Her hand did not tremble as she wrote these words. She folded the sheet, sealed it and placed it where its address could be plainly seen by any one entering the room.
It was done! She was parted from him forever. A shudder ran through her as she thought of his threat of suicide if she refused to accede to his wishes, but the thought did not for an instant deter her. Only the coward, whose courage is never equal to the commission of the deed, can threaten suicide; if he could have preferred death to disgrace he never would have been a detected thief.
She cautiously unbolted her door and crept through the drawing-room to the hall, upon which the door of Sorr's sleeping-room opened. Here she paused and listened,--he was wont to breathe heavily in his sleep,--but she could hear nothing: a proof that he was still awake. What if he should hear her and come from his room to prevent her departure? What then? The wonted gentleness of her look gave place to stern determination; involuntarily she clinched her hand; the struggle had begun, and should under all circumstances be carried on.
Fortunately, however, she encountered no obstacle to her progress down the stairs to the house-door, which she softly opened and as softly closed behind her. The streets were deserted; she passed a watchman asleep on a doorstep, and walked as quickly as possible towards the President's mansion without being seen by a human being. The windows of the house were still gleaming with light, and there was a long line of carriages in the street before it. Lucie paused and hesitated for a moment. The ball was not yet over. She had hoped this would be the case; else it would have been difficult for her to obtain an entrance to the house. But how was she to pass the line of carriages? So late a wanderer would be sure to be noticed by the coachmen and lackeys, and she might be the object of coarse jests. Perhaps the little gate leading from the garden into a side street was open: it was seldom locked; and even should it be so, she could easily climb the low garden-fence. She was not to be stopped by such an obstacle; from the garden, the wing in which was Adèle's room was easily entered by a back-door, which was, of course, still open, and once in the house she could soon make her way to Adèle's room.
She hurried into the side street. The garden-gate was not locked, nor was the back-door even closed. Fortune favoured her; not a servant did she encounter as she hurried up a narrow staircase and along the passage leading to her friend's room, which she reached without being observed. Arrived here, she sank down upon the little lounge where she had so often sat conversing gayly with Adèle, upon whose aid she now relied in her plan of flight.
An hour passed slowly; the music floated in from the ball-room; but at last it ceased; there was a bustle of departing guests, servants ran to and fro in the house, and the rattle of carriages told Lucie that the ball was at an end. Another half-hour went by; the house grew quieter, the bustle entirely subsided; there were steps in the passage, and Heinrich von Guntram's voice said, "Good-night, Adèle. Shall I light your candle for you?"
"Oh, no; there are matches on the table Good-night, Heinrich."
"Good-night."
The door opened. Adèle entered, bolted it behind her, and then, going to the table in front of the sofa, lighted a match, by the flickering light of which she distinguished a dark figure sitting on the sofa. She gasped with terror and ran towards the door, but was instantly arrested in her flight by the gentle tones of a familiar voice, whispering, "Don't be frightened, dearest Adèle; it is I,--Lucie!"
"You--you here at this hour?"