While Bertha was dreamily looking out of the window, and wondering when she would be freed from this prison-like life, she heard the door open, and turned quickly, hoping to greet the all-brightening presence. It was Robert, Madeleine's servant, who entered bearing a silver salver. Bertha had not supposed that the countess would, without warning, occupy her usual place in the drawing-room, and had not guarded against Robert's being seen. The young girl was so much discomposed that she stood motionless, aghast, expecting some terrible outburst from her aunt. Robert had admitted the countess at each of her compulsory visits to the residence of "Mademoiselle Melanie," and it seemed hardly possible that she would not recognize him again. Bertha ought to have known Madame de Gramont better than to have supposed she would have stooped to bestow glances enough upon a servant of Madeleine's, or, indeed, any servant, to know his features. Robert placed the salver upon the table, and either because he was naturally a silent man, or because the presence of the countess struck him dumb, or because he had no message to deliver that morning, retired without speaking. Bertha looked anxiously at her aunt; the immobility of her features was reassuring.
The salver bore a pitcher of admirably prepared chocolate, made by Madeleine herself, a plate carefully covered with a napkin, containing a delicate species of Normandy cake, to which the countess had been particularly partial in Brittany (Madeleine had remembered the recipe), and a dish of enormous strawberries, served, according to the French custom, with their stems. It occurred to Bertha, for the first time, that perhaps there was a cipher upon Madeleine's plate which would betray from whence it came; she examined a spoon before she ventured to present the tray to her aunt. The silver only bore the letter "M." Bertha, considerably relieved, but still flurried by the peril she had just escaped, placed a small table before Madame de Gramont, then poured out and handed her the chocolate in silence, fearing to provoke some question.
The countess, who was growing faint again, gladly accepted the nourishing beverage, and even ate several cakes. She seemed to enjoy them, for it was long since she had spoken in so pleasant a tone as when she remarked,—
"These cakes remind me of our noble old château; one would hardly suppose that they would be found in America."
Bertha suspected who had made the cakes, and, to draw her aunt's attention away from them, said,—
"What delicious strawberries! And how fragrant they are!"
The countess took one by the stem, and dipped it in the sugar, but with a disparaging look. It was large and juicy, and possessed a rich flavor and an aromatic odor which French strawberries can seldom boast; but the countess would not have admitted the superiority even of American fruit over that of her own country, and after tasting a few of the strawberries returned to the cake which reminded her of her forsaken home.
How fared it with Count Tristan during the fortnight in which he had not seen his august mother? Under judicious and tender care, he had steadily, rapidly improved. His mental faculties had been sufficiently restored for him to recognize every one around him, but his memory was still clouded, and his thoughts sadly confused. He had partially recovered his articulation, though his speech continued to be thick and at times unintelligible. His limbs also had been partly freed from the thraldom of paralysis, but were still heavy and numb, as though they had long worn chains. He clung to Madeleine more eagerly than ever, and seemed to be disturbed and uncomfortable except when she was near him. He had a vague consciousness that she was the medium through which all good flowed in to him, and often repeated, as he held her hand,—
"You,—you—yes, you, Madeleine, you saved us all! Good angel—good angel!"
That her ministry in the sick-room was so grateful to the sufferer was not surprising; for a gentle, efficient hand which knows precisely how to make a pillow yield the best support,—a low, soft, yet encouraging voice,—a cheerful, yet sympathizing face,—a soundless step,—garments that never rustle,—movements that make no noise,—are among the chief blessings to an invalid.