MADELEINE.
"Fourteen at table, and the Sêvres set only sufficient for twelve! Truly
it _is_ untoward, but I wish, my dear aunt, you would not let it trouble
you so much. If you will allow the two extra plates to be placed before
Bertha and myself, we will endeavor to render them invisible by our
witchcraft. Do compliment us by permitting the experiment to be tried."
"Bertha is entitled to the best of everything in my mansion," answered
the countess, unsoothed by this proposition.
"_That_ I admit," was Madeleine's cordial reply; "but to meet this
unlooked-for emergency, I thought you might possibly consent to let her
exert her witchery in making an intrusive plate disappear from general
view."
"And you, it seems, are quite confident of possessing witchcraft potent
enough to accomplish the same feat!"
Madeleine, without appearing to be hurt by the taunting intonation which
pointed this remark, replied frankly, "I suppose I must have been guilty
of imagining that I had; but, indeed, it was unpremeditated vanity. I
really did not reflect upon the subject. I was only anxious to get over
the dilemma in which we are placed by these troublesome plates."
"Not _premeditated_ vanity, I dare say," remarked the countess, dryly;
"only vanity so spontaneous, natural, and characteristic that
_premeditation_ is out of the question."
Madeleine remained silent, and went on with her task, dexterously
rolling around her slender fingers her aunt's soft, white curls, and
letting them lightly drop in the most becoming positions.
The toilet of the countess for her son's dinner-party was in process of
completion.
She wore a black velvet dress, which, after being on duty for a fabulous
number of years, and finally pronounced past all further active service,
had been resuscitated and remodelled, to suit the style of the day, by
Madeleine. We will not enter into a description of the adroit method by
which a portion of its primitive lustre had been restored to the worn
and pressed velvet, nor particularize the skilful manner in which the
corsage of the robe had been refashioned, and every trace of age
concealed by an embroidery of jet beads, which was so strikingly
tasteful that its double office was unsuspected. Enough that the
countess appeared to be superbly attired when she once more donned the
venerable but rejuvenated dress.
The snow-white curls being arranged to the best advantage, Madeleine
placed upon the head of her aunt a dainty cap, of the Charlotte Corday
form, composed of bits of very old and costly lace,--an heir-loom in the
de Gramont family,--such lace as could no longer be purchased for gold,
even if its members had been in a condition to exchange bullion for
thread. This cap was another of the young girl's achievements, and she
could not help smiling with pleasure when she saw its picturesque
effect. The countess, in spite of the anxious contraction of her dark
brows, looked imposingly handsome. Hers was an old age of positive
beauty,--a decadence which had all the lustre of
"The setting moon upon the western wave."
It was only when her features were accidentally contrasted with those of
such a mild, eloquent, and soul-revealing face as the one bending over
her that defects struck the eye,--defects which the ravages of time had
done less to produce than the workings of a stern and haughty character.
But Madeleine's countenance how shall we portray? The lineaments were
of that order which no painter could faithfully present by tracing their
outline correctly, and no writer conjure up before the mind by
descriptive language, however minutely the color of eyes, complexion,
and hair might be chronicled. Therefore our task must necessarily be an
imperfect one, and convey but a vague idea of the living presence.
It was a somewhat pale face, but pure and unsallow in its pallor. The
vivid blood rushed, with any sudden emotion, to cheek and brow, but died
away as quickly; for late hours, too little sunlight, fresh air, and
exercise, forbade the flitting roses to be captured and a permanent
bloom insured. The hue of the large, dreamy eyes might be called a light
hazel; but that description fails to convey an impression of their rare,
clear, topaz tint,--a topaz with the changing lustre of an opal: a
combination difficult to imagine until it has once been seen. The
darkly-fringed lids were peculiarly drooping, and gave the eyes a look
of exceeding softness, now and then displaced by startling flashes of
brilliancy. The finely-chiselled mouth was full of grave sweetness,
decision, and energy, and yet suggestive of a mirthful temperament. The
forehead was not too high, but ample and thoughtful. The finely-shaped
head showed the intellectual and emotional nature nicely balanced.
