UNMASKING.
Madeleine, left alone in the old _châlet_, remained for some time
absorbed in her work, which progressed rapidly. The ivy leaves were
dexterously polished, and a graceful garland laid above every tuck of
the transparent white dress. The last leafy band was nearly completed,
when the door again creaked upon its rusty hinges, and the young girl,
looking up, beheld Maurice.
"Is not Bertha here?" he asked, in a tone that sounded very unlike his
usual cheerful voice. "I came to seek her, and felt sure she must be
with you."
"I have not seen her since early morning," answered Madeleine. "She
promised to bring me this basket full of ivy leaves, but sent Baptiste
instead."
"I looked for her in the library, the _boudoir_, the drawing-room, and
the garden, before I came here," Maurice continued, in the same grave
tone. "She has disappeared just at the moment when I have made up my
mind to have an understanding without further delay."
Madeleine's speaking countenance betrayed her surprise, for it seemed
strange that Maurice should desire an especial interview with his
cousin, whom he saw at all hours; and stranger still that he appeared to
be so much disturbed.
"How serious you look, Maurice! Are you troubled? Has anything occurred
to cause you unhappiness?"
"I can have no disguises from you, Madeleine. I am thoroughly sick at
heart. In the first place, my father and my grandmother have violently
opposed my determination to embark in an honorable and useful career of
life;--_that_ threw a cloud over me almost from the hour I entered the
château. I tried to forget my disappointment for the moment, that no
shadow might fall upon your birthday happiness; besides, I clung to the
hope that I might yet convince them of the propriety, the policy, the
actual necessity of the step I propose to take. My father, yesterday,
stunned me with a piece of intelligence which renders me wretched, yet
forces me to act. I have given him my promise; there is no retreat. I
must bring this matter to a climax, be the sequence what it may; and yet
I dread to make the very first movement."
"I am too dull to read the riddle of the sphinx, and your words are as
enigmatical. I have not begun to find their clew," replied Madeleine,
pausing in the garland she was forming, and letting the ivy drop
unnoticed around her.
The first impulse of Maurice was to gather the fallen leaves; the second
prompted him gently to force the dress, she was so tastefully adorning,
out of her hands, and toss it upon the table.
"I see your task is nearly completed, and Bertha's toilet for the ball
will be sufficiently picturesque to cause the Marchioness de Fleury to
die of envy; can you not, therefore, rest from your labors, good fairy
dressmaker, and talk awhile with me? I need consolation,--I need
advice,--and you alone can give me both."
"I?" Madeleine spoke that single word tremulously, and a faint flush
passed over her soft, pale face.
"_You_, Madeleine, you, and _you_ only!"
"There is Bertha, at last," she exclaimed, rising hastily, and
approaching the door. "Do you not see her blue dress yonder through the
trees? Bertha! Bertha!" and, leaving Maurice, she went forth to meet
Bertha.
"Where have you hidden yourself all the morning, little truant? Why!
what has happened to distress you? Your eyes look as though you had been
weeping. Dear Bertha! what ails you?"
"I could not bear it any longer," almost sobbed Bertha, laying her head
upon her cousin's shoulder. "I could not help coming to you, though I
wanted to act entirely upon my own responsibility, and I had determined
not even to consult you, for I am always fearful of getting you into
trouble with my aunt."
Madeleine was so completely mystified that she could only murmur half
to herself, "More enigmas! What can they mean?"
Then, passing her arm around Bertha's slender waist, they walked to the
summer-house. The position of Bertha's head caused her bright ringlets
completely to veil her face, and it was not until after she entered the
_châlet_, and shook the blinding locks from before her eyes, that she
saw Maurice. She drew back with a movement of vexation and confusion
never before evinced at his presence,--clung to Madeleine as though for
protection, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
"Maurice came here expecting to find you with me," observed Madeleine.
"He wanted to speak to you."
"Did he?--yes, I know he did. I know what he is going to say; I kept out
of his way on purpose, until I could make up my mind about it all; I
mean, I thought it best to postpone; but it does not matter,--I would
rather have it over; no,--I don't mean _that_,--I mean"--
Bertha's perturbation rendered any clearer expression of her meaning out
of the question.
Madeleine took up the dress, which Maurice had flung upon the table, and
said, "When you return to the house, Bertha, will you not come to my
room and try on your dress? It is just completed."
"Stay, stay, Madeleine!" exclaimed Bertha and Maurice together.
