Fairy Fingers. Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie
of Maurice, Bertha entered Madeleine's chamber, according to her custom—for the young maidens always descended to breakfast together. Her room was empty.
"She has not waited for me to-day," thought Bertha, hurrying down, and expecting to find Madeleine in the breakfast-room.
The countess and her son were at table, but Madeleine was not there.
"Has Madeleine breakfasted?" inquired Bertha, cutting short her morning salutations.
The answer was in the negative.
"Have you not seen her?" she asked.
"No, not this morning," replied the countess.
"I suppose she is taking an early walk," continued Bertha. "It seems odd that she does not come back, for she is never late."
Bertha seated herself, but the coffee remained untasted before her; and her head was constantly turned towards the window which commanded a view of the garden and park. Gustave passed, and she cried out to him—
"Gustave, have you seen Mademoiselle Madeleine, this morning?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Why, where can she be?" exclaimed Bertha, impatiently. "If you will excuse me, aunt, I will go in search of her. Since she has not broken her fast yet, we will breakfast together, as usual." And away darted Bertha into the garden.
The countess had not attached any importance to Madeleine's absence, and resumed the conversation with her son.
Through Count Tristan's mind the suspicion at once had flashed that Madeleine was gone, and he chuckled inwardly at the verification of his own unspoken predictions. A quarter of an hour passed, and then he beheld Bertha coming rapidly from the direction of the châlet. He felt no surprise in observing that she was alone. The windows of the breakfast-room opened to the ground, and she entered by one of them—her face crimsoned, her fair hair unbound and floating over her shoulders, for she had been running.
"I cannot find Madeleine!" she faltered out. "It is very strange! She is not in the châlet, nor in the garden. I have called until I am hoarse. I picked up this handkerchief in the châlet—it is marked 'G. de Bois,' yet it is three days since M. de Bois was here; and Madeleine and I have spent every morning since then at the châlet. When could M. de Bois have dropped this handkerchief there?"
The count took the handkerchief from her hand, and examined the mark without comment: he could not trust his voice at that moment.
"I presume Madeleine will be here presently, to account for herself," remarked the countess, not apparently discomposed. "Take your breakfast, Bertha; there is no need of your fasting until she chooses to make her appearance."
Bertha obediently sat down, sipped her coffee for a few moments, and then, declaring that she wanted nothing more, left the room and returned to Madeleine's apartment. It was in perfect order, but so it was always; the bed was made, but Madeleine was in the habit of making her own bed; there was no sign of change. Bertha opened the wardrobe—the dresses Madeleine usually wore were hanging within; she wandered about the room, examining every nook and corner, hardly conscious of what she was doing—what she expected to find or to miss. All at once she remarked that a few books, which were favorites of Madeleine and once belonged to her father, had been removed from the table; but what of that?—they had probably been placed somewhere else. Continuing her almost purposeless search, Bertha now drew out the drawers of the bureau: they usually held Madeleine's linen; they were empty! In violent agitation the kneeling girl sprang to her feet; her undefined fear was taking shape. She ran to the antechamber and looked for a little trunk which had come to the château with Madeleine: it was no longer there!
Bertha darted down the stair and rushed into her aunt's presence, sobbing out in agony of grief—"She has gone! Madeleine has gone! I know she has gone, and she will never, never return to us! Her dresses are there; everything you have given her is there; she has only taken with her what she had when she came to the château, and she has surely gone!"
Count Tristan pretended to laugh at Bertha's fears, and maintained that Madeleine would presently walk in, and feel very much flattered by the sensation she had created, and by her cousin's lamentations over her supposed flight; adding, jocosely, that it was not easy for a young lady to disappear in that dramatic manner, except from the pages of a novel.
The countess, who began to be alarmed, desired her son to ring the bell. Gustave appeared in answer, and, after being closely questioned, was desired to summon the other domestics. Bettina and Elise promptly obeyed the command. Their answers were precisely the same as those of Gustave: they had not seen Madeleine; they could not imagine where she was.
"Baptiste—where is he?" asked the countess.
Baptiste was in the garden.
"I am going out—I will speak to him myself, and also institute further inquiries to satisfy our dear little Bertha; but I warn her that her dreams of a romantic adventure, and the flight of a young lady from an ancient château and her natural protectors, will probably meet with a sudden check by Madeleine's walking in from a long ramble."
Thus speaking, the count left Bertha to be consoled by his mother, and went forth in search of Baptiste. Count Tristan well knew that, although the domestics were all warmly attached to Madeleine, the devotion of Baptiste was unsurpassed. The count did not, for one instant, doubt that she had really gone. Some assistance she must have had, and Baptiste's was the aid she would naturally have selected. He chose to interrogate the old man himself, to prevent his giving rather than to extract information from him.
The simple-hearted gardener was not an adept in deception. He was digging among his flower-beds when his master approached him, and it did not escape the nobleman's observation that the spade went into the ground and was drawn out again with increased rapidity as he drew near, and that the head of Baptiste, instead of being lifted to see who was coming, was bent down as though he wished to appear wholly engrossed in his occupation.
"Baptiste?"
"Monsieur?"
The tremulous voice in which that one word was uttered, and his guilty countenance, scarcely raised as he spoke, were enough to convict him.
"Has Mademoiselle Madeleine passed you in walking out, this morning?"
"No, monsieur. I have been very busy, monsieur; these flower-beds are in a terrible state; it is not easy for one pair of hands to keep them even in tolerable order. I have not noticed who passed. I don't generally look about me—I"—
"Oh, very well; we thought perhaps you might have seen Mademoiselle Madeleine to-day, as she must have walked out; but, as you know nothing at all about her, I will inform the countess and Mademoiselle Bertha."
"I am much obliged to monsieur," replied Baptiste, gratefully.
He could not conceal his thankfulness at escaping the cross-examination which he had anticipated with the dread natural to one wholly unpractised in dissimulation.
"This handkerchief of M. de Bois was found in the châlet," continued the count. "I suppose he sometimes strolls over here in the morning, at an hour too early for visiting; it is very natural, as we are such near neighbors."
"As monsieur says, it would be very natural."
The count had gained all the information that he desired, and without letting Baptiste suspect he had betrayed his secret. That Madeleine had actually fled, that M. de Bois had lent his aid, and that Baptiste had been taken into their confidence, was indubitable.
The count returned to the château, and joined his mother, who was making vain attempts to soothe Bertha. The only comfort to which she would listen was the assurance that, if Madeleine had really gone, she would be traced and entreated to return to her former home.
The count now thought it politic to assume an air of the deepest concern.
"I am grieved to bring you such unsatisfactory