Hartmut stood still in his place. He struggled for breath; the excitement threatened to choke him. Shame, hatred, anger, all floated wildly through his heart. That hint of Wallmoden's had hurt him terribly, although he but half understood it. It tore asunder the veil with which he had half unconsciously, half intentionally shrouded the truth. He had, indeed, believed that a remnant of their wealth, rescued from the wreck, had given him and his mother their income. But it was not the first time that he had shut his eyes to what he did not wish to see.
He had enjoyed life in deep draughts without calling himself to account for it when the hand of his mother had so suddenly torn him from the enforced paternal education into unlimited freedom; when he exchanged the routine of the strictest duties for a life full of intoxicating enjoyments. He had then been too young to judge, and later on--it was then too late; habit and example had woven too unyielding a net around him. Now, for the first time, it was being shown him clearly and unmistakably what the life was that he had led so long--the life of an adventurer; and as an adventurer he had been pointed out the exit from society.
But hotter than the shame of that burned the affront which had been given him, and hatred for the man who had forced this indisputable truth upon him. The unfortunate inheritance from his mother, the hot, wild blood which had once been fatal to the boy, welled up like a stream of fire, and every other thought went down in a sensation, wild and limitless, of thirst for revenge.
His handsome features were distorted beyond recognition when he finally left the room, with tightly closed teeth. He knew and felt but one thing--that he must have revenge--revenge at any price!
CHAPTER XXV.
It was very late when the fête came to an end. After the withdrawal of the ducal couple, a general move for departure took place. Carriage after carriage rolled down the Schlossberg; the bright lights were extinguished, and Furstenstein began to shroud itself in darkness and silence.
In the apartments devoted to the Ambassador and his wife, however, the lights still burned.
Adelaide stood at the window in her rich robe of the fête and looked out into the night like one lost in thought, but it was with a peculiar, weary gesture that she leaned her head against the window panes.
Wallmoden sat at the writing table, glancing through some letters and dispatches which had arrived in the last hour. They seemed to contain important news, for he did not lay them aside with other papers to receive attention to-morrow morning, but grasped a pen and hastily wrote a few lines, then arose and quickly approached his wife.
"This comes unexpectedly," he said. "I shall have to go to Berlin."