“No, no, count, he has not come, because I gave the signal.”
“Not so, my lady,” observed a cold, quiet voice behind her; “true, you gave the signal, but he has come nevertheless.”
“Schiller!” exclaimed Marie, turning pale, and yet she smiled and her eyes sparkled. She was on the point of hastening forward with extended hands to meet him, but her mother had already interposed her colossal figure between her and the poet, and was gazing at him defiantly, as if to signify her readiness to take up the gauntlet if he should meditate warfare.
“You are heartily welcome, Councillor Schiller,” said she, in dulcet tones. “We feel highly honored and are particularly pleased to have you join us at last on an evening when we have company. These gentlemen will all be delighted to make your acquaintance. We were speaking of you when you entered, and all were regretting that you were not here, and—”
“Of that I am aware,” said Schiller, interrupting her. “I had been standing in the doorway for some time, but you were conversing so eagerly that no one noticed my presence. I saw and heard all.”
Schiller’s voice trembled while uttering these words, and his countenance was deathly pale.
“Then you heard us all express an ardent desire to make your acquaintance,” said Count Kunheim, stepping forward. “I esteem myself highly fortunate in being able to gratify this desire. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count von Kunheim.”
Schiller did not seem to observe the count’s extended hand, and bowed stiffly; he then looked over toward the window-niche, to which Marie had withdrawn, and where she stood trembling, her heart throbbing wildly. How angry, reproachful, and contemptuous, was the glance he fastened on her countenance! But his lips were mute, and as he now withdrew his gaze, he erected his head proudly, and a derisive smile quivered on his thin, compressed lips. With this smile he turned to the gentlemen again, and greeted them with a haughty inclination of his head, like a king who is receiving the homage of his subjects. “You expressed a desire to see me, gentlemen, I am here. The conversation which I overheard, compelled me to show myself for a moment, in order to correct a little error imparted to you by Madame von Arnim.”
“An error?” said her ladyship, in some confusion. “Really, Mr. Schiller, I am at a loss to understand exactly your meaning.”
“I will make myself understood, Madame von Arnim. You told these gentlemen that I avoided mankind as the owl avoids the light. But this is not the case, and I beg these gentlemen not to credit this statement. I do not avoid mankind, and I do not hate my fellow-creatures, but I love them. I love and revere the human countenance, for the spirit of God is reflected in the human eye. I love my fellow-creatures, and although they have sometimes caused me pain, and rudely awakened me from my dreams of happiness, yet, my faith in humanity is unshaken, and—”