Through the long, abundant chestnut hair bright threads gleamed in and
out until all the locks looked burnished. They were gathered into one
rich braid and simply wound around the head. At the side, where the
massive tress was fastened, a single cape jasmine seemed to form a clasp
of union. A more striking or becoming arrangement could hardly have been
devised.
Madeleine was somewhat above the ordinary stature, and her height,
combined with the native dignity of her bearing, would have given her an
air of stateliness, but for the exceeding grace which dispelled the
faintest shadow of stiffness,--a stiffness very noticeable in the formal
carriage of the countess.
The wardrobe of the young girl was necessarily of the most limited and
uncostly character; and, though she was dressed for a ceremonious
dinner, her attire consisted merely of a sombre-hued barege, made with
the severest simplicity, and gaining its only pretension to full dress
by disclosing her white, finely-moulded neck and arms. Her sole ornament
was the bracelet which had been Bertha's birthday gift.
While giving the last, finishing touches to her aunt's toilet, Madeleine
talked gayly. Hers was not one of those bright, silvery voices which
make you feel that, could the sounds become visible, they must _shine_;
but there was a rich depth in her tones, which imparted to her lightest
words an intonation of feeling, and told the hearer that her vocal
chords were in close communication with her heart. Though her
countenance did not lack the radiance of youthful gladness, there was so
much thought mingled with its brightness that even her mirth conveyed
the impression that she had suffered and sorrowed.
The only daughter of the Duke de Gramont, at eighteen she suddenly found
herself an orphan and wholly destitute. Her father was one of that large
class of impoverished noblemen who keep up appearances by means of
constant shifts and desperate struggles, of which the world knows
nothing. But he was a man of unquestionable intellect, and had given
Madeleine a much more liberal education than custom accords to young
French maidens of her rank.
The accident of his birth the Duke de Gramont regarded as a positive
misfortune, and daily lamented the burden of his own nobility, for it
was a shackle that enfeebled and enslaved his large capacities.
He once said to his young daughter, "You would have been far happier as
a peasant's child; I should have had a wider field of action and
enjoyment as an humble laborer; we should both have been more truly
_noble_. I envy the peasants who have the glorious privilege of doing
just that which they are best fitted to do; who are not forced to
_vegetate_ and call vegetation existence,--not compelled to waste and
deaden their energies because it is an aristocratic penalty,--not doomed
to glide into and out of their lives without ever living enough to know
life's worth."
Such words sank into Madeleine's spirit, took deep root there, and,
growing in the bleak atmosphere of adversity, bore vigorous fruit in
good season.
She had known only the intangible shadow of pomp and luxury, while the
substance was actual penury. But her inborn fertility of invention, her
abundant resources, her tact in accommodating herself to circumstances,
and her inexhaustible energy, had endowed her with the faculty of making
the best of her contradictory position, and the most of the humblest
materials at her command.
Though she had several wealthy relatives, the Countess de Gramont was
the only one who offered her unsheltered youth an asylum. Perhaps we
ought not to analyze too minutely the motives of the noble lady, for
fear that we might find her actuated less by a charitable impulse than
by pride which would not allow it to be said that her grandniece ever
lacked, or had to solicit, a home. Be that as it may, the orphan
Madeleine became a permanent inmate of the Château de Gramont.
Her gratitude was deep, and found expression in actions more eloquent
than words. She was thankful for the slightest evidence of kindness from
her self-constituted protectors. She even exaggerated the amount of
consideration which she received. She was not free from the hereditary
taint of _pride_; but in her it took a new form and unprecedented
expression. The sense of indebtedness spurred her on to discover ways by
which she could avoid being a burden upon the generosity of her
benefactors,--ways by which her obligations might be lightened, though
she felt they could never be cancelled. She became the active, presiding
spirit over the whole household; her skilful fingers were ever at work
here, there, and everywhere; and her quick-witted brain was always
planning measures to promote the interest, comfort, or pleasure of all
within her sphere. The thought that an employment was menial, and
therefore she must not stoop to perform it, never intruded, for she had
an internal consciousness that she dignified her occupation. What she
accomplished seemed wonderful; but, independent of the rapidity with
which she habitually executed, she comprehended in an eminent degree the
exact value of time,--the worth of every minute; and the use made of her
_spare moments_ was one great secret of the large amount she achieved.
