Then the applause ceased; the curtain hung quiet; no one saw them.
Then the beautiful Marianne bent down and kissed Gösta Berling. She did not know why,—she had to. He stretched up his arms about her head and held her fast. She kissed him again and again.
But it was the balcony, it was the moonlight, it was the lace veil, the knightly dress, the song, the applause, which were to blame. They had not wished it. She had not thrust aside the crowns which had hovered over her head, and spurned the millions which lay at her feet, out of love for Gösta Berling; nor had he already forgotten Anna Stjärnhök. No; they were blameless; neither of them had wished it.
It was the gentle Löwenborg,—he with the fear in his eye and the smile on his lips,—who that day was curtain-raiser. Distracted by the memory of many sorrows, he noticed little of the things of this world, and had never learned to look after them rightly. When he now saw that Gösta and Marianne had taken a new position, he thought that it also belonged to the tableau, and so he began to drag on the curtain string.
The two on the balcony observed nothing until a thunder of applause greeted them.
Marianne started back and wished to flee, but Gösta held her fast, whispering:—
“Stand still; they think it belongs to the tableau.”
He felt how her body shook with shuddering, and how the fire of her kisses died out on her lips.
“Do not be afraid,” he whispered; “lovely lips have a right to kiss.”
They had to stand while the curtain went up and went down, and each time the hundreds of eyes saw them, hundreds of hands thundered out a stormy applause.