THE EMPTY PLACE.
It chanced that Bertha's letter to Maurice was posted the next morning
without the knowledge of Count Tristan and his mother; not, however,
through any preconcerted arrangement on the part of Bertha. Her
character was so frank, so transparent,--her actions were always so
unveiled,--her thoughts flowed in such an instinctive current toward her
lips,--that the idea of concealment could have no spontaneous existence
in her mind. She made no allusion to the letter until it was gone; but
that was purely accidental, though not the less fortunate. Had Count
Tristan been aware that such a letter had been written, it would never
have reached its destination.
It was somewhat singular that the count, whose code of honor would have
forced him to resent, at the sword's point, the faintest hint that he
could be guilty of an unworthy action, would not have scrupled to
intercept a letter, to distort a fact (we use the mildest phrase), to
stoop to any deception, to be guilty of any treachery, if he were
powerfully prompted by what he termed family considerations,--which
simply meant his own personal interest.
He had determined to keep Maurice in ignorance of Madeleine's flight as
long as possible, that the chances of discovering her retreat might be
diminished; and great was the wily schemer's consternation when he
learned that Bertha had unadvisedly frustrated his plans by writing to
her cousin.
Madeleine's value had never been estimated to its just height until her
place was empty. It is not in human nature to prize that which we
possess to its full worth, until it is "lacked and lost!" Alas! in how
many households there moves, with noiseless feet, some placid, patient,
yet potent spirit, with hands ever ready to toil, or soothe; a smile
ever kindled to comfort or encourage; a voice that "turns common words
to grace," imparting hope and dispensing joy; a presence full of
helpfulness and peace; a being, grown familiar to our eyes by every
day's association, whom we carelessly greet, or jostle against
unheeding, or thrust aside impatiently, never dreaming that our
working-day mortal, could she cast off this garment of clay, would stand
revealed one of God's holy messengers commissioned to minister!--that
is, _never until_ we suddenly find her place empty, yet trace the touch
of her delicate fingers, the print of her light footsteps everywhere
around us, and feel the dreary void made in our hearts by her absence,
and recognize, too late, that we have entertained an angel unawares.
Throughout the Château de Gramont there was no one, save Count Tristan,
who did not make some such reflection (though vague and undefined,
perhaps) while thinking of Madeleine. The ancient domestics seemed
completely lost without her guiding hand,--her spirit of order
systematizing and lightening all their duties. Everything was in
confusion, everything went wrong. Dearly as they loved her, they had
never before realized that Mademoiselle Madeleine had been of so much
importance and assistance to them all.
The countess missed her every moment; and, interested as were her
regrets, they were not unmingled with some faint self-reproach when she
remembered how lightly she had prized her services. The antiquated
_femme de chambre_ had never appeared so clumsy, purblind, and stupid;
and the more her stately mistress chided her, the more bewildered
Bettina became, the more blunders she committed.
Even a bearing as majestic as that of the noble lady could not
neutralize the caricaturing effect of a robe pinned awry; curls with
long straight ends standing out porcupine fashion; a cap obstinately
bent upon inclining to one side; and a collar with a strong tendency to
avoid a central position.
As for Bertha, naturally restless, excitable, and untutored in the art
of calming the agitation of her mind by active employment, she could do
nothing but wander in and out of her aunt's apartment; stand at the
window watching for the postman, beating the devil's tattoo upon the
panes; counting the hours, fretting over their insupportable length, and
breaking out, at intervals, into piteous lamentations.
It was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to appear at table,
and she scarcely tasted food. Glancing up at the faded flowers in the
hanging baskets suspended before the windows, and to the withered
bouquets in the tall vases that stood on either side,--baskets and vases
which Madeleine had ever kept freshly supplied,--Bertha could scarcely
restrain her tears, as she murmured mournfully,--
"Ah, I know now what the English poet's Ophelia meant, when she said all
the violets withered when her father died! All our flowers faded when
Madeleine went!"
