Madeleine and Bertha entered the room together, but the ever cowardly Bertha drew back, and Madeleine approached the bed alone. The countess opened her eyes, looked at her a moment, as though to be quite certain of her identity, then turned her face to the pillow and murmured, "Where is Bertha?"
"Bertha is here," said Madeleine, motioning Bertha to take her place, as she drew back.
Madeleine felt that the countess had turned from her because her presence was painful; with a light step, but a heart once more grown heavy, she withdrew.
Bertha stood by her aunt's side without daring to disturb her by a word. After a time the countess unclosed her eyes again and looked around the room; then, gazing at Bertha, said slowly,—
"It all comes back,—it was like a frightful dream at first,—but the reality is more terrible! Bertha,—Bertha,—I have so little left! You love me? You will not forsake me?"
Bertha had never before heard her imperious aunt make an appeal to any human being; what wonder that she was melted?
The countess resumed, with increasing agitation, "You were to have gone back with me to Brittany,—you, and Maurice, and his"—
There came a break,—she could not name her dead son. Death to her was the harsh blow dealt by a merciless hand, snatching its victim away in retributive wrath,—not the wise and mild summons that bids suffering mortality exchange a circumscribed, lower life for a larger, higher, happier existence.
It was some time before Madame de Gramont could continue; then she said, "I must go back, Bertha! I cannot die out of those old walls! It was you, you who lured me from them. We will return to them. You will go with us, Bertha?"
"I will," replied Bertha, though her heart sank as she uttered the words. She had thought that the project of returning to France was wholly abandoned.