Tristan had passed the best night with which he had been favored
since his attack. He had slept so uninterruptedly that Gaston and Mrs.
Lawkins (whose turn it was to replace Madeleine and Maurice) had
followed the invalid's example and travelled with him to the kingdom of
Morpheus.

In the morning he expressed a desire to rise. The first words he uttered
showed that his articulation was clearer. Madeleine had arranged the
pillows in his arm-chair and placed it where he could look into the
conservatory. He walked into the boudoir supported only by Maurice.
There was a rare amount of stamina, a wondrously recuperative power in
the de Gramont constitution, as was manifested both by mother and son.

When the count was comfortably seated, Madeleine placed before him a
little table with his breakfast so neatly arranged that merely to look
at it gave one an appetite. She served him herself, and the tranquil
pleasure he felt in receiving what he ate from her hands was
unmistakable. His own hands were still weak and numb, and she cut up the
delicate broiled chicken, and broke the bread, disposed his napkin
carefully, and then steadied the cup of chocolate which he tried to
carry to his lips. Maurice stood watching her, just as he always did;
for it was difficult for him to remove his eyes from her face when she
was present, though, in truth, when she was absent he saw her before him
hardly less distinctly.

The trio was thus agreeably occupied when the note of the countess was
placed in the hands of Maurice. His consternation vented itself in an
irrepressible groan, which made Madeleine and the count look up.

The latter trembled with alarm, and, his haunting fear coming back, he
asked, in a terrified tone,--

"What has happened? What do they want? What would they make you believe?
No harm of me,--you wont! you wont! Here's Madeleine will make all
right!"

"Do not trouble yourself," said Madeleine, soothingly; "there are no
business matters to fret you now."

Her sweet, quieting voice, or the assurance, calmed him, and he repeated
once more, for the thousandth time, "Good angel! good angel!"

"It is a note from my grandmother," said Maurice, biting his lips. "She
has seen Dr. Bayard, and insists on carrying out certain views of hers,
and she informs me that she has his permission to do so."

Madeleine had not nerved herself against this blow; it fell heavily upon
her; she could not at once resign the precious privilege