e daily swallowed up, and
from which they emerge sullied and debased. You do not know that, while
I am here beside you, listening to the sound of your voice, holding your
hand, gazing upon your face, I feel like one inspired, who has power to
make his life glorious and keep it pure! Madeleine, would you have me
great, distinguished? I shall become so if it be your will. Would you
have me lift up our noble name? It shall be exalted at your bidding.
Would you reign over my soul and keep it stainless? It is under your
angel guardianship. Madeleine, best beloved, will you not save me?"

Madeleine only answered with a look which besought Maurice to forbear.

"Is your rhapsody finished at last?" asked Count Tristan, scornfully.
"Is any one else to be permitted to speak?"

"It seems there is but one person whose voice is of any importance to
your son," sneered the countess, "and that is Madeleine. It is for _her_
to speak; it is for her to accomplish her work of base ingratitude; it
is for her to give the last finishing stroke to the fabric she has
secretly been laboring to build up for the last three years."

Madeleine--who, when the voice of Maurice was sounding in her ears, had
been unable to control the agitation which caused her breast to heave,
and her frame to quiver from head to foot, while confusion flung its
crimson mantle over her face--grew suddenly calm when she heard these
taunts. The same icy, pallid quietude with which, but a few moments
before, she entered the library, returned. She withdrew the hands
Maurice had clasped in his, lifted her bowed head, and stood erect,
preparing to reply.

"Speak!" commanded the count, furiously. "Speak! since _we_ are nothing
and nobody here, and _you are everything_. Since you are sole arbiter in
this family, speak!"

Madeleine could not at once command her voice.

The countess, arguing the worst from her silence, cried, with
culminating wrath, "Speak, viper! Dart your fangs into the bosom that
has sheltered you: it is bared to receive the deadly stroke; it is ready
to die of your venom! Nothing remains but for you to strike!"

"Take courage, dearest Madeleine," whispered Bertha. "They will not be
angry long. Speak and tell them that you love Maurice as he loves you,
and that you will be the happiest of women if you become his wife."

"Well, your answer, Mademoiselle de Gramont?" urged the countess.

"It will be an answer for which I have only the pardon of Maurice