“Oh!” she said, “I know that your great love will make excuses for all my shortcomings; but what about my poor Antoinette, to whom I have been so cruel?”

  “I can answer for her, dear; she forgives you as readily as I do. Why! do not moments of loneliness and sadness come to every one of us at times? Therefore, I do beseech you not to worry about it at all. Rain, a thunder-storm, a passing cloud, all these things cause us to experience a certain uneasiness for which we cannot account; and I truly believe these are the real causes of our variable tempers.”

  “Come here, my dear guardian,” Amaury continued, on seeing Madeleine’s father, “and try to help me convince this dear child that we know her natural goodness too well to allow ourselves to be wounded by a passing whim or a moment’s ill-temper.”

  Without making any reply, Monsieur d’Avrigny approached Madeleine anxiously, looked at her attentively and felt her pulse.

  After a few moments’ silence, during which his whole attention was concentrated on the examination he was making, he looked up and said:

  “My dear child, I am going to ask you to make a sacrifice. Listen, Madeleine,” he went on, drawing her close to him, “you must promise to grant your old father’s request.”

  “Oh! my dear father,” Madeleine cried, “you alarm me.”

  Amaury turned pale, because he could see from Monsieur d’Avrigny’s beseeching tone, how very real was his anxiety.

  There was another silence, and although Monsieur d’Avrigny tried hard to conceal his feelings, his brow grew more and more gloomy.

  “Tell me, father,” and Madeleine trembled as she spoke, “what do you wish me to do? Am I worse than I thought?”

  “My darling child,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied, ignoring Madeleine’s question, “I do not wish to ask you to forego the pleasure of appearing at the ball to-night, although that would be wisest and best; but were I to ask this, you would think me over-exacting. I do however, implore you, Madeleine, not to dance, particularly not to waltz. Without being actually ill, you are in too nervous and excited a state for me to permit you to indulge in any exercise which might still further excite you.”

  “Oh! but, father, you ask of me a very hard thing,” Madeleine exclaimed pettishly.

  “I shall neither dance nor waltz,” Amaury whispered to her.

  Amaury said truly that Madeleine, although at times unlike herself through feverish excitement, was in reality good at heart.

  The unselfishness shown by all who loved her deeply touched the girl.

  “Very well,” she said, her eyes dim with unshed tears of tenderness and regret, whilst a sweet smile appeared and died away again on her lips. “Well, I resign myself, and will comply with your request, it is the least I can do to make amends for my recent unkindness, and prove to you all that I am not always capricious and selfish. Dear father, I promise neither to dance nor waltz this evening.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny gave a sigh of relief.

  “And,” continued Madeleine, “as above all things we must respect the ways of the world, and yield to the proprieties, I give you permission, Monsieur Amaury, to dance — even to waltz — with anyone you like. But you must not do so too often; then I hope you will sometimes consent to be my carpet knight, and share with me the rôle of inactivity to which fatherly anxiety and professional solicitude condemn me.”

  “My darling Madeleine, thank you a thousand times,” Monsieur d’Avrigny cried.

  “You are adorable, and I love you better than my life,” Amaury whispered to her.

  A footman entered, and announced that the guests were beginning to arrive. It was therefore time to go down to the reception rooms; but first Madeleine asked to see Antoinette. She had scarcely expressed the wish before the curtain was gently drawn aside, and Antoinette herself appeared, smiling brightly, although her eyes were still red with weeping.

  “Ah! my dear, long-suffering sister,” Madeleine said, and she advanced towards her cousin, “if you only knew — ”

  But Antoinette would not allow her to finish her sentence; she threw her arms round her cousin’s neck, and interrupted by a kiss each word which she attempted to say.

  Thus they were soon reconciled to each other, and the two girls came into the ball-room arm in arm; Madeleine still pale and subdued, Antoinette already full of animation and spirits.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  AT first all went well.

