As she continued at the window, her sister approached Hamilton. “Is not this a melancholy mummery?” she said, glancing at her bridal dress. “I feel as if I were under the influence of a frightful dream, forced to act against my inclination, and in momentary expectation of some dreadful catastrophe. Am I then really awake?” she added, extending her cold hand to him.
“I hope at least I am not dreaming,” he said, holding it firmly, and looking at her until a transient flush passed across her pale features.
“It will be impossible for me to appear surprised when I hear what I already know but too well,” she said.
“No one will observe you in such a moment, and I will endeavour to remain near you.”
Here Madame Rosenberg summoned them, and they all descended the stairs together. There were about twenty persons assembled, to whom Madame de Hoffmann was talking in her usual loud, sharp manner, while she paid particular attention to a grand, stiff-looking, elderly woman, in whom Hamilton immediately recognised the mother of Raimund. Hildegarde and Crescenz went into the adjoining room, where the bride was loitering until the arrival of the bridegroom. Hamilton walked to the window, and awaited in anxious silence the expected scene; a minute after, Count Raimund’s carriage drove to the door. Without waiting to see who descended from it, Madame de Hoffmann conducted her daughter into the drawing-room, and while occupied in receiving the congratulations of her assembled friends, the poor girl did not perceive that her mother had been somewhat mysteriously called out of the room; soon after the Countess Raimund was summoned, and she returned no more; Hamilton saw her assisted into her carriage, and driven off. Then a couple of elderly gentlemen and Mr. Rosenberg were sent for; the latter alone returned, deprived of his usual serenity, and evidently at a loss what to say. He approached Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, looked round the room, and then said: “I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings—but—Count Raimund has become so suddenly and alarmingly ill, that his mother has been obliged to return home—and—the marriage—cannot possibly take place—to-day.”
“Ill!” exclaimed Marie, growing very pale. “Where is my mother?”
She entered at the moment, and Hamilton saw from her extreme agitation that she knew all. She spoke hurriedly and confusedly with her guests, unconsciously showing her impatience to get rid of them. The Rosenbergs were the last, and were about to retire, when Marie laid her hand on Hildegarde’s arm, and begged her to remain with her.
“Mademoiselle Hildegarde will not be able to offer you much consolation, Marie,” said her mother, bitterly; “there is little or no chance of Count Raimund’s recovery.”
“While there is life there is hope,” said the poor girl, bursting into tears. “I suppose he has got the cholera, but many people have recovered from it, and why should not he?”
Madame Rosenberg left the room, followed by her husband, Crescenz, and Hamilton.