"Then, Count Schulenberg, farewell. We have nothing more to say to one another."
She turned to leave the room, but Schulenberg darted forward and fell at her feet. "Margaret, beloved," cried he, "give me one single word of comfort. I thirst to know that you love me."
"Can a woman go further than I am going at this moment?" asked Margaret, with a strange, hollow laugh.
"No. I acknowledge my unspeakable happiness in being the partner of your flight. But I cannot comprehend your love. It is a bitter draught in a golden beaker."
"Then do not drink it," said she, retreating.
"I must—I must drink it; for my soul thirsts for the cup, and I will accept its contents."
"My conditions?"
"Yes, since I must," said Schulenberg, heaving a sigh. "I promise, then, to contain my ecstasy until we reach Paris, and to allow that guardian of virtue, your maid, to sit by your side, while I suffer agony opposite. But oh! when we reach Paris—"
"In Paris we will talk further, and my speech shall be different."
"Thank you, beloved," cried the count passionately. "This heavenly promise will sustain me through my ordeal." He kissed the tips of her fingers, and she retired to change her ball-dress for a travelling habit.