CHAPTER CLXX.
THE LAST DREAM OF LOVE.
Therese von Dietrichstein was alone in the little pavilion which her father had built expressly for her. It consisted of a parlor and a boudoir. The parlor was fitted up without magnificence, but with great elegance. Herein Therese was accustomed to receive her intimate associates. But no one ever entered the boudoir without an express invitation; for it was her sanctuary and studio. There the countess was transformed into an artist; there she studied music, and painting, in both of which she excelled. Her father and her very dear friends knew of her great proficiency in art, but her reputation went no further, for Therese was as shy as a gazelle, and as anxious to conceal her talents as many women are to parade them.
At her father's hotel, Therese received the distinguished guests who visited there, with the stately courtesy befitting a high-born countess; but in her little pavilion she was the simple and enthusiastic child of art. Her boudoir contained little besides a harp, a harpsichord, and an easel which stood by the arched window opening into a flower-garden. Near the easel was a small marble table covered with palettes, brushes, and crayons. When Therese retired to this boudoir, her maid was accustomed to keep watch lest she should be surprised by visitors. If any were announced, Therese came out of her boudoir, and, carefully closing the door, awaited her friends in the parlor.
To-day she sat in this boudoir, feeling so secure from visitors that she had raised the portiere leading to her parlor, and had flung wide the casement which opened upon the park. The sweet summer air was fanning her brow as she sat at the harp, singing a song of her own composition. She had just concluded; her little white hands had glided from the strings to her lap, and her head rested against the harp, above the pillar of which a golden eagle with outstretched wings seemed to be keeping watch over the young girl, as though to shield her from approaching misfortune.
With her head bent over her harp, she sat musing until two tears, which had long been gathering in her eyes, fell upon her hands. As she felt them, she raised her head. Her dark-blue eyes were full of sorrow, and tier cheeks were glowing with blushes.
"What right have I to weep over a treasure which is as far from me as heaven is from earth?" said she. "I will not repine, so long as I am free to dream of him without crime. But what if I should lose that freedom? What if my father should wish to force me into marriage? Oh, then, I should take refuge behind the friendly portals of a convent!"
"Why take refuge in a convent?" said a soft voice behind her.
Therese sprang up with such wild agitation, that the harp, with a clang, fell back against the wall. Too well she knew this musical voice—it was the voice which spoke to her in dreams; and as its tones fell so suddenly upon her ear, she felt as if a bolt from heaven had struck her heart, and knew not whether she would die of ecstasy or fright.
"Joseph!" exclaimed she, all unconscious of the word, and she sank back into her chair, not daring to raise her eyes. With one bound the emperor was at her side, taking her hands, and pressing them within his own.