The toilet of the countess for the dinner was completed, but she kept
Madeleine by her side until they descended to the drawing-room.
Madeleine had not yet welcomed Maurice, who had retired to his chamber
to dress before she was aware of his arrival. When she entered the
_salon_ with the countess, he was sitting beside Bertha, but sprang up,
and, advancing joyfully, exclaimed, "Ah! at last! I thought I was never
to be permitted to see the busy fairy of the family, who renders herself
invisible while she is working her wonders!"
He would have approached his lips to Madeleine's cheek, but the countess
interfered.
"And why," asked Maurice, in surprise which was not free from a touch of
vexation,--"why may I not kiss my cousin Madeleine? You found no fault
when I kissed my cousin Bertha just now!"
"That is very different!" replied the countess, hastily.
"Different! What is the difference?" persisted Maurice.
"There is none that I can discover. Both are equally near of kin,--both
my cousins,--both second cousins, or third cousins, some people would
call them; the one is kin through my grandmother, the other through my
grandfather. What _can_ be the difference?"
"_My will_ makes the difference!" answered the countess, in a severe
tone. "Is not _that_ sufficient?"
"It ought to be so, Maurice," Madeleine interposed, without appearing to
be either wounded or surprised at her aunt's manner. "If not, I must add
_my will_ to my aunt's." Then, as though in haste to change the subject,
she said, extending her hand, "I am very, _very_ glad to see you,
Maurice."
"You have not changed as much as my pretty Bertha here," remarked
Maurice. "She has gained a great deal in the last year. But you,
Madeleine, look a little paler than ever, and a little thinner than you
were. I fear it is because you still keep that candle burning which last
year I used to notice at your window when I returned from balls long
after midnight. You will destroy your health."
"There is no danger of _that_," answered Madeleine, gayly. "I am in most
unpoetically robust health. I am never ailing for an hour."
"Never ailing and never weary," joined in Bertha. "That is, she never
complains, and never admits she is tired. She would make us believe that
her constitution is a compound of iron and India-rubber."
Maurice took a small jewel-case from his pocket, and, preparing to open
it, said, "Nobody has yet asked why I am here one fortnight before I was
expected. Has curiosity suddenly died out of the venerable Château de
Gramont, that none of the ladies who honor its ancient walls by their
presence care to know?"
"We all care!" exclaimed Bertha.
"That we do!" responded Madeleine. "Why was it, Maurice?"
"The reason chiefly concerns you, Madeleine."
"Me! You are jesting."
"Not at all; I came home because I remembered that to-day was your
twenty-first birthday. I would not be absent upon your birthday, though
I did not know that your reaching your majority was to be celebrated by
a grand dinner."
"Madeleine's birthday was not thought of when your father invited his
friends to dinner," remarked the countess, curtly.
Maurice went on without heeding this explanation.
"I have brought you a little birthday token. Will you wear it for my
sake?"
As he spoke, he opened the case and took out a Roman brooch.
Madeleine's eyes sparkled with a dewy lustre that threatened to shape
itself into a tear. Before she could speak, Bertha cried out,--
"A dove with a green olive-branch in its mouth,--what a beautiful
device! And the word '_Pax_' written beneath! That must be in
remembrance that Madeleine not only bears peace in her own bosom, but
carries it wherever she goes. Was not that what you intended to suggest,
Cousin Maurice?"
"You are a delightful interpreter," replied the young man.
"Yet she left me to read the sweet meaning of her own gift," said
Madeleine, recovering her composure. "See, a band of gold with a knot of
pearls,--a '_manacle of love_,' as the great English poet calls it,
secured by purity of purpose."
As she fastened the brooch in her bosom, she added, "I am so rich in
birthday gifts that I am bankrupt in thanks; pray believe _that_ is the
reason I thank you so poorly."
The countess impatiently interrupted this conversation by summoning
Maurice to her side.
