"Madeleine, is it possible? How mistaken I have been! You do not love our cousin Maurice. Poor Maurice! It is a dreadful blow to him. And you love some one else. But whom? I know of no gentleman who comes here often,—who is on an intimate footing at the château,—except"—
A painful suspicion for the first time shot through her mind, and made her pause. Could it be Gaston de Bois whom Madeleine preferred? She always treated him with such marked courtesy. There was no one else,—it must be he! Bertha could not frame the question that hovered about her lips, though to have heard it answered in the negative would have made her heart leap for joy.
Madeleine was too much absorbed by her own reflections to divine those of her cousin.
"At all events," said Bertha, trying to rally and talk cheerfully, though she could not chase that haunting fear from her thoughts, "my aunt is no longer angry with you, and cousin Tristan was well pleased. They will treat you better after this, and your home will be happier."
"My home?" ejaculated Madeleine, in a tone that made Bertha start.
"Yes, yours, until you exchange it for that of the favored lover, of whose name you make such a mystery."
"That will never be!"
"Never? Does he not love you, then? But I know he does,—he must. Every one loves you; no one can help it,—you win all hearts!"
"Count Tristan's, for instance," remarked Madeleine, bitterly.