"Oh, you have come at last!" exclaimed the countess, with acrimony, as Maurice opened the door of his father's chamber. Then, pointing to the count, who still lay in a state of unconsciousness, she added, "Do you see what calamities you leave me alone to bear?—you who are the only stay I have left?"
By the aid of Mrs. Lawkins and the servants of the hotel, the count had been removed to his room. When Maurice entered, Mrs. Lawkins was standing on one side of the bed, Dr. Bayard on the other. The countess was pacing up and down the small chamber like a caged lioness.
Her grandson did not reply to her taunt, but addressed the doctor in a tone too low for her to hear. His answer was a dubious movement of the head which augured ill.
Bertha, who chanced to be in her own chamber, writing to her dyspeptic uncle, had only that moment become aware of what had happened. She stole into the count's room, pale with terror, crept up to Maurice, and clung to his arm as she asked, in a frightened tone,—
"Will he die, Maurice? Is it as bad as that?"
"I cannot tell; I have great fears. But see, he is opening his eyes; he looks better."
The senses of the count were returning; the fit had been of brief duration, and hardly as violent as the one with which he had before been attacked. In a short time it was apparent that he was aware of what was passing around him.
Maurice whispered to Bertha: "Madeleine is in her carriage at the door; put on your bonnet and run down to her,—you will not be missed. Tell her that my father is reviving."
Bertha lost no time in obeying, and was soon sitting by Madeleine's side, receiving rather than giving comfort.
Dr. Bayard, whose visits were necessarily brief, was compelled to leave, but he did so with the assurance that he would return speedily.