"My dear father," said Maurice, taking the hand which the count had again lifted and let fall.
No sign of recognition followed.
"What do you think of his state, Madeleine? Is he not better?"
His cousin softly drew near, and taking in her own the hand Maurice had dropped, said, "You know us, Count Tristan, do you not?"
His eyes, as though drawn by her voice, turned quickly, and fastened themselves upon her face; his hands made a nervous clutch, his lips moved, but the sounds were thick and indistinct, yet the first syllable of her name was audible to all.
"Do not try to speak," said Madeleine, soothingly; "you have been very ill; you are still weak; do not endeavor to make any exertion."
He continued to look at her beseechingly, and to clasp her hand more and more tightly,—so tightly that it gave her positive pain, and his quivering lips again made a fruitless effort to utter her name.
"Tristan, my son!" exclaimed the countess, motioning Madeleine to move aside.
Madeleine attempted to obey, but could not release her hand from its imprisonment.
Count Tristan did not appear to hear, or rather to recognize the voice of his mother, although she continued to address him in a loud tone, and to beg, almost to command, him to listen to her. Maurice also spoke to him, but without making any impression on his mind. There was no meaning in his gaze when it rested on the faces of either; but his eyes, the instant they fell upon Madeleine's countenance, grew less glassy, more living, and through them the darkened soul looked dimly out.