“More than a friend?” she cried, visibly agitated. “I beseech you, Leopold, let us not aim at what cannot be realized, nor destroy this relationship which is dear to me, by striving after the impossible. Promise me seriously, Leopold, you will not mention this subject to me again, or use any such language to me.”
This answer seemed very like a formal refusal, and yet I remarked an emotion in her voice which to a certain extent reassured me.
“And why should it be impossible, Francis?” I resumed, mustering up all my courage.
This time I got no answer; she uttered a shriek and rushed off to the summer-house, I following her. There a frightful spectacle awaited us.
Rudolf, the miserable Rudolf, was on his knees before his father, kissing his hand. The latter was seated on the bench, to all appearance motionless. Suddenly Rudolf uttered a cry of terror and despair.
“I warned you,” said Francis; “you have been the death of your father.”
“No, Francis, no, he has fainted. But I found him in this condition; I swear to you by all that’s dear to me that I found him thus.”
The fact was that the General had become stiff and motionless as a corpse. The trellis work alone had prevented his falling to the ground. His face had turned a little blue, his eyes were fixed and wide open, and his features distorted. Francis rubbed his temples with the contents of her scent-bottle. This friction revived him a little; but prompt medical aid was necessary.
“Tell me where the village doctor lives,” cried Rudolf, beside himself in his agitation, “that I may fly to him.”
“It will be better to send Fritz,” replied Francis, in a cold, decided tone.