"Mother!" at that word Madeleine's glacial composure melted. "A _mother!_--oh, my aunt, thank you for that word! You do not know how much good it does me to hear it from your lips! But the Château de Gramont can never more be my home. That is settled: I came to tell you so."
"What do you mean?" asked the count, with a gleam of ill-disguised satisfaction.
"I mean that I purpose shortly to quit this mansion, _never to return_!"
"Then you _do_ intend to accompany Lady Vivian to Scotland?" he inquired.
"You--my niece--_a de Gramont_--become the humble companion of Lady Vivian!" exclaimed the countess, in wrathful astonishment. "Can you even contemplate such an alternative?"
"No, madame," returned Madeleine, with an emphasis which might have been interpreted into a tone of pride. "I shall _not_ become the humble companion of any lady."
"With whom do you expect to live?" demanded the count.
"_Live alone_, at your age,--without fortune, without friends? It is impracticable,--impossible!" replied her aunt, decisively.
"I have reached my majority. I shall try to deserve friends. I have some small possession: the family diamonds of my mother still remain to me."
"Rest assured that it will never be disgraced by me!"
"I tell you that your project is impossible," maintained the countess, resolutely. "I forbid you to even attempt to put it into execution. I forbid you by the gratitude you owe me. I forbid you in the name of all the kindnesses I have lavished upon you!"
"And do you not see, my aunt, it is because I would still be grateful for these kindnesses that I would go hence? From the moment I learned I was a burden to you, that my presence here was unwelcome, this was no longer my home. If I leave you now, the memory of your goodness only, will dwell in my heart. If I were to remain longer, each day my presence would become more intolerable to you; each day your words and looks would grow colder and harsher; each day I should feel more degraded in my own eyes. _You_ would spoil your own benefactions: _I_ perhaps, might forget them, and be stained with the crime of ingratitude. No, let us now part,--now, while I may still dare to hope that you will think of me with tenderness and regret,--now, while I can yet cherish the recollection of the happy days I have passed beneath your roof. My resolution is taken: it is unalterable. I could not rest here. You will, perhaps, accord me a few days to make needful preparations; then I must bid you farewell."