The Waldgrave shivered; but the position was beyond words, and he essayed none. With a slight movement of his hand, as if he would have shielded himself, or deprecated the other's wrath, he turned towards the door. I saw his face for an instant; it was pale, despairing--and with reason. He had exposed my lady. He had exposed himself. He had invited such a chastisement as must for ever bring the blood to his cheeks. And his cousin: what would she say? He had lost her. She would never forgive him--never! He groped blindly for the opening in the curtain.
His hand was on it--and I think that, for all his manhood, the tears were very near his eyes--when the other called after him in an altered tone.
'Stay!' Count Leuchtenstein said. 'We will not part thus. I can see that you are sorry. Do not be so hasty another time, and do not be too quick to think evil. For the rest, our friend here will be silent, and I will be silent.'
The Waldgrave gazed at him, his lips quivering, his eyes full. At last: 'You will not tell--the Countess Rotha?' he said almost in a whisper.
The Count looked down at his table, and pettishly pushed some papers together. For an instant he did not answer. Then he said gruffly,--'No. Why should she know? If she chooses you, well and good; if not, why trouble her with tales?'
'Then!' the Waldgrave cried with a sob in his voice, 'you are a better man than I am!'
The Count shrugged his shoulders rather sadly. 'No,' he said, 'only an older one.'
CHAPTER XXXIV.
[SUSPENSE.]
For a little while after the Waldgrave had retired, Count Leuchtenstein stood turning my lady's letter over in his hands, his thoughts apparently busy. I had leisure during this time to compare the plainness of his dress with the greatness of his part, to which his conduct a moment before had called my attention; and the man with his reputation. No German had at this time so much influence with the King of Sweden as he; nor did the world ever doubt that it was at his instance that the Landgrave, first of all German princes, flung his sword into the Swedish scale. Yet no man could be more unlike the dark Wallenstein, the crafty Arnim, the imperious Oxenstierna, or the sleepless French cardinal, whose star has since risen--as I have heard these men described; for Leuchtenstein carried his credentials in his face. An honest, massive downrightness and a plain sagacity seemed to mark him, and commend him to all who loved the German blood.