sis in Gaston de Bois sprang out of the hope-inspiring words
Madeleine had dropped on that day which closed so darkly on the duke's
orphan daughter. Those few, passing, precious words had fallen like
fructuous seed and struck deep root in Gaston's spirit; and, as the
germs shot upward, every branch was covered with blossoms of hope which
perfumed his nights and days. He dared to believe that Bertha did not
look upon him with disdain,--that she sympathized with the misfortune
which debarred him from free intercourse with society,--that a deeper
interest might emanate from this compassionate regard. The possibility
of becoming worthy of her no longer appeared a dream so wild and
baseless; but he was too modest, too distrustful of himself, to have
given that golden dream entertainment had it not been inspired by
Madeleine's kindly breath.

The third cause which combined with the two just mentioned to
revolutionize his character will unfold itself hereafter.

The more cognizant M. de Bois became that powerful influences were
vivifying, strengthening, and bringing order out of confusion in his own
mind, the more troubled he felt in pondering over the disordered mental
condition of Maurice. During a whole month after their accidental
encounter in the street he called repeatedly at the lodgings of the
viscount, but never once found him at home. Half discouraged, yet
unwilling to abandon the hope of an interview, he persisted in his
fruitless visits. One morning, to his unbounded satisfaction, when he
inquired of the _concierge_ if M. de Gramont was within, an affirmative
answer was returned. Gaston could hardly credit the welcome
intelligence, and involuntarily repeated the question.

"Ah, yes, poor young gentleman! he's not likely to be out again soon!"
replied his informant, in a pitying tone.

Without waiting for an explanation of the mysterious words, M. de Bois
quickly ascended to the fifth story, and, being admitted into the
antechamber by a neat-looking domestic, knocked at the door of the
apartment which was indicated to him.

The voice of a stranger bade him enter. He turned the doorknob with
shaking hand. The room was so small that it could be taken in at a
single glance. It was a plain, almost furniture-less apartment. In the
narrow bed lay Maurice. His eyes--those great, blue eyes which so
strongly resembled Bertha's--were glittering with the wild lights of
delirium; fever burned on his cheeks and seemed to sc