As he took the seat she pointed out, he said, in an animated tone, "I
have not told you all my good news yet. Listen, young ladies, for some
of it especially concerns you. On my way here, I encountered the
equipage of the Marchioness de Fleury. She recognized me, ordered her
carriage to stop, and sent her footman to apprise me that she was on her
way to the Château de Tremazan, and to beg that I would pause there
before going home, as she had a few words to say to me. I gladly
complied. At the château I found quite a large and agreeable company. I
need not tell you that the amiable host and hostess received me with
open arms."
The countess remarked, approvingly, "Our neighbors the Baron and
Baroness de Tremazan are among the most valued of my friends. I have no
objection to their making much of you."
"Nor have I," answered Maurice, vivaciously. "But, to continue"--
Bertha interrupted him: "I have so often heard the Marchioness de Fleury
quoted as a precedent, and her taste cited as the most perfect in Paris,
that I suppose she is a very charming person;--is she not?"
A comical expression, approaching to a grimace, passed over the bright
countenance of Maurice, as he answered, "_Charming?_ I suppose the term
is applicable to her. At all events, her toilets are the most charming
in the world: she dresses to perfection! In her presence one never
thinks of anything but the wonderful combination of colors, and the
graceful flowing of drapery, that have produced certain artistic effects
in her outward adorning. She is style, fashion, elegance, taste
personified; consequently she is very _charming as an exhibition of the
newest and most captivating costumes_,--as an inventor and leader of
modes that become the rage when they have received her stamp."
"But her face and figure,--are they not remarkably handsome?" asked
Bertha.
"Her figure is the _fac-simile_ of one of those waxen statues which are
to be seen in the windows of some of the shops in Paris, and would be
styled faultless by a mantua-maker, though it might drive a sculptor
distracted if set before him as a model. As for her face, the novel
arrangement of her hair and the coquettish disposition of her
head-ornaments have always so completely drawn my attention away from
her countenance, that I could not tell you the color of her eyes, or the
character of any single lineament."
"Perhaps, too," suggested Madeleine, "she is so agreeable in
conversation, that you never thought of scanning her features."
"Of course she is agreeable,--that is, in her own peculiar way; for she
has an archly graceful manner of discussing the only subjects that
interest _her_, and always as though they must be of the deepest
interest to _you_. If you speak to her of her projects for the winter or
the summer, she will dwell upon the style of dress appropriate in the
execution of such and such schemes. If you express your regret at her
recent indisposition, she will describe the exquisite _robes de chambre_
which rendered her sufferings endurable. If you mention her brother, who
has lately received an appointment near the person of the emperor, she
will give you a minute account of the most approved court-dresses. If
you allude to the possibility that her husband (for such is the rumor)
may be sent as ambassador to the United States, she will burst forth in
bitter lamentations over the likelihood that American taste may not be
sufficiently cultivated to appreciate a Parisian toilet, or to comprehend
the great importance of the difficult art of dressing well. If you give
the tribute of a sigh to the memory of the lovely sister she lost a year
ago, she will run through a list of the garments of woe that gave
expression to her sorrow,--passing on to the shades of second, third,
and fourth mourning through which she gradually laid aside her grief.
You laugh, young ladies. Oh, very well; but I declare to you she went
through the catalogue of those mourning dresses, rehearsing the periods
at which she adopted such and such a one, while we were dancing a
quadrille. In short, the Marchioness de Fleury is an animated
fashion-plate!--a lay-figure dressed in gauze, silk, lace, ribbon,
feathers, flowers, that breathes, talks, dances, waltzes!--a
mantua-maker's, milliner's, hair-dresser's puppet, set in motion,--not a
woman."
"Has she really no heart, then?" questioned Bertha.
"I suppose that, anatomically speaking, a bundle of fibres, which she
courteously designates by that name, may rise and fall somewhere beneath
her jewel-studded bodice; but I doubt whether the pulsations are not
entirely regulated by her attire."
"You are too severe, Maurice," remarked his grandmother, rebukingly.
"The Marchioness de Fleury is a lady of the highest standing and of
great importance."
"Especially to the Parisian modistes who worship her!" replied Maurice.
"But, while we are discussing the lady herself, I am forgetting to tell
you her reasons for delaying me half an hour. It was to inquire whether
you would be disengaged to-morrow morning, as she purposes paying you a
visit to make a proposition which she thinks may prove agreeable to the
Countess de Gramont and Count Tristan."
