“Do what you will in the house,” answered Marie. “Only promise me that you will not leave me, and when I return that I shall find you there. If you leave me, I will never come back. Promise me!”
“Then I will promise you, my poor child,” sighed Trude.
Marie laughed scornfully. “You call me poor—do you not see I am rich? I carry a fortune about my neck. Go, do not bewail me—I am rich!”
“Marie, do not laugh so, it makes me feel badly,” whispered the old woman. “I came to tell you the bridegroom and the clergyman are there.”
“The time has arrived for the marriage of the rich and happy bride. Go, Trude, beg my mother to come up and adorn me with the myrtle-wreath.”
“Dear Marie, can I not do it?” asked Trude, with quivering voice.
“No, not you; touch not the fatal wreath! You have no part in that! Call my mother—it is time!”
Trude turned sadly toward the door, Marie glancing after her, and calling her back with gentle tone.
“Trude, my dear, faithful mother, kiss me once more.” She threw her arms around Marie’s neck and imprinted a loving kiss upon her forehead, weeping. “Now go, Trude—we must not give way; you know me; you well understand my feelings, and see into my heart.”
The old woman went out, drying her eyes. Marie uttered her last farewell. “With you the past goes forth, with you my youth and hope! When the door again opens, my future enters a strange, fearful life. Woe to those who have prepared it for me—woe to those who have so cruelly treated me! They will yet see what they have done. The good angel is extinct within me. Wicked demons will now assume their over me. I will have no pity—I will revenge myself; that I swear to Moritz!”