Elise had followed the countess in her narration with intense attention and warm sympathy. Her face had become pale as marble, her countenance sad, and her eyes filled with tears. A fearful anticipation dawned in her heart, but she turned away from it. She would not listen to this secret voice which whispered to her that this sad tale of the countess had reference to her own fate.
"Your lover did not deceive your trust?" asked she. "With such a bloody seal upon your love he dare not break his faith."
"He did break it," answered the countess, painfully. "I was nothing more to him than a guilty woman, and he went forth to seek an angel. He forgot his vows, his obligations, and cast me away, for I was a burden to him."
Both were silent in the bitterness of their sorrow. The countess fastened her large, bright eyes upon the young girl, who stared before her, pale, motionless, absorbed in her own grief.
This anxious silence was finally broken by the countess. "I have not yet told you the name of my lover. Shall I name him to you?"
Elise awoke as if from a heavy dream. "No," cried she, eagerly, "no, do not name him. What have I to do with him? I do not know him. What do I care to hear the name of a man who has committed so great a crime?"
"You must hear it," said the countess, solemnly. "You must learn the name of the man who chained me to him by a bloody, guilt-stained past, and then deserted me. It is Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda!"
Elise uttered a cry, and sank, half fainting, back on the cushions of the sofa. But this dejection did not last long. Her heart, which for a moment seemed to stop, resumed again its tumultuous beating; her blood coursed wildly through her veins, and her soul, unused to the despair of sorrow, resolved to make one last effort to free itself from the fetters with which her evil fate wished to encompass her. She drew herself up with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. "This is false," she cried; "a miserable invention, concocted to separate me from Feodor. Oh! I see through it all. I understand now my father's solemn asseverations, and why Bertram brought you to me. But you are all mistaken in me. Go, countess, and tell your friends, 'Elise offers up every thing and gives every thing to him whom she loves, in whom she believes, even if the whole world testifies against him.'" And with a triumphant smile, throwing back her head, she stood up and was about to leave the room.
The countess shrugged her shoulders as if in pity. "You do not believe me, then?" said she; "but you will believe this witness?" and she drew a letter from her bosom and handed it to Elise.
"It is his handwriting," cried the young girl, terrified, as she took the letter.