‘Otto,’ she said, ‘spare me. Was it even right, I wonder? I have duties, too, you poor child; and when I see you they all melt—all my good resolutions fly away.’
‘And mine still come too late,’ he replied, sighing. ‘O, what would I not give to have resisted? What would I not give for freedom?’
‘Well, what would you give?’ she asked; and the red fan was spread; only her eyes, as if from over battlements, brightly surveyed him.
‘I? What do you mean? Madam, you have some news for me,’ he cried.
‘O, O!’ said madam dubiously.
He was at her feet. ‘Do not trifle with my hopes,’ he pleaded. ‘Tell me, dearest Madame von Rosen, tell me! You cannot be cruel: it is not in your nature. Give? I can give nothing; I have nothing; I can only plead in mercy.’
‘Do not,’ she said; ‘it is not fair. Otto, you know my weakness. Spare me. Be generous.’
‘O, madam,’ he said, ‘it is for you to be generous, to have pity.’ He took her hand and pressed it; he plied her with caresses and appeals. The Countess had a most enjoyable sham siege, and then relented. She sprang to her feet, she tore her dress open, and, all warm from her bosom, threw the order on the floor.
‘There!’ she cried. ‘I forced it from her. Use it, and I am ruined!’ And she turned away as if to veil the force of her emotions.
Otto sprang upon the paper, read it, and cried out aloud. ‘O, God bless her!’ he said, ‘God bless her.’ And he kissed the writing.