Baptiste, who was standing beside her chair, rubbed his eyes, and the
sigh, that would not be checked, was audible to her quick ears. She
turned to give him a glance which recognized his sympathy, and noticed
that there was no gay-looking blossom in his button-hole that day. This
was an unmistakable expression of sorrow on the part of Baptiste; for he
never assumed the compulsory office of butler without asserting his
preference for his legitimate vocation of gardener by a flower in his
coat. Bertha had never seen him dispense with the floral decoration
before, and she comprehended its absence but too well.
Her nervous disquietude increased every hour, and caused her aunt a
species of petty martyrdom resembling the torture of perpetual
pin-pricking, the incessant buzzing and stinging of a gnat, the endless
creaking of rusty door-hinges,--minor miseries often more unendurable
than some great mental or physical suffering. But although the patience
of the countess was wearied out, Bertha was too great a favorite to be
rebuked. Count Tristan discreetly fled the field, and thus avoided his
share of the infliction.
Bertha's letter reached Maurice the day after it was written, and found
him in a state of such torpid despondency that any summons to action,
even the most painful, was a blessing. He had felt that the only chance
of combating his sorrow, and preventing its obtaining full mastery over
all his faculties, was to work off the sense of depression by hard
study,--to battle against it with the arms of some engrossing
occupation; but how could he spur himself up to study without an
object?--and he was as far as ever from obtaining his father's consent
to fitting himself for the bar, or for any other professional pursuit.
No,--there was only one pursuit left open to him, the pursuit of
pleasure, and he had not sufficiently recovered from his late shock to
start off in chase of that illusive phantom. Bertha's letter roused him
out of this miserable, mind-paralyzing apathy. In the very next train
which left for Rennes he was on his way back to Brittany.
It was the fourth day after Madeleine's departure. Those days had seemed
months to Bertha, the weariest months of her brief, glad life. She was
standing at a window that commanded the road,--her favorite post, and
the only locality where she ever remained quiet for any length of
time,--when the carriage in which Maurice was seated drove up the
avenue. With a joyful exclamation she rushed out of the room, darted
down the stair, through the hall, into the porch, and had greeted
Maurice before any one but the old gardener knew that he had arrived.
"You have heard from her?" were her cousin's first words, gaspingly
uttered.
"No, not a line. She will never write; she will never come back! O
Maurice! I have lost all hope," sighed Bertha.
"Dear Bertha, we will find her! Let her go where she may, I will find
her!--be sure of that. I will not rest until I do."
His grandmother, attracted by Bertha's exultant ejaculation, had
followed her, though with more deliberate steps, and now appeared. The
cruel words the countess had spoken to Madeleine were ringing in the
ears of Maurice, and he saluted his noble relative respectfully, but not
with his usual warmth.
"I am glad you have come back to us, Maurice. Bertha is so lonely."
The lips of Maurice parted, but some internal warning checked the bitter
words before they formed themselves into sound. He bowed gravely, and,
entering the house, remarked to Bertha,--
"You wrote that all the servants had been examined?"
"Yes, all; and they know nothing of Madeleine's flight."
"That is _impossible_. One of them at least must have some knowledge."
Maurice rang the bell. It was Bettina, who replied. Gustave, she said,
was in the stable, and Baptiste in the garden. The answers of the _femme
de chambre_ to the young viscount were clear and unhesitating: no one
could doubt, for a moment, that she was wholly ignorant of Madeleine's
movement; and her tone and manner evinced, as forcibly as any language
could have done, how deeply she mourned over her absence. Elise was next
summoned, and her replies were but a repetition of Bettina's.
"I will not send for Gustave and Baptiste," he observed, dismissing the
two female domestics,--"I will walk out and see them."
"And I will go with you," said Bertha.
The countess was too well pleased to see the cousins together to object.
Gustave was grooming a horse as they passed by the stable. He paused in
his work to welcome the viscount, and added, in the same breath,--
"Monsieur will find it very dull at the château, now. It does not seem
like the same place since Mademoiselle Madeleine left!"
"Have you no idea how she went, Gustave? Some of you surely must know!"
"I know nothing, monsieur. When they told me that Mademoiselle Madeleine
was gone, it was as though a thunder-bolt had struck me. I have never
felt good for anything since!"
There was too much sincerity, too much feeling in his tone for Maurice
to doubt him, or deem further questioning necessary. He walked sadly
away, accompanied by Bertha.
