"There are saints even in our days," replied Paula. "All that olden times knew of the great, the beautiful and the true, still exists in the world, even though it be scattered and hidden from view."
In the depth of her sorrow, the queen's eye beamed with conscious delight at the thought that, although Gunther was no longer with her, that which was best in him was now beside her in his child.
Walpurga was again obliged to tell them of that morning by the lake. And then she went on to speak of Irma's beautiful work, but she soon noticed that the queen was not listening, and stopped.
They drove on in silence.
They reached the end of the carriage road, and now continued the journey on horseback.
Soon after the queen's departure, the king and Bronnen returned from the chase. They felt refreshed and invigorated by the sport, and the king inquired whether the queen had already repaired to the waterfall, for she had expressed a desire to sketch there.
For the first time in her life. Countess Brinkenstein was so embarrassed that she almost lost her presence of mind. She, of course, felt a proper sympathy for Irma, but as long as she had lived in concealment she should have died in concealment. Why should she thus agitate them all anew? She shook her head in deprecation of this eccentric being who, long after one had mourned and forgotten her, was not even decently dead.
With faltering voice, she informed the king of what had happened, and scarcely ventured to tell him that on her own responsibility, and contrary to all court regulations, the queen had gone away, attended by no one but Paula and privy councilor Sixtus.
For some moments, the king neither moved nor uttered a word, but stood there with his eyes bent on the ground. The very earth at his feet seemed to tremble. Everything seemed unsteady as if in an earthquake, and terrors and despair overwhelmed him.
All that he had experienced, during long years of suffering and expiation, now rose before him again. He had striven and wrestled and made sacrifices, and no one had thanked him for all this; least of all his own heart, for he was burdened with guilt and yet anxious to do good, and forced to acknowledge, in all humility, that the power to do good was yet left him.