Gamin as he is, no one knows how to bewitch Linda's small nature, how to feed her excessive vanity with such delicate bits as Eugene von Rhoeden. He understands her, she understands him; they are fairly made for each other, and for one moment, one very brief moment, Linda thinks almost with repugnance of the black raven in the red field which greets her from the Lanzberg coat-of-arms. "Eugene!" murmurs she. "Ah!" With that she suddenly turns to an elderly maid, who comes out from among the bushes.
"Are you looking for me, Fanny?"
"Yes, miss."
"I am probably to try my train for the twenty-ninth time. Ah, Eugene! There is something tiresome about a wedding-day!" then she breaks a red chrysanthemum as she passes, throws it to him, and vanishes.
About seven hours later the wedding takes place in the castle chapel, adorned with greenhouse flowers. The blossoms tremble as if they were cold or afraid. Their sweet, exhilarating fragrance mingles with the odor of wax candles, and that of perfumery and cosmetics, which is always noticeable in select assemblies. The wind creeps curiously through the window cracks, creeps up to the altar, makes the flames of the candles flicker, and blows cold upon the bare shoulders of the bride and bridesmaids.
The bride, loaded with the richest jewels, resembles a proud narcissus in the morning dew. Elsa is deathly pale, even her lips are colorless. Erwin displays the inexpressive gravity which the occasion demands of a well-bred man. Mrs. von Harfink looks continually at the decorations, and starts when a white rose falls from the wall. Mr. von Harfink looks as if his collar were too tight for him. Eugene von Rhoeden, his bridesmaid's wrap on his arm, a sceptical smile on his lips, his hand at his mustache, his glance resting now on his uncle, now on the priest, now on the bride, stands there, the image of a little society philosopher of the nineteenth century, who laughs at all vanity and cannot himself give up his own. Raimund looks like a radical who is paying an immense tribute to prejudice, and tries to look more distinguished than his brother-in-law.
And Felix? Felix is as if paralyzed. The moment is here; his feverish longing nears its aim--happiness.
Then the ivy taps on the window, the wind seizes him with ice-cold hands. Felix shudders and glances at his bride. How beautiful she is, and--how proud. Proud? Felix Lanzberg's bride proud? It is impossible--it cannot be. A suspicion which, however he may deny it to his conscience, has occurred to him again and again during their whole engagement, strikes him for the last time and becomes certain that Linda's mother has deceived him; Linda knows nothing!
Then the priest demands his "Yes!" He hesitates; hesitates so long that Linda looks at him in surprise; two large, greenish eyes shine at him through the filmy, white bridal veil. "Yes!" says he firmly and shortly.
A long dinner follows, a long, complicated dinner, which no one enjoys except Papa Harfink, who studies the menu with the tenderest pleasure, and with a small pencil marks the numbers for love of which he thinks to extend considerably his elastic appetite.