It had gone, stained with many evil passions,—perhaps crimes,—but what its sentence was before the High Tribunal, who shall dare to say? That erring spirit had recognized good, and therefore could not be wholly unsanctified by good; it had repented, and therefore sin was no longer loved; all the rest was dark; but He who, speaking in metaphors, forbade the "bruised reed" to be broken, or "smoking flax" to be quenched, might have seen light, invisible to mortal eyes, even about a soul as shadowed as that of Count Tristan de Gramont.
The countess had been the only one who doubted that he would die, yet she was the first to perceive that he was gone. She uttered a piercing, discordant cry, and with her arms frantically extended, flung herself upon the corpse. Her long self-restraint, her curbing back of emotion, made the sudden shock more terrible; she fell into violent convulsions.
Maurice bore her into the adjoining apartment, followed by Madeleine, Bertha, and Mrs. Lawkins. When the convulsions ceased she was delirious with fever.
Madeleine ordered the room Maurice had occupied to be speedily prepared for her reception. Her delirium lasted for many days. Had she recovered her senses, she would assuredly have commanded that the corpse of her son should be removed to the hotel, that his funeral might take place from thence; but Maurice thought it no humiliation that the funeral of the proud Count Tristan de Gramont should move from the doors of that mantua-maker niece who had saved his name from dishonor by the products of her labor.
Count Tristan had few friends, or even acquaintances in Washington. Maurice and Gaston were chief mourners. The Marquis de Fleury and his suite, Mr. Hilson, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Walton, and Ronald, accompanied the corpse to its last resting-place.
Bertha had taken up her residence at Madeleine's. Maurice remained at the hotel,—that is, he slept there, but the larger portion of his hours was passed beneath Madeleine's roof.
That Madeleine was his betrothed was tacitly understood, though no word had been spoken on the subject, and her manner toward him was little changed. She loved him with all the intensity and strength of her large nature, but her love could not, like Bertha's, find expression in words, in loving looks, and caressing ways. Maurice was content, even though he could never know how inexpressibly dear he was to her. His was one of those generous natures which experience more delight in loving than in being loved. He never believed that Madeleine's love could equal his, and he argued that it could not because there was so much more to love in her than there was in him, and a true, pure, holy love, loves the attributes that are lovable rather than the mere person to whom they appertain. Maurice asked but little! A gentle pressure of the hand,—a soft smile,—a passing look of tenderness, though it was certain to be quickly veiled by the dropped lids,—a casual word of endearment timidly, reluctantly spoken, or, oftener, spoken unpremeditatedly and followed by a blush; these were food sufficient for his great passion,—the one passion of his life, to exist upon. Indeed we are inclined to think that with men of his temperament love is kept in a more vigorous, more actively healthy state by its (apparently) receiving only measured response. A woman who is gifted with the power of throwing her soul into looks, and language and loving ways, runs the risk of producing upon certain men an effect approaching satiety. The woman who has instinctive wisdom will never dash herself against this rock; yet few women are wise; fewer give too little of their rich, heart-treasures than too much.