"You see, we _both_ desire you to stay," added Maurice; "therefore you
cannot refuse. We have no secrets from you,--have we, Bertha?"
"_I_ had none until yesterday; but my aunt is inclined to be so severe
with Madeleine, that I feared I might make mischief by taking her into
my confidence. Do not go, Madeleine. Sit down, for you _must_ stay. If
you go, I will go with you; and Maurice wants to speak to me,--I mean, I
want to speak to him,--that is to say, he intends to"--
Madeleine resumed her seat.
"Since you so tyrannically insist upon my remaining, I will finish this
garland while you are having your mysterious explanation."
Maurice approached Bertha with a hesitation which had some slight touch
of awkwardness. Feeling that it was easier to induce _her_ to break the
ice than to take the first step upon this delicate ground himself, he
remarked, "You wanted to speak to me; what did you desire to say, my
dear little cousin?"
Bertha looked up innocently into his face, as though she was scanning
his features for the first time.
"What my aunt says is all very true. You _are_ exceedingly handsome; I
never denied it, except in jest; and you _are_ decidedly agreeable,
except now and then; and you _have_ a noble heart,--I never doubted it;
and a fine intellect,--though I do not know much about _that_; and any
woman might be proud of you,--that is, I dare say most women would."
"And I have a little cousin who is an adroit flatterer, and who is
herself beautiful enough for a Hebe, and whose fascinations are
sufficiently potent to captivate any reasonable or unreasonable man."
"Oh! but that is not to the point. I did not mean that we should
exchange compliments. What I want to say is that such an attractive and
agreeable young man as you are will naturally find hosts of young girls,
who would any of them be proud to be chosen as his wife."
"And you, with your grace and beauty, your lovable character, and your
large fortune, will have suitors innumerable, from among whom you may
readily select one who will be worthy of you."
"But that is not to the point either! I told my aunt that I was not
insensible to all your claims to admiration. I assure you I did you
ample justice!"
"You were very kind and complimentary, little cousin; but I said as much
of you to my father. I gave him to understand that I acknowledged you to
be one of the most charming beings in the world, and that I thought the
man to whom you gave your hand would be the happiest of mortals, and
that I did not believe _that man_ could value you more as a wife than I
should as a sister."
"_A sister! A sister!_ Oh! I am so glad!--a _sister_? You do not really
love me, then?"
"Have I said that?"
"You have said the same thing, and I am overjoyed! I can never thank you
half enough!"
"_You_ do not love _me_ then?" asked Maurice.
"I love you with all my heart! I never loved you half as well as at this
moment!--that is as--as--a _brother_; for you love me as a _sister_,
while my aunt declared you hoped to make me your wife,--that you were
crazily in love with me, and that if I refused you, I should ruin all
your future prospects, for the blow would almost kill you. I cannot tell
you how chagrined I was at the deplorable prospect. And it's all a
mistake,--is it not?"
"My father assured me that you had formed the most flattering attachment
for me. Is that a mistake also?" inquired Maurice, skilfully avoiding
the rudeness of a direct reply to her question.
"Oh! I never cared a straw for you except as the dearest cousin in the
world!"
"But why," asked Maurice, resuming his usual gay tone of raillery, "why,
if I am the incomparable being you pretend to think me, why are you so
particularly averse to becoming my wife? What do you say to that? I
should like to have an explanatory answer, little cousin; or else you
must take back all your compliments."
"Not one of them!" replied Bertha, merrily. "I am so charmed with you at
this moment that I feel inclined to double their number. Yet there is a
reason why I should have refused you, even if you had offered yourself
to me."
"Is it because you like somebody else better?"
"No, no," answered Bertha, hastily; "how can you suggest such an idea?
But I suppose _you do so because that is your reason_ for desiring to
refuse my hand?"
"I shall be obliged to think my suggestion correct, unless you tell me
why you are so glad to escape becoming my wife."
"It was because," said Bertha, approaching her rosy mouth to his ear,
and speaking in a low tone, "because there is another woman, who is far
more worthy of you, who would make you a better wife than I could, and
who--who does not exactly _hate_ you."
"Another woman?"
"Hush! do not speak so loudly. There is nothing in the world I desire so
much as to see that other woman happy; for there is no one I love half
so well."
"The garland is finished!" Madeleine broke in, starting up abruptly, for
she had caught the whispered words. "Come, Bertha, we must hasten back
to the château. I must try on your dress immediately."
