grandmother and
Bertha to Madeleine's residence. The countess was as silent, as frigid,
as immovable as before. She took the same seat, kept the same unbent
position, appeared to be as completely abstracted from what was passing
around her, as on the day previous. Madeleine absented herself, and
Bertha soon stole to her side. M. de Bois, whose vigils, it appeared,
had not fatigued him sufficiently for extra repose to be requisite,
joined them at an early hour.

About noon, Maurice hastily entered Madeleine's boudoir and said, "I
think there is some change in my father; his face is much paler and his
eyes appear to be wandering about with a faint sign of consciousness;
the motion of his right hand is restored, for he has lifted it several
times. Pray come to him, Madeleine."

"I only banished myself in the fear that my presence would not be
agreeable to the countess," replied Madeleine. "Do you think it will not
now pain her to see me?"

"I cannot tell, but you _must_ come."

Madeleine obeyed.

The countess had risen and was bending over the bed.

"My son! Tristan, my son! do you not hear your mother?" she cried, in a
hollow, unnatural voice.

His eyes still gazed restlessly about, with a helpless, hopeless,
supplicating look.

"My dear father," said Maurice, taking the hand which the count had
again lifted and let fall.

No sign of recognition followed.

"What do you think of his state, Madeleine? Is he not better?"

His cousin softly drew near, and taking in her own the hand Maurice had
dropped, said, "You know us, Count Tristan, do you not?"

His eyes, as though drawn by her voice, turned quickly, and fastened
themselves upon her face; his hands made a nervous clutch, his lips
moved, but the sounds were thick and indistinct, yet the first syllable
of her name was audible to all.

"Do not try to speak," said Madeleine, soothingly; "you have been very
ill; you are still weak; do not endeavor to make any exertion."

He continued to look at her beseechingly, and to clasp her hand more and
more tightly,--so tightly that it gave her positive pain, and his
quivering lips again made a fruitless effort to utter her name.

"Tristan, my son!" exclaimed the countess, motioning Madeleine to move
aside.

Madeleine attempted to obey, but could not release her hand from its
imprisonment.

Count Tristan did not appear to hear, or rather to recognize the voice
of his mother, although she continued to address him