“Do you not understand my odious position?” cried the Countess. “Dear Prince, it is upon your fall that I begin my fortune.”
“It was the more like you to tempt me to resistance,” returned Otto. “But this cannot alter our relations; and I must, for the last time, lay my commands upon you in the character of Prince.” And with his loftiest dignity, he forced the deeds on her acceptance.
“I hate the very touch of them,” she cried.
There followed upon this a little silence. “At what time,” resumed Otto, “(if indeed you know) am I to be arrested?”
“Your Highness, when you please!” exclaimed the Countess. “Or, if you choose to tear that paper, never!”
“I would rather it were done quickly,” said the Prince. “I shall take but time to leave a letter for the Princess.”
“Well,” said the Countess, “I have advised you to resist; at the same time, if you intend to be dumb before your shearers, I must say that I ought to set about arranging your arrest. I offered”—she hesitated—“I offered to manage it, intending, my dear friend—intending, upon my soul, to be of use to you. Well, if you will not profit by my goodwill, then be of use to me; and as soon as ever you feel ready, go to the Flying Mercury where we met last night. It will be none the worse for you; and to make it quite plain, it will be better for the rest of us.”
“Dear madam, certainly,” said Otto. “If I am prepared for the chief evil, I shall not quarrel with details. Go, then, with my best gratitude; and when I have written a few lines of leave-taking, I shall immediately hasten to keep tryst. To-night I shall not meet so dangerous a cavalier,” he added, with a smiling gallantry.
As soon as Madame von Rosen was gone he made a great call upon his self-command. He was face to face with a miserable passage where, if it were possible, he desired to carry himself with dignity. As to the main fact, he never swerved or faltered; he had come so heart-sick and so cruelly humiliated from his talk with Gotthold, that he embraced the notion of imprisonment with something bordering on relief. Here was, at least, a step which he thought blameless; here was a way out of his troubles. He sat down to write to Seraphina; and his anger blazed. The tale of his forbearances mounted, in his eyes, to something monstrous; still more monstrous, the coldness, egoism, and cruelty that had required and thus requited them. The pen which he had taken shook in his hand. He was amazed to find his resignation fled, but it was gone beyond his recall. In a few white-hot words, he bade adieu, dubbing desperation by the name of love, and calling his wrath forgiveness; then he cast but one look of leave-taking on the place that had been his for so long and was now to be his no longer; and hurried forth—love’s prisoner—or pride’s.