"Madeleine answers for it!" echoed Bertha; "and you know Madeleine has the fingers of a fairy; she can achieve whatever she undertakes. But your own dress, Madeleine?"
"Do not be uneasy about that; we will think of that when the others are ready."
"But if you do not wear a dress that becomes you?" persisted Bertha.
"Why, then I shall have to look at yours, and, remembering that it is my handiwork, be satisfied."
"There is no one like you, Madeleine!" burst forth Maurice, uncontrollably,—"no one! You never think of yourself; you"—
"But, as some one is always good enough to think of me, I deserve little credit on that account," rejoined Madeleine.
"Who could help thinking of you?" murmured Maurice, tenderly.
The countess had not heard the enthusiastic encomium of Maurice, nor his last, involuntary remark. The young man had risen and joined his cousins. His father had taken the vacant seat beside the countess, and was talking to her in a low tone. From the moment he learned that Madeleine's relatives were accidentally assembled at the Château de Tremazan, he had determined to seize that favorable opportunity, and send them the letters requesting that they would by turns offer a home to their poor and orphan relative. These letters, though written upon the day previous, fortunately had not yet been posted. Count Tristan whisperingly communicated his intention to his mother, and received her approval.
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of M. Gaston de Bois, who invariably arrived before other guests made their appearance. M. de Bois was such a martyr to nervous timidity, that he could not summon courage to enter a room full of company, even with some great stimulating compensation in view. On the present occasion, though only the family had assembled, his olive complexion crimsoned as he advanced towards the countess, and his expressive, though irregular and not strictly handsome features became almost distorted; he unconsciously thrust his fingers through his hair, throwing it into startling disorder, and twisted his dark moustache until it stood out with sufficient ferocity to suit the face of a brigand in a melodrama.
But the most painful effect of this bewildering embarrassment evinced itself when he attempted to speak. His utterance became suddenly impeded, and, the more violent his efforts to articulate, the more difficult it seemed for him to utter a distinct sentence. He was painfully near-sighted; yet he always detected the faintest smile upon the countenance of any one present, and interpreted it into an expression of derision.