Part 34 (2/2)
The prince wiped his mouth with a sensation of secret disgust. ”Who knows what lips have touched that brow today?” He dared not think of it, or it would make him ill.
”_Ma chere_, however deeply I am indebted to you, I must a.s.sert my paternal rights a few minutes. You have said so many bitter things, whose justice I will not deny, that you will permit me to utter a few truthful words also.” Fixing his eyes upon her with a stern, cold gaze, he said in a low tone, placing a marked emphasis on every word: ”We have carried matters very far--you and I--the last of the ancient Prankenberg race! A pretty pair! the father a bankrupt, and the daughter--on the eve of marrying a peasant.”
Madeleine von Wildenau, deadly pale, stood leaning with compressed lips on the back of her armchair.
The prince laid his hand on her shoulder. ”We may both say that to-day _each_ has saved the _other_! This is my reparation for the humiliating role fate has forced upon me in your presence. Am I not right?
Good-night, my queenly daughter--and I hope you bear me no ill-will.”
CHAPTER XVI.
PRISONED.
The prince had left the room, and she heard him walk through the work-shop. Silence fell upon the house and the street. The tortured woman, utterly exhausted, sank upon her bed--her feet would support her no longer. But she could get no rest; an indescribable grief filled her heart. Everything had happened precisely as Freyer had predicted.
Before the c.o.c.k crowed, she had thrice betrayed him, betrayed him in the very hour when she had sworn fidelity. At the first step she was to take on the road of life with the man she loved, at the first glance from the basilisk eyes of conventional prejudice, she shrank back like a coward and could not make up her mind to acknowledge him. This was her purification, this the effect of a feeling which, as she believed, had power to conquer the world? Everything was false--she despaired of all things--of her future, of herself, of the power of Christianity, which she, like all new converts, expected would have the might to transform sinners into saints in a single moment. One thing alone remained unchanged, _one_ image only was untouched by any tinge of baseness amid the turmoil of emotions seething in her heart--Freyer. He alone could save her--she must go to him. Springing from her bed she hurried into the work-shop. ”Where is your son?” she asked Andreas Gross, who was just preparing to retire.
”I suppose he is in his room, Countess.”
”Bring him to me at once.”
”Certainly, Countess.”
”Shall I undress Your Highness?” asked Josepha, who was still waiting for her orders.
Madeleine von Wildenau's eyes rested on the girl with a searching expression, as if she saw her now for the first time. Was she faithful--as faithful as a maid must be to make it possible to carry out the plan her father had suggested? Josepha gazed steadily into the countess' eyes, her frank face expressed nothing but innocent wonder at so long a scrutiny. ”Yes--you are faithful,” said the countess at last--”are you not?”
”Certainly, Countess,” replied the girl, evidently surprised that she needed to give the a.s.surance.
”You know what unhappiness means?”
”I think so!” said Josepha, with bitter emphasis.
”Then you would aid the unhappy so far as you were able?”
”It would depend upon who it was,” answered Josepha, brusquely, but the rudeness pleased the countess; it was a proof of character, and character is a guarantee of trustworthiness. ”If it were I, Josepha, could I depend upon you in _any_ situation?”
”Certainly!” the girl answered simply--”I live only for you--otherwise I would far rather be under the sod. What have I to live for except you?”
”I believe, Josepha, that I now know the reason Providence sent me to you!” murmured her mistress, lost in thought.
Ludwig Gross entered. ”Did you wish to see me?”
Madeleine von Wildenau silently took his hand and drew him into her room.
”Oh, Ludwig, what things I have been compelled to hear--what sins I have committed--what suffering I have endured!” She laid her arm on the shoulder of the faithful friend, like a child pleading for aid. ”What time is it, Ludwig?”
”I don't know,” he replied. ”I was asleep when my father called me. I wandered about looking for you and Freyer until about an hour ago. Then weariness overpowered me.” He drew out his watch. ”It is half past ten.”
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