The first of these was the alarming illness of Quantrelle the Red.  After a day of peculiarly unbearable conduct on his part, the other domestics in the house had revolted, and late in the evening turned him out to pass the night in his fireless sentry-box.  For ten days after this occurrence he hovered between life and death with an inflammation of the lungs, during which period the De Nemours’ household learned his real power, for the Countess flew into a paroxysm of rage at his treatment, discharged the cook and one of the upper maids, harangued the others, sent for the best doctors in Paris, and herself assisted in the nursing, taking little sleep or nourishment until the old fellow was well on his way to recovery.

During all of this turmoil Katrine went quietly back and forth to her lessons, in no way questioning the conduct of the Countess, for she understood to the full that human hearts form attachments by no rule.

One evening during Quantrelle’s convalescence, when the Countess was her sunny self again, she offered, unasked, an explanation of her seemingly singular conduct.

“Little person,” she said, putting her hand on Katrine’s shoulder, “you mustn’t judge too harshly my Irish temper.  It was gratitude to Quantrelle which made me act as I did.  There were two years of my life when I should have died but for him.”

It was an amazing statement, and Katrine’s face showed her astonishment.

“When I was sixteen,” Madame de Nemours continued, “I was sent to a convent school at Tours.  Quantrelle’s father was gate-keeper there, and let me pass out the night I went to be married.  I was only a child.”  The Countess covered her face with both hands, as though to shut out some horrid sight.  “He was an American, a Protestant, and my father cursed me.  Two years after the marriage my husband deserted me.  Perhaps,” she paused in her story, “perhaps Dermott has told you this?”

“He has never spoken of it to me,” said Katrine.

“After my baby came,” Madame de Nemours continued, “I was alone with poverty and ill health, and for two years, two years,” she repeated, impressively, “Quantrelle, a long, thin-legged, red-haired boy, kept me alive with the money he could earn and the scant assistance his mother could lend him.  It was eleven years later, four years after my baby’s death and my father’s forgiveness, that I married the Count.  Katrine, darling, I gave him a great affection and entire devotion, but my heart died with the first love.  To have that first year over!  Ah, there was never another like him!  You could never know, Katrine, how different he was from others.”

“It was long ago?” Katrine asked.

“Thirty years.  Dermott has recently been demanding papers of me.  It seems there may be some property in America belonging to my first husband which he can claim for me.”

A premonition of the truth came to Katrine at the sound of Dermott’s name.