"Oh, since it is finished, we have plenty of time," said Bertha. "It is
quite early in the day yet, and Maurice and I are deeply interested in
our conversation. We were never before such fast friends and devoted
cousins."
"Never," replied Maurice.
"But the dress may need some alteration," persisted Madeleine. "Pray,
pray come!"
She spoke almost imploringly, and in an excited tone, which the mere
trying on of a dress did not warrant.
"Oh, you dear despot! I suppose you must be obeyed."
Bertha snatched the ivy-garlanded dress, and bounded away. Madeleine
would have followed, but Maurice seized her hand detainingly.
"One moment, Madeleine,--grant me one moment!"
"Not now. Bertha will be waiting for me!" And she made an effort to free
her imprisoned hand.
"You shall tell her that you were taken captive, and she will forgive
you, if it be only for the sake of your _jailer_. There's vanity for
you!"
"But my arrangements for this evening are not all completed. It is
growing late, Maurice; I entreat you to release me; I _cannot_ remain--I
_must_ go!"
"Not until I have spoken to you. The time has come when you must hear
me."
Madeleine felt that there was no escape, and, forcing herself to assume
an air of composure, answered, "Speak, then; what can you have to say,
Maurice, to which I ought to listen?"
"Must I tell you? Have you not divined? Must I show you my heart? If no
responsive pulse in your own has revealed to you what is passing in
mine, I am truly unfortunate,--I have been deceived indeed!"
"Maurice, Maurice! for the love of Heaven"--
"You do well to say for the love of Heaven; for I love Heaven all the
better for loving a being who bears the impress of Heaven's own glorious
hand! Yes, Madeleine, ever loved,--loved from the first hour we met."
The rustling of silk interrupted his sentence. Madeleine tremblingly
withdrew her hand. The Countess de Gramont stood before them! Her tall
figure dilated until it seemed to shut out all the sunlight beyond; her
countenance grew ashy with suppressed rage; her black eyes shot out
glances that pierced like arrows; not a sound issued from her
tightly-compressed lips.
Maurice, recovering himself, tried to assume an unconcerned air, and
stooped to gather some of the ivy leaves scattered around him. Madeleine
bowed her head as a culprit who has no defence to make, and no hope of
concealment to cling to as a last refuge.
The countess broke the painful silence, speaking in a hollow, scornful
tone: "I am here at an unfortunate moment, it seems!"
There was no reply.
"Perhaps I ought to apologize for disturbing you," she continued,
sarcastically.
"Not at all--not at all," said Maurice, who felt that it was his duty to
answer and shield Madeleine, as far as possible, from his grandmother's
displeasure.
"Why, then, is Madeleine covered with confusion? Why did she so quickly
withdraw her hand? How--how came it clasped in yours?"
"Is she not my cousin?" answered Maurice, evasively. "Have I no right to
show her affection? Must I renounce the ties of blood?"
"It is not you, Maurice, whom I blame," said the countess, trying to
speak less sternly. "It is Madeleine, who should not have permitted this
unmeet familiarity. I well know by what arts she has lured you to forget
yourself. The fault lies with her."
For the first time the countess beheld a flash of indignation in the
eyes Madeleine lifted from the ground.
"Madame--aunt!" she began.
The countess would not permit her to proceed.
"I know what I say! You have too much tact and quickness not to have
comprehended our hopes in regard to Maurice and Bertha; and it has not
escaped my notice that you have sought, by every artful manoeuvre in
your power, to frustrate those hopes."
"I?" ejaculated Madeleine, aghast at the charge, and too much bewildered
to be able to utter a denial.
"Yes, _you!_ Have you not sought to fascinate Maurice by every species
of wily coquetry? Have you not"--
"Grandmother!" cried Maurice, furiously.
"Be silent, Maurice,--it is Madeleine to whom I am addressing my
remarks, and her own conscience tells her their justice."
"Aunt, if ever by word, or look, or thought"--
"Oh! it was all done in the most apparently artless, natural,
_purposeless_ manner! But the same end was always kept steadily in view.
