Count Tristan dutifully obeyed,—that is to say, he assumed an appearance of compliance, for in a few moments he was galloping toward Rennes.
Evening set in before he returned. His long absence had kindled in the minds of the countess and Bertha a hope that he had discovered some clew, and the latter had worked herself up to such a pitch of excitement that she almost anticipated the return of Madeleine in Count Tristan's company. Her disappointment when, at last, he entered, looking weary and dejected, was proportionate to her expectations. He had made all possible search,—so he said,—and no information concerning the fugitive could be gathered; she was gone! He feared they must now wait patiently until they heard from her. She would doubtless write soon,—a letter might come at any moment. Very possibly she had changed her mind in regard to Lady Vivian's offer, and had accepted it without communicating her intention, because she feared her aunt's displeasure. This was the most likely explanation of her sudden departure. He had called at the Château de Tremazan, and Lady Vivian had left for Scotland two days after the ball. Madeleine was doubtless at this moment on her way to Edinburgh.
The count, though he made this assertion with an air of perfect credence, did not, for a moment, believe that such was Madeleine's destination; but he thought to check persistent inquiries which might accidentally bring to light some fine thread that would lead to the discovery of her retreat.
"Oh, if she goes to Lady Vivian, we will make her return at once,—will we not, aunt?" asked Bertha, catching eagerly at this new hope. "But Madeleine told me distinctly that she had no intention of accepting Lady Vivian's offer."
"There would be no harm in changing her mind," observed the count. "You will find that she has done so; therefore, give yourself no more uneasiness at present."
Bertha would very gladly have followed the count's advice; but, even if she had made the effort, it would have been impossible to drive anxiety for Madeleine out of her thoughts. Several times during the evening she started up, thinking that she heard her voice; if a step echoed in the antechamber, she turned eagerly to the door, her blue eyes greatening with expectation. Once, when the roll of wheels sounded in the distance, she uttered a cry of joy and rushed out upon the porch. Every moment she grew more and more restless and feverish; and when the usual hour for retiring came, she wandered into Madeleine's room, instead of her own, and once more minutely examined the whole chamber. There might, perhaps, be a note somewhere which she had overlooked: after the most diligent search, none was to be found. There were pens, ink, and paper upon the little table which Madeleine generally used, but not a word of writing was visible.
The sight of pen and ink suggested an idea which had not before occurred to Bertha. She sat down and wrote to Maurice. She poured out all her grief upon paper, and it was soothed as if dropped into words upon the blank sheet before her. How often a full heart has had its burden lifted and lightened at the pen's point, as if the sorrow it recorded grew less heavy beneath the calming touch of that potent instrument!