After the Marchioness de Fleury had departed, leaving her astonished guests in her drawing-room, M. de Bois was the first to break the silence.

"And you, Mademoiselle Bertha, are you also horrified at this rev—ev—evelation?" he asked.

"I?" answered Bertha, making an effort to collect herself. "No, I can never be horrified by any act of Madeleine's, for she could never be guilty of an action that was unworthy. I am only so much astonished that I feel stunned and confused, just as Maurice does; see, how bewildered he looks!"

The countess had now recovered her voice, and said, in a tone trembling with indignation, "It is infamous!"

"A degradation we could never have anticipated!" rejoined Count Tristan.

"She has disgraced her family,—disgraced our proud name forever!" responded the countess.

"Do not say that, aunt!" pleaded Bertha. "She has not even used your name, though it is as rightfully hers as yours. Do you not observe that she has only allowed herself to be called by her middle name, and that every one speaks of her as Mademoiselle Melanie?"

Bertha, as she spoke, bent caressingly over her aunt, and took her hand. But the attempt to soften the infuriated aristocrat was futile.

The countess replied, with increasing wrath, "I tell you she has humiliated herself and us to the last degree! She has brought shame upon our heads!"

Gaston de Bois was walking up and down the room, thrusting his fingers through his hair, flinging out his arms spasmodically, and, now and then, giving vent to a muttered ejaculation, which sounded alarmingly emphatic. When he heard these words, he could restrain himself no longer. He came boldly forward, and planting himself directly in front of the countess, unawed by her forbidding manner, exclaimed,—

"No, madame; that I deny! Mademoiselle de Gramont has brought no shame upon her family!"

"She no longer belongs to my family!" retorted the countess. "I disown her henceforward and forever!"

"And you do rightly, my mother," added the count. "We will never acknowledge her, never see her again! Maurice and Bertha, we expect that you will abide by our determination."

Maurice did not reply; he stood leaning against the mantel-piece, lost in thought, his eyes bent down, his head resting upon his hands.

Bertha, however, answered with spirit. "I make no promise of the kind. Nothing could induce me to cast off my dear Madeleine!"

M. de Bois seized her hand, and, involuntarily carrying it to his lips, said, with mingled enthusiasm and veneration, "You are as noble as I thought you were! I knew you would not forsake her!"

Bertha raised her eyes to his face with an expression which thrilled him, as she answered, "You will defend her, M. de Bois; you, who can perhaps disperse the cloud of mystery by which her life has been enveloped for the last four years. You will tell my aunt how Madeleine has lived,—what she has done. You will tell us all about her."

"That I will, gladly!" replied he. "That is, if I can. I never in my life so much desired the pow—ow—ower of spee—ee—eech!"

He broke off, and, in an undertone, gave vent to certain exclamations which indistinctly reached the ears of the countess and Bertha.

Their amazed looks did not escape his notice, and he continued: "Ladies, I ought to ask your pardon; possibly my expressions have sounded to you somewhat profane; I am under the sad necessity of using very strong language. I cannot loosen my tongue except by the aid of these forcible expletives, and I must—must speak! For I, who have known all Mademoiselle Madeleine's noble impulses, can best explain to you her con—on—onduct."

The last word, which was the only one upon which he stammered, was followed by another emphatic ejaculation.

Bertha, without heeding this interruption, asked, "And have you known where Madeleine was concealed all this time?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, I knew."

"And it was you who assisted her to leave Brittany?"

"It was I! That was about the first good action which brightened my life, and—and—and"—(another muttered oath to assist his articulation) "and I hope it was only a commencement."

"Tell us—tell us everything quickly," prayed Bertha.

"Mademoiselle Madeleine, when she determined to leave the ChÂteau de Gramont,—when she resolved to cease to be dependent,—when, in spite of her noble birth, which was to her only an encumbrance, she purposed to gain a livelihood by honest industry,—confided her project to me. And what good she did me in making me feel that I was worthy enough of her esteem to be trusted! She first committed to my charge her family diamonds, her sole possession, and ordered me to dispose of them"—

"Her diamonds! those which have been in her family for generations! What sacrilege!" cried the countess, in accents of horror.