"We are ever proud to receive the Marchioness de Fleury," responded the
countess, graciously.
"I dare say you think I have emptied my budget of news," Maurice went
on; "but you are mistaken: several bits of agreeable intelligence remain
behind. At the Château de Tremazan, I saw three of our relatives on the
de Gramont side, Madame de Nervac, the Count Damoreau, and M. de
Bonneville. They inquired kindly after you, Madeleine, and I told them
you were the most"--
The countess interrupted him with the inquiry, "Are they upon a visit of
several days?"
"I believe so. Now for the last, most pleasant item. As there are so
many lively young persons gathered together at the château, some one
proposed an impromptu ball. Madame de Tremazan seized upon the idea, and
commissioned me to carry invitations to the Countess dowager de Gramont,
Mademoiselles Madeleine and Bertha, and Count Tristan, for the evening
after to-morrow. I assured her in advance that the invitations would be
accepted;--was I not right?"
"Oh, yes," replied Bertha; "I am so glad!"
"We will enjoy a ball greatly!" exclaimed Madeleine.
"And so will I!" said Maurice. "I engage Madeleine for the first
quadrille, and Bertha for the first waltz."
"And we both accept!" answered his cousins, with girlish delight.
"Not so fast, young ladies," interrupted the countess. "It is quite out
of the question for you to attend a ball of such magnificence as may be
expected at the Château de Tremazan."
"And why not, aunt?" asked Bertha, in a disappointed tone. "You surely
will not refuse your consent?"
"I deny you a pleasure very unwillingly, dear child, but I am forced to
do so. You did not expect to appear at any large assemblies while you
were in Brittany, and you have brought no ball-dress with you. You have
nothing ready which it would be proper for you to wear at such a
brilliant reunion; for the de Tremazans are so rich that everything will
be upon the most splendid and costly scale. Mademoiselle Bertha de
Merrivale cannot be present upon such an occasion, unless she is attired
in a manner that befits her rank and fortune. I, also, have no dress
prepared."
"What a pity, what a pity!" half sighed, half pouted Bertha.
"It is too bad, too provoking!" ejaculated Maurice.
"If there be no obstacle but the lack of a ball-dress for yourself and
for Bertha, aunt," remarked Madeleine, "we may console ourselves; for we
will go to the ball."
"Oh, you dear, good, ingenious Madeleine!" exclaimed Bertha, throwing
her arms around her cousin. "I wonder if the time ever _will_ arrive
when you have not some resource to extricate us from a difficulty?"
"Madeleine forever! Long live Madeleine!" shouted Maurice, with
enthusiasm.
"And now, good, fairy godmother, where is the robe of gold and silver to
deck your Cinderella?" asked Bertha.
"I did not promise gold and silver apparel; you must be content
with a toilet simple, airy, fresh, and spring-like as yourself.
And for you, aunt, I will arrange an autumn arraying,--a costume
soft, yet bright, like the autumn days which the Americans call
'Indian summer,'--something which will almost make one wish to fall
into the sere and yellow leaf of life in the hope of resembling you."
"But how is it possible to make two ball-dresses between this time and
night after next?" inquired the countess, evidently not at all averse
to the project, if it could be carried into execution.
"I answer for the possibility!" replied Madeleine.
"Yes, Madeleine answers for it!" repeated Maurice.
"Madeleine answers for it!" echoed Bertha; "and you know Madeleine has
_the fingers of a fairy_; she can achieve whatever she undertakes. But
your own dress, Madeleine?"
"Do not be uneasy about that; we will think of that when the others are
ready."
"But if you do not wear a dress that becomes you?" persisted Bertha.
"Why, then I shall have to look at yours, and, remembering that it is my
handiwork, be satisfied."
"There is no one like you, Madeleine!" burst forth Maurice,
uncontrollably,--"no one! You never think of yourself; you"--
"But, as some one is always good enough to think of me, I deserve little
credit on that account," rejoined Madeleine.
"Who could help thinking of you?" murmured Maurice, tenderly.