Baptiste was busied near the little _châlet_; he seemed to hover about
it constantly of late. He was aware of the return of his young
master,--he had bowed to him as he was descending from the carriage.
When Bertha and her cousin approached the venerable domestic, his
trepidation was too obvious to escape their notice. He was pruning the
luxuriant growth of some of the vines Madeleine had planted, and the
hand which held his knife shook and committed unintentional havoc among
the blossoming branches.
"Baptiste, come in; I have something to talk to you about," said
Maurice, entering the _châlet_ with Bertha.
How painfully that pleasant little retreat reminded him of Madeleine!
For a moment he was overpowered, and dropped into a chair, covering his
eyes with his hands; perhaps because he could not bear the sight of
objects which called up such agonizing recollections; perhaps because
his eyes were dim with too womanish a moisture.
"Dear Maurice," said Bertha, bending over him compassionately, "if
Madeleine only knew how wretched she has made us both, surely she would
not forsake us so cruelly."
Maurice, by a gesture, prayed her to sit down. Baptiste stood in the
doorway; his attitude betokened a reluctance to enter, and a desire to
be quickly dismissed. After a long interval, the viscount, slowly
raising his head, was again struck by the perturbed mien of the
guileless old man, whose native simplicity, warmth, and ingenuousness
would have melted any mask he attempted to assume. Maurice had almost
abandoned all expectation that he would receive any information from the
domestics; but he now experienced a sudden renewal of hope.
"Baptiste," he said, scrutinizing the ancient gardener closely, "do you
not know where Mademoiselle Madeleine is?"
"No, monsieur."
The reply was uttered in a tone of genuine sadness.
"You cannot even guess?"
"No, monsieur."
"Do you know how she left here?"
"No, monsieur."
"Baptiste, you are not speaking falsely?--you are not trifling with me?
If you _are_, you can hardly know how cruelly you are adding to my
sorrow."
"I have spoken the exact truth, monsieur."
"I am sure he has, Maurice," interrupted Bertha. "I never knew Baptiste
to utter even a _white lie_: he has as great a horror of falsehood as
Madeleine herself."
Baptiste looked at her gratefully.
"Then you know _nothing at all_," ejaculated Maurice, in a tone of
discouragement. "You did not help Mademoiselle Madeleine in any way? She
must have had some assistance; but from _you_ she had none? You did not
even know that she intended to leave us?"
Baptiste hesitated; his mouth twitched,--his eyes were fixed upon the
ground.
"Why do you not answer, Baptiste?" asked Bertha. "You _did not_ know
that Mademoiselle Madeleine was going,--did you?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
The answer was spoken almost in a whisper.
"_You knew it?_ And why, _why_ have you not told us this before?" she
almost shrieked out.
"No one asked me that question, mademoiselle; and Mademoiselle Madeleine
requested me not to give any information concerning her which I could
possibly, and without uttering a falsehood, avoid."
Maurice sprang up and laid his hand upon the old man's shoulder.
"Speak _now_ then! You cannot avoid telling us all you know! You were
aware that she was going; you assisted her flight. _How_ did you aid
her? _What_ did you do? _What_ do you know?"
"Very little, monsieur. I did very little and know very little. The
evening before Mademoiselle Madeleine left, she came to me in the
garden; she asked me if I would do her a favor. I would have done her a
thousand. Did I not owe her enough? Was it not she who watched beside my
bed when I had that terrible rheumatic fever two years ago? Did she not
pour out my medicine with her own white hands? Did she not talk to me
when I was racked with pain, until I thought the room was full of
heavenly music, and I forgot I was suffering? Did she not keep me from
cursing God when the pangs were so sharp that I felt I was tortured
beyond my strength? Did she not tell me why all anguish of soul or body
should be borne patiently? Was there, oh, was there _anything_ I would
not have done for Mademoiselle Madeleine? When she left the château, was
her loss greater to any one than it was to me? And she would not have
gone if she could have staid any longer. I was sure of _that_. When she
said she must go, I knew she _must_, and I never even dared to pray her
to remain."
It was seldom that Baptiste spoke so much, for he was taciturn by
nature; but the emotion, forcibly suppressed for so many days, once
breaking bondage, burst forth into a torrent of words.