What I have witnessed this morning convinces me of your aims. Your
movements were so skilfully managed that they scarcely seemed open to
suspicion. The most specious coquetry has governed all your actions. You
were always attired more simply than any one else; but by this very
simplicity you thought to render yourself remarkable, and attract a
larger share of attention. You always pretended to shun observation,
that you might be brought into more positive notice. You affected to
avoid Maurice, that he might feel tempted to follow you,--that he might
be lured to seek you when you were alone, as you were a moment
ago,--that he might"--
Maurice could restrain his ire no longer. He broke forth with
vehemence,--"Grandmother, I cannot listen to this injustice. I cannot
see Madeleine so cruelly insulted. Were it my mother herself who spoke,
I would not stand by and see her trample thus upon an innocent and
defenceless heart."
Madeleine turned to Maurice beseechingly. "Do not utter such words to
one whom you are bound to address with reverence;--do not, or you will
render my sufferings unendurable!"
"Your _sufferings_?" exclaimed the countess, catching at a word that
seemed to imply a reproof, which galled the more because she knew it was
deserved. "Your _sufferings_? That is a fitting expression to drop from
your lips! I had the right to believe that, far from causing you
_suffering_, I had put an end to your suffering when I threw open my
doors to admit you."
"You misunderstood me, aunt. I did not intend to say"--
"You have said enough to prove that you add ingratitude to your other
sins. And, since you talk of _sufferings_, I will beg you to remember
the sufferings you have brought upon us,--you, who, in return for all
you have received at my hands, have caused my very grandson to treat me
with disrespect, for the first time in his life. _Your_ sufferings? I
can well conceive that she who creates so much affliction in the house
that has sheltered her,--she who so treacherously pierces the hearts
that have opened to yield her a place,--she who has played the viper
warmed upon almost a mother's bosom,--she may well have sufferings to
wail over!"
Madeleine stood speechless, thunderstruck, by the rude shock of these
words. The countess turned from her, and, preparing to leave the
_châlet_, bade Maurice give her his arm. He silently obeyed, casting a
look of compassionate tenderness upon Madeleine. But she saw it not; all
her vast store of mental strength suddenly melted away! For the first
time in her life she was completely crushed, overwhelmed,--hopeless and
powerless. For a few moments she remained standing as motionless as one
petrified; then, with a heart-broken cry, dropped into a seat, and
covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively,--sobbed as though
all the sorrows of her life were concentrated in the anguish of that
moment, and found vent in that deluge of tears,--that stormy whirlwind
of passion! All the clouds in the firmament of her existence, which she
had, day after day, dispelled by the internal sunshine of her patient,
trustful spirit, culminated and broke in that wild flood. Hope was
drowned in that heavy rain; all the flowers that brightened, and the
sweet, springing herbs that lent their balm to her weary pilgrimage,
were beaten down into the mire of despair. There was no ark, no Ararat;
she was alone, without refuge, on the waste of waters.
Her heavy sobs prevented her hearing the entrance of Bertha, and it was
only when the arms of the young girl were fondly twined about her, that
she became aware of her presence.
"Madeleine, dear, dear Madeleine! What has happened? Why do you weep
thus?"
"Do not speak to me, Bertha!" replied Madeleine in a stifled voice. "You
cannot, cannot help me; there is no hope left,--none, none! My father
has died to me again to day, and I am alone once more!--alone in a
desert that has no place of shelter for me, but a grave beneath its
swathing sands!"
Her tears gushed forth with redoubled violence.
"Do not treat me so cruelly! Do not cast me off!" pleaded Bertha, as her
cousin tried to disengage herself from her encircling arms. "If you are
wretched, so am I--_because_ you are! Only tell me the reason for this
terrible sorrow. I was awaiting you in your room; but, as you did not
come, I felt sure my cousin Maurice had detained you."
At those last words an involuntary cry of intense suffering burst from
Madeleine's lips.
"Then I saw my aunt and Maurice returning together, and Maurice appeared
to be talking in an excited manner, and my aunt looked blacker than any
thunder-cloud. Still you did not come, and I went in search of you. Tell
me why I find you thus?--you, who have always borne your griefs with
such silent fortitude. What _has_ my aunt said or done to you?"
"She has ceased to love me,--she has ceased to esteem me,--she even
repents of the benefits she has conferred upon me."
"No, no, Madeleine; you are mistaken."
"Oh, I am not mistaken,--my eyes are opened at last. The thin, waxen
mask of assumed kindness has melted from her face! I am a burden to
her,--an encumbrance,--an offence. She only desires to be rid of me!"
"You,--the fairy of good works in her household? What could she do
without you? It is only excitement which makes you imagine this."
