ust be taken
to the hotel, where I can watch by him."

"You would not have the attempt made at the risk of his life?" remarked
Maurice, with more sternness than he intended.

Madeleine gently interposed.

"Dr. Bayard, the physician who was called in, promised to return in a
couple of hours: he must be here shortly: will it not be best to ask his
opinion? And if he says Count Tristan cannot yet be removed with safety,
I entreat, madame, that you will allow me to place this suite of
apartments at your disposal and his. They are wholly disconnected with
the rest of the house, and you can be as private as you desire."

"Do you expect _me_ to remain under this roof? _Your roof?_ Do you
imagine that I will allow my son to remain here, even in his present
condition? Oh, this is too much! This would be more terrible than all
the rest! I could not humble myself to endure _that!_"

The countess spoke in a perfect agony of mortification.

Madeleine only replied, "There is no necessity for a decision until you
have consulted the physician."

Maurice thought it wise to echo her words; the countess was partially
soothed, for the time being, and sat down to await the coming of Dr.
Bayard.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MANTUA-MAKER'S GUESTS.

Around Count Tristan's bed were grouped in silence his four nearest of
kin, waiting for the physician who was to decide upon the possibility of
removal. The countess sat erect and motionless by her son's head. Her
countenance wore a look of granite hardness, as though she were fighting
her grief with _Spartan_-like determination which would not let her
admit, even to herself, that any anguish preyed upon her heart. Maurice
sat at the foot of the bed, mournfully watching the spasmodic movements
of his stricken father: they were but feeble and few. Madeleine had
placed herself upon the other side of the couch. Her instinctive
delicacy prompted her to withdraw as far as possible from the countess.
Bertha had softly stolen to Madeleine's side, and sat silently clasping
her hand, and leaning against her shoulder; for hers was one of those
clinging, vine-like natures that ever turn for support to the object
nearest and strongest.

This was the disposition of the group when Ruth Thornton entered the
room on tiptoe and placed a card in Madeleine's hand.

"Did you tell him what had occurred?" whispered Madeleine.

"I did, and he still begged to see you."

Though Ruth spoke in a low voice