"You did well, Baptiste,--good, faithful old man! Mademoiselle Madeleine
needed a friend; and I thank Heaven she had one like you. Do not think
we blame you; only tell us all you know. She came to you the evening
before she left: what favor did she ask?"
"Mademoiselle Madeleine only asked, monsieur, that I would come to her
room when the house was all quiet, that night, and carry down her trunk
and place it in the _châlet_. I could not help saying, 'Oh,
Mademoiselle Madeleine, are you going to leave us?' She answered, 'I
_cannot_ stay, Baptiste. I am _compelled_ to go. You are the only person
here who is aware of my intention. When I am gone do not give any
information concerning me that you can possibly, and without uttering a
falsehood, avoid. It will be better that no one should know I had your
aid.' Those were her exact words, monsieur."
"Go on,--go on!" urged Maurice, as the narrator paused.
"When the house was all quiet, I put off my shoes and stole softly to
Mademoiselle Madeleine's room. She opened the door, and, without
speaking, pointed to the little trunk. Old and weak as I am, I had no
trouble in carrying it. It was light enough. It could not have held
much."
"Did she not bid you adieu, then?" asked Bertha.
"Just as I was stooping to lift the trunk, Mademoiselle Madeleine
stretched out her hand and took mine. I felt her warm, soft touch the
whole day after. She did not say adieu, but she looked it. She looked as
though she were blessing me and thanking me. I never saw a face that
said so much,--so much that went to my very soul and comforted me! When
she let go my hand, I took up the trunk and carried it out. She closed
the door behind me without a sound, and I brought the trunk here that
night and left it. That is all I know, monsieur."
"But how was the trunk conveyed hence?"
"I do not know, monsieur."
"Did you see Mademoiselle Madeleine the next morning?" inquired Bertha.
"No, mademoiselle. I could not help going to the _châlet_ the first
thing when I came out to work. I pushed the door open and looked in; the
trunk was not there, and I knew that Mademoiselle Madeleine was gone
too!"
"But did not Mademoiselle Madeleine drop some hint, even the faintest,
of her plans?" asked Maurice, earnestly.
"I have told monsieur every word Mademoiselle Madeleine spoke to me on
the subject."
"_Some one_ must have aided her further! Who could it be? _Who could it
possibly be?_" mused Maurice.
Baptiste was certain he knew who alone it could be; and he was pondering
within himself whether he had the right to mention the note Madeleine
had ordered him to deliver to M. de Bois. Her request had been that he
would give no information he could honestly avoid; if it _could_ be
avoided, it was plain, then, that the intelligence ought not to be
communicated.
"Has monsieur done with me?" he asked, as Maurice stood reflecting in
silence.
"Yes, if you have nothing further to tell me."
"Nothing further, monsieur." Saying these words, Baptiste withdrew.
"After Madeleine was missed," said Bertha, when the old gardener was
gone, "I was the first person who came to the _châlet_. I found a
handkerchief lying just by this table. It was marked G. de Bois."
"Gaston de Bois! Then it is clear _he_ was Madeleine's confidant. He
promoted her flight!"
"So I thought, at first," rejoined Bertha; "but it seems this is not so.
Your father took him the handkerchief, and he could not tell when or
where he had lost it. He was amazed to hear that Madeleine had left us,
and disclaimed all knowledge concerning her."
"Who, then, could it have been? But I will see M. de Bois myself."
"First let me tell you"--began Bertha, and faltered.
"Why do you hesitate? For Heaven's sake, dear Bertha, tell me everything
which can throw the faintest glimmer of light upon the path Madeleine
has taken."
"I do not know how to say what I was thinking; perhaps I ought not to
allude to it at all; yet it seems as if it must be true. Do you not
remember that Madeleine confessed she had bestowed her affections upon
_some one_? Since they were not given to you, as I once believed, I
cannot help imagining that perhaps she might--might have meant"--
"Gaston de Bois?"
"Yes."
Maurice did not answer, and Bertha could say no more. There was a
painful struggle going on in her mind, though less torturing than that
which convulsed the spirit of her cousin.
