DOUBLE CONVALESCENCE.
A fortnight passed on. At its close the vigorous constitution of the
countess, united to her powerful volition, gained a victory over her
malady. She had remained unshaken in her resolution not to receive
medical advice; she had taken no remedies,--used no precautions; yet
the fever had been conquered. Her strength began to return, and she
insisted upon leaving her bed, and being dressed, not as befits an
invalid, but in her usual precise and _soigné_ style. Adolphine timidly
suggested that a wrapper would be more comfortable than her ordinary
attire, and a morning cap would allow her to repose her head. The
countess awed her into silence by remarking:
"I keep my chamber no longer. I shall dress in a manner suitable to the
drawing-room."
During the progress of the tedious toilet, it was more than once
apparent that she was battling against a sense of faintness; but even
this discomfort did not induce her to allow a single pin to be less
conscientiously placed, a single curl less carefully smoothed. Adolphine
did not dare to betray that she perceived the failure of her mistress'
strength, and had not courage to offer her a glass of water. When the
folds of her heavy black silk dress were adjusted, her collar and
sleeves, of rich lace, arranged, her girdle tightly clasped with a
buckle of brilliants which was an heirloom, and her snowy hair
ornamented with a Parisian head-dress of mingled lace, velvet, and
flowers, she contemplated herself in the mirror as complacently as
though she perceived no change in her shrunken, haggard, altered
features, and rose up to proceed to the _salon_.
Her first steps were so feeble and uncertain that Adolphine started
forward involuntarily, to offer her arm; but a look from her mistress
made her draw back, and the tread of the countess grew firmer as she
entered the drawing-room. She did not sink into the nearest seat, but
crossed the apartment to the arm-chair which she was accustomed to
occupy; but she had hardly sat down, before her eyes closed and her head
fell back; her face was as white as that of the dead. Adolphine caught
up a bottle of cologne; but she stood in such fear of the countess, that
without using the restorative she ran to summon Bertha. Bertha
approached her aunt in great alarm, but sprinkled the cologne on her
face with lavish hands, applied it to her nostrils, and bathed her
temples. In a few moments Madame de Gramont opened her eyes and said,--
"A little on my handkerchief, Bertha. Adolphine carelessly forgot to
give me any."
Her proud, unconquered spirit would not admit the passing insensibility
of its mortal part. There was nothing to be done except for her niece
and maid to appear unconscious of the weakness which she herself
ignored. Adolphine placed a footstool beneath her mistress' feet and
retired. Bertha went to the window and looked out,--a favorite amusement
of hers, as we are aware.
The fortnight had been one of severe privation and discipline to her.
She had not once seen Madeleine, for she could not have left her aunt,
except when Maurice was with her, and the countess would not have
permitted her niece to go forth unprotected by Maurice or her maid, and
the latter could not be spared. The escort of Bertha's affianced husband
Madame de Gramont would have considered highly improper.
Gaston's visits, though he came every day, were brief and
unsatisfactory; for the countess, who could not forbid them, (as she
felt inclined to do), ordered the large folding-doors which divided her
chamber from the drawing-room to be left open, and desired Adolphine to
take her work into the latter apartment. Conversation in an ordinary
tone was quite audible to the countess, and could not but be heard by
Adolphine, who had a tolerable knowledge of English. What lover cares to
converse to more than one listener?
Bertha pined for the fresh air,--for a drive in the country, or, better
still, a stroll in the capitol grounds with Gaston; but this latter was
a happiness almost as far out of her reach as the paradise which she
deemed it foreshadowed.
The countess had grown highly irascible during her illness, and as
Bertha and her maid were the only ones upon whom she had a chance of
venting her spleen, she spared neither. She experienced a sick longing
for her native land; she more than ever detested the republican country
in which she was sojourning, and she heaped upon Bertha the bitterest
reproaches as the instigator of the exile which had been followed by so
many calamities. The countess never condescended to remember that her
wealthy young relative had liberally borne all expenses since they left
the Château de Gramont, where its owners had no longer the means of
residing. Of this fact she might be supposed to be ignorant, as she
never vouchsafed a thought to _money matters_; it, however, had been
made known to her by Count Tristan before she consented to the journey;
but the _trivial circumstance_ was quickly forgotten.
While Bertha was dreamily looking out of the window, and wondering when
she would be freed from this prison-like life, she heard the door open,
and turned quickly, hoping to greet the all-brightening presence. It was
Robert, Madeleine's servant, who entered bearing a silver salver. Bertha
had not supposed that the countess would, without warning, occupy her
usual place in the drawing-room, and had not guarded against Robert's
being seen. The young girl was so much discomposed that she stood
motionless, aghast, expecting some terrible outburst from her aunt.