"Pardon me, madame; it would have been sacrilege, she thought, and so did I, if she had kept them when their sale could have prevented her being the unhappy recipient of the unwilling charity of her relatives."

"Go on—go on!" urged Bertha. "How did she leave the chÂteau? How could she travel?"

"I obtained her a passport, for it would have been running too great a risk if she had attempted to travel without one. The passport had to be signed by two witnesses. Fortunately, two of my friends at Rennes were about to leave the country; I selected them as witnesses, because they could not be questioned; I told them the whole story, and bound them to secrecy. We took out the passport for England to divert pursuit; but, Mademoiselle Madeleine only went to Paris, and it was not necessary that her passport should be visÉd if she remained there."

"But the diamonds,—they were those Madame de Fleury wore and which I recognized!" exclaimed Bertha.

"I made a false step there; but it was just like me to bungle," continued Gaston. "I knew that the Jew, Henriques, often had transactions with the Marquis de Fleury. I took the diamonds to another Jew from whom I concealed my name, and suggested his taking them to Henriques, hinting that the marquis would probably become their purchaser. The marquis is a connoisseur of jewels; and, as you are aware, at once secured them. The sum realized was sufficient to supply the simple wants of Mademoiselle Madeleine for years. But this did not satisfy her,—her plan was to work. When she heard that the diamonds were in M. de Fleury's possession, she embroidered a robe upon which the lilies and shamrock were closely imitated, and took her work to Vignon, Madame de Fleury's dressmaker. Vignon was amazed at the great skill and taste displayed in the design and execution, and offered to give the embroiderer as much employment as she desired. Madame de Fleury being the most influential of Vignon's patrons, the dress was exhibited to her. She was at once struck and charmed by the coincidence that allowed her to become the possessor of a dress upon which the exact design of her new jewels had been imitated. She asked a thousand questions of Vignon, who gladly monopolized all the credit of inventing this novel pattern. From that moment Mademoiselle Madeleine's 'fairy fingers' commenced their marvels under the celebrated couturiÈre's direction, and Vignon daily congratulated herself upon the mysterious treasure she had discovered. Mademoiselle Madeleine now determined to remain in Paris incognita. She worked night and day, scarcely allowing herself needful rest; but, alas! she worked with a ceaseless heartache,—a heartache on your account, Maurice, for she knew how wildly you were searching for her; and when you fell ill"—

Maurice interrupted him: "It was she who watched beside me at night! I knew it! I have always been convinced of it. Was I not right?"

"I was bound not to tell you, but there can be no need of concealment now. Yes, you are right. When the soeur de bon secours we had engaged to take care of you during the day, left, and would have been replaced, according to the usual custom, by another to watch through the night, we told her no watcher was needed before morning. Mademoiselle Madeleine made herself a garb resembling that worn by the sisterhood; and, every night, when the good sister we had hired left, Mademoiselle Madeleine took her place. We thought your delirium would prevent your recognizing her."

"Probably it did, at first," returned Maurice; "but, for many nights before I spoke to you; I was conscious, I was sure of her presence."

"When you did speak, I was startled enough," resumed Gaston; "and it was a sad revelation to Mademoiselle Madeleine; for, when your reason was restored, she could not venture any more to come near you."

"Did she go to Dresden? How came my birthday handkerchief to be sent from Dresden?" asked Bertha.

"That was another piece of stupidity of mine. You see what a blockhead I have been. Mademoiselle Madeleine wished to send some token of assurance that she thought of you still; but it was necessary that you should not know she was in Paris. I had the package conveyed to a friend of mine in Dresden, and desired him to remove the envelope and send the parcel to Bordeaux, though you were in Paris at the time. It would not have been prudent to let you suspect that Mademoiselle Madeleine was aware of your sojourn in the metropolis. But, when the postmark induced Maurice to start for Dresden, I saw what a fool I had been. It was just like me to commit some absurdity,—I always do! I could not dissuade Maurice from going to Dresden; but Mademoiselle Madeleine wrote a note which I enclosed to my friend, and desired to have it left at the hotel where Maurice was staying. After that I was more careful not to commit blunders. The other birthday tokens, you received, Mademoiselle Bertha, I always contrived to send you by private hand; thus, there was no postmark to awaken suspicion."