  In spite of what Madeleine had said, and notwithstanding her evident dejection and extreme pallor, she was so perfectly beautiful and distinguished looking that she remained indisputably the belle of the ball. Antoinette, with her exuberance of high spirits and health, was the only one who might perhaps have shared that honour with her.

  Moreover, directly the music struck up, Madeleine thrilled with the excitement which a spirited and well-conducted band invariably produces. Her colour and her smile came back to her face, and she who was so weak but ten minutes earlier, seemed to regain strength as if by magic.

  But one thing more than aught else was flooding Madeleine’s heart with unspeakable joy. As each guest of any importance was announced, Monsieur d’Avrigny introduced Amaury to them as his future son-in-law, and all who heard the news, looking first at Madeleine, then at Amaury, seemed to think that he was indeed lucky in being the chosen husband of such a charming girl.

  Amaury kept his promise to Madeleine. He danced a few square dances at long intervals with two or three different partners, whom courtesy required that he should ask. But during these intervals he was constantly at Madeleine’s side, and the gentle pressure of her hand and the evident happiness in her face, thanked him more eloquently than any words.

  Now and again Antoinette too would come up to her cousin, like a subject paying homage to her queen, and, after inquiring how she was feeling, would joke with her over the dowdily-dressed women who figured at this ball as at every other, and who form a constant topic of conversation to those dancers who would otherwise have nothing to say to each other. After one of these flying visits from Antoinette, Amaury, who was standing beside Madeleine, said:

  “Now, my unselfish little girl, as I know you wish to make full amends, had I not better ask Antoinette to dance?”

  “Antoinette? why, of course,” said Madeleine. “As a matter of fact, I had not thought of it, but you are right; else she would be vexed with me.”

  “What! vexed with you?”

  “Of course! she would think it was I who had prevented your asking her to dance.”

  “What an absurd idea! “Amaury exclaimed. “I cannot think your cousin would be so foolish.”

  “After all, neither do I,” Madeleine replied, forcing a laugh. “Of course it would be too absurd on her part; however, to avoid the possibility of such a thing, I am glad you have thought of asking her. Do not therefore delay any longer, for already the men are crowding round her.”

  Amaury, not noticing the slightly bitter accent in her voice, took her at her word, and went at once towards Antoinette, thus adding one more to her train of followers; then, after a fairly long chat with her, he returned to Madeleine, who had been watching him the whole time.

  “Well!” she said, trying to speak as naturally as she could, “which quadrille is it to be?”

  “My darling,” Amaury answered, “if you are queen of the ball, Antoinette is vice-queen. Evidently I came upon the scene too late, for she was surrounded by would-be partners, and had her programme full to overflowing.”

  “Then she could not give you a dance? “Madeleine said quickly.

  “Yes, she is giving me one as a special favour; as I asked for it in your name, she is throwing over one of her admirers — my old friend Philip, I believe — and is giving me the fifth on the programme.

  “The fifth dance!” said Madeleine.

  She remained deep in thought a moment, then said: “That will be a waltz.”

  “Possibly! “Amaury replied carelessly.

  From that moment, Madeleine became absent-minded and preoccupied; she scarcely replied to anything her lover said, but followed Antoinette’s every movement. The latter, restored by the music, lights and animated scene, to her natural brightness, was courted by all, and full of life and laughter, her light sylph-like movements bringing sunshine and brightness wherever she went.

  Philip treated Amaury coldly, and held aloof from him. Thinking it due to his offended dignity to refuse the invitation, he had at first decided not to attend the ball, but, on second thoughts, he could not resist the temptation of being able to say on the following day: “I was at the ball given by Monsieur d’Avrigny in honour of his daughter’s engagement — ” and so he had come.

  Then, after what had passed, he thought the best thing for him to do, was to be effusive to Antoinette and cold to Madeleine.

  Unfortunately for him, as Amaury had kept his secret, neither of the young girls knew of his disappointment, consequently his reserve, as well as his gallantry, passed unnoticed by each.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny watched his daughter from a distance. During one of the intervals, he came up to her and said: “You had better go to your room, dear; I can see you are not well.”

