"I would like to be left alone, dear. Forgive me for sending you away. I shall soon be better when I am alone."
"Impossible, Madeleine!" cried Maurice, his arm still about her waist. "You will not ask me to leave you."
Perhaps she only at that moment became conscious of the supporting arm; for she gently drew herself away, and the palest rose began to tinge her ashy cheek; but it deepened into a sudden crimson flush, as she saw the eyes of the countess angrily fixed upon her.
"Yes, Maurice, do not refuse me. I am better,—I am quite well." And she rose up, forcing her limbs to obey her will. Then, leaning on Bertha's shoulder, whispered, "I entreat you, dear, to make them go,—make them all go; I cannot bear more at this moment. Spare me, if you love me!"
"O Madeleine, how can you?" began Bertha.
But M. de Bois, who had perfect reliance in Madeleine's judgment, felt certain that she herself knew what was best for her, and said,—
"Mademoiselle de Gramont will be better alone. If she will allow me, I will apprise Miss Thornton of her indisposition, and we will take our leave."
Madeleine smiled assent, and sank into her seat; for her limbs were faltering.
M. de Bois could not have uttered words better calculated to induce the countess to take her leave. She had no desire to be found in the boudoir of the mantua-maker by any of Madeleine's friends. She said, commandingly,—
"Bertha—Maurice—I desire you to accompany my son and myself. Mademoiselle de Gramont, though my errand here is not fully accomplished, I wish you good morning."