"Because I love—thee."
Had he heard aright? Was it not the trees whispering to the summer air, or the birds cooing beneath the eaves? Or had an angel borne the message from that heaven which to-day was so radiant and so silver-bright?
He still knelt, and pressed her trembling hands to his lips, while his face was lit up with a joy, which Therese had never seen there before.
"Have I found you at last, star of my dark and solitary life?" said he. "Are you mine at last, shy gazelle, that so long have escaped me, bounding higher and higher up the icy steeps of this cheerless world? Oh, Therese, why did I not find you in the early years of life? And yet I thank Heaven that you are mine for these few fleeting moments, for they have taken me back to the days of my youth and its beautiful illusions! Ah, Therese, from the first hour when I beheld you advancing on your father's arm to greet me, proud as an empress, calm as a vestal, beautiful as Aphrodite, my heart acknowledged you as its mistress! Since then I have been your slave, kissing your shadow as it went before me, and yet riot conscious of my insane passion until your father saw me with that rose—and then I knew that I loved you forever! Yes, Therese, you are the last love of an unfortunate man, whom the world calls an emperor, but who lies at your feet, as the beggar before his ideal of the glorious Madonna! Bend to me, Madonna, and let me drink my last draught of love! I shall soon have quaffed it, and then—your father will be here to remind me that you are a high-born countess, the priceless treasure of whose love I may not possess! Kiss me, my Therese, and consecrate my lips to holy resignation!"
And Therese, too bewildered to resist, bent forward. Their lips met, and his arms were around her, and time, place, station, honor—every thing vanished before the might of their love.
Suddenly they heard an exclamation—and there, at the porture, stood the father and the suitor of Therese, their pale and angry faces turned toward the lovers.
The emperor, burning with shame and fury, sprang to his feet. Therese, with a faint cry, hid her face in her hands, and, trembling with fear, awaited her sentence.
There was a deep silence. Each one seemed afraid to speak, for the first word uttered in that room might be treason. With dark and sullen faces, the two noblemen looked at the imperial culprit, who, leaning against the window, with head upturned to heaven, seemed scarcely able to sustain the weight of his own anguish. The stillness was insupportable, and it was his duty to break it. He glanced at the two men who, immovable and frowning, awaited this explanation.
Joseph turned to Therese, who had not yet withdrawn her hands. She felt as if she could never face the world again.
"Rise, Therese, and give me your hand," said he, authoritatively.