"No,—not so far as Paris,—you remember the journey is but short between Washington and Charleston."
Maurice had not deliberately intended to force upon the countess the consciousness of her present position; but it was too late to retract.
She raised herself in the bed, leaning with difficulty upon her wasted arm, and asked, in a frightened tone,—
"Where,—where am I then?"
"In Washington, my dear grandmother. Have you forgotten how my poor father was"—
"Hush! hush!" she gasped out, "I cannot endure it. Let me think! let me think!"
She sank back upon the pillow with closed eyes, and the workings of her features testified that recollection was dawning upon her.
After a time she cried out,—for it was a veritable cry,—"And this house,—this bed where I am lying,—O God! it is too much!"
Maurice was at a loss to know what to do. He waited to see if she would not question him, would not speak again; but, as she lay silent and motionless, he retired and sought his cousins.
"Do not be so much distressed," prayed Madeleine, when she heard what he had to relate. "This was unavoidable,—your grandmother's intellect was not disturbed,—her memory only seemed quiescent; the most casual circumstance might, at any moment, have awakened her recollection of the past; it is as well that it should be recalled to-day as to-morrow. Come, Bertha, we will go to her."