Fanny was not pale now, but her face burned like fire when she perceived Rudolf. She immediately arose from her recumbent position and confusedly begged him to excuse her for a moment; she would be back in a short time, and in the mean time would he occupy her place, and with that she fled from the room. She wanted to speak to her lady-companion, she said. She traversed three or four rooms without perceiving a soul. God only knew where everybody had gone. Not a domestic was near. And with this disquieting knowledge she was obliged to return.
At the very moment when she returned, Rudolf noticed that Fanny had hastily concealed a book which she evidently had hitherto been reading, and flung a handkerchief over it in order that he might not see it.
Rudolf was interested, he felt he must take a
deeper glance into the character of this woman. What book could it be that she was so anxious to hide from him? These modern women read risky books in private, and love to be rigid moralists in public at the same time.
He raised the handkerchief from the book, and he opened the book—it was a Prayer-book. And as the book opened wide of its own accord in two places, he perceived two pressed flowers between its leaves—an iris and an amaranth.
Rudolf suddenly grew grave. His heart felt heavy. Only now did he begin to reflect what sort of a game he was playing. These two flowers so fascinated him, so engrossed his attention, that he only perceived that the lady had returned when she stood feverishly trembling before him.
Each of them shrank back from the other.
The secret was revealed.
Rudolf gazed speechlessly at the woman and she at him. How beautiful, how bewitchingly beautiful she was in her dumb misery as slowly, unconsciously, she folded her hands together and pressed them against her bosom, to stifle by force the tempest of her tears!
Rudolf forgot his part, and, deeply moved, exclaimed, "My God!"