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!

CHAPTER IX.

THE EMPTY PLACE.

It chanced that Bertha's letter to Maurice was posted the next morning
without the knowledge of Count Tristan and his mother; not, however,
through any preconcerted arrangement on the part of Bertha. Her
character was so frank, so transparent,--her actions were always so
unveiled,--her thoughts flowed in such an instinctive current toward her
lips,--that the idea of concealment could have no spontaneous existence
in her mind. She made no allusion to the letter until it was gone; but
that was purely accidental, though not the less fortunate. Had Count
Tristan been aware that such a letter had been written, it would never
have reached its destination.

It was somewhat singular that the count, whose code of honor would have
forced him to resent, at the sword's point, the faintest hint that he
could be guilty of an unworthy action, would not have scrupled to
intercept a letter, to distort a fact (we use the mildest phrase), to
stoop to a