"But I--I said so little--I don't understand," cried the countess, blushing.
"The important point does not always depend on what is said, but on what is not said, Countess. To deep souls what is unuttered is often more significant than words."
Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes and silently clasped Ludwig's hand.
"Do you think that he--" she did not finish the sentence, Ludwig spared her.
"From my knowledge of Freyer--either he will never return, or--he will come to-morrow."
[CHAPTER IX.]
SIGNS AND WONDERS
The great number of strangers who were unable to get tickets the day before had rendered a second performance necessary. The countess did not attend it. To her the play had been no spectacle, but an experience--a repetition would have degraded it to a mere drama. She had spent the day in retirement, like a prisoner, that she might not fall into the hands of any acquaintances. Now the distant rumble of carriages announced the close of the performance. It was a delightful autumn evening. The Gross family came to the window on their return home, and wondered to find the countess still in her room. The sounds of stifled sobs echoed from the work room. The other lodgers in the house had come back from the theatre and, like every one, were paying their tribute of tears. An American had gone to-day for the second time. He sat weeping on the bench near the stove, and said that it had been even more touching than yesterday. Andreas Gross assented: "Yes, Joseph Freyer never played as he did to-day."
The countess, sitting in her room, heard the words and was strangely moved. Why had he never played as he did to-day?
Some one tapped gently on the door.