Josepha had already returned and said that the countess was ill.
"I hope it is nothing serious?" he asked anxiously.
"No, Herr Gross, I am well--but I cannot go; I must make the acquaintance of these people--I cannot tear myself away from this impression!"
She sank into a chair, laid her head on the table and sobbed like a child. "Forgive me, Herr Gross, I cannot help it!" she said with difficulty, amid her tears.
The old man laid his hand upon her shoulder with a gesture of paternal kindness. "Weep your fill, we are accustomed to it, do not heed us!" He drew her gently into the sitting-room.
Ludwig had vanished.
Josepha entered to ask whether she should unpack the luggage which was up in her room.
"Yes," replied the countess, "and let the carriages return to Munich, until I need them again."
"His Highness the Prince has left his valet here for your service," Josepha reported.
"What can he do? Let him go home, too! Let them all go--I want no one except you!" said the countess sternly, hiding her face again in her handkerchief. Josepha went out to give the order. Where could Ludwig Gross be?--He had become a necessity to her now, thus left alone with her overflowing heart! He had been right in everything.--He had told her that she would learn to weep here, he had first made her understand the spirit of Ammergau. Honor and gratitude were his due, he had promised nothing that had not been fulfilled. He was thoroughly genuine and reliable! But where had he gone, did not this man, usually so sympathetic, know that just now he might be of great help to her? Or did he look deeper still, and know that he was but a substitute for another, for whom her whole soul yearned? It was so lonely. A death-like stillness reigned in the house and in the street. All were resting after the heavy toil of the day.