Part 21 (1/2)
Without reflecting any further, she left her chamber and hastened once more through the rooms. Her hair now was waving wildly around her shoulders, and her purple dress, no longer held together by the golden sash, was floating loosely around her form. She took no notice whatever of her dishabille; only one idea, only one purpose filled her heart.
In breathless haste she hurried on, and now quickly opened a last door, through which she entered a room furnished in the most sumptuous and comfortable manner.
At her appearance, so sudden, and evidently unexpected, the elderly gentleman, who had reposed on the silken sofa, arose and turned around with a gesture of displeasure.
On recognizing Marianne, however, a smile overspread his features, and he went to meet her with a pleasant greeting.
”Back already, dearest?” he said, extending his hand toward her.
”Yes, your highness--I am back already,” she said drily and coldly.
The gentleman upon whose features the traces of a life of dissipation were plainly visible, fixed his eyes with an anxious air upon the beautiful lady. He only now noticed her angry mien and the strange dishabille in which she appeared before him.
”Good Heaven, Marianne!” he asked, sharply, ”what is the cause of your agitation, of your coldness toward me? What has happened to you?”
”What has happened to me? The most infamous insults have been heaped upon my head!” she exclaimed with quivering lips, an angry blush suffusing her cheeks, ”For a quarter of an hour, nay, for an eternity, I was the target of the jeers, the contempt, and the scorn of the rabble that publicly abused me in the most disgraceful manner!”
”Tell me,” exclaimed the old gentleman, ”what has occurred, and whose fault it was!”
”Whose fault it was?” she asked, bending a piercing glance upon him.
”YOURS, my prince; you alone are to blame for my terrible disgrace and humiliation. For your sake the rabble has reviled me, called me your mistress, and laughed at my diamonds; calling them the reward of my shame! Oh, how many insults, how many mortifications have I not already suffered for your sake--with how many b.l.o.o.d.y tears have I not cursed this love which attaches me to you, and which I was nevertheless unable to tear from my heart, for it is stronger than myself. But now the cup of bitterness is full to overflowing. My pride cannot hear so much contumely and scorn. Farewell, my prince, my beloved! I must leave you. I cannot stay with you any longer. Shame would kill me. Farewell!
Hereafter, no one shall dare to call me a mistress.”
With a last glowing farewell, she turned to the door, but the prince kept her back. ”Marianne,” he asked, tenderly, ”do you not know that I love you, and that I cannot live without you?”
She looked at him with a fascinating smile. ”And I?” she asked, ”far from you, shall die of a broken heart; with you, I shall die of shame. I prefer the former. Farewell! No one shall ever dare again to call me by that name.” And her hand touched already the door-k.n.o.b.
The prince encircled her waist with his arms and drew her back. ”I shall not let you go,” he said, ardently. ”You are mine, and shall remain so!
Oh, why are you so proud and so cold? Why will you not sacrifice your faith to our love? Why do you insist upon remaining a Jewess?”
”Your highness,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, ”why do you want me to become a Christian?”
”Why?” he exclaimed. ”Because my religion and the laws of my country prevent me from marrying a Jewess.”
”And if I should sacrifice to you the last that has remained to me?” she whispered--”my conscience and my religion.”
”Marianne,” he exclaimed, solemnly, ”I repeat to you what I have told you so often already: 'Become a Christian in order to become my wife.'”
She encircled his neck impetuously with her arms and clung to him with a pa.s.sionate outburst of tenderness. ”I will become a Christian!” she whispered.
CHAPTER XVII.
LOVE AND POLITICS.
”At last! at last!” exclaimed Gentz, in a tone of fervid tenderness, approaching Marianne, who went to meet him with a winning smile. ”Do you know, dearest, that you have driven me to despair for a whole week? Not a word, not a message from you! Whenever I came to see you, I was turned away. Always the same terrible reply, 'Madame is not at home,' while I felt your nearness in every nerve and vein of mine, and while my throbbing heart was under the magic influence of your presence. And then to be turned away! No reply whatever to my letters, to my ardent prayers to see you only for a quarter of an hour.”
”Oh, you ungrateful man!” she said, smiling, ”did I not send for you to-day? Did I not give you this rendezvous quite voluntarily?”