The countess had not heard the enthusiastic encomium of Maurice, nor his
last, involuntary remark. The young man had risen and joined his
cousins. His father had taken the vacant seat beside the countess, and
was talking to her in a low tone. From the moment he learned that
Madeleine's relatives were accidentally assembled at the Château de
Tremazan, he had determined to seize that favorable opportunity, and
send them the letters requesting that they would by turns offer a home
to their poor and orphan relative. These letters, though written upon
the day previous, fortunately had not yet been posted. Count Tristan
whisperingly communicated his intention to his mother, and received her
approval.
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of M. Gaston de Bois,
who invariably arrived before other guests made their appearance. M. de
Bois was such a martyr to nervous timidity, that he could not summon
courage to enter a room full of company, even with some great
stimulating compensation in view. On the present occasion, though only
the family had assembled, his olive complexion crimsoned as he advanced
towards the countess, and his expressive, though irregular and not
strictly handsome features became almost distorted; he unconsciously
thrust his fingers through his hair, throwing it into startling
disorder, and twisted his dark moustache until it stood out with
sufficient ferocity to suit the face of a brigand in a melodrama.
But the most painful effect of this bewildering embarrassment evinced
itself when he attempted to speak. His utterance became suddenly
impeded, and, the more violent his efforts to articulate, the more
difficult it seemed for him to utter a distinct sentence. He was
painfully near-sighted; yet he always detected the faintest smile upon
the countenance of any one present, and interpreted it into an
expression of derision.
These personal defects, however, were liberally counterbalanced by
mental attributes of a high order. His constitutional diffidence caused
him to shun society; but he devoted his leisure to books, and was an
erudite scholar, without ever mounting the pompous stilts of the pedant.
All his impulses were noble and generous, though his best intentions
were often frustrated by that fearful self-consciousness which made him
dread the possibility of attracting attention. There was a slight shade
of melancholy in his character. Life had been a disappointment to him,
and he was haunted by a sense of the incompleteness of his own
existence.
His estate joined that of the Count de Gramont, and was even more
impoverished. Gaston de Bois led a sort of hermit-like life in the
gloomy and empty château of his ancestors. He chafed in his confinement,
like a caged lion ready to break loose from bondage. But the lion freed
might take refuge in his native woods, while Gaston, if he rushed forth
into the world, knew that his bashfulness, his stammering, his
near-sightedness, would render society a more intolerable prison than
his solitary home.
At the Château de Gramont he was a frequent guest, for the countess and
her son held him in the highest esteem.
After saluting his host and hostess, he warmly grasped the hand of
Maurice, and then addressed Madeleine, with but little hesitation
apparent in his speech; but when he turned to Bertha, and essayed to
make some pleasant remark, he was suddenly seized with a fit of hopeless
stammering.
The beaming smile with which Bertha greeted him was displaced by an
expression almost amounting to compassion. Madeleine, with her wonted
presence of mind, came to his aid; finished his sentence, as though he
had spoken it himself; and went on talking _to him_ and _for him_, while
he regarded her with an air of undisguised thankfulness and relief.
Between Madeleine and Gaston de Bois there existed that sort of
friendship which many persons are sceptical that a young and attractive
woman and an agreeable man can entertain for each other without the
sentiment heightening into a warmer emotion. But love and friendship are
totally distinct affections. A woman may cherish the truest, kindliest
friendship for a man whom it would be impossible for her to love; nay,
in whom she would totally lose her interest if he once presented himself
in the aspect of a lover; and we believe a certain class of men are
capable of experiencing the same pure and kin-like devotion for certain
women.
M. de Bois felt that he was comprehended by Madeleine,--that she
sympathized with his misfortunes, appreciated the difficulties of his
position, and, without pretending to be blind to his defects, always
viewed them leniently: thus, in her presence he was sufficiently at ease
to be entirely himself; his _amour propre_ received fewer wounds, and he
was conscious that he appeared to better advantage than in the society
of other ladies.
Madeleine, on her side, had more than once reflected that there was no
one to whom she could more easily turn to impart a sorrow, intrust a
secret, solicit a favor, or receive consolation and advice,--no one in
whom she could so thoroughly confide, as M. de Bois.
Gaston had only commenced to regain his self-possession when the two
American gentlemen, Mr. Hilson and Mr. Meredith, were announced.