"But how came Madeleine here in America?" inquired Bertha.

"When the Marquis de Fleury was appointed ambassador to the United States, Mademoiselle Madeleine learned that Madame de Fleury sorely lamented her hard fate, and mourned over the probability that she would be obliged to have all her dresses sent from Paris. This would be a great inconvenience, for she often liked to have a costume improvised upon the spur of the moment, and completed with fabulous rapidity. Mademoiselle Madeleine had frequently thought of America, and felt that the new country must present a field where she could work more advantageously than in Paris. She desired Vignon to suggest to Madame de Fleury that one of the assistants in her favorite couturiÈre's establishment,—the one with whose designs Madame de Fleury was already acquainted,—might be tempted, by the certainty of the marchioness's patronage, to visit America. Madame de Fleury was contented, and immediately proposed that Mademoiselle Melanie should sail in the same steamer. Vignon allowed two of her work-women to accompany her. The sum Mademoiselle Madeleine had realized from her diamonds enabled her to hire a modest house in Washington, and to furnish it tastefully. On her arrival she sent for Mr. Hilson. Perhaps you remember him, Mademoiselle Bertha? He once dined at the ChÂteau de Gramont."

Here the count uttered an exclamation of violent displeasure, but M. de Bois went on,—

"He had requested Mademoiselle Madeleine if she ever visited America to let him know. He called upon her at once, and she frankly told him the story of her trials, and the conclusion to which they had forced her. He highly approved of her energy, her zeal, and spirit. She made him promise to keep her rank and name a secret. He brought his wife and daughter to see her, and they became her stanch, admiring, and helpful friends. Through them alone, she would quickly have been drawn into notice; but a more powerful medium to popularity was at work. The sensation produced by Madame de Fleury's toilets caused all Washington to flock to the exhibition-rooms of 'Mademoiselle Melanie,' who was known to be her couturiÈre. Soon, it became a favor for 'Mademoiselle Melanie' to receive new customers. She was forced to move to the elegant mansion where she now resides. It is one of the grandest houses in Washington, and Mademoiselle Melanie has only one more payment to make before it becomes her own. The fact is, people have gone crazy about her. Those who seek her merely upon business, when they come into her presence, are impressed with the conviction that she is not merely their equal, but their superior, and treat her with involuntary deference. She is rapidly becoming rich, and she has the glory of knowing that it is through the labor of her own dainty hands, her own 'fairy fingers!'"

"Oh, all she has done was truly noble!" said Bertha, with enthusiasm.

"It was disgraceful!" cried the countess, fiercely. "She might better have starved! She has torn down her glorious escutcheon to replace it by a mantua-maker's sign. She has stooped to make dresses!—to receive customers! Abominable!"

M. de Bois, for a moment forgetting the courtesy due to the rank and years of the countess, replied indignantly, "Madame, did she not make your dresses for three years? Have you not been one of her customers? An unprofitable customer? The profit was the only difference between what she did at the ChÂteau de Gramont and what she does in the city of Washington!"

"Sir!" exclaimed the countess, giving him a look of rebuke, which was intended to silence these unpalatable truths.

"You are right, M. de Bois," answered Bertha, not noticing the furious glance of her aunt. "That was a random shaft of yours, but it hits the mark, and strikes me as well as my aunt; yet I thank you for it; I thank you for defending Madeleine; I thank you for befriending her. I shall never forget it—never!"

Bertha frankly stretched out her hand to him; he took it with joyful emotion.