  “Quite the contrary, father dear; I am feeling very well, very well indeed, I assure you,” Madeleine replied in a hard voice, and smiling absently; “besides it is interesting to watch the dancers, and I wish to remain.”

  “Madeleine!”

  “My dear father, do not, I implore you, insist on my leaving; you are mistaken if you think I am suffering; I have never felt better in my life.”

  And indeed, by this time, Madeleine had worked herself up to such a pitch of nervous excitement that she was looking radiantly beautiful, and she heard everyone around her remarking upon it.

  As the waltz promised to Amaury drew near, Antoinette also watched Madeleine uneasily; now and again the eyes of the two young girls met, and whilst Antoinette would at once withdraw her gaze, Madeleine’s eyes glittered dangerously.

  When the quadrille, preceding the fifth dance was over, Antoinette came and sat down beside her cousin.

  As to Monsieur d’Avrigny, he had not lost sight of his daughter for one single moment; he noted with alarm the unusual glitter in her eyes, which seemed to burn up her tears; he watched the nervous tremors which she could not repress, and he too trembled. At last, unable to contain himself longer, he came up to her, took her hand in his, and said in a tone of intolerable pain and distress:

  “Madeleine, what is troubling you? Do what you wish, child; anything will be less hurtful to you than this mental strain.”

  “Do you really give me permission to do what I wish? “Madeleine exclaimed.

  “Alas! I must, — you leave me no alternative.”

  “Then may I waltz once — just once, with Amaury?”

  “If you wish it — yes! “Monsieur d’Avrigny repeated.

  “Then, Amaury “ — Madeleine cried, “shall we have the next waltz together.”

  “But “ — Amaury replied, at once delighted and embarrassed — ”that is the very dance Antoinette promised to give me.”

  Madeleine turned quickly round, and without saying a single word, questioned her cousin with a haughty glance.

  “Oh! I am so tired! “Antoinette hastened to say, “that if, with Amaury’s consent, Madeleine will kindly replace me, I shall be very glad of a few moments’ rest.”

  A flash of joy shot into Madeleine’s burning eyes. Just then, the band struck up a waltz, she rose, feverishly seized Amaury’s hand, and drew him into the circle of dancers.

  “Be careful with her,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny in an undertone, as the young fellow passed him.

  “I will,” Amaury replied, “we shall only take a few turns.”

  And off they went.

  It was a waltz of Weber’s: at once spirited and sad as the genius of the musician who composed it, one of those dreamy yet haunting waltzes which we all know; at first the movement was slow, then grew gradually quicker as the dance drew to a close.

  Although Amaury supported his betrothed as much as he could, it seemed to him that, after three or four turns, she was losing strength.

  “Madeleine,” he said, “let us stop now.”

  “No! no!” the young girl replied; “never fear, I am quite strong; and if we stop now, my father will not allow us to go on again.”

  And she herself induced Amaury to continue dancing to the music which had now become much quicker.

  Although their beauty was of a different type, they made a handsome couple, as with arms entwined, they glided noiselessly over the oak floor; Madeleine’s willowy form, so supple and graceful, bent to Amaury’s encircling arm, who, blinded by happiness, and oblivious of the crowd, the noise, the music, everything in the world, merged his gaze in Madeleine’s half-closed eyes, mingled his breath with hers, listened to the beating of their two hearts, which throbbed together in unspoken magnetic sympathy. The intoxication which had first taken possession of Madeleine had now communicated itself to him: Monsieur d’Avrigny’s advice, the promise he had given, all was forgotten. In a strange and hitherto unknown delirium, they both seemed carried away by the haunting measure. Each moment Madeleine would murmur: “Faster, Amaury, faster!” and Amaury would obey; Madeleine was no longer pale and languid, but a radiant girl with sparkling eyes, and brimming over with the joy of living.

