This version of Madeleine's position seemed to strike both the countess and her son as not merely possibly, but probably, correct.
"I always thought," returned the count, "that Madeleine was a young person who, in the end"--
His mother finished the sentence, in a tone of pride, "would prove herself worthy of the family to which she belongs."
The loud ringing of the street door-bell attracted the attention of the group assembled in the drawing-room. A well-known voice exchanged a few words with the servant, and Gaston de Bois entered. His manner was unusually perturbed, and he looked around the room as though in search of some one.
The instant he appeared, Bertha exclaimed, "Oh, M. de Bois! M. de Bois! We are all so much rejoiced! Madeleine, our own Madeleine, is found at last! She is here,--here in this very house, at this very moment!"
"I--I--I knew it!" answered M. de Bois, with a mixture of embarrassment and exultation.
"You knew it? How could you have known it?" asked Maurice, eagerly.
"I saw her car--ar--arriage at the door."
"_Her_ carriage? She has a carriage of her own, then?" inquired the count.
"Yes, and the most superb horses in Washington."
"You knew, then, that she was here?" cried Maurice, with emotion; "you knew it, and you never told us?"
"I knew it, but I was forbidden to tell you. I hoped you would meet; I felt sure you would. I did not know how or when; but, from the moment you put your foot in this city, I looked for this meeting. I was strongly impelled to bring it about, but my promise withheld me."
"Of course, you could not break a promise; that explanation is quite satisfactory," remarked Bertha. "I am sure you would have given us a hint but for your promise."
"I almost gave one in spite of it. I found it harder to keep silent than I used to find it to speak; and that was difficult enough."
"But have the goodness to unravel to us this grand mystery," demanded the count. "Madeleine is married--married to Count Orlowski, the Russian ambassador."
"A nobleman of position!" added the countess.
"How did this come about?" inquired the count.
"Who--who--said she was married?" he gasped out. "Why do you imagine that she is mar--ar--arried?"
"She is _not_--_not_ married then? _Say she is not!_" broke in Maurice, hanging upon the reply as though it were a sentence of life or death.