Then they were both silent again. They had left the wide highway and turned into a narrower road, where the carriage rolled noiselessly over the soft earth. Meantime the sky had grown darker, and a fine warm summer rain was beginning to sprinkle their faces. Suddenly Toinette stopped the horses.
"If it will be agreeable to you," said she, "let's get out and walk a little way on foot. We shall reach the ranger's house too early even then."
He sprang out and offered her his arm, which she only touched with the tips of her fingers. Jean, who was holding the reins, asked if the countess would like an umbrella. "Why?" she asked. "It's scarcely raining at all. Or yes, take it out of the case, the Herr Doctor will be kind enough to open it."
"May I offer you my arm, Countess?" said Edwin.
Again she did not seem to hear him, but stood gazing into the dark, silent forest, as if lost in thought. Then she shook back her hair--Edwin involuntarily thought of the scene in the park the night before--and took his arm. "Come," she said quietly. "Open the umbrella. Doesn't this remind you of something? Haven't we walked together in the rain before? To be sure, it was a long time ago, a whole life lies between. Don't you think I have altered very much?"
"Certainly. You've accomplished the seemingly impossible; you have become yet more beautiful."
She looked at him quietly, almost sternly. "Promise me not to say such a thing again. It doesn't become you, and it wounds me. And don't address me as 'countess.' I don't know whether I can still venture to call you 'dear friend' as in old times; but I shouldn't like to have you treat me precisely the same as an ordinary acquaintance. No, I've grown old, much older than you suppose, so old that I often think I've outlived myself, and you must perceive that too. But we won't talk about that. Only tell me, why did you come here? I knew you would come sometime; If I'd not been sure of it, who knows whether I should still be alive! And yet it took me by surprise; for I could never imagine what was to bring you to me again, after all that--"
She hesitated. He frankly told her of his interview with Marquard, and that his old interest in her had been vividly awakened by the news that she was only separated from him by a two hours' drive.
"No, no," she said as if to herself, "that was not it, you don't tell me all. But as you please; I am weaned from wishing to know things that are concealed from me. They're rarely pleasant. The more we get to the bottom of people and things, the uglier they seem to us. Enough, you're here, and I'm delighted to see you again, though at first I was as much startled as if your ghost had appeared. More than once--on lonely walks and in large assemblies--I've fancied I saw you just as you stood in the hall below me, but it was only a freak of memory. You've not changed in the least. If I could only forget these four years a moment, I could fancy we were again walking beside the carp pond and I was telling you Toinette Marchand's story. Those were pleasant times." Then suddenly adopting a totally different tone, she continued:
"I heard you were married. Your wife was one of your old pupils. Have you any children? No? That's a pity. Although, if nothing else is wanting--! Tell me about your wife. But no, what can be learned from a description? one can merely mention traits of character. One's real nature is indescribable. You must bring her to me some day, will you?" He nodded silently; but he knew that he should never do so.