Finn half raised himself in his chair:
“And did you?” he asked.
“I did as she wished. It became a pilgrimage to every region where life lies nakedest in its pleasure. Restlessly we travelled from place to place. She omitted none, afraid lest there should remain a single sin which she had not prayed away, a single memory which the bells had not rung into the grave.”
“And then did you come home?”
Cordt looked at his son as if he had forgotten that he was in the room. He suddenly awoke to the consciousness of what lay between those days and these; and his face became so gloomy and his eyes so serious that Finn was frightened.
“Then we came home. And then....”
He rose quickly and stood with his arms crossed on his breast and looked at Finn:
“Then we came home. And the years passed and Fru Adelheid recovered her peace of mind. She found herself again and became the same as in the old days. Her thoughts waver restlessly, her desires yearn insatiably. Her carriage now rattles through the streets as before ... only it stops at the church instead of the theatre.”
Finn wanted to speak, but could not, because Cordt stood in front of him and looked at him fixedly and nodded to him, once, as if to say that he knew what it was and that it was no use.
“She goes to Heaven’s table,” said Cordt, “and Heaven comes to her parties.”