Maurice now turned to Madeleine and said, with the emotion of a genuinely manly nature which is not ashamed to receive a benefit,—
"To owe you so much is not oppressive to me, Madeleine. There is no being on earth, man or woman, to whom I would so willingly be indebted. I know the happiness it confers upon you to be able to do what you have done. I know your thankfulness is greater even than mine; though how great that is, even you cannot"—
"What, Maurice!" broke in the countess; "are you so thoroughly without pride or self-respect that you talk of accepting the bounty of Mademoiselle de Gramont? You consent to receive this charity doled out by the hands of a mantua-maker?"
Maurice grew livid with suppressed anger at this new insult, because it was levelled at Madeleine, rather than at himself.
"My grandmother, when you are calmer, and when I myself am calmer, I will speak to you on this subject."
"How pale you look, Madeleine!" cried Bertha, suddenly. "Surely you are ill!"
These words caused Maurice and M. de Bois to spring to the side of Madeleine. Her strength had been over-taxed by the emotions of the last few days, and it suddenly gave way. It was by a strong effort of volition that she prevented herself from fainting. Maurice, who had caught her in his arms, placed her tenderly in a chair, and for a moment her beautiful head fell upon his shoulder; but she struggled against the insensibility which was stealing over her, and feebly waved her hand in the direction of a small table upon which stood a tumbler and a carafe of water. M. de Bois poured some water into the glass and would have held it to her lips; but Maurice took the tumbler from him, and, as Madeleine drank, the delight of ministering to her overcame his alarm at her indisposition, and sent shivering through his frame a thrill of almost rapture.
In a few moments she lifted her eyes over which the lids had drooped heavily, and, trying to smile, sat up and made an effort to speak; but the pale lips moved without sound, and her countenance still wore a ghastly hue.
"Are you better, my own dear Madeleine? What can I do for you?" asked Bertha, who was kneeling in front of her.
Madeleine murmured faintly,—