Robert had admitted the countess at each of her compulsory visits to the
residence of "Mademoiselle Melanie," and it seemed hardly possible that
she would not recognize him again. Bertha ought to have known Madame de
Gramont better than to have supposed she would have stooped to bestow
glances enough upon a servant of Madeleine's, or, indeed, any servant,
to know his features. Robert placed the salver upon the table, and
either because he was naturally a silent man, or because the presence of
the countess struck him dumb, or because he had no message to deliver
that morning, retired without speaking. Bertha looked anxiously at her
aunt; the immobility of her features was reassuring.
The salver bore a pitcher of admirably prepared chocolate, made by
Madeleine herself, a plate carefully covered with a napkin, containing a
delicate species of Normandy cake, to which the countess had been
particularly partial in Brittany (Madeleine had remembered the recipe),
and a dish of enormous strawberries, served, according to the French
custom, with their stems. It occurred to Bertha, for the first time,
that perhaps there was a cipher upon Madeleine's plate which would
betray from whence it came; she examined a spoon before she ventured to
present the tray to her aunt. The silver only bore the letter "M."
Bertha, considerably relieved, but still flurried by the peril she had
just escaped, placed a small table before Madame de Gramont, then poured
out and handed her the chocolate in silence, fearing to provoke some
question.
The countess, who was growing faint again, gladly accepted the
nourishing beverage, and even ate several cakes. She seemed to enjoy
them, for it was long since she had spoken in so pleasant a tone as when
she remarked,--
"These cakes remind me of our noble old château; one would hardly
suppose that they would be found in America."
Bertha suspected who had made the cakes, and, to draw her aunt's
attention away from them, said,--
"What delicious strawberries! And how fragrant they are!"
The countess took one by the stem, and dipped it in the sugar, but with
a disparaging look. It was large and juicy, and possessed a rich flavor
and an aromatic odor which French strawberries can seldom boast; but the
countess would not have admitted the superiority even of American fruit
over that of her own country, and after tasting a few of the
strawberries returned to the cake which reminded her of her forsaken
home.
How fared it with Count Tristan during the fortnight in which he had not
seen his august mother? Under judicious and tender care, he had
steadily, rapidly improved. His mental faculties had been sufficiently
restored for him to recognize every one around him, but his memory was
still clouded, and his thoughts sadly confused. He had partially
recovered his articulation, though his speech continued to be thick and
at times unintelligible. His limbs also had been partly freed from the
thraldom of paralysis, but were still heavy and numb, as though they had
long worn chains. He clung to Madeleine more eagerly than ever, and
seemed to be disturbed and uncomfortable except when she was near him.
He had a vague consciousness that she was the medium through which all
good flowed in to him, and often repeated, as he held her hand,--
"You,--you--yes, you, Madeleine, you saved us all! Good angel--good
angel!"
That her ministry in the sick-room was so grateful to the sufferer was
not surprising; for a gentle, efficient hand which knows precisely how
to make a pillow yield the best support,--a low, soft, yet encouraging
voice,--a cheerful, yet sympathizing face,--a soundless step,--garments
that never rustle,--movements that make no noise,--are among the chief
blessings to an invalid.
The count seemed less happy at the sight of his son; his mind was
haunted by an undefined fear that there was something Maurice would
learn which would make him shrink from his father,--which would disgrace
both; the sufferer had quite forgotten that the discovery he dreaded had
already been made. When he looked at Maurice he often muttered the
words,--
"Unincumbered,--no mortgage,--of course it's all right,--power of
attorney untouched,--leave all to me!"
At other times he would plead, in broken sentences, for pardon, and
denounce himself as a villain who had ruined his only son.
It was a somewhat singular coincidence that the very morning the
countess had risen and dressed for the first time for a fortnight, Count
Tristan appeared to be so much more restless than usual that Madeleine
suggested he should be conducted to her boudoir. Maurice assisted him to
rise, enveloped him in a comfortable _robe de chambre_, and, with the
help of Robert, led him to that pleasant, peace-breathing apartment,
where she had arranged an easy-chair with pillows, had opened the doors
of the conservatory to admit the odorous air, and had shaded the windows
that the light might be softened to an invalid's eyes.
He smiled placidly and gratefully as he looked toward the flowers, and
stretched out his hand to Madeleine. She took her place on a low seat,
her little sewing-chair, and, unbidden, sang some of the wild, old
strains to which he had often listened in the ancient château. The sigh
he heaved was one of pleasure, as though his heart felt too full, but
not of care. Madeleine sang on, ballad after ballad, for she could not
pause while he appeared to be so calmly happy, and her voice only died
away as she felt the hand that clasped hers relax its hold, and, looking
up, she found that her patient was gently slumbering.
Maurice had sat listening and gazing as one spellbound, but Madeleine
roused him by saying,--
"It is long past your usual hour for visiting your grandmother. Had you
not better go? I think it likely your father will sleep some time. The
change of scene and the fresh air have lulled him into a tranquil
slumber."
"And your voice had nothing to do with his rest?" asked Maurice,
tenderly.
"Any old crone's would serve as well for a lullaby," she answered,
playfully. "Now go, and be sure you find out whether the countess liked
the chocolate and those Normandy cakes."