"No, mother, no. Importune me no longer, for I will not leave Vienna.
Enough of this tragi-comedy—leave me in peace!"
Arabella flung him a kiss from the tips of her rosy fingers.
"Spoken like a man, at last," said she.
For a while not a word was beard in that gorgeous room, where the chandeliers flung their full red glare upon the group below—the white-haired mother-the recusant son—the beautiful enchantress—whose black art had just sundered them forever.
At length she spoke, that broken-hearted mother, and her voice was hollow as a sound from the grave.
"Thou hast chosen. God would have rescued thee, but thou hast turned away from His merciful warning! Farewell, unhappy one, farewell!"
She wrapped her dark mantle around her, and concealed her face again in the veil.
Her son dared not offer his hand, for evil eyes were upon him, and he allowed her to depart without a word. Slowly she traversed the scene of sinful splendor, her tall, dark figure reflected from mirror to mirror as she went; and before the receding vision of that crushed and despairing mother the lights above seemed to pale, and the gilding of those rich saloons grew dim and spectral.
Farther and farther she went, Podstadsky gazing after her, while Arabella gazed upon him. She reached the last door, and he started as if to follow. His tempter drew him firmly back, and calmed his agitation with her magic smile.
"Stay, beloved," said she, tenderly. "From this hour I shall be mother, mistress, friend—all things to you!"