She stopped in the passageway and asked herself whether she was not dreaming. She who had once been the crown prince's nurse was now treated as if they had never known her. She, the freeholder's wife--her pride rose, as she thought of her vast homestead--was sent away like a beggar.
She no longer cared to speak with Madame Gunther. Her lips trembled with grief at the thought of how wicked the great people were. And yet they could praise this house, and she, too, had once praised it, as though none but holy persons lived in it.
She left the house, and, while walking through the garden, met Madame Gunther, who started back when she recognized Walpurga.
"Don't you remember me?" asked Walpurga, holding out her hand towards her.
"Indeed I do," said Madame Gunther, without noticing the hand that was offered her. "Where do you come from?"
"From my farm. I'm the freeholder's wife, and if you, Madame, had come to me, I wouldn't have let you stand out of doors in this way; I'd have asked you to come inside, into my room."
"But I don't ask you," replied Madame Gunther, "I put nothing in the way of those who leave the straight path, but I do not invite them into my house."
"And when did I leave the straight path? What have I done?"
"I am not your judge."
"Anyone may judge me. What have I done? You must tell me."