Madeleine only replied, "There is no necessity for a decision until you have consulted the physician."
Maurice thought it wise to echo her words; the countess was partially soothed, for the time being, and sat down to await the coming of Dr. Bayard.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE MANTUA-MAKER'S GUESTS.
Around Count Tristan's bed were grouped in silence his four nearest of kin, waiting for the physician who was to decide upon the possibility of removal. The countess sat erect and motionless by her son's head. Her countenance wore a look of granite hardness, as though she were fighting her grief with Spartan-like determination which would not let her admit, even to herself, that any anguish preyed upon her heart. Maurice sat at the foot of the bed, mournfully watching the spasmodic movements of his stricken father: they were but feeble and few. Madeleine had placed herself upon the other side of the couch. Her instinctive delicacy prompted her to withdraw as far as possible from the countess. Bertha had softly stolen to Madeleine's side, and sat silently clasping her hand, and leaning against her shoulder; for hers was one of those clinging, vine-like natures that ever turn for support to the object nearest and strongest.
This was the disposition of the group when Ruth Thornton entered the room on tiptoe and placed a card in Madeleine's hand.
"Did you tell him what had occurred?" whispered Madeleine.
"I did, and he still begged to see you."
Though Ruth spoke in a low voice, Bertha was so near that she heard her reply, and it caused her, almost unconsciously, to glance at the card.