ommitted.

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 aft