"Whom would she have to defend her if I did not, since her family discard her? Since even an able young lawyer utters not a word to plead her cause?" he added, looking reproachfully at Maurice. "But she shall never lack a defender while I live, for I love her as a sister! I venerate her as a saint. To me she is the type of all that is best and noblest in the world! The type of that which is greater, more valuable than glory, more useful than fame, more noble than the blood of countesses and duchesses—honest labor!"

Bertha's responsive look spoke her approval.

"And what do I not owe her, myself?" continued M. de Bois. "It was her words, long before her sorrows began, which rendered me conscious of the inert purposelessness of my own existence. It was the effect produced upon me by those words which made me resolve to throw off my sluggish, indolent melancholy and inactivity, and rise up to be one of the world's 'doers,' not 'breathers' only. The change I feel in myself came through her; even the very power of speaking to you thus freely comes through her, for she encouraged me to conquer my diffidence, she made me despise my weak self-consciousness, and I cannot offer her a sufficient return; no, not if I took up arms against the whole world, her own family included, in her defence! In my presence, no one shall ever asperse her nobility of word, deed, or act!"

Bertha's speaking eyes thanked him and encouraged him again.

In spite of the manifest rage of the countess he went on,—

"But Mademoiselle Madeleine now holds a position which needs no champion. She has made that position herself, by her own energy and industry, and the unimpeachable purity of her conduct. In this land where labor is a virtue, and the most laborious, when they combine intellect with industry, become the greatest,—in this land it will be no blot upon her noble name, (when she chooses to resume it) that she has linked that name with work. She will rather be held up as an example to the daughters of this young country. No one, except Mr. Hilson, not even her zealous patron, and devoted admirer, Madame de Fleury, yet knows her history; but every one feels that she merits reverence, and every one yields her spontaneous veneration. The young women whom she employs idolize her, and she treats them as the kindest and most considerate of sisters might. Some among them belong to excellent families, reduced by circumstances, and she has inspired them with courage to work, even with so humble an instrument as the needle, rather than to accept dependence as inevitable. She is fitting them to follow in her footsteps. If her relatives scorn her for the course she has pursued, she will be fully compensated for their scorn by the world's approval."

All eyes had been riveted upon Gaston, as he spoke, and no one perceived that Madeleine was standing in the room, a few paces from the door. Bertha's exclamation first made the others conscious of her presence.

"Madeleine! we know all! Oh, what you must have suffered! How noble you have been! Madeleine, you are dearer to me than ever, far dearer!"

The tears that ran softly down Madeleine's cheeks were her only answer.

Bertha, as she wiped them away, said, "These are not like the tears you shed that sorrowful day in the chÂlet, that day when you must have first made up your mind to leave us. Do you remember how you wept then? Those were tears of agony! You have never wept such tears since,—have you, Madeleine?"

"No, never!"

"I could not then comprehend what moved you so terribly; but, at this moment, I understand all your sensations. Now that we have met again there must be no more tears. You know that I am of age now; I am mistress of my own fortune; and you and I must part no more! You must come and share what is mine. You must have done with work, Madeleine."

"That cannot be, my good, generous Bertha; my day of work has not yet closed."

"Bertha!" exclaimed the countess, who, until then, had stood trembling with anger, and unable to command her voice. "Bertha, have you quite forgotten yourself? Remember that you are under my guardianship, and I forbid your having any association with Mademoiselle de Gramont."

Madeleine advanced with calm dignity towards the countess, and said quietly,—

"Madame—aunt"—

The countess interrupted her imperiously.

"Aunt! Do you dare to address me by that title? You—a dressmaker! When you forgot your noble birth, and lowered yourself to the working-classes, making yourself one with them,—when you demeaned yourself to gain your bread by your needle, bread which should have choked a de Gramont to eat,—you should also have forgotten your relationship to me, never to remember it again!"

"If I did not forget it, madame," answered Madeleine, with calm self-respect, "I was at least careful that my condition should not become known to you. I strove to act as though I had been dead to you, that my existence might not cause you mortification. I could not guard against the accident which has thrown us together once more, but for the last time, as far as my will is concerned."

