"You must not let me suffer for a misunderstanding of which--I swear it--I am so innocent, that I cannot even guess how it has come about. But be this as it may, I bless it as a heavenly favour, for surely Heaven would not have me condemned unheard. I pray and entreat you: listen!"
"What have you to say?"
"What I wrote in my last letter. If you will not believe in my assurances--and indeed I can understand that, as things are, appearances are against me--give me time--only a little time, until these unfortunate circumstances have become clearer, and those appearances will dissolve themselves into nothing. Only this much I can, I must say, I am not in love with the Princess, and I never have been, I have never felt anything for her but sympathy, respect,--and friendship, if you will,--feelings which that rarely-gifted woman will awaken in all who come to know her intimately. She is here for no other purpose but to plead for me, to clear up this wretched mystery which condemns me to silence, at the sacrifice of considerable personal advantages to herself. But she has met with resistance which she cannot overcome, and which compels her, and compels me also, to remain in this miserably odd position. Therefore, once more, give me time--give me a respite. A criminal gets that, and I am free from guilt, unless it be a crime that I look upon those duties which gratitude and the friendship of years impose upon me as sacred, even now, when it is so unspeakably hard for me, and when it puts me to the risk of forfeiting the happiness of my life!"
"Is this all you have to say to me?"
"All; for what else. I might say would find no credence, if your faith in my veracity does not go even this length."
"Good-bye."
"Erna! is it possible? Is every voice silent in your heart? Does nothing stir, nothing plead for one whom once you--I dare not say the word any longer, for I must fear to offend you again if I remind you of what once was? Great heavens! and I had thought, that if my pen were powerless, and my pleading on paper appeared clumsy and lifeless, I should but require to be once more face to face with you, looking into your loved eyes whilst you looked into mine, and that then you would believe me even before I uttered a word. And now, now, my glance is powerless, my words are mere sound. I no longer know what to say; I am standing here like a beggar who has been telling his story of bitter woe, and in whose face people close the door at which he has knocked with trembling hand. Have I become so poor? Well, I am most unwilling to appeal to a friend for help, but you leave me no choice. There is, living in your own circle, a gentleman who is in the secret, to whom the Princess has told it, half involuntarily; drawn on by the vivacity of her temperament, which she has never learned to control, half voluntarily, hoping that she was not betraying anything which all, or at least all concerned, would not know to-day. Well, this hope of hers has not been fulfilled. The gentleman in question knows it; and not deeming himself, under the circumstances, justified in speaking, he will, if I judge him correctly, be silent, although the Princess has already given him full liberty, nay, has entreated him to tell you all. I must confess, I was much taken aback when, a little time ago, she came and told me this; apart from other considerations, it was painful to me to know that the key to the fatal enigma was in the hands of a third person. But now, when, to my sorrow, I realise my impotence, let him plead for me, if he will. He will do it, if I, too, entreat him. I have barely exchanged three words with him, but looks like his, so imbued with the true nobility of the soul, cannot lie. Ask him--you will believe him!"
"Never!"
"You will not believe him?"
"I will die rather than hear from him, speak to him of ... It is a shame, a shame! This is going too far. What happened before was ... but this, this ..."