"'He has disappeared?'

"'Yes; I left the room for a moment, and when I returned--'

"'And Monsieur de la Roche; where is he?'

"'In Hugh's Tower.'

"'In the Tower!'

"She threw on a dressing-gown, seized a lamp and hurried out. I remained behind. A quarter of an hour afterwards she returned, her feet covered with snow, and very pale; it was pitiful to see. She set the lamp on the mantelpiece, and looking steadily at me, she said:

"'Was it you who put the doctor in the Tower?'

"'Yes, madame.'

"'Unhappy man! you will never know the harm that you have done!'

"I wanted to reply, but she stopped me.

"'That is enough! Go and fasten all the doors and lie down. I will sit up myself. To-morrow morning you will go and find the doctor in Knapwurst's lodge, and you will bring him to me. Breathe no word of this to anybody! Remember you have seen nothing and know nothing!'"

"Is that all, Sperver?"

He nodded gravely.

"And the Count?"

"He has come back again; he seems better."

We had reached the antechamber. Gideon knocked gently on the door, then opened it, announcing, "Monsieur the doctor."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I STEPPED FORWARD AND FOUND MYSELF IN THE PRESENCE OF ODILE."]

I stepped forward and found myself in the presence of Odile. Sperver withdrew, closing the door behind him.

A strange impression was produced upon my mind by the appearance of the young Countess, robed in a long gown of black velvet, and standing pale and firm with her hand resting on the back of an armchair, her eyes glistening with a feverish light.

"Monsieur," she said, pointing to a chair; "pray be seated. I wish to speak with you upon a very grave subject."

I obeyed silently. She seated herself in turn, and seemed trying to arrange her thoughts.

"Chance, monsieur," she continued after a moment, fixing her large blue eyes upon me--"chance or Providence, I know not which to call it--has made you the witness of a mystery in which is involved the honor of our family."

She knew everything, then. I was astonished.

"Let us call it Providence!" I cried. "Who knows but that through me the spell that has so long overhung the Castle is destined to be broken?"

"All this is frightful!" she continued; then in a despairing tone, "My father is not guilty of this crime!"

I sprang up, and stretching out my hands deprecatingly, I exclaimed:

"I know it, mademoiselle; I know of the Count's past life, and it is one of the purest that it would be possible to conceive!"

Odile half rose from her chair as if to protest against any harsh judgment of her father, but seeing me myself undertake his defence, she sank back, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.

"G.o.d bless you, monsieur," she murmured; "had you entertained a suspicion of my father, it would have killed me!"

"Why, mademoiselle! Who could mistake for realities the unreasoning actions of the somnambulist?"

"That is true, monsieur. I had reflected upon this myself--but appearances--I feared--pardon me--but I should have remembered that you are a man of honor."

"Pray, dear Countess, calm yourself!" I exclaimed, feeling myself on the verge of losing my composure, so deeply was I moved by the grief of my beloved mistress.

"No," she cried; "let me weep. These tears are a relief. I have suffered so for the past ten years! This secret, so long locked in my breast, was killing me, and I should have died at last like my dear mother! G.o.d has taken pity on me, and he has sent you to share the burden with me. Let me tell you all, monsieur, let me--" She could not continue; her voice was stifled in sobs. Her proud and high-strung nature, after having conquered grief so long, had succ.u.mbed to the fateful happening of the night before; the seal once broken and her secret betrayed, her vanquished nature, still struggling to shield its sacred trust, sought a grateful relief in unrestrained tears.

My one sentiment of love and sympathy, repressed until that moment, now demanded expression with a power which I was unable to gainsay. I cast all prudence to the winds, and dropping on one knee beside Odile, I seized the delicate hands that covered her face and drew them gently away until her sorrowing glance rested on my face.