When he had somewhat recovered himself, he said,--
"At all events I will see M. de Bois. If there is nothing to be learned
from him, if he really knows nothing concerning Madeleine's departure, I
must seek information at Rennes. There is no time to lose. I will call
upon M. de Bois at once."
The cousins parted at the door of the _châlet_. Bertha turned toward the
château, pausing on her way to talk with Baptiste; Maurice went in the
direction of his neighbor's residence.
Count Tristan's visit had taken M. de Bois aback, chiefly because he was
confounded by a new proof of his own awkwardness (stupidity, he plainly
termed it) in leaving his handkerchief behind him, as a witness of his
presence at the _châlet_. But there was no such confusing testimony to
destroy his composure when he received Maurice. Besides, he had ample
time to collect himself; for he was walking in the park when his valet
announced that the young viscount was awaiting him in the library. He
had looked forward to the return of Maurice to Brittany as soon as the
latter heard of Madeleine's mysterious disappearance. M. de Bois knew
that it would be more difficult to prevent her being traced by her
cousin than by any other person, and that it was by him Madeleine
herself most feared to be discovered. Gaston was therefore fully on his
guard against betraying her confidence.
Maurice, on his part, was keenly sensible of the difficulty of his
undertaking. He could not openly inquire of M. de Bois whether Madeleine
had apprised him of her intentions. The very question would have a
tendency to compromise his cousin, by suggesting that she was capable of
holding clandestine communication with a young gentleman. Then, too, if
M. de Bois was really the object of her attachment, he might not be
aware of the preference with which she honored him; and it would be the
height of indelicacy for Maurice to allow him to suspect a circumstance
which her modesty would scrupulously conceal. He was sitting in the
library pondering over the embarrassments of his position, when his host
entered. The gentlemen greeted each other with wonted cordiality.
"Did you return from Paris to-day?" asked M. de Bois. "Have you just
come?"
"About an hour ago. I came to you at once to"--
M. de Bois interrupted him. It was the policy of the former to lead the
conversation, that he might avoid direct questions.
"Had you heard that Mademoiselle de Gramont had left the château?"
"Yes; my cousin Bertha wrote to me, and"--
Again M. de Bois seized upon the thread of conversation.
"Have you no news from Mademoiselle Madeleine?--no letter?"
"None," sighed Maurice, convinced that, as M. de Bois plunged into the
subject in this straightforward, calm manner, he could not possibly be
in her confidence.
The host went on.
"Has not Count Tristan been able to obtain any trace of her?"
"Thus far, none at all! What _could_ have become of her! Where _could_
she have gone!" exclaimed Maurice; but not in a tone of interrogation,
for he now felt assured that M. de Bois could not answer.
"One thing is certain; what Mademoiselle Mad--ad--adeleine has done must
have been prompted by a noble motive. She could not cause you all this
sorrow unless she imagined herself compelled to take the step which we
must all lament."
"You are right, you only do her justice!" rejoined Maurice.
"What course do you propose to ado--op--opt?" inquired M. de Bois, with
a perfectly natural air of friendly interest.
"I hardly know what to do. I should be thankful for any advice. I shall
first visit the Prefecture at Rennes, to see if she obtained a passport.
She could not surely run the risk of attempting to travel without one.
If the passport be for Great Britain, I may go to Scotland. Possibly she
may have changed her mind, and accepted Lady Vivian's offer,--do you not
think so?"
"It does not appear to me likely. She definitely decli--i--ined."
"Did she tell you so? Did she speak to you on the subject?" asked
Maurice, hastily.
For the first time during the interview, M. de Bois betrayed a slight
disquietude, but he quickly collected himself and answered,--
"I heard Lady Vivian speak to Mademoiselle Bertha of the offer she had
made her cousin, and after that, Mademoiselle Mad--ad--adeleine told me
she had declined the prop--op--oposition. But, if you imagine she has
changed her mind, would not a letter to Lady Vivian answer every
pur--ur--urpose?"
"No; if she should be there, I must see her, and use arguments which
would have no force upon paper. _She must be there!_ Where else could
she be? I will start for Scotland to-night. Now I must bid you adieu."
"If you are going back to the château, I will accompany you. I must make
my _adieux_ to the ladies. I leave for Paris to-morrow."
