In the midst of this throbbing silence, Maria Theresa went forward and took her seat at the escritoire. She dipped her pen in the silver inkstand, and a sob, that sounded like the last death-sigh, escaped from the lips of the countess. The empress turned quickly around; but the glance of her eye was resolute and her hand was firm.
She bent over the parchment and wrote; then, throwing her pen on the floor, she turned to the emperor and pointed with her right hand to the deed. "Placet," cried she, with her clear, ringing voice—"placet, since so many great and wise men will have it so. When I am dead, the world will learn what came of this violation of all that man holds sacred." [Footnote: The empress's own words.]
And either that she might conceal her own emotion, or avoid an outburst of grief from the countess, the empress walked hastily through the room, and shut herself up in her dressing-room.
The countess moaned, and murmuring, "Finis Poloniae!" she, too, attempted to cross the room.
The emperor watched her, his eyes beaming with tenderness, his heart a prey to violent anguish. As she reached the door, he saw her reel and cling to a column for support.
With one bound he reached her, and flinging his arms around her swaying figure, she fell, almost unconscious, upon his bosom. For one bewildering moment she lay there.
"Finis Poloniae!" murmured she again, and, drawing herself up to her full height, she again approached the door.
"Farewell!" said she, softly.
The emperor seized her hand. "Anna," said he, imploringly, "Anna, do we part thus? Is this our last interview? Shall we never meet again?"
She turned, and all the love that she had struggled to conquer was in her eyes as they met his. "We shall meet once more," replied she.