RECOGNITION.
With electric rapidity flashed the news through Washington that
Mademoiselle Melanie, the fashionable dressmaker, was a lady of rank,--a
heroine,--a being hardly inferior to those disguised princesses who
figure in popular fairy tales. Numberless romantic stories were
fabricated and circulated, and the startling and improbable motives
assigned for her incognita bore witness to the fertile imagination of
the American public.
It may well be imagined that there was but one all-engrossing theme
discussed in the working-rooms of Mademoiselle Melanie's establishment.
Mademoiselle Victorine was not a little disgusted when she learned that
a secret of such moment had been so successfully concealed from her. But
the quick-witted foreigner had too much tact to betray her ignorance by
evincing astonishment in the presence of the _employées_, or the patrons
of Mademoiselle Melanie. On the contrary, Mademoiselle Victorine gave
them to understand that she had all along been the repository of
Mademoiselle de Gramont's secrets, and knew more of her past history and
future plans than was yet suspected.
Madeleine's thoughtful kindness prompted her to make a brief explanation
to Ruth Thornton, whom she had so long treated as a friend, or younger
sister. Ruth was moved and gratified by the unsought confidence; but her
genuine, up-looking veneration for Madeleine could not be increased by
the knowledge that she was the daughter of the late Duke de Gramont.
Madeleine concluded her narrative by saying,--
"One may be very poor, and very dependent, and yet be the daughter of a
duke; and even a duke's daughter may find it less irksome to earn her
own bread than to eat the bread of charity."
Ruth asked, tremblingly, "But now will all go on as before? Will your
noble relatives permit you to continue your present life?"
"My relatives can exert no influence which will turn me from the path I
have chosen," replied Madeleine, divining her young _protegée's_
thoughts. "While Count Tristan remains in my house, _you_ will act as my
representative. When he is restored, or, rather, when he is no longer my
guest, I shall resume my former duties."
Ruth's sinking heart was lifted up by this assurance, and the cloud that
had gathered upon her sweet face passed away, and left it as placid as
Madeleine's own. Madeleine's tranquillizing influence over others was
one of her most remarkable traits. She was not merely calm and
self-possessed herself, but her presence communicated a steadfast,
hopeful calmness that was irresistible.
The _beau monde_ had decided that as Mademoiselle de Gramont's family
had claimed her, she would unhesitatingly abandon her humble occupation,
and assume her legitimate position in the social sphere; and great were
the lamentations over the noble _couturière's_ supposed abdication of
her throne.
The next question to be settled was whether her former patrons should
recognize and visit her as an equal, ignoring their previous
acquaintance. Madame de Fleury was the first to reply to that query. We
will not make ourselves responsible for the assertion that she was
prompted by purely disinterested motives, and the unqualified admiration
with which Mademoiselle Melanie had long since inspired her. It is _just
possible_ that other incentives had their weight in her light head, and
that believing herself about to be deprived of the inventive genius
which had rendered her toilet the glory and delight of her life, she
might have determined to preserve Mademoiselle Melanie's friendship that
she might secure her advice on all important occasions. Be that as it
may, Madame de Fleury immediately left cards for Mademoiselle de
Gramont, and her example was followed by the Countess Orlowski, and a
host of other ladies, who conscientiously walked in her footsteps.
The morning of the third day after Count Tristan's seizure passed much
in the same manner as the second. Maurice conducted his grandmother and
Bertha to Madeleine's residence. The countess was as silent, as frigid,
as immovable as before. She took the same seat, kept the same unbent
position, appeared to be as completely abstracted from what was passing
around her, as on the day previous. Madeleine absented herself, and
Bertha soon stole to her side. M. de Bois, whose vigils, it appeared,
had not fatigued him sufficiently for extra repose to be requisite,
joined them at an early hour.
About noon, Maurice hastily entered Madeleine's boudoir and said, "I
think there is some change in my father; his face is much paler and his
eyes appear to be wandering about with a faint sign of consciousness;
the motion of his right hand is restored, for he has lifted it several
times. Pray come to him, Madeleine."
"I only banished myself in the fear that my presence would not be
agreeable to the countess," replied Madeleine. "Do you think it will not
now pain her to see me?"
"I cannot tell, but you _must_ come."
Madeleine obeyed.
The countess had risen and was bending over the bed.
"My son! Tristan, my son! do you not hear your mother?" she cried, in a
hollow, unnatural voice.
