Hélène in vain waited all day for a reply; the Count did not answer. The next day she received a few lines, saying that he was ill. The Princess was not in the habit of leaving Kowalowska, and had never entered the residence where the children of the Countess Anna were living. But in her anxiety she forgot all prudence, and wrote as follows: “I am in despair at hearing you are ill; if you had sent me word sooner I should have perhaps found means of coming to see you. If you are unable to assist me otherwise, send me the key of the small garden gate; Saint Charles will follow me, and I will come, for it is impossible for me to let to-day pass without seeing you; I am in agony, and besides I have letters I must show you.”
The Count’s illness was only too genuine. The worry he had gone through during his journey, the awkwardness of his position, added to bodily fatigue, were probably its cause. At the end of three days a putrid fever of an alarming character declared itself, and for three months he was in danger of death.
The unhappy Hélène did not dare to take her place at his bedside; she only went secretly to his room in order to be certain that every care was bestowed on him. The Bishop of Wilna, on hearing what was taking place, decided at last to write to his niece. He urged her to come and settle near him at Werky, and promised to forget her past imprudences if she would renounce her mad infatuation for the Count.
The Princess answered:—
“My dear Uncle—You must certainly have heard of the Lord Chamberlain’s illness; but what no one can tell you, and what I myself can hardly express, is the fearful state of despair I was in on seeing the only happiness possible for me in this world on the very brink of destruction.
“Now at last, after all my anxiety, he is out of danger, and although he was on the point of losing his life, I can truly assure you that he does not recover from a worse state than I do myself.
“Your letter arrived at the very moment that we were beginning to take courage, and to fancy that our union was still a possibility; you will imagine my despair on seeing that you only speak of a separation.
“I know your kindness of heart, my dear uncle, and am persuaded that you have never formed a plan without intending it to bring about my happiness and tranquillity; I therefore implore you, my dear uncle, not to consider any plan feasible that should remove me or oblige me to forsake the choice I have made. Whatever reproach may be cast at me, I am certain I do not deserve to be blamed for want of firmness or constancy. I am quite decided not to change anything in my way of acting, even should the present impediments last as long as my life. I therefore beg you, my dear uncle, to vouchsafe me a few words of comfort. Tell me that you wish to see us happy, but do not tell us that we must seek our happiness apart from each other.
“Good-bye, my dear uncle; accept the tribute of my deepest respect, and the tender affection which I shall bear you through life.
“Hélène Ligne.”