  The pair continued dancing when even the most energetic had paused to rest two or three times; faster and faster they went, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Everything turned with them, the lights, the people, the room; once or twice Amaury fancied he heard Monsieur d’Avrigny’s trembling voice, crying:

  “Stop Amaury, stop; it is enough.”

  But simultaneously Madeleine’s voice murmured in his ear: “Faster, Amaury, faster.”

  Carried away in a dream of love, swept along in a whirlwind of happiness and love, neither of them seemed to belong to earth; their eyes were fastened on each other as they breathlessly murmured: “I love you, I love you! “Then gathering from these whispered words new and frantic strength, they but danced the faster, as if hoping that in this mad gyration they might die, as if believing that even now they were no longer on earth but in heaven.

  Suddenly Amaury felt Madeleine fall heavily against him: he stopped. Pale, bent like a broken lily, with closed eyes and parted lips, she was in a dead faint.

  Amaury gave a cry of alarm, for the young girl’s heart had quite ceased beating; he thought she was dead.

  His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, then suddenly rushed in a torrent back to his brain; he stood for one moment as if turned to stone, then raised Madeleine in his arms and carried her quickly from the scene where they had known such great happiness.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny rushed after them, but not a single word of reproach did he address to Amaury.

  On reaching the boudoir, he lighted a candle, and preceded them into his daughter’s room; then, when Amaury had laid her on the bed, he devoted his whole attention to her, feeling her pulse with one hand, whilst with the other he applied restoratives.

  In a few moments Madeleine regained consciousness, but although her father was bending over her, and Amaury, as he knelt beside the bed, was quite in shadow, nevertheless it was on him her eyes first fell.

  “Ah! my love,” she said, “what has happened? are we dead and in heaven with the angels?”

  Heavy sobs burst from Amaury; Madeleine looked at him with surprise.

  “My dear boy,” Monsieur d’Avrigny said gently, “will you go and dismiss our guests? Antoinette and the maid are now coming in, and will put Madeleine to bed, then I will send later to let you know how she is. Do not go far, as I know you wish to be at hand, in case Madeleine should ask for you; you had better tell them at the same time to make you up a bed in your old room.”

  Amaury kissed Madeleine’s hand; the poor girl smiled and followed him with her eyes until he had left the room.

  As Amaury expected, all the guests had already gone; then, after giving orders for his room to be prepared, he wandered disconsolately about the passages, listening at Madeleine’s door, and trying to distinguish the faintest sound. After waiting about half-an-hour, Monsieur d’Avrigny came out of the room, and, holding out his hand to the young fellow, said:

  “She is doing well; but I shall stay the night with her. As you, my boy, can do nothing more for us, go to bed, and let us hope for better news in the morning.”

  Amaury went back to his old room; but in case he should be hastily summoned, he did not get into bed, but threw himself into an easy chair by the fireside. As to Monsieur d’Avrigny, he went into his study, and looked carefully over his collection of medical books, but as he read the title of each, he shook his head with the air of a man to whom the book could teach nothing new.

  Suddenly, however, on coming across a small book bound in leather, and with a silver cross on the cover, he took it up, and going back to the room where his daughter lay asleep, he sat down beside the bed. The book he had taken up was “The Imitation of Christ.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny felt that human skill was now of no avail; God alone could help him.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  MONSIEUR D’AVRIGNY’S DIARY.

  “22nd May,

  “After midnight.”

  “THE struggle between me and death JL has begun. For the second time must I help my child fight her way back to life.

  “If God be on my side, I may succeed; if He deserts me, she must die.

  “Her slumber is feverish and broken, but, thank God, she sleeps; she calls Amaury in her dreams — Amaury, always Amaury. Ah! why did I allow them to waltz together? and yet, if it were all to come over again, I should do the same. In Madeleine’s case, it is the mental which needs more careful treatment than the physical; the effect of unhappiness upon her is more to be feared than actual disease, and she would have fainted from jealousy even sooner than from exhaustion.