Photo-Etching.—From drawing by Démarest.
The chancellor called to the two halberdiers on guard at his door: “Seize this rascal; he annoys me by his impudence.”
The guards led away the amazed and confounded Nychol, who ventured one word more: “My lord—”
“You are no longer hangman for the province of Throndhjem; I deprive you of your office!” cried the chancellor, slamming the door.
The chancellor returned to his letters, angrily read and re-read them, maddened by his dishonor; for these were the letters which once passed between the countess and Musdœmon. This was Elphega’s handwriting. He found that Ulrica was not his daughter; that, it might be, the Frederic whom he mourned was not his son. The unhappy count was punished through that same pride which had caused all his crimes. He cared not now if vengeance evaded him; all his ambitious dreams vanished,—his past was blasted, his future dead. He had striven to destroy his enemies; he had only succeeded in losing his own reputation, his adviser, and even his marital and paternal rights.
But he must see once more the wretched woman who had betrayed him. He hastily crossed the spacious apartment, shaking the letters in his hand as if they were a thunderbolt. He threw open the door of Elphega’s room; he entered—
The guilty wife had just unexpectedly learned from Colonel Vœthaün of her son Frederic’s fearful death. The poor mother was insane.
CONCLUSION.
What I said in jest, you took seriously.—Old Spanish Romance (King Alfonso to Bernard).