The countess was gazing upon Madeleine with an air of stupefied grief. Bertha, who had no control over her passionate sorrow, as her eyes fell upon Madame de Gramont, cried out, reproachfully,—
"Aunt, but for her, you would have been killed! You who never loved her! She has lost her life in trying to save yours!"
The countess did not appear to heed the cruel words, though they were the echo of her own thoughts.
Mrs. Lawkins' skilful ministry had stanched the blood and Madeleine's head and arm were bound up; but still she lay like some lovely statue, her lips apart and hueless,—her eyes closed, and the dark lashes sweeping her alabaster cheeks; while her long hair, still dripping with its crimson moisture, was lifted over the pillow. As Mrs. Lawkins, having accomplished her sad task, drew back, Maurice pressed into her place, and Bertha crowded in beside him, loading the senseless Madeleine with caresses and tender epithets; then, as she turned to her aunt, who had raised herself on her elbow, and was also bending over the lifeless figure, exclaimed impetuously,—
"Oh! how could you help loving her? We all loved her so much! Cousin Tristan said she was his good angel, and she has been the good angel of all our family; but our good angel is gone! We have lost her through you!"
Bertha's overwhelming sorrow had swept away all her former dread of her aunt, whom her reproaches deeply stung. They were the first Madame de Gramont had ever heard from those timid lips. At that moment the conscience-stricken woman would have made any sacrifice, even of her pride, to have seen Madeleine restored to life. While contemplating that angelic face, now so still and white, torturing fiends recalled all the harsh words she had used to pain this defenceless being,—all the cruel wrong she had done her,—all the misery she had caused her; and now she inwardly prayed that Madeleine might live; but with that prayer arose the thought that the supplication of such a one as she would remain unheard in heaven.
Mrs. Lawkins, aided by Maurice, was applying restoratives. With his arm beneath Madeleine's head, he was holding a spoon to her lips, and, with gentle force, pouring its contents into her mouth, watching her with the most thrilling anxiety. He thought a slight movement of the lips was perceptible; then they quivered more certainly, and she made an effort to swallow.
The countess was the first one that spoke: "She is not dead! I am spared that!"
She sank back upon her pillow and wept.
No one present had ever seen her weep; but now she did not try to hide her tears; they gushed forth in fierce torrents, like a stream that breaks forth through severed icebergs; for in her soul the ice that had gathered to mountain heights was melting at last.