"My dear father, you will endeavor to be calm,—will you not? I am fearful this excitement will injure you, and my grandmother will never forgive me if you become worse through my imprudence. She must not know that we have been to Madeleine's. It would render her uselessly indignant; but Madeleine will be so overjoyed to see you once more that I could not refuse to comply with your wishes."
The count murmured to himself, rather than replied to his son,—
"Good angel! My good angel! We are going to her! We are very near—there! that's the house yonder. I'd know it among a thousand! Maurice, I'm well! I'm strong! I want nothing now but to see Madeleine! It's all right—is it not? She settled about that mortgage—she obtained us those votes—there's no more trouble! Nobody knows what a scoundrel I have been! I remember all clearly. I am very joyful; I must tell Madeleine; I must say to her that she—she—she brought something of heaven down to me; there must be a heaven, for where else could Madeleine belong?"
Maurice had not heard his father speak as much or as connectedly for a month. His face was pleasantly animated, in spite of its unnatural expression, and he moved his arms about so freely it was evident the weight which had pressed with paralyzing force upon them was removed.
The carriage stopped. Maurice could scarcely prevent his father from springing out before him and without assistance.
The silent Robert looked his surprise and gratification as he opened the street door. While Maurice was inquiring where his mistress would be found, Count Tristan pressed on alone, walking with a firm, rapid step. He entered the first room. It was Madeleine's bed-chamber; the one he himself had occupied during his illness. It was vacant. He passed on, crying out,—
"Madeleine! Madeleine!" He looked into the drawing-room, then into the dining-room, still calling, "Madeleine! Madeleine!"
He hurried on toward the well-remembered little boudoir. There Madeleine was sitting at her desk, quietly sketching. When, to her amazement, she heard the count's voice, she thought it was fancy; but the sound was repeated again and again. Those were surely his tones! She started up and opened the door. Count Tristan was standing only a few paces from it,—Maurice behind him.
"Madeleine! Madeleine! I see you. I am happy. I can die now."
As these words burst from his lips, the count staggered forward and sank on Madeleine's shoulder; for she had involuntarily stretched out her arms toward him. The next instant he slipped through them and dropped heavily upon the floor. One glance at his distorted face, and at the foam issuing from his lips, one sound of that stertorous breathing was enough. Maurice and Madeleine knew that he had been struck with apoplexy for the third time!