"Why so?" replied she, with indifference. "I have no doubt that all is as it should be, I am too weary of splendor to take much interest in it. See, however, that the tables are spread with every luxury that can tempt the palates of my guests."
"I hope your ladyship will be satisfied. The two cooks from Paris profess, the one to have learned his art under the Prince de Soubise, the other to have received his receipts for pastry from the Duke de Richelieu?"
"Let them both do their best," said the countess, languidly, "and remember that expense is to be no obstacle to the carrying out of my orders."
With these words she dismissed the steward, and sank back into the recesses of an arm-chair. But when he had fairly left, and she knew that she was alone, her aspect changed. She rose quickly from the chair, and walked through her rooms, surveying their splendor with visible exultation.
How peerless was her beauty as she swept through those empty rooms, her diamonds reflected from mirror to mirror, her rich dress falling in heavy folds about her form! He who had seen her there would have taken her for the princess who had just awakened from her hundred years' sleep, looking around her palatial solitude to see who it was that had broken the spell of her enchanted trance. Her face was lit up with triumph as she went, and at times, when something of rare value met her eyes, in the ecstasy of her pride she laughed aloud.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of a man's footstep. The
laugh of the countess ceased, and she drew on her mask of indifference.
She turned slowly around, and dropped it again—for the intruder was
Count Podstadsky.
Just in the midst of the dancing room, tender the blaze of a crystal chandelier, they met. The countess gave him her hand, and he grasped it in his own, looking earnestly at her fair, bewitching face. She returned the glance with her large, flashing eyes, and so they stood for a time together. There was a secret between those two.
The countess spoke first. Her mouth relaxed into a scornful smile. "Count Carl von Podstadsky-Liechtenstein," said she, "you are a man, and yet you tremble."
"Yes, Arabella, I tremble, but not for myself. As I look upon you, in the fulness of your incomparable beauty, my blood freezes with terror, and a voice whispers to me, 'Have mercy on this woman whose beauty is so akin to that of angels! You both stand upon the edge of a precipice: shield her at least from the ruin which threatens you!'"
The countess raised her snowy shoulders. "German sentimentality," said she. "If you mix sentiment with your cards, we shall lose the game, Count Podstadsky. Hear, then, what I have to say to you. It is true that we stand upon the brow of a precipice; but we must contemplate it fearlessly, and so we shall grow accustomed to our danger, and learn to escape it. Why do you wish to rescue me, Carl? I do not wish to be rescued. I like the giddy brink, and look down with defiance into the abyss that blackens the future before me."