"I think I know," replied Mrs. Walton, "whom Madeleine loves."
"Is it possible?"
"And that is Maurice himself!"
Mrs. Walton went through the whole train of reasoning by which she had arrived at her conclusion; and Ronald was only too well pleased to be convinced.
"But, my dear, impetuous boy," said she, as she looked upon his glowing face, "what good to Maurice can grow out of this?"
"Let us plant the seed and give it some good chance to grow," returned Ronald, eagerly. "Here is Maurice himself. The first step is to tell him"--
Maurice entered in time to hear the last words, and took them up.
"You can hardly tell him anything sadder than he comes to tell you. In a week we must bid each other adieu; my grandmother has resolved to return to Brittany without further delay."
"I should be more deeply moved by that news," replied Ronald, "did I not think that I had some intelligence to communicate in exchange which is very far from sad. Maurice, are you prepared to hear anything I may have to say?"
"When did your words fail to do me good?" asked Maurice. "Do you think I have forgotten our long arguments in Paris, when I was in a state of such deep dejection, and you roused me and spurred me on to action by your buoyant, active, hopeful spirit? But go on."
"I want to speak of your cousin, Mademoiselle de Gramont."
Maurice expressed by his looks how welcome that theme ever was.
"You ardently desire," continued Ronald, "for so my mother has told me, to know who Mademoiselle Madeleine loves."
"Yes, I desire it more than words can utter."
"I think I can tell you," returned Ronald.
"You? You are not in earnest?" cried Maurice, in amazement. "For the love of Heaven, Ronald, do not sport with such a subject!"
"I do _not_ jest, Maurice. I only tell you what you ought yourself to have discovered long ago."
"How could I? There is no possible clew. Madeleine sees no one, writes to no one, whom I could conceive to be the man whom she prefers."
"Easily explained," continued Ronald. "That man does not know he is beloved by her."
"Incredible!" replied Maurice.
"Very credible, my dear Maurice, as you are bound to admit; for that man stands before me."
"Ronald, for pity"s sake--this--this is inhuman!"
"Do not wrong me so much, Maurice, as to think me capable of speaking lightly upon such a subject. My mother"s perception of character is really wonderful; and her instincts, I think, never fail her; she is convinced that it is _you_, and you only, whom Madeleine loves. Reflect how many proofs of love she has given you! Has she not, through M. de Bois, kept trace of all your movements during the years that you were separated? Did she not run great risk to watch beside your sick-bed in Paris? Did you not tell me that it was her prompt and generous interference which prevented your losing your credit with Mr. Emerson?
Does not her every action prove that you are ever in her thoughts? And, Maurice, I tell you, it is _you_ whom she loves."
Maurice listened as though some holy voice from supernal regions chanted heavenly music in his ears. But he roused himself from the delicious dream, for he did not dare to yield to its spell, and said,--
"Did she not herself tell me that she loved another?"
"May you not have mistaken her exact words?" asked Ronald. "It was necessary to renounce you, to take all hope away from you, and place in your path the only barrier which you could not hope to overleap. And may she not have given you the impression that she loved, that her affections were engaged, while you drew the inference from her rejecting your hand that her heart was given to some other?"
The countenance of Maurice grew effulgent with the flood of hope poured upon it.
"Oh, if it were so!" he exclaimed, in rapture. "Ronald, my best friend, what do I not owe you? Mrs. Walton, why, why are you silent? Speak to me! Tell me that you really believe Madeleine loves me!"
Mrs. Walton, alarmed by the violence of his emotion, began to turn over in her mind the unfortunate results which might ensue if she had made an error. Maurice still implored her to speak, and she said, at last, with some hesitation,--
"If Madeleine does not love you, and you only, I have no skill in interpreting "the weather signs of love." I ought not to be too confident of my own judgment; and yet I cannot force myself to doubt that, in this instance, it is correct."
"Say that again and again. I cannot hear it too often. _You cannot force yourself to doubt_,--you are quite convinced then, quite sure that Madeleine, my own Madeleine, loves me?"
"I am indeed," responded Mrs. Walton, tenderly.
Maurice folded his arms about her, bowed his head on her shoulder, and his great joy found a vent which it had never known before; for never before had tears of ecstasy poured from his eyes. That Mrs. Walton should weep too was but natural. She was a woman, and tears are the privilege of her s.e.x. Ronald had evidently some fears, that their emotion would prove contagious; for he walked up and down the room with remarkable rapidity, and then threw open the window and looked out, cleared his throat several times, and finally said, in tolerably firm accents,--
"But, Maurice, what are we to do if the countess is determined to return to Brittany at once?"
"If Madeleine loves me, I can endure anything! I can leave her, I can go with my father, or perform any other hard duty. The sweet certainty of her love will brighten and lighten my trial. Oh, if I could only be sure!"
"Make yourself sure as soon as possible," suggested Ronald, to whom prompt.i.tude was a second nature.
"I will go to her; I will tell her what I believe; I will implore her to grant me the happiness of knowing that her heart is mine. But O Ronald, if I have been deluded,--if you have given me false hopes"--
"You will fight me," answered Ronald, laughing. "Of course that"s all a friend gets for trying to be of service."
"Go, Maurice," said Mrs. Walton, "and bring us the happy news that Ronald and his mother have not caused you fresh suffering."
"You said you had not a _doubt_," cried Maurice, trembling at the bare suggestion.
"And I have not. Go!"
CHAPTER LII.
A LOVER"S SNARE.
Maurice was on his way to Madeleine"s. Not for years, not since the day when he breathed his love in the old Chateau de Gramont, had his heart throbbed with such rapturous pulsations as now; not since that hour had the world looked so paradisiacal,--life so full of enchantment to his eyes. As he reached her door and ascended the steps, his emotions were overpowering. A few moments more, and the heavenly dream would become a glorious, life-brightening reality, or would melt away, a delusive mirage in the desert of his existence, leaving his pathway a blanker wilderness than ever.
He was too much at home to require the ceremony of announcement, and sought Madeleine in her boudoir. She was not there. She was receiving visitors in the drawing-room. Maurice sat down to await her coming; but his impatience made him too restless for inaction, and he entered the _salon_.
Madeleine"s guests were Madame de Fleury and Mrs. Gilmer,--an accidental and not very welcome encounter of the fashionable belligerents; though since Mrs. Gilmer had received the much-desired invitation to Madame de Fleury"s ball, she had affected to lay down her arms, and Madame de Fleury pretended to do the same.
Madeleine was listening with patient courtesy to the meaningless nothings of the one lady, and the stereotyped insipidity of the other.
Madame de Fleury was tortured by a desire to consult her hostess concerning a fancy ball-dress which at that moment filled her thoughts; but Madeleine"s manner was so thoroughly that of an equal who entertained no doubts of her own position,--the vocation of "Mademoiselle Melanie" was so completely laid aside,--that Madame de Fleury, with all her tact and world-knowledge, could not plan any mode of introducing the fascinating subject of "_chiffons_."