Only one day was wanting to the fête of St. Susanna. Timéa had gradually laid aside her mourning, as if it was hard to separate from it entirely, and as if she wished to learn gladness slowly. First she allowed white lace at her neck; then she changed black for dark gray, and silk for wool; then white stripes appeared in the gray; and at last only the cap remained of the mourning for Michael Levetinczy. This also will disappear on the fête-day; the beautiful Valenciennes cap of the young wife is already made, and must be tried on.
An unlucky fit of vanity induced Timéa to wait to do this till the major arrived. For a young widow the lace cap is what the orange-blossoms are to a girl. But the major was late because the white-rose bouquet was late in arriving from Vienna: this was the second fête-day bouquet in one year. A whole shoal of letters and notes of congratulation had arrived for Timéa, who had many acquaintances far and near. Timéa had not opened a single one; they lay in a heap in a silver basket on the table, many of them directed by children, for Timéa had a hundred and forty god-children in the town among the orphan boys and girls. She would have enjoyed these naïve letters, but her thoughts were otherwise occupied.
"Look what a comical one this is!" said Athalie, taking up one of the letters; "instead of a seal, there is a beetle stuck on the wax."
"And what curious ink it is!" remarked Timéa. "Put it with the others—we will read it to-morrow."
Some secret voice whispered to Timéa that she had better read it to-day. It was Dodi's letter which was put aside.
But see, here comes the major; then all the hundred and forty god-children and their letters were forgotten, and Timéa ran to meet him. Nine years ago the fortunate bridegroom had brought a splendid red-rose bouquet to another bride.
And she too was present; and possibly the great mirror into which Athalie had cast her last glance on her bridal dress was the same which now stood there.
Timéa took the lovely white bouquet from the major's hand, put it in a splendid Sèvres vase, and whispered to him, "Now I will give you something: it will never be yours, but always mine, and yet it is a present for you." The pretty enigma issued from its box—it was the lace cap.
"Oh, how charming!" cried the major, taking it in his hand. "Shall I try it on you?" The major's words died on his lips—he looked at Athalie.
Timéa stood before the glass with childish pleasure, and took off her widow's cap; then she grew grave, put it to her lips and kissed it, while she said low and brokenly, "Poor Michael!"—and so she laid aside the last token of her widowhood.