He could not speak a coherent word, he only wept and kissed, until at last the old nurse thought it was time to lead him out.
When he had gone, Marianne lay and thought of him and his emotion. “It is good to be so loved,” she thought.
Yes, it was good to be loved, but how was it with herself? What did she feel? Oh, nothing, less than nothing!
Was it dead, her love, or where had it taken flight? Where had it hidden itself, her heart’s child?
Did it still live? Had it crept into her heart’s darkest corner and sat there freezing under the icy eyes, frightened by the pale sneer, half suffocated under the bony fingers?
“Ah, my love,” she sighed, “child of my heart! Are you alive, or are you dead, dead as my beauty?”
The next day Melchior Sinclair went in early to his wife.
“See to it that there is order in the house again, Gustava!” he said. “I am going to bring Marianne home.”
“Yes, dear Melchior, here there will of course be order,” she answered.