It was in the evening hours of one of the next following days when two ladies were seated in the garden saloon of the château; one was the Baroness Grenwitz, and the other a young lady who had ridden over from her seat in the neighborhood to pay a visit. The glass door which led from the room into the garden was wide open, and showed immediately before them a large lawn enclosed by tall trees, in the centre of which a Flora, carved in sandstone, had now for a century and a half poured stone flowers from her cornucopia. Within the room, which lay towards the north, it was almost dark already; but outside, the evening light was still lying warm on the green turf and the magnificent beech-trees and oaks; and the outlines of the two ladies, as they sat near a table pushed into the door, were sharply defined against the bright background.
A greater contrast than that which they formed could hardly be imagined. The Baroness Grenwitz was scarcely forty years old, but her large, cold gray eyes, which she always fixed long and piercingly upon those with whom she conversed, her lofty stature, far exceeding the ordinary height of women, and especially her peculiar way of dressing, made her sometimes look almost ten years older than she really was. Whether from love of extreme simplicity, or, as others would have it, from a love of economy which degenerated into avarice, she preferred materials more famous, like the wedding-dress of the worthy wife of the Vicar of Wakefield, for their durability than for other showy qualities, and she chose a way of having her dresses made which could not be called old-fashioned, because there never had been such a fashion in existence. The first impression which she generally made was that of imposing dignity; the careful observer noticed, moreover, in her always perfect carriage, and especially in the unfailing quietness of her deep, sonorous voice, and her carefully chosen language, which was scrupulously free from any vulgar expression, a consciousness of the impression she produced, and a desire not to break the charm by any fault of hers.
We cannot say with certainty whether the lady who was with the baroness really was overawed by her stately appearance, or merely appeared to be so; this much only was evident, that she endeavored at that moment to assume an air which harmonized neither with the expression of her features nor with the costume which she wore. She was dressed in a riding-habit of dark green velvet, which she had tucked up sufficiently not to be troublesome in walking, and not to hide her small feet in their elegant little boots. The tight-fitting dress set off to great advantage the well-rounded outlines of her youthful form; and the little round hat, now lying with the gloves and the whip on a small table near by, must have been exceedingly becoming to the well-shaped head with the rich brown hair, which, simply parted in the middle, was falling in rich waves over forehead and ears, and was then gathered up behind in a wreath. She is seated opposite the baroness, who is a pattern of industry, and sews zealously on a piece of linen, which may possibly become a napkin, while the visitor is busy embroidering a cipher in another napkin. This is strange kind of work to be done in a riding-habit, and the lady does not seem to be particularly fond of it; at least she quickly throws up her head, when the baroness rises in order to look for something in another part of the room, and shows a pretty face, with soft, child-like features, and large brown eyes, full of moist tenderness. Just now, however, the face bears rather the expression of a wilful school-girl, when her rigid teacher's back is turned for a moment.
"What were you saying, my dear Anna Maria?" asked the lady, bending once more over her work as the baroness turned round.
"I was asking, dear Melitta, whether you had enough red yarn?"
Melitta looked as if she were going to say, "More than I want!" but she contented herself with the reply: "I think I have enough."
The baroness had taken her seat again and continued the conversation, which had been interrupted for a moment.
"Then there if little hope of complete recovery?" she said.
"Little or none," replied Melitta, "especially now, since his violent attacks have ceased. Doctor Birkenhain writes that only a miracle can save Carlo from insanity, and I presume that means simply, he is irrevocably lost."
"It is a sad fate which the Almighty has decreed for you, my poor Melitta," said the baroness.