"The ladies were here a moment ago," he said. "The countess had just received a person on business; they must have gone to their own apartments. I will send, and mention that Baron--"
"No, my friend," cried the young officer, "do not announce me; the ladies will soon return, and I shall surprise them. Say nothing."
The servant bowed, and left the room.
The young officer walked several times up and down the room. A smile of happiness rested on his face--the joy of reunion, after an eventful separation, during which he had been threatened by death in many forms; the anticipation of the joyful surprise he should behold in the eyes of his beloved, all combined to fill his young, fresh heart with joy and enchantment.
He went up to the low fauteuil, in which Countess Clara usually sat beside her mother, and he pressed his lips against the back, where he knew her head had rested.
Then he seated himself in the chair, half closed his eyes, and gave himself up to a sweet, soft reverie, and the old clock's pendulum measured the time the young man spent in happy dreams, with the same regular stroke as it had numbered the moments of torture that had wrung the heart of her who filled his dreams.
Whilst the young baron sat awaiting his happiness, Clara had gone to her own apartment. It was a square room, with a large window, decorated with grey silk. Before the window stood a writing table, and near it a high pyramidal stand of blooming flowers, whose fragrance filled the room. Upon the writing-table, on an elegant bronze easel, stood a large photograph of her fiancé; he had given it to her just before his departure to join the army. In a niche in one corner of the room was a prie-dieu chair, and a beautiful crucifix in ebony and ivory, with a small shell, containing holy water, hung upon the wall.
This room contained everything calculated to please a faultless taste, and to enrich and embellish life. This room had been so full of happiness and hope when the young countess left it,--and now? The perfume of the flowers was as sweet as an hour ago; the sunshine fell as brightly through the windows; but where was the happiness? where was the hope?
Clara threw herself on her knees before the image of the crucified Saviour, where she had often found comfort in the childish sorrows of her early life. She clasped her beautiful hands in fervent prayer, her tearful eyes hung on the image of the Redeemer, her lips moved in half-uttered, imploring words; but not as before did peace and rest sink into her soul.
A wild storm of various emotions raged within her. There was deep sorrow for her lost happiness, there was defiant anger at the deceit that had played upon her love, there was swelling pride at the contempt shown to her feelings, and finally there was bitter, jealous hatred of the unworthy being to whom she had been sacrificed. All these emotions surged and raged in her head, in her heart, in her veins; and the prayer her lips pronounced would not arise to heaven, the peaceful light of believing self-sacrifice would not kindle within her.