Hardly had the maid's footsteps ceased to echo on the stone steps of the pavilion, when the Grävenitz flung aside the book and, rising from her chair, listened attentively. Only the monotonous tramp of the sentries in the courtyard, and, more faintly, the same sound from the guards on the north terrace. Still her Excellency listened. Alas! for how many nights of late had she hearkened in vain for the click of the little key in the door from the statue gallery? Eberhard Ludwig never came to her, and as she stood listening her heart bled in anguish for the love that was no more. Could such love really die? she asked herself. If it could, then the vows Eberhard Ludwig had spoken were mockery. Had she built her life on so insecure a foundation? The whole fabric of her being was shattered. Her anguish was almost physical pain, and she knew why people said 'my heart bleeds,' for, of a truth, it seemed to her as though the strength ebbed away from her heart, leaving an aching, yearning void. Courage! she would try again. She lifted the waxen taper and held it between her face and the mirror. Yes, there were lines beneath the eyes; her cheeks were less full and her chin heavier than of yore, but her lips were soft and red, her eyes as blue, as vivid as they had ever been. She knew her hair was streaked with white beneath the powder, but it was still luxuriant. She was beautiful, desirable—but would he desire her? She replaced the taper, glided into the statue gallery, and opened the door leading to his Highness's room. She listened; Eberhard Ludwig was asleep; she could hear the long, even breaths. Noiselessly she pushed aside the arras and entered. The moon shone into the room, and again she could have vowed that a white-shrouded woman's figure stood in the wan light, but, as before, the faint vision vanished when she looked more searchingly.
'Eberhard, beloved,' she called gently, 'are you ill?' The old witchery was in her voice, and the sleeping man answered to it.
'I come, sweet love; I come, Philomèle!' Serenissimus appeared on the threshold of the writing-room. He had flung himself down to sleep without undressing, and was still in his riding-clothes. He looked ghastly in the pale moonlight, and she hurried to him with outstretched arms.
'You are ill and you do not come to me? Beloved, have I not tended you that you should thus flaunt me?' She drew him to her. 'What have I done, my heart, how have I sinned, that you have taken your love from me? See, I come to you to pray you to forgive me!' The old trick of speech, her catchword, 'See,' the low voice—the soft, strong arms.
He had doubted her, and why? She had given him all; it was not her fault if he wearied of her tyranny. No; he alone was to blame, his inconstancy, his weakness. He poured forth a torrent of self-reproach, and words of love, and she responded passionately. Once more they were lovers, thrilling to each other's touch. And the wan moon looked on at their transports, and perchance the pale wraith of the Countess of Orlamünde, the White Lady, watched the lovers and smiled, knowing that love's death, satiety, had them in his chill grip for all their passionate vows.
'I start at nine to-morrow morning for the reception, beloved. The Erbprincessin and Friedrich accompany me in my coach,' the Landhofmeisterin said as she prepared to return to her apartments. His Highness started.
'I pray you, do not go, Wilhelmine. The King is a bear, and if you meet him he will fail in courtesy to you,' he said.
'It is my right to go, and I start at nine,' she repeated.
'You shall not go; it is my right to forbid you,—you shall not go!' he cried. Then ensued a quarrel, bitter, terrible, between two beings who so short a while before had loved so madly. The quarrel ended by the man giving in, as usual, but the wrangle pierced one more nail in his love's coffin for all that.