His eyes still gazed restlessly about, with a helpless, hopeless,
supplicating look.
"My dear father," said Maurice, taking the hand which the count had
again lifted and let fall.
No sign of recognition followed.
"What do you think of his state, Madeleine? Is he not better?"
His cousin softly drew near, and taking in her own the hand Maurice had
dropped, said, "You know us, Count Tristan, do you not?"
His eyes, as though drawn by her voice, turned quickly, and fastened
themselves upon her face; his hands made a nervous clutch, his lips
moved, but the sounds were thick and indistinct, yet the first syllable
of her name was audible to all.
"Do not try to speak," said Madeleine, soothingly; "you have been very
ill; you are still weak; do not endeavor to make any exertion."
He continued to look at her beseechingly, and to clasp her hand more and
more tightly,--so tightly that it gave her positive pain, and his
quivering lips again made a fruitless effort to utter her name.
"Tristan, my son!" exclaimed the countess, motioning Madeleine to move
aside.
Madeleine attempted to obey, but could not release her hand from its
imprisonment.
Count Tristan did not appear to hear, or rather to recognize the voice
of his mother, although she continued to address him in a loud tone, and
to beg, almost to command, him to listen to her. Maurice also spoke to
him, but without making any impression on his mind. There was no meaning
in his gaze when it rested on the faces of either; but his eyes, the
instant they fell upon Madeleine's countenance, grew less glassy, more
_living_, and through them the darkened soul looked dimly out.
Whatever might have been the internal sufferings of the countess, they
did not conquer her stoicism. She resumed her seat, and her lips were
again sealed; their close compression and ashy hue alone told that the
torture of the mental rack upon which she was stretched had been
augmented.
As soon as Madeleine felt the count's hand relaxing its firm grasp, she
withdrew hers, though he made a faint attempt to detain her. As she
retired from the bed, his eyes followed her, and his lips moved again.
"You are not going, Madeleine?" questioned Maurice. "My father evidently
knows you,--wants you near him; you are the only one he recognizes; do
not leave us!"
Was that low, stifled sound which reached their ears, in spite of the
firmly-compressed lips of the countess, an inward sob or groan?
As Madeleine sat down, Dr. Bayard entered. Maurice related what had
passed, and the doctor requested Madeleine to address the patient. That
he made an effort to reply was unmistakable. Dr. Bayard then spoke to
the count, but without attracting his attention. He desired Maurice to
accost him, but no better result ensued. He signified to the countess
that she should do the same; but the agony of beholding her son
recognize, cling to one toward whom she entertained the bitterest
enmity, while the voice of his mother--his mother who loved him with all
the strength of her proud nature--was unheeded, became intolerable. She
rose up, not quickly, but with all her wonted stateliness, and with a
firm and measured pace walked out of the room. She had no definite
purpose,--she did not know where she was going, or where she wished to
go,--but she could not abide the sight forced upon her eyes in that
chamber.
"Maurice, attend your grandmother," whispered Madeleine.
Maurice had not thought of stirring, but he rose and opened the door of
the adjoining room.
"Leave me! I would be alone!" said the countess, as he entered.
He returned to his father's side.
Dr. Bayard was giving his orders to Madeleine. A crisis had just passed,
he said. Count Tristan was better; there was reason to hope that he
would recover. One side was still paralyzed and there was partial
paralysis of the tongue. His mind, too, was in a torpid state, but might
gradually awaken. As Madeleine was the person whom he recognized, it
would be well for her to remain near him and minister to his wants.
Madeleine was more than content.
An hour passed and the countess did not return to her son's bedside.
Maurice, at Madeleine's suggestion, ventured to intrude upon her. She
appeared to be lost in a deep revery, and did not raise her eyes at his
approach.
"I fear you are not well, my grandmother; will you not allow me to
conduct you home?"
"I am _well_," she answered bitterly, "but I will go. My presence is of
no use here; my own son ignores it!"
She spoke as though the invalid had refused to recognize her for the
express purpose of adding a fresh insult to those which an evil fortune,
a malicious chance (to use her own expressions), had heaped upon her
head.
Without again visiting her son's chamber, she entered the carriage which
Maurice had ordered; he took his seat opposite to her, and neither
remembered, until they entered the hotel, that Bertha was left behind.
"I was thinking so much of my poor father that I quite forgot Bertha,"
he said, apologetically. "I will return for her at once."
"Yes, go, go!" was all the countess replied.