"Odile!" I said, as her name rose naturally to my lips, in a voice so choked with emotion as to be hardly more than a whisper, "forgive my rashness, but it no longer rests with me to speak or not as I choose! I might never have said anything of this, at least not now, but your suffering affects me so powerfully that to be silent longer is not within my power. It must have been evident to you, had you cared to read it, that I love you and have loved you, far, far dearer than life itself, ever since my eyes first rested upon you in the Count's chamber, that first night when I came to the Castle. I cannot ask pardon for it!

No! For I am convinced that no man could be near you for even this brief time and experience the wonderful charm of your being, to say nothing of witnessing your present sorrow, without feeling himself moved to the depths of his own nature. Odile, I love you! I see no goal in life but you, no future but one pa.s.sed in your divine companionship; and though you might well reproach me for choosing such a moment to tell you so, believe me, it is through no wish to take advantage of your confidence.

Did I feel myself guilty of such baseness, I should despise myself more than you could possibly do. Odile, my darling, I could not choose but speak. I must tell you this, even though it should be at the cost of your further favor!"

As I spoke, Odile's eyes were fastened on my face with an expression of surprise, indeed, but in it there was no trace of disfavor, and her hands were not withdrawn from mine. A bright flush that, for the first time since I knew her, had succeeded to her usual pallor, mounted to her cheeks and served to increase her matchless beauty.

She remained silent for some moments still, and I could perceive the agitation which my words had caused her, by the slight tremor of her frame and her quickened breathing.

At length she began, with her clear, frank gaze fastened on my face:

"I am deeply sensible of the honor you do me in expressing yourself as you have done, and I am convinced that no woman can do otherwise than feel a sense of the greatest satisfaction in knowing that she is so regarded by an honorable man. I must confess," she continued after a moment of hesitation, "that your words are far from being indifferent or unwelcome to me! Oh, how strange are the circ.u.mstances of my life! I know not how to reply to you! I know not--"

And she paused, at a loss how to continue.

I was happy. Odile had confessed enough to make me feel that I could bide my time for the present without endangering my future hopes; indeed, I felt that it might be wisdom to grant her time more fully to determine her sentiments, before pursuing the victory already won. I was now about to share in the secret of her life at her own request; and I resolved, if the reason of her vow should be explained, as I felt it must, to controvert it by any honorable means.

"You have said enough to make me supremely happy!" I exclaimed. "You have not denied me the happiness of hope, and I shall not despair!

Meanwhile, whatever I may win is fairly mine, is it not?"

"Yes," murmured Odile, with just the slightest smile, in which I fancied there was less sorrow than before.

"And now, dear one, I fear I have been selfish in intruding my own feelings where so much grief is present! Pray forgive me, and continue your story."

I pressed her hands once more, and as she gently disengaged them I resumed my chair.

Odile dried her tear-stained cheeks, and resting her face on her fair hand she began:

"When I go back into the past, and return to my earliest dreams, I see again my mother. She was a stately woman, pale and silent, and still young at the time of which I am now speaking. She was scarcely thirty years, and you would have thought her at least fifty. White locks veiled her thoughtful forehead; her thin cheeks and severe profile, and her lips ever firmly closed with an expression of pain, gave to her features a strange character, in which grief and pride were blended.

There was nothing that suggested youth in this old woman of thirty; nothing but her upright, haughty bearing, her brilliant eyes, and her voice, pure and sweet as the dreams of childhood. She often walked up and down for hours together in this very chamber, with her head bowed down, and I ran happily along by her side, little knowing that my mother was deep in sorrow, too young to comprehend the grief that was preying upon her heart. I knew nothing of the past; the present alone possessed any reality for me; this was happiness, and the future was but to-morrow's play." Odile smiled sadly, and resumed:

"Sometimes it happened that in the midst of my dancing about her, I would interrupt my mother's walk, and she would stop, and seeing me at her feet, bend down and kiss me on the forehead with a far-off smile; then she would resume her interrupted walk. Since then, when I have wished to search my memory for remembrances of those early days, this tall, pale woman has appeared before me like the image of melancholy itself. There she is," she exclaimed, pointing to a picture on the wall; "not such as illness made her, as my father believed, but that terrible and fatal secret. Look!"