Part 69 (1/2)
Amid conflicts such as those just described, the countess lived, pa.s.sing from one stage of development to another and unconsciously growing older--mentally maturing. Several weeks had now pa.s.sed since her parting with Freyer, but the apathy with which, from that hour, she had regarded all external things still remained. She left the duke to arrange the affair with the Wildenaus, which, a short time ago, she had considered of sufficient importance to sacrifice Freyer. She admired the duke's tact and cleverness, but it seemed as if he were not acting for her but for some other person.
When he brought the news that the Wildenaus, owing to the obstinacy of the witness Martin, had given up their plan of a legal prosecution on the ground of Josepha's deposition, and were ready for an amicable settlement--she did not rejoice over anything save the old servant's fidelity; everything else she accepted as a just recompense of fate in return for an _unwarrantably_ high price she had paid.
She was not annoyed because obliged to pay those whom she had injured a sum so large as considerably to lessen her income. She did not care for the result; her father was now a dying man and the vast sums he had used were again at her disposal. After all--what did it matter? If she married the duke in a year, she would be obliged to give up the whole property! But--need she marry him, if the Wildenaus could prove nothing against her? She sank into a dull reverie. But when the duke mentioned the cousins' desire for the little hunting-castle, life suddenly woke in her again. ”Never, never!” she cried, while a burning blush crimsoned her face: ”Rather all my possessions than that!” A flood of tears suddenly dissolved her unnatural torpor.
”But, dearest Madeleine, you will never live there again!” said the duke consolingly.
”No--neither I nor any living mortal will enter it again; but, Duke--must I say it? There sleeps my child; there sleeps the dream of my heart--it is the mausoleum of my love! No, leave me that--no stranger's foot must desecrate it! I will do anything, will give the Wildenaus twice, thrice as much; they may choose any of my estates--only not that one, and even if I marry you, when I must resign everything, I will ask you to buy it from my cousins, and you will not refuse my first request?”
The prince gazed at her long and earnestly; for the first time a ray of the old love shone in his eyes. ”Do you know that I have never seen you so beautiful as at this moment? Now your own soul looks out from your eyes! Now I absolve you from everything. Forgive me--I was mistaken in you, but this impulse teaches me that you are still yourself. It does me good!”
”Oh, Duke! There is little merit, when the living was not allowed his rightful place--to secure it to the dead!”
”Well, it is at least an act of atonement. Madeleine, there cannot be more joy in Heaven over the sinner who repents than I felt just now at your words. Yes, my poor friend, you shall keep the scene of your happiness and your grief untouched--I will a.s.sure you of it, and will arrange it with the Wildenaus.”
”Duke! Oh, you are the best, the n.o.blest of men!” she exclaimed, smiling through her tears: ”Do you know that I love you as I never did before? I thought it perfectly natural that you could not love me as you saw me during those days. I felt it, though you did not intend to let me see it.”
She had not meant to a.s.sume it, but these words expressed the charming artlessness which had formerly rendered her so irresistible, and the longer the duke had missed it, the less he was armed against the spell.
”Madeleine!” he held out his arms--and she--did she know how it happened? Was it grat.i.tude, the wish to make at least _one_ person happy? She threw herself on his breast--for the first time he held her in his embrace. Surely she was his betrothed bride! But she had not thought of what happened now. The duke's lips sought hers--she could not resist like a girl of sixteen, he would have considered it foolish coquetry. So she was forced to submit.
”_Honi soit qui mal y pense!_” he murmured, kissing her brow, her hair--and her lips. But when she felt his lips press hers, it suddenly seemed as though some one was saying dose beside her: ”_You!_” It was the word Freyer always uttered when he embraced her, as though he knew of nothing better or higher than that one word, in which he expressed the whole strength of his emotion! ”You--you!” echoed constantly in her ears with that sweet, wild fervor which seemed to threaten: ”the next instant you will be consumed in my ardor.” Again he stood before her with his dark flaming eyes and the overwhelming earnestness of a mighty pa.s.sion, which shadowed his pale brow as the approaching thunder-storm clouded the snow-clad peaks of his mountains. And she compared it with the light, easy tenderness, the ”_honi soi qui mal y pense_” of the trained squire of dames who was pressing his first kiss upon her lips--and she loathed the stranger. She released herself with a sudden movement, approached the window and looked out. As she gazed, she fancied she saw the dark figure of the deserted one, illumined by the crimson glare of the forest conflagration, holding out his hand with a divinely royal gesture to raise and shelter her on his breast. Once more she beheld him gaze calmly down at the charred timber and heard him say smiling: ”The wood was mine.”
Then--then she beheld in the distant East a sultry room, shaded by gay awnings, surrounded by rustling palm-trees, palm-trees, which drew their sustenance from the soil on which the Redeemer's blood once flowed. He sat beside the bed of the mother of a new-born child, whispering sweet, earnest words--and the mother was she herself, the babe was his.
Then she beheld this same man kneeling by the coffin of a child, the rigid, death-white face buried under his raven locks. It was the child born on the consecrated soil of the burning East, which she had left to pine in the cold breath of the Western winter. She withdrew from it the mother-heart, in which the tender plant of the South might have gained warmth. She had left that father's child to die.
Yet he did not complain; uttered no reproach--he remained silent.
She saw him become more and more solitary and silent. The manly beauty wasted, his strength failed--at last she saw him noiselessly cross the carpeted floor of this very room and close the door behind him never to return! No, no, it could not be--all that had happened was false--nothing was true save that he was the father of her child, her husband, and no one else could ever be that, even though she was separated from him for ever.
”Duke!” she cried, imploringly. ”Leave me to myself. I do not understand my own feelings--I feel as if arraigned before the judgment seat of G.o.d. Let me take counsel with my own heart--forgive me I am a variable, capricious woman--one mood to-day and another to-morrow; have patience with me, I entreat you.”
The duke looked gravely at her, and answered, nodding: ”I understand--or rather--I am afraid to understand!”
”Duke, I am not suited to marry. Let the elderly woman go her way alone--I believe I can never again be happy. I long only for rest and solitude.”
”You need rest and composure. I will give you time and wait your decision, which can now be absolutely untrammelled, since your business affairs are settled and the peril is over.”
”Do not be angry with me, Duke--and do not misunderstand me--oh Heaven--you might think that I had only given my promise in the dread of poverty and disgrace and now that the peril was past, repented.”
The duke hesitated a moment. Then he said in a low, firm tone: ”Surely you know that I am the man of sober reason, who is surprised by nothing. '_Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner_.' So act without regard to me, as your own feeling dictates.” He held out his hand: ”There was a time when I seriously believed that we might be happy together. That is now past--you will destroy no illusion, if you a.s.sert the contrary.”
”Perhaps not even a sincere desire of the heart?” replied the countess, smiling.
The duke became deeply earnest. ”That suggestion is out of place here.--Am I to wound you from gallantry and increase the measure of your self-reproaches by showing you that I suffer? Or tell a falsehood to lessen your responsibility? We will let all that rest. If you want me, send for me. Meanwhile, as your faithful attorney, I will arrange the matter of the hunting castle.”
”Duke--how petty I am in your presence--how n.o.ble you are!”
”That is saying far too much, Countess! I am content, if you can bear me witness that at least I have not made myself ridiculous.” He left the room--cold, courteous, stoical as ever!