"Then I have nothing more to say," replied the physician, rising. "I have already stated that his removal, if advisable in other respects, would not be dangerous. Allow me to wish you good-evening."
Though Dr. Bayard"s visit had highly irritated Madame de Gramont, exultation prevailed over all other emotions.
Bertha had been present during the interview, and albeit she was filled with grief at the prospect of Madeleine"s sorrow and mortification, she had not the moral courage to remonstrate.
The countess was up betimes on the morrow. It may be that her strength had really returned; it may be that excitement supplied its place; but there was no recurrence of the feebleness which she had not been able wholly to conceal on the day previous. Before Bertha was dressed for breakfast her aunt had sent to borrow her writing-desk (having no correspondents, the countess did not travel with one of her own), and Bertha experienced a heart-sickening foreboding at the request. When she entered the drawing-room, Madame de Gramont was writing slowly and elaborately, as though she were preparing some doc.u.ment which was to pa.s.s into the hands of critical judges; but she never wrote in any other manner. A hasty, impulsive, dashing off of words and ideas would have lacked dignity. The whole character of the haughty lady might easily have been read in the stiff but elegant hand, the formal and carefully constructed phrases, the icy tenor of her simplest missive.
She folded the note, told Bertha where to find her seal with the de Gramont arms, impressed it carefully upon the melted wax, desired Bertha to ring the bell, and bade her send the note at once to Maurice. The countess could not have stooped to name to the servant the residence of the mantua-maker.
Though Madame de Gramont expected that her command would be instantly obeyed, she was too little used to attend to household matters, or bestow a thought upon the comfort of others, to give any orders concerning her son"s room, or even to reflect that additional care in its preparation was needed for an invalid.
Count Tristan had pa.s.sed the best night with which he had been favored since his attack. He had slept so uninterruptedly that Gaston and Mrs.
Lawkins (whose turn it was to replace Madeleine and Maurice) had followed the invalid"s example and travelled with him to the kingdom of Morpheus.
In the morning he expressed a desire to rise. The first words he uttered showed that his articulation was clearer. Madeleine had arranged the pillows in his arm-chair and placed it where he could look into the conservatory. He walked into the boudoir supported only by Maurice.
There was a rare amount of stamina, a wondrously recuperative power in the de Gramont const.i.tution, as was manifested both by mother and son.
When the count was comfortably seated, Madeleine placed before him a little table with his breakfast so neatly arranged that merely to look at it gave one an appet.i.te. She served him herself, and the tranquil pleasure he felt in receiving what he ate from her hands was unmistakable. His own hands were still weak and numb, and she cut up the delicate broiled chicken, and broke the bread, disposed his napkin carefully, and then steadied the cup of chocolate which he tried to carry to his lips. Maurice stood watching her, just as he always did; for it was difficult for him to remove his eyes from her face when she was present, though, in truth, when she was absent he saw her before him hardly less distinctly.
The trio was thus agreeably occupied when the note of the countess was placed in the hands of Maurice. His consternation vented itself in an irrepressible groan, which made Madeleine and the count look up.
The latter trembled with alarm, and, his haunting fear coming back, he asked, in a terrified tone,--
"What has happened? What do they want? What would they make you believe?
No harm of me,--you wont! you wont! Here"s Madeleine will make all right!"
"Do not trouble yourself," said Madeleine, soothingly; "there are no business matters to fret you now."
Her sweet, quieting voice, or the a.s.surance, calmed him, and he repeated once more, for the thousandth time, "Good angel! good angel!"
"It is a note from my grandmother," said Maurice, biting his lips. "She has seen Dr. Bayard, and insists on carrying out certain views of hers, and she informs me that she has his permission to do so."
Madeleine had not nerved herself against this blow; it fell heavily upon her; she could not at once resign the precious privilege of ministering to her afflicted relative; and she could not hope that the countess would allow her to approach him if he were removed to the hotel.
"Surely she will not be so cruel! It will harm him,--it will r.e.t.a.r.d his recovery."
"I will see her, at once, and try what argument and remonstrance can do," replied Maurice.
And he set forth on his difficult mission.
A moment"s reflection convinced Madeleine that if the countess had received the doctor"s consent, she would prove inexorable. There was no resource but to submit as patiently as possible. Count Tristan must be reconciled to the change, and to effect that was the task now before her. She tried to break the news gently; she told him his mother had not seen him of late because she had been ill; and now, hearing he was so much better, she desired him to return to the hotel that he might be nearer to her.
The count answered peevishly, "No--no,--I"ll not go! I"m better here,--better with you, my good angel!"
"But if Madame de Gramont is determined," said Madeleine, "I have no right, no power to resist her authority."
