"Why do you laugh so immoderately?" said she.
"Because we are enacting such a delightfully comic scene. But do not look so angry; your bright eyes are on fire, and they make a man's heart boil over. Answer my question, and I restore you to freedom. Why do you shun me, and why do you never come to court?"
Now the pale cheeks flushed, and the voice was subdued until its tones were like plaintive music. "Sire, I do not visit the court, because I am a poor, unhappy creature, unfitted for society, and because no one misses me there."
"And why do you fly from me as if I were Lucifer, the son of the morning?"
"Ah, your majesty, grief flies from the light of day, and seeks the cover of friendly night! And now, free my horse, if you would not have me fall dead at your feet!"
Again she turned pale, and trembled from head to foot. When the emperor saw this, he loosed her rein, and bowing to her saddle bow, galloped away—out of sight. The countess turned her horse's head, and went slowly home.
All this Count Starhemberg learned from the footmen, for never a word had his niece spoken to him since the unhappy day of Count Esterhazy's visit. To say the truth, the old man was not sorry that her sorrow had taken the shape of taciturnity; for her pale cheeks and glaring eyes affrighted him; and he hugged himself close in his short-lived security, as each day she declined to appear at table, and was served in the solitude of her own room. She was served; but her food returned untouched. Neither did she seem to sleep; for at all times of the night she could be heard pacing her room. Then she would sit for hours before her piano; and, although her playing and singing had been equally renowned, her uncle had never suspected the genius that had lain concealed in the touch of her hands and the sound of her voice. It was no longer the "fierce countess," whose dashing execution had distanced all gentler rivals; it was a timid maiden, whose first love was finding utterance in entrancing melody. On the night following her last encounter with the emperor, the music became more passionate in its character. It was less tender, but far more sad; and often it ceased, because the musician stopped to weep.
Her uncle heard her sob, and following the impulse of his affection and compassion, he opened the room, and came softly in. He called her, and she raised her head. The light from the wax-candles that stood on the harpsichord fell directly upon her face, which was bedewed with tears. Her uncle's entrance seemed neither to have surprised nor irritated her. With an expression of indescribable woe she merely murmured
"See, uncle, to what the empress has reduced me."
Her uncle took her in his arms, and, like a weary child, she leaned her head upon his shoulder. Suddenly she started, and disengaging herself, she stood before him, and took his hands in hers.