The countess received them with a freezing formality which would have
awed any visitors less unsuspicious of the cause of this augmented
stateliness.
They were both gentlemen who held high positions in their own country;
they had brought letters to Count Tristan de Gramont, with a view of
enlisting his interest in the railway company of which we have before
spoken; they had been cordially received by him, and invited to partake
of his hospitality; it therefore never occurred to either of them that
the haughty demeanor of the countess was designed to impress them with a
sense of their inferiority.
Mr. Hilson was what is termed a "self-made" man,--that is, he owed
nothing to the chances of birth; he had received little early
cultivation, but he had educated himself, and therefore all the
knowledge he had acquired was positive mental gain, and brought into
active use. He had inherited no patrimony, and started life with no
advantages of position; but he had made his own fortune, and earned his
own place in the social sphere. He had been one of the most successful
and scientific engineers which the United States ever produced, and was
now the president of an important railroad, and a highly influential
member of society.
Mr. Meredith was born in the State of Maryland,--a "man of family," as
it is styled. He had not encountered the difficulties and experienced
the struggles of his associates; his was therefore a less strong, less
highly developed, character. He had travelled over the larger portion of
Europe, yet preferred to make his home in America; he had once retired
from business, but, finding that he was bored to death without the
necessity for occupation, connected himself with the railroad company of
which Mr. Hilson was president.
The other guests were gentlemen residing or visiting in the
neighborhood. They were the Marquis de Lasalles, the Count Caradore,
Messieurs Villiers, Laroche, and Litelle. The two former, being the most
important personages, occupied seats at table on the right and left of
the countess. Gaston de Bois was well pleased to find himself beside
Madeleine; for he was opposite to Bertha, and could feast his eyes upon
her fair, unclouded face, and now and then he spoke to her in glances
which were far more eloquent than his tongue.
Mr. Hilson sat on the other side of Madeleine. A few naturally suggested
questions about his native land unloosed his tongue, and she soon became
deeply interested in the information he gave her concerning
America,--the habits, views, and aspirations of its people.
After listening for some time, she almost involuntarily murmured, with a
half-sigh, "I should like to visit America."
There was something in her own nature which responded to the spirit of
self-reliance, energy, and industry, which are so essentially American
characteristics.
Bertha sat between the Marquis de Lasalles and Maurice. She was in the
highest spirits, and looked superlatively lovely. The brow of the
countess gradually smoothed as she noticed how gayly the heiress chatted
with her cousin.
The two plates which intruded into the Sêvres set had been a terrible
eyesore to Madame de Gramont at first; but Madeleine's suggestion had
been acted upon,--they were placed before the young ladies, and, as the
countess rose from the table, she comforted herself with the reflection
that they had escaped observation.
The gentlemen accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, and then
Maurice lured Madeleine to the piano, and was soon in raptures over the
wild, sweet melodies which she sung with untutored pathos. His
grandmother could scarcely conceal her vexation. Approaching the singer,
she took an opportunity, while Bertha and Maurice were searching for a
piece of music, whisperingly to suggest that Baptiste was old and
clumsy, and the Sêvres set in danger until it was safely locked up
again.
Madeleine murmured, in return, "I will steal away unnoticed and attend
to it."
She stole away, but not unperceived, for one pair of eyes was ever upon
her. She found so much besides the valuable china that demanded
attention, and her aid was so heartily welcomed by the old domestics,
who had become confused by the multiplicity of their duties, that it was
late in the evening before she reappeared in the drawing-room. The
guests were taking their leave.
"I am highly flattered by the interest you have expressed in my
country," said Mr. Hilson, in bidding her adieu. "If you should ever
visit America, as you have expressed the desire to do, and if you should
pass through Washington, as you certainly will if you visit America,
will you not promise to apprise me? Here is my address?" and he placed
his card in her hands.
Madeleine looked not a little surprised and embarrassed at this
unexpected and informal proceeding, which she knew would greatly shock
the countess; but, taking the card, answered, courteously, "I fear
nothing is more unlikely than that I should cross the ocean; but, if
such an unlooked-for event should ever occur, I promise certainly to
apprise you."