He looked up, and at his look a shock passed across her face; with pallid cheeks and parted lips she gazed at him speechless.
His mind, too, seemed to bridge the gulf—it was in a strange tone that he answered:
“Ah, Hildegarde! What does it matter what becomes of me? Leave me this!”
“No, not that, Eugen,” said I, going up to him, and I suppose something in my eyes moved him, for he gave the child into my arms in silence.
The countess had stood looking at him. She strove for silence; sought tremulously after coldness, but in vain.
“Eugen—” She came nearer, and looked more closely at him. “Herrgott! how you are altered! What a meeting! I—can it be six years ago—and now—oh!” Her voice broke into a very wail. “We loved you—why did you deceive us?”
My heart stood still. Would he stand this test? It was the hardest he had had. Gräfin Hildegarde had been—was dear to him. That he was dear to her, intensely dear, that love for him was intwined about her very heart-strings, stood confessed now. “Why did you deceive us?” It sounded more like, “Tell us we may trust you; make us happy again!” One word from him, and the poor sad lady would have banished from her heart the long-staying, unwelcome guest—belief in his falseness, and closed it away from her forever.
He was spared the dreadful necessity of answering her. A timid summons from her maid at the door told her the count wanted to speak to her, and she left us quickly.
Sigmund did not die; he recovered, and lives now. But with that I am not at present concerned.