'Very well; we will start to-morrow for Schaffhausen,' the Grävenitz answered in her new, broken, docile voice.
'There is a letter for you, Madame,' the governor told her.
'A letter? Who should write to me? The dead do not write.'
'O Madame! Madame! read it; there may be good news,' cried Maria.
'Good news? Good news for me? There can be none. Do you not know that there can be none?' she said tonelessly.
Even the governor's eyes were wet as he handed her the letter. She broke the seal listlessly.
'I send you the best terms I can make for you, in remembrance of the Judengasse of Stuttgart, and in gratitude for your kindness to my race.—Joseph Süss Oppenheimer.'
Fastened in one corner of this short missive glittered a little jewel. The Grävenitz looked long at it, not comprehending. Then a scene of her past came back to her—she was in a darkened room, which smelt of strange, sweet essences, and a Jewish boy sang a Hebrew love-song.
Joseph Süss Oppenheimer, the Jew, had proved himself, in this instance, to be truly what Eberhard Ludwig had called him in pleasantry many years ago—'un preux chevalier.' One who could render homage and service to a fallen favourite.