The prince laughed: "No offence, when women like you begin to be sentimental--it is time for them to marry! You were widowed too young--it was a misfortune for you."
"A misfortune? May God forgive you the sneer and me the words--it was a misfortune that Wildenau lived so long--nay more: that I ever became his wife, and you, Papa, ought never to remind me of it."
"Why not?"
"Because I might forget that you are my father--as you forget it when you sold me to that greybeard?"
"Sold? What an expression, chére enfant! Is this the result of your study of peasant life here? I congratulate you on the enlargement of your vocabulary. This is the gratitude of a daughter for whom the most brilliant match in the whole circle of aristocratic families was selected."
"And her soul sold in exchange," the countess interrupted; "for that my moral nature was not utterly destroyed is no credit of yours."
The prince smiled with an air of calm superiority: "Capital! Moral nature destroyed! When a girl is wedded to one of the oldest members of the German nobility and made the possession of a yearly income of half a million! That is what she calls moral destruction and an outrageous deed, of which the inhuman father must not remind his daughter without forfeiting his paternal rights. It is positively delicious!" He laughed and drew out his cigar case: "You see, ma fille--I understand a jest. Will you be annoyed if I smoke a Havana in this rural bed-room?"
"As you please!" replied the countess, who had now regained her former cold composure, holding the candle to him. The prince scanned her features with the searching gaze of a connoisseur as she thus stood before him illumined by the ruddy glow. "You have lost a little of your freshness, my child, but you are still beautiful--still charming. I admit that Wildenau was rather too old for a poetic nature like yours--but there is still time to compensate for it. When were you born? A father ought not to ask his daughter's age--but the Almanach de Gotha tells the story. You must be now--stop! You were not quite seventeen when you married Wildenau--you were married nine years--you have been a widow two--that makes you twenty-eight. There is still time, but--not much to lose! I am saying this to you in a mother's place, my child"--he added, with a repulsive affectation of tenderness. His daughter made no reply.
"It is true, you will lose your income if you give up the name of Wildenau--as the will reads 'exchange it for another.' This somewhat restricts your choice, for you can resign this colossal dower only in favor of a match which can partially supply your loss."
The countess turned deadly pale. "That is the curse Wildenau hurled upon me from his grave. It was not enough that I was miserable during his life, no--I must not be happy even after his death."