"This meeting was not Mademoiselle Madeleine's fault," cried M. de Bois, coming to the rescue. "It was my folly,—another blunder of mine! I was dolt enough to think that you had only to see her for all to be well; and, instead of warning Mademoiselle Madeleine that you were in Washington, I kept from her a knowledge which would have prevented your encountering each other. It was all my imprudence, my miscalculation! I see my error since it has subjected her to insult; and yet what I did," continued he more passionately, and regarding Maurice, as he spoke, "was for the sake of one who"—

Madeleine, seized with a sudden dread of the manner in which he might conclude this sentence, broke in abruptly,—

"Were I not indebted to you, M. de Bois, for so many kindnesses, I might reproach you now; but it was well for me to learn this lesson; it was well for me to be certain that my aunt would discard me because I preferred honest industry to cold charity."

"Discard you?" rejoined the countess, furiously. "Could you doubt that I would discard you? Henceforth the tie of blood between us is dissolved; you are no relative of mine! I forbid you to make known that we have ever met. I forbid my family to hold any intercourse with you. I appeal to my son to say if this is not the just retribution which your conduct has brought upon you!"

The count answered with deliberation, as though he was pondering some possibility in his wily mind; as if some idea had occurred to him which prevented his fully sharing in his mother's wrath, or, rather, which tempered the expression of his displeasure,—

"Madeleine's situation has rendered this the most proper and natural course open to us. She could not expect to be formally recognized. She could not suppose it possible, however much consideration we might entertain for her personally, that the Countess de Gramont and her family should allow it to be known that one of their kin is a dressmaker! Madeleine is too reasonable not to see the impropriety (to use a mild word) there would be even in such a suggestion."

"I see it very plainly," answered Madeleine, not unmoved by the count's manner, which was so much gentler than his mother's, and not suspecting the motive which induced him to assume this conciliatory tone.

The count resumed: "We wish Madeleine well, in spite of her present degraded position. If circumstances should prolong our stay in Washington, or in America,—and it is very possible they may do so,—we will only request her to remove to California or Australia, or some distant region, where she may live in desirable obscurity, and not run the risk of being brought into even accidental contact with us."

"No,—no!" exclaimed Bertha, vehemently. "We shall not lose her again,—we must not! You may all discard her, but I will not! I will always acknowledge her, and I must see her! She is dearer to me than ever; I will not be separated from her!"

Did Bertha see the look of admiration with which M. de Bois contemplated her as she uttered these words?

The countess asked in an imperious tone,—

"Bertha, have you wholly forgotten yourself? I will never permit this intercourse,—I forbid it! If you are willing to brave my displeasure, I presume Madeleine, ungrateful as she has proved herself to be, for the protection I granted her during three years, will not so wholly forget her debt as to disregard my command."

How often Madeleine had been reminded of that debt which her services at the ChÂteau de Gramont had cancelled a hundred times over!

Before she could respond to her aunt's remark, Bertha went on,—

"You do not comprehend my plan, aunt. Madeleine, of course, must give up her present occupation; there is no need of her pursuing it; I am rich enough for both. She shall live with me and share my fortune. Madeleine, you will not refuse me this? For nearly five years I have mourned over our separation, and wasted my life in the vain hope of seeing you again. You would be ashamed of me if you knew in what a weak, frivolous, idle manner, I have passed my days, while you were working so unceasingly, and with such grand results. I shall never learn to make good use of my hours except under your guidance. Long before I reached my majority I looked forward gladly to the time when I should be a free agent and could share my fortune with you. My aunt knows that I communicated my intention to her before you left the ChÂteau de Gramont. And now, Madeleine, my own best Madeleine,—you will let the dream of my life become a reality,—will you not? Say yes, I implore you!"

