Maurice mechanically obeyed and laid Madeleine upon the same bed which bore the countess.
The nurse was the only one whose presence of mind had not completely departed, and she hurried from the room to send for medical assistance.
Maurice, as he clasped Madeleine in his arms, groaned out, "She is killed! she is dead! Oh, my Madeleine, my Madeleine! are you gone? Madeleine! Madeleine!"
Madeleine gave no sign of life, though the blood still flowed.
Mrs. Lawkins, who had returned, tried to force him away—entreated him to let her approach Madeleine, that she might bind up her head and stanch the blood; but he did not hear, or heed,—he was lost in grief. M. de Bois also appealed to him, but in vain; then Gaston attempted to use force to recall him to reason, and, seizing both of Maurice's arms, essayed to unclasp them from their hold of the inanimate form, saying as he did so:
"For the love of Heaven, Maurice, collect yourself; she may bleed to death if you prevent Mrs. Lawkins from doing what is needful to stop the blood."
Maurice struggled with him, as he exclaimed, hopelessly, "She is dead! she is dead!"
"She is not dead, but you may kill her if you refuse to let Mrs. Lawkins bind up her wounds."
Maurice no longer resisted, and Mrs. Lawkins wiped away the blood, and commenced bandaging the fair, wounded head. The pale features had been stained with the crimson flood, and, as Mrs. Lawkins bathed them, their marble whiteness and stillness were appalling.
Bertha had not ceased to sob, though Gaston, the instant he could safely relinquish his hold of Maurice, essayed by every means in his power to soothe her.