"Indeed! Do you make a long stay?"
"Prob--ob--obably. The Marquis de Fleury had promised me a
secretaryship, if he were sent as ambassador to America. It is uncertain
when he may get the appointment, but he has offered me the post of
confidential sec--ec--ecretary at once."
"And you have accepted?"
"Gladly."
"Ah, M. de Bois, how I envy you! _You_ will have an object in life,
while _I_, who feel as though a pent-up volcano were roaring within me,
am condemned to let my struggling energies smoulder beneath the ashes of
my father's autocratic will! You have heard of his opposition to my
studying for the bar? What is to become of me if I am deprived of every
stimulating incentive to action?--especially now--now that"--he checked
himself suddenly. He was not aware that M. de Bois had been informed by
Bertha of Madeleine's rejection, and Maurice could not dwell upon his
own disappointment to one who might be a rival.
"Count Tristan may gradually be brought to contemplate your wishes with
more favor."
"Hardly; but come--if you will accompany me, let us go."
Bertha, who had been waiting impatiently for the return of Maurice, did
not fly to meet him when she saw M. de Bois walking by his side, as they
approached the château. The countess was in the drawing-room when the
gentlemen entered, and her majestic presence stemmed the stream of
inquiries that was ready to gush from Bertha's lips.
M. de Bois, who during his interview with Maurice had been so
self-possessed that the impediment in his speech was scarcely
observable, was seized anew and cast into chains by his invisible enemy.
The captive struggled in vain; the avenues of speech were barricaded;
all his limbs were shackled; his movements became uncertain and
spasmodic, menacing tables, chairs, vases, which, had they been gifted
with consciousness, must have trembled at his approach; his nervous
fingers thrust themselves into his hair, and threw it into ludicrous
disorder; his countenance was suffused with scarlet; he stammered out
something about bidding adieu, which the ladies were evidently at a loss
to comprehend, until Maurice explained that M. de Bois expected to start
on the morrow for Paris, where he purposed to take up his residence.
"We shall regret losing so valued a neighbor!" observed the countess,
condescendingly.
Bertha made no remark, though she looked as though she wished to speak,
and could not summon resolution. She took an opportunity, while the
countess was conversing with their guest, to whisper to her cousin,--
"You asked M. de Bois, and he could give you no information concerning
Madeleine?"
"None at all," replied Maurice in a low tone. Then, turning to the
countess, he said aloud, "I also must bid you adieu, my grandmother; I
am going immediately to Rennes; if I obtain the information there, which
I think probable, I shall start at once for Scotland and seek Lady
Vivian."
"You have not consulted your father, Maurice," the countess answered,
with an emphasis which was intended to remind him that he was not a free
agent.
"I must beg you to make my apologies to him."
Maurice, though he treated his grandmother with deference which left her
no room for complaint, could not force himself to assume his wonted air
of affection; his love for her had waned from the hour he listened to
the unjust accusation, the reproaches, the contumely she had heaped upon
the innocent and unfortunate orphan placed at her mercy. The softening
veil had fallen from her character, and disclosed its harsh, proud
selfishness and policy. He now knew that she had offered her destitute
relative shelter, not from any genuine, womanly feeling of tenderness
and compassion, but simply because she deemed it humiliating to allow
one who bore her name to be placed in a doubtful and friendless
position. All Madeleine's gentleness, cheerfulness, diligence to please,
had failed to melt her aunt's impenetrable heart and make it expand to
yield her a sacred place; the countess had misinterpreted her highest
virtues,--grossly insulted her by attributing shameful motives to her
most disinterested conduct, and destroyed all the merit of her own
benefactions by reminding the recipient of her indebtedness. Maurice
felt that, truly to venerate a person, he must be moved by esteem for
noble qualities possessed. The recent revelation of his grandmother's
actual attributes estranged and revolted him, until it became difficult
to treat her with even the outward semblance of reverence.
When the viscount bade farewell, M. de Bois also took his leave.
"You will write to me as soon as you reach Edinburgh?" pleaded Bertha to
her cousin.
"I will certainly write," answered Maurice; "meantime comfort yourself
with the assurance that I will not relinquish my search until Madeleine
is restored to us."