Bertha had spoken with such genuine warmth and hearty earnestness that a colder nature than Madeleine's must have been melted. She folded the generous girl tenderly and silently in her arms, and, after a pause, which the countenance of her aunt made her aware that the proud lady was on the eve of breaking, answered, sadly,—

"It was worth suffering all I endured, Bertha, to have your friendship tested through this fiery ordeal, and to know that your heart cannot be divided by circumstances from mine. But your too liberal offer I cannot accept; the path I have marked out I must pursue until I reach the goal which I am nearing. An incompleteness in the execution of my deliberate plans would render me more miserable than I am to-day in being cast off by my own family."

"Do not speak such cruel words," returned Bertha. "They do not cast you off; that is, I do not, and never will; and I am sure"—

She turned to look at Maurice, who had stood silent through the whole scene, leaning upon the mantel-piece, his head still resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed upon Madeleine. His mind was too full of conflicting emotions for him to speak; above all other images rose that of the being whom Madeleine had declared she loved. Did she love him still? Was he here? Did he know her condition? Was M. de Bois, whom she had entrusted with her secret,—M. de Bois, who had protected and aided her,—the object of her preference? Maurice could not answer these torturing questions, and the happiness of once more beholding the one whom he had so long fruitlessly sought, made him feel as though he were passing through a strange, wild dream, which, but for one doubt, would have been full of ecstasy.

When Bertha appealed to him by her look, he could no longer remain silent.

"You are right, Bertha; Madeleine is to me all that she ever was. I am as proud of her as I have ever been; more proud I could not be! To renounce her would be as impossible as it has ever been."

Madeleine, who had appeared so firm and composed up to that moment, trembled violently; her heart seemed to cease its pulsations; a cold tremor ran through her veins; a mist floated before her eyes; exquisite happiness became exquisite pain! She turned, as though about to leave the room, but her feet faltered. In a second, M. de Bois was at her side, and gave her his arm; she took it almost unconsciously. The voice of her aunt restored her as suddenly as a dash of ice-water could have done.

"Your father's commands and mine, then, Maurice, are to have no weight. We order you to renounce all intercourse with this person, whom we no longer acknowledge as a relative, and you unhesitatingly declare to her, in our very presence, that you disregard our wishes. This, it seems, is the first effect of Mademoiselle de Gramont's renewed influence, which we have before now found so pernicious."

"Do not fear, madame," answered Madeleine; "I will not permit"—

"Make no rash promise, Madeleine,"—interrupted Maurice. "My father's wishes and my grandmother's must ever have weight with me; but when I honestly differ from them in opinion, I trust there is no disrespect in my saying so. Blindly to obey their commands would be to abnegate free agency and self-responsibility."

"I have not forgotten," said the countess, freezingly, "that the first disrespect towards me of which you were guilty was originated by Mademoiselle de Gramont. I perceive that she is again about to create a family feud, and separate father and son, grandmother and grandchild. All her noble sentiments and heroic acting have ever this end in view. During the period that she concealed herself from us she has evidently never lost sight of this great aim of her existence, and has closely calculated events, and bided her time that she might manoeuvre with additional power and certainty. She has not disgraced us enough; she is planning the total downfall of our noble house, no matter whom it buries in the ruins. It is not sufficient that we have to blush for the dressmaker, who would exchange the device graven upon her ancestral arms for that of a scissors and thimble; but she is laboring to bring her disgrace nearer and fasten it more permanently upon us."

M. de Bois, who felt that Madeleine was clinging to his arm, as though her strength was failing, answered for her,—

"The daughter of the Duke de Gramont has not become less noble, madame, through her noble industry. She has not brought to her own, or any other cheek, a blush of genuine shame. I, who have watched over her from the hour that she left the ChÂteau de Gramont, claim the proud privilege of giving this testimony. No duchess has the right to hold her head higher than the Duke de Gramont's orphan daughter."

Before any one could reply, he led Madeleine from the room, and out of the house. The movement which Maurice and Bertha, at the same moment, made to follow her was arrested by the countess. Before they had recovered themselves, Madeleine was seated in her carriage, and had driven away. M. de Bois was walking rapidly to his hotel.