"I never guessed, never dreamed it before; but I have wilfully deceived
myself. _Now_ all is too clear! A thousand recollections rise up to
testify to the truth; a thousand suspicions, which I repulsed as
unworthy of me and of her, return to convince me; words and looks,
coldness and injustice, slights and reproaches start up with frightful
vividness, and throw a hideous light upon conduct I never dared to
interpret aright."
"What looks? what words? what actions?" asked Bertha, though her heart
told her with what a catalogue she could answer her own question.
"They could not be rehearsed in an hour or in a day. But it is not to my
aunt alone that my presence is offensive. Cousin Tristan also chafes at
the sight of his dependent relative. I have seen it when I took my seat
at table; I have seen it when room was made for me in the carriage; I
have seen it on numberless occasions. His glances, his accents, his
whole demeanor, have seemed to reproach me for the place I occupied, for
the garments I wore, for the very bread I ate,--the bread of bitter,
bitter charity! And oh!" she groaned, "_must this be so still?_ _Must_ I
still accept these bounties, which are begrudged me? _Must_ I still be
bowed to the dust by the weight of these charities? Alas! I _must_,
because I have nothing of my own,--because I am nothing of myself!"
"Madeleine! one of these days"--
Madeleine did not heed her. "Oh, my father! my father! To what torturing
humiliations you subjected me in bequeathing me nobility with poverty!
Well may you have wished that you had been born a peasant! Had I been a
peasant's child, I might have lived by, and rejoiced in, honest labor!
Had I been the daughter of a mechanic, I might have gained my bread by
some useful trade. Had I even been the child of some poor gentleman, I
might have earned a livelihood by giving lessons in music, in drawing,
by becoming a governess, or teaching in a school. But, the daughter of
the Duke de Gramont, it is one of the curses of my noble birth that I
must live upon charity,--charity unwillingly doled out and thrown in my
face, even when I am receiving it with meekness!"
"But, Madeleine, if you will but listen to me"--
Madeleine went on bitterly. "And I am young yet,--young and strong, and
capable of exertion; and I have dared to believe that, while one is
young, some of the benefits received could be repaid by the cheerful
spirit of youth,--by the performance of needful offices,--by hands ever
ready to serve, and a heart ever open to sympathize; but, if I am an
encumbrance, an annoyance while I am _young_, what an intolerable burden
I must become when youth passes away! Then I shall either be repulsed
with aversion, or sheltered with undisguised reluctance,--forced to
remember every moment that the hospitality I receive is an _alms_! Oh!
it is too horrible! Death would be a thousand times preferable."
"And you can forget how dreadful it would be for us, who love you, to
lose you?"
"I forget _everything_, except the misery of my own degraded position! I
ask for nothing save that God, in his mercy, will free me from it, I
care not how! I look despairingly on all sides, and see no escape! I am
bound, hand and foot, by the chains of my own noble birth, and shut
within the iron walls of circumstance. I struggle vainly in my
captivity; no way of freedom is open to me! And yet I can never again
resign myself to passive endurance."
"If you only knew how wretched you make me by talking in this strain!"
"I make you wretched, as I have made all others, by my presence
here,--yes, I know it! You see how ungrateful, how selfish misery has
rendered me, since I am cruel even to you whose pure love I never
doubted."
Before Bertha could make a fresh attempt to console her cousin, Baptiste
entered, bearing a letter. He looked dismayed when he beheld Madeleine's
face of woe, and Bertha's tearful countenance; but the latter checked
his glance of inquiry by asking abruptly what he wanted.
Still regarding Madeleine with an expression of deep concern, he
replied, "The _vâlet_ of Count Damoreau has just left this letter for
Mademoiselle Madeleine, and desired that it should be delivered to her
at once."
"Very well; that will do."
Bertha took the letter, and motioned to Baptiste to withdraw.
"What _can_ Count Damoreau have to write to you about? Do open the
letter and tell me."
"Not now, Bertha. Leave me to myself for a little while. I scarcely know
what I am doing or saying. I entreat you to leave me!"
"Madeleine, if I were in trouble, I would not send you from me."
"Go, if you love me! And you--_you_, at least, _do_ love me!"
"_If_ I love you? I will even leave you to prove that I do; but it is
very hard."
