"You judge yourself with too much severity, Margaret," said the count, mildly. "True—we have not been very happy; since this is the first time since our marriage-night, that we are face to face without witnesses. I will not deny, either, that our household expenditures have cost several millions, and have greatly exceeded our income. But the lovely Countess Esterhazy has a right to exceed all other women in the splendor of her concerts and balls, and the richness of her dress. Come, make me amends for the past—I forgive you. There is still time to—"
"No!" exclaimed she, "the time went by four years ago. You can never make amends to me, nor I to you. Look at yourself! You were then a young man, with high hopes and a light heart. Many a woman would have been proud to be called your wife—and yet you chose me. Now, that four years of accursed wedded life have gone over your head, you have passed from youth to old age, without ever having known an interval of manhood. And I—O God! What have I become through your miserable cowardice! I might have grown to be a gentle woman, had fate united me to him whom I love; but the link that has bound me to you has unsexed me. Our marriage was a crime, and we have paid its penalty; you are as weak as a woman, and I—as inflexible as a man."
Two large tears glittered in her eyes, and fell slowly down her pale cheeks. Count Esterhazy approached and caressed her with his hands. She shuddered at his touch, recoiling as if from contact with a reptile. Meanwhile, he was imploring her to begin a new life with him—to give him her hand, to make him the happiest of men.
"No, no, no!" cried she. "In mercy cease, or you will drive me mad. But I will forgive you even your past treachery, if you will grant the request I am about to make."
"You will condescend to ask something of me! Speak, Margaret speak! What can I do to make you happy?"
"You can give me my freedom," replied the countess, in a soft, imploring voice. "Go with me to the empress, and beg her to undo what she has done. Tell her that she has blasted the lives of two human beings—tell her that we are two galley-slaves, pining for liberty."
Count Esterhazy shook his head. "The empress will never allow us to be divorced," said he, "for I have too often assured her that I was happy beyond expression, and she wouldn't believe me if I came with another story."
"Then let us go to the fountain head," said the countess, wringing her hands. "Let us go to the pope, and implore him to loose the bands of our mutual misery."
"Impossible! That would be a slight which the empress never would forgive. I should fall under her displeasure."
"Oh, these servile hearts that have no life but that which they borrow from the favor of princes!" cried Margaret, scornfully. "What has the favor of the empress been worth to you? For what have you to thank her? For these four years of martyrdom, which you have spent with a woman who despises you?"