Part 43 (2/2)

The countess, with aristocratic self-control, struggled to maintain her composure. Then she said quietly, though her voice sounded faint and hoa.r.s.e: ”The child seems weak, I think it will be better to give him something to eat before was.h.i.+ng him.”

”Yes,” pleaded the little fellow, ”I am thirsty.” The words reminded the countess of his father, as he said on the cross: ”I thirst.” When these memories came, all the anguish of her once beautiful love--now peris.h.i.+ng so miserably--overwhelmed her. She lifted the boy--he was light as a vapor, a vision of mist--from the bed into her lap, and wrapped his little bare feet in the folds of her morning dress. He pressed his little head, crowned with dark, curling locks, against her cheek. Such moments were sweet, but outweighed by too much bitterness.

”Bring him some milk--fresh milk!” Madeleine von Wildenau repeated in the slightly imperious tone which seems to consider opposition impossible.

”That will be entirely different from his usual custom,” remarked Josepha, as if the countess' order had seriously interfered with the regular mode of life necessary to the child.

The mother perceived this, and a faint flush of shame and indignation suffused her face, but instantly vanished, as if grief had consumed the wave of blood which wrath had stirred.

”Is your mother--Josepha--kind to you?” she asked, when Josepha had left the room.

The boy nodded carelessly.

”She does not strike you, she is gentle?”

”No, she doesn't strike me,” the little fellow answered. ”She loves me.”

”Do you love her, too?” the countess went on.

”Wh--y--Yes!” said the child, shrugging his shoulders. Then he looked tenderly into her face. ”I love you better.”

”That is not right, Josepha is your mother--you must love her best.”

The boy shook his head thoughtfully. ”But I would rather have you for my mamma.”

”That cannot be--unfortunately--I must not.”

The child gazed at her with an expression of sorrowful disappointment.

=At last he found an expedient. ”But in Heaven--when I go to Heaven--_you_ will be my mother there, won't you?”

The countess shuddered--an indescribable pain pierced her heart, yet she was happy, a blissful anguis.h.!.+ Tears streamed from her eyes and, clasping the child tenderly, she gently kissed him.

”Yes, my child! In Heaven--perhaps I may be your mother!”

Josepha now brought in the milk and wanted to give it to him, but the boy would not take it from her, he insisted that the countess must hold the bowl. She did so, but her hand trembled and Josepha was obliged to help her, or the whole contents would have been spilled. She averted her face.

”She cannot even give her child anything to drink,” thought Josepha, as she moved about the room, putting it in order.

”Josepha, please leave me alone a little while,” said the countess, almost beseechingly.

”Indeed?” Josepha's cheeks flushed scarlet, it seemed as if the bones grew still more prominent. ”If I am in your Highness' way--I can go at once.”

”Josepha!” said the countess, now suddenly turning toward her a face wet with tears. ”Surely I might be allowed to spend fifteen minutes alone with my child without offending any one! I will forgive your words--on account of your natural jealousy--and I think you already regret them, do you not?”

”Yes,” replied Josepha, somewhat reluctantly, but so conquered by the unhappy mother's words that she pressed a hard half reluctant kiss upon the countess' hand with her rough, parched lips. Then, with a pa.s.sionate glance at the child, she gave place to the mother whose claim she would fain have disputed before G.o.d Himself, if she could.

But when the door had closed behind her, the countess could bear no more. Placing the child in his little bed, she flung herself sobbing beside it. ”My child--my child, forgive me,” she cried, forgetting all prudence ”--pray for me to G.o.d.”

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