's being seen. The young girl was so much discomposed that she stood motionless, aghast, expecting some terrible outburst from her aunt. Robert had admitted the countess at each of her compulsory visits to the residence of "Mademoiselle Melanie," and it seemed hardly possible that she would not recognize him again. Bertha ought to have known Madame de Gramont better than to have supposed she would have stooped to bestow glances enough upon a servant of Madeleine's, or, indeed, any servant, to know his features. Robert placed the salver upon the table, and either because he was naturally a silent man, or because the presence of the countess struck him dumb, or because he had no message to deliver that morning, retired without speaking. Bertha looked anxiously at her aunt; the immobility of her features was reassuring.

The salver bore a pitcher of admirably prepared chocolate, made by Madeleine herself, a plate carefully covered with a napkin, containing a delicate species of Normandy cake, to which the countess had been particularly partial in Brittany (Madeleine had remembered the recipe), and a dish of enormous strawberries, served, according to the French custom, with their stems. It occurred to Bertha, for the first time, that perhaps there was a cipher upon Madeleine's plate which would betray from whence it came; she examined a spoon before she ventured to present the tray to her aunt. The silver only bore the letter "M." Bertha, considerably relieved, but still flurried by the peril she had just escaped, placed a small table before Madame de Gramont, then poured out and handed her the chocolate in silence, fearing to provoke some question.

The countess, who was growing faint again, gladly accepted the nourishing beverage, and even ate several cakes. She seemed to enjoy them, for it was long since she had spoken in so pleasant a tone as when she remarked,—

"These cakes remind me of our noble old chÂteau; one would hardly suppose that they would be found in America."

Bertha suspected who had made the cakes, and, to draw her aunt's attention away from them, said,—

"What delicious strawberries! And how fragrant they are!"

The countess took one by the stem, and dipped it in the sugar, but with a disparaging look. It was large and juicy, and possessed a rich flavor and an aromatic odor which French strawberries can seldom boast; but the countess would not have admitted the superiority even of American fruit over that of her own country, and after tasting a few of the strawberries returned to the cake which reminded her of her forsaken home.

How fared it with Count Tristan during the fortnight in which he had not seen his august mother? Under judicious and tender care, he had steadily, rapidly improved. His mental faculties had been sufficiently restored for him to recognize every one around him, but his memory was still clouded, and his thoughts sadly confused. He had partially recovered his articulation, though his speech continued to be thick and at times unintelligible. His limbs also had been partly freed from the thraldom of paralysis, but were still heavy and numb, as though they had long worn chains. He clung to Madeleine more eagerly than ever, and seemed to be disturbed and uncomfortable except when she was near him. He had a vague consciousness that she was the medium through which all good flowed in to him, and often repeated, as he held her hand,—

"You,—you—yes, you, Madeleine, you saved us all! Good angel—good angel!"

That her ministry in the sick-room was so grateful to the sufferer was not surprising; for a gentle, efficient hand which knows precisely how to make a pillow yield the best support,—a low, soft, yet encouraging voice,—a cheerful, yet sympathizing face,—a soundless step,—garments that never rustle,—movements that make no noise,—are among the chief blessings to an invalid.

The count seemed less happy at the sight of his son; his mind was haunted by an undefined fear that there was something Maurice would learn which would make him shrink from his father,—which would disgrace both; the sufferer had quite forgotten that the discovery he dreaded had already been made. When he looked at Maurice he often muttered the words,—

"Unincumbered,—no mortgage,—of course it's all right,—power of attorney untouched,—leave all to me!"

At other times he would plead, in broken sentences, for pardon, and denounce himself as a villain who had ruined his only son.

It was a somewhat singular coincidence that the very morning the countess had risen and dressed for the first time for a fortnight, Count Tristan appeared to be so much more restless than usual that Madeleine suggested he should be conducted to her boudoir. Maurice assisted him to rise, enveloped him in a comfortable robe de chambre, and, with the help of Robert, led him to that pleasant, peace-breathing apartment, where she had arranged an easy-chair with pillows, had opened the doors of the conservatory to admit the odorous air, and had shaded the windows that the light might be softened to an invalid's eyes.

He smiled placidly and gratefully as he looked toward the flowers, and stretched out his hand to Madeleine. She took her place on a low seat, her little sewing-chair, and, unbidden, sang some of the wild, old strains to which he had often listened in the ancient chÂteau. The sigh he heaved was one of pleasure, as though his heart felt too full, but not of care. Madeleine sang on, ballad after ballad, for she could not pause while he appeared to be so calmly happy, and her voice only died away as she felt the hand that clasped hers relax its hold, and, looking up, she found that her patient was gently slumbering.

Maurice had sat listening and gazing as one spellbound, but Madeleine roused him by saying,—

"It is long past your usual hour for visiting your grandmother. Had you not better go? I think it likely your father will sleep some time. The change of scene and the fresh air have lulled him into a tranquil slumber."

"And your voice had nothing to do with his rest?" asked Maurice, tenderly.

"Any old crone's would serve as well for a lullaby," she answered, playfully. "Now go, and be sure you find out whether the countess liked the chocolate and those Normandy cakes."