"Can I not stay? Let me stay!" he pleaded, pathetically.
"I would be only too thankful if you could; but you know the wishes of the countess cannot be disregarded."
"I cannot go! It will kill me if I go back! I am better here. I"m safe with you! I"ll not go!"
He seemed so much distressed that Madeleine dismissed the subject by saying, "Maurice has gone to see his grandmother; we need not torment ourselves until he returns."
The count was easily satisfied, and the remembrance of his trouble soon faded from his mind. Madeleine asked him if she should sing, and he nodded a pleased a.s.sent. She could not give voice to any but the saddest melodies, for a sorrowful presentiment that she would never sing to him again, filled her mind. She continued to charm away his cares by the witchery of her accents until Maurice returned. The result of his advocacy was quickly told. The countess was inflexible, and awaited her son.
CHAPTER XLIV.
A CHANGE.
The strongest heart will sometimes betray that it is overtaxed through the pressure of a sorrow which appears trivial contrasted with the stupendous burdens it has borne unflinchingly; the firmest spirit is sometimes crushed at last, by the weight of a moral "feather" that breaks the back of endurance. Madeleine"s courage proved insufficient to encounter calmly this new trial. She could not see that poor, wretched, brain-shattered sufferer, that proud man bowed to the dust, clinging to her with such a strange, perplexed, yet steady grasp, and know that she could no longer tend, amuse, and soothe him! Her composure was forsaking her, and she could only hurriedly whisper to Maurice,--
"I will pack your father"s clothes; make him comprehend that we have no alternative; reconcile him if you can. Since he must go, it had better be at once; the countess is no doubt anxiously expecting him."
She pa.s.sed into the count"s room, gathered together all his wearing apparel, and knelt down beside his trunk. Her heart swelled as though it would burst; she bowed her head upon the trunk she was about to open, and sobbed aloud!
Madeleine"s tears were not like Bertha"s,--mere summer rain which sprang to her eyes with every pa.s.sing emotion, and fell in sun-broken showers that freshened and brightened her own spirit. Madeleine seldom wept, and when the tears came, they sprang up from the very depth of her true heart, in a hot, bitter current which was less like the bubbling of a fountain than the lava bursting from a volcano. It is ever thus with powerful, yet self-controlled natures, and Madeleine"s equanimity in the midst of trials which would have prostrated others, was not a lack of keen, quick sensibility, but an evidence of the supremacy she had gained by discipline over her pa.s.sions.
Madeleine wept and wept, forgetting the work before her, the time that was pa.s.sing, the necessity for action! All the tears that she might have shed during the last few weeks, if it were her nature to weep as most women weep, now rushed forth in one pa.s.sionate torrent. She did not hear a step approaching; she was hardly conscious of the encircling arm that raised her from the ground, nor was she startled by the voice that said,--
"Madeleine! my own Madeleine! Is it you sobbing thus?"
"I feel _this!_ O Maurice, I feel _this!_ My aunt has never had power to make me feel so much since that day in the little _chalet_ when my eyes were opened,--when she cast me off, and I stood alone in the world."
"Ah Madeleine, dearest and best beloved, if you had only loved me then,--if I could only have taught you to love me,--you would not have stood alone! I should have battled against every sorrow that could come near you; or, at least, have borne it with you. O Madeleine, why could you not love me?"
For one instant Madeleine was tempted to throw herself in his arms and confess all. The high resolves of years of self-denial were on the verge of being broken in one weak moment; but the very peril, the very temptation calmed her suddenly. She brushed away her tears, and, gently withdrawing the hand Maurice held, said, in broken accents,--
"I have caused you too much pain in other days, Maurice. I should not have added more by allowing you to witness my weakness. Help me to be strong; for you see I have sore need of help."
"All that I can offer, Madeleine, you reject," said Maurice, reproachfully. "My heart and life are yours, and you fling them from you."
"Maurice, my cousin, my best friend, spare me! I have no right to listen to this language."
"But the right to hear it from the lips of another," retorted Maurice bitterly.
"Be generous, Maurice. For pity"s sake, do not speak on that subject."
There was so much anguish depicted in Madeleine"s face that Maurice was conscience-stricken by the conviction that his rashly selfish words had caused her additional pain.
"This is a poor return, Madeleine, for all the good you have done my father,--all the good you have done me,--you have done us all. You see what a selfish brute I am! My very love for you, which should shield you from all suffering, has, through that fatal selfishness, added to your sorrow. Can you pardon me?"
"When you wrong me, Maurice, I will; but that day has yet to come. Leave me for a few moments, and I will complete what I have to do here and join you."
Maurice complied, but slowly and reluctantly, and looking back as he left the room.