Bertha walked slowly away, taking the path that led from the château. In
a few moments she paused, turned suddenly, and quickened her steps in
the opposite direction, prompted by an impulse to seek Maurice and tell
him of Madeleine's grief. Perhaps he might have the power to console
her.
Count Tristan had been prevented opening the letters which M. de Bois
had delivered. When the two gentlemen reached the château, several
visitors were awaiting the count, and their stay was protracted. The
instant his guests took their leave, he hastened to the library, which
his mother entered at the same moment. He listened impatiently as she
briefly recounted the scene which had taken place in the summer-house.
"The time has come when we must put an end to this madness," answered
the count; "and I trust that I hold the means in my hands. These are the
replies of Madeleine's relations."
He broke one of the seals, and glanced over the contents of the letter,
gnawing his under lip as he read.
"Well, my son, what reply?"
"This letter is from M. de Bonneville. He writes that his château is
only large enough for his own family,--that it would be a great
inconvenience to have any addition to his home circle; and _we_--I
suppose _we_ have not been inconvenienced for the last three years"--
"I am not astonished at such a reply from M. de Bonneville. I expected
nothing else. Give me Madame de Nervac's letter. She is a charming
woman, whom every one admires and respects, and I know her kindness of
heart."
The count handed the letter. His mother opened it, and read,--
"MY DEAR COUSIN:
"Are you not aware that a woman of any tact, who has still
some claims to admiration, could hardly commit the absurd
_faux pas_ of establishing in her own house, and having
always by her side, a person younger and handsomer than
herself? To consent to your proposition concerning Madeleine
would therefore be a suicidal act"--
"This is insupportable!" ejaculated the count. "It seems that we are to
be forced into continuing to bear this burden, though it may bring us
to ruin. What insupportable vanity Madame de Nervac betrays! You see
what her kindness of heart is worth!"
"There is still one letter to open," remarked his mother, clinging to a
faint hope.
"Oh, it will be a repetition of the others,--you may be sure of that!"
He tore it open angrily; but, glancing at the first lines, exclaimed,
"What do I see? Have we found one reasonable and charitable person at
last? The Count Damoreau writes,--
"'A thousand thanks, my dear cousin for the opportunity you
afford me of being useful to that lovely and unfortunate
relative of ours. I have always regarded her with admiration
and affection, and always appreciated the noble generosity
which prompted your kindness to the orphan.'"
"The count is a man endowed with most excellent judgment," remarked the
countess with complacency.
Her son continued reading the letter,--
"'I am at this moment about to make a number of necessary
repairs in my château, which will cause me to absent myself
for some time. I shall probably spend a year or two on the
continent.'"
"So much the better! He will doubtless take Madeleine with him,"
suggested the countess.
Count Tristan in an altered tone read on,--
"'As I shall travel entirely _en garçon_, of course it will
be impossible for Madeleine to accompany me, but an
admirable opportunity presents itself for placing her in a
situation that is very suitable. My friend, Lady Vivian, of
Edinburgh, who forms one of the party here, is in search of
an humble companion. I have spoken to her ladyship
concerning Madeleine. She made some slight demur on account
of the young lady's attractive person, but finally consented
to offer her this situation.'"
"A de Gramont hired out as an humble companion! What an indignity!"
ejaculated the countess.
The count continued reading,--
"'I will myself write to Madeleine and apprise her of what I
have done, and present the many advantages of such a
position.'"
"She must not receive the letter!" said the countess, earnestly. "She is
capable of accepting this offer for the sake of wounding us. But Count
Damoreau has insulted us grossly. How has he dared to entertain such an
offer for a member of our family,--one in whose veins flows the same
untainted blood? Why do you not speak, my son? But indignation may well
deprive you of speech!"
"I can only say that in _some manner we must at once rid ourselves of
Madeleine_."
"I would rather see her dead than in a situation which disgraced her
noble name," answered the countess, violently.
"I quite agree with you," returned the count, with a sardonic look;
"but, unfortunately, life and death are not in our hands!"
As he spoke, there was a gleam in his malignant eye, almost murderous.
His foot was lifted to crush the worm in his path, and, could he have
trodden it out of existence in secret, the deed would have been
accomplished with exultation. His hatred for Madeleine had strengthened
into a fierce passion as his fears that Maurice loved her threatened to
be confirmed. Far from sharing his mother's indignation at the proposal
of Count Damoreau, he had made up his mind to force Madeleine into
acceptance, if no other presented itself for freeing the château from
her presence.