"Because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."
This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.
The same evening I received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.
Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?
Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table.
"To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling.
"To Maximilian, father."
"Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he has all your confidence! He is very happy!"
He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:
"Read it, father."