He paused—for really her fiery eyes seemed to burn him; and her contempt dried up the stream of his commonplace flattery, as the breath of the sirocco parches up the dew-drops.
"Why do you not go on?" said she.
"I am bewildered by my own joy," replied he, blandly. "Remember—it is the first time since our marriage that you have allowed me the privilege of an interview in private; and I may well lose my speech in the intoxication of such a moment."
"It is the first time. You have a good memory. Can you also recollect how long it is since we had that interview?"
"Can I recollect? Four long years!"
"Four long years," sighed she, "to the day, and almost to the hour."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the count. "And can you forgive me for having forgotten this charming anniversary?"
"You are happy to have tasted of the Lethe of indifference. I—I have counted the days and the hours of my slavery; and each day and hour is branded upon my heart. Have you forgotten, too, Count Esterhazy, what I swore to you on that wedding-night?"
"Yes, Margaret—I have forgotten all the cruel words you spoke to me in an outburst of just indignation."
"I wonder that you should have forgotten them, for it has been my daily care to remind you of the vow I then made. Have I not kept my word? Have I not crossed your path with the burning ploughshares of my hatred? Have I not cursed your home, wasted your wealth and made you the laughing-stock of all Vienna?"