And Bertha did solace herself with that pledge, for hope was a dominant
characteristic of her buoyant temperament.
The monotonous round of blank, weary days that ensued was happily
broken, before the week closed, by the promised letter from Maurice.
Bertha, whose only exciting occupation consisted in watching for the
arrival and distribution of letters, was in possession of the precious
missive before her aunt and Count Tristan were aware of its arrival. She
tore it open, and, glancing through the contents, uttered a cry of joy
that rang through the château, and reached the ears even of the countess
and her son in the library. The next moment Bertha burst into the
apartment, laughing and crying, waving the letter triumphantly over her
head, and exclaiming, in a voice now stifled with sobs, now broken by
hysterical mirth,--
"She is found! she is found! Maurice has traced her! Oh, my dear, dear
Madeleine, I shall see her again!"
Her blinding tears, or her overwhelming transport, prevented her
noticing the totally different effect produced upon her two relatives by
this rapturously uttered communication. The face of the countess
expressed a haughty satisfaction that her noble family had been spared
some impending disgrace; but Count Tristan's black brows contracted; his
malignant eyes flashed fiercely; he ground his teeth with suppressed
rage as he snatched the letter out of Bertha's hand. She flung her arms
about her aunt, and laid her head lovingly upon her unsympathetic bosom,
as though she must caress some one in the exuberant outburst of her joy!
Meanwhile the count perused the letter.
"My son, let me hear what Maurice says."
Count Tristan read,--
"I hasten to send you good news, my dearest Bertha. At
Rennes I visited the Prefecture to examine the list of
passports, knowing that Madeleine must have obtained one to
travel unmolested. I found that her passport had been taken
out for England. This confirmed my impression that she had
joined Lady Vivian in Scotland. The passport which, as you
are aware, requires two responsible witnesses, was signed by
Messrs. Picard and Bossuet. I sought those gentlemen to
extract further information from them, but, singularly
enough, both had left Brittany the day after Madeleine. I
cannot conceive how she obtained their signatures, for
surely she had no acquaintance with them. Following this
clew I started immediately for Edinburgh, and arrived here
on Wednesday evening. I had no difficulty in finding the
residence of Lady Vivian. She is in London, but is expected
home shortly. I had an interview with her venerable
housekeeper, who answered all my inquiries with great
patience. From her I learned that Lady Vivian was
accompanied by a young French lady whom she had recently
engaged as a _dame de compagnie_. The housekeeper could not
remember her foreign name, but when I mentioned Mademoiselle
de Gramont, she said it sounded like that. She had been
informed that the young lady was very accomplished and
belonged to an excellent family; also that Lady Vivian had
first heard of her during her late visit in Brittany. In
answer to the question whether this young lady arrived with
Lady Vivian in London, the housekeeper replied that she did
not,--she had joined her ladyship only a few days ago. Thus
I feel certain that Madeleine is found. I leave for London
at once, and, not many days after you receive this letter,
you may expect to see us both; for I will never cease my
supplications until Madeleine yields and returns with me to
the Château de Gramont. I know what joy this intelligence
will give you, my dear little cousin, and my joy is
increased by the reflection of yours."
The count broke off without reading the concluding lines of the letter,
and remarked,--
"Maurice came to a hasty conclusion. If Lady Vivian's _dame de
compagnie_ should prove to be Madeleine, as it _may_ be, there is no
certainty that she will yield to his persuasions and return to us.
Madeleine is very obstinate and self-willed. You must pardon me, Bertha,
for throwing a damper upon your hopes, but I would spare you too severe
disappointment."
"I shall _not_ be disappointed. I feel sure Maurice has discovered
Madeleine: _that_ is all I ask for the present. You may be right about
her refusing to return here,--I dare say you are; but _that_ will not
make me miserable, which I should be if we could not find her at all. I
mean to ask my uncle's permission to allow Madeleine to reside with us.
I do not see how he can refuse, and he is very indulgent; so that,
whether Madeleine consents to return here, or not, we shall not be
wholly parted."
Bertha did not suspect into what a fury her words were lashing the
count, nor did she divine the machinations already at work within his
perfidious spirit to defeat her kindly purpose.