Part 52 (2/2)
The duke shook his head. ”What a relation; you made the man you loved your servant, and believed that you could love him still? How little you knew yourself! Had you seen him on the mountains battling with wind and storm as a wood-cutter, a shepherd, but free, you might have continued to love him. But as 'the steward' at whom the servants look with one eye as their equal, with the other as their mistress'
favorite--never! You placed him in a situation where he could not help despising himself--how could you respect him? But a woman like you no longer loves where she can no longer esteem!” He was silent a moment, then with sudden determination exclaimed: ”Do you understand what I say now? Not free yourself from him--but free _him_ from _himself_! You have done the same thing as the giantess who carried the farmer and his plough home in her ap.r.o.n. Do you understand what a deep meaning underlies Chamisso's comical tale? The words with which the old giant ordered her to take her prize back to the spot where she found it, say everything: 'The peasant is no plaything.' Only in the sphere where a man naturally belongs is he of value, but this renders him too good for a toy. You have transplanted Freyer to a sphere in which he ceased to have any value to you and are now making him play a part there which I would not impose on my worst enemy.”
”Yes, you are right.”
”Finally we owe it to those who were once dear to us, not to make them ridiculous! Or do you believe that Freyer, if he had the choice, would not have pride enough to prefer the most cruel truth to a compa.s.sionate lie?”
”Certainly.”
”And still more. We owe it to the law of truthfulness, under which we stand as moral beings, not to continue deliberately a deception which was perhaps unconsciously begun. When self-respect is lost--all is lost.”
The duke rose: ”It is time for me to go. Consider my advice, I can say nothing more in your interest and his.”
”But what shall I do--how am I to find a gentle way--oh! Heaven, I don't know how to help myself.”
”Do nothing at present, everything is still too fresh to venture upon any positive act--the wounds would bleed, and what ought to be severed would only grow together the more firmly. Go away for a time. You are out of favor with the queen. What is more natural than to go on a journey and sulk. To the so-called steward also, this must at present serve for a pretext to avoid a tragical parting scene.”
”Go now! Now!--leave--you?” she whispered, blus.h.i.+ng as she spoke.
”Madeleine,” he said gently, drawing her hand to his breast. ”How am I to interpret this blush? Is it the sign of a sweeter feeling, or embarra.s.sment because circ.u.mstances have led you to say something which I might interpret differently from your intention?”
She bent her head, blus.h.i.+ng still more deeply.
”Perhaps you do not know yourself--I will not torture you with questions, which your agitated heart cannot answer now. But if anything really does bind you to me, then--I would suggest your joining my father at Cannes. If even the faintest feeling of affection for me is stirring within you, you will understand that we could never be nearer to each other than while you were learning to be my old father's daughter! Will you?”
”Yes!” she whispered with rising tears, for ever more beautiful, ever purer rose before her a happiness which she had forfeited, of which she would no longer be worthy, even could she grasp it.
The duke, usually so sharp-sighted, could not guess the source of these tears; for the first time he was deceived and interpreted favorably an emotion aroused by the despairing perception that all was vain.
He gazed down at her with a ray of love s.h.i.+ning in his clear blue eyes, and pressed a kiss on her drooping brow. Then raising his hand, he pointed upward. ”Only have courage, and hold your head high. All will yet be well. Adieu!”
He moved away as proudly, calmly and firmly as if success was a.s.sured; he did not suspect that he was leaving a lost cause.
CHAPTER XXV.
DAY IS DAWNING.
In the quiet chamber in the ancient hunting-castle, on the spot formerly occupied by the little bed, a casket now stood on two chairs near a wooden crucifix.
Freyer had returned, bringing the body of his child. He had telegraphed to the countess, but received in reply only a few lines: ”She was compelled to set off on a journey at once, her mind was so much affected that her physician had advised immediate change of scene to avert worse consequences.”
A check was enclosed to defray the funeral expenses and bestow a sum on Josepha ”as a recognition of her faithful service,” sufficient to enable her to live comfortably in case she wished to rest. Josepha understood that this was a gracious form of dismissal. But the royal gift which expressed the countess' grat.i.tude did not avail to subdue the terrible rancor in her soul, or the harshness of this dismissal.
Morning was dawning. Josepha was changed by illness almost beyond recognition, yet she had watched through the night with Freyer beside the coffin. Now she again glanced over the letter which had come the evening before. ”She doesn't venture to send me away openly, and wants to satisfy me with money, that I may go willingly. Money, always money!
I was forced to give up the child, and now I must lose you, too, the last thing I have in the world?” she said to Freyer, who was sitting silently beside the coffin of his son. Tearing the cheque, she threw it on the floor. ”There are the fragments. When the child is buried, I know where I shall go.”
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