"Him up there! I really believe, Countess, that the air of Ammergau is beginning to affect you. Apparently you already have religious hallucinations--or we will say, in the language of this hallowed soil, heavenly visions!"
The countess leans silently back in her corner--the cold, indifferent expression returns to the lips which just parted in so lovely a smile. "But what did you see? At least tell me, since I am not fortunate enough to be granted such visions," her companion adds with kindly irony. "Or was it too sublime to be communicated to such a base worldling as I?"
"Yes," she says curtly, covering her eyes with her hand, as if to shut out the fading sunset glow in order to recall the vision more distinctly. Then she remains silent.
Night gradually closes in, the panting train of horses has reached the village. Now the animals are urged into a trot and the drivers turn the solemn occasion into a noisy tumult. The vehicles jolt terribly in the ruts, the cracking of whips, the rattle of wheels, the screams of frightened children and poultry, the barking of dogs, blend in a confused din, and that nothing may be wanting to complete it, a howling gust of wind sweeps through the village, driving the drifting clouds into threatening masses.
"This is all we lacked--rain too!" grumbled the gentleman. "Shall I have the carriage closed?"
"No," replied the Countess, opening her umbrella. "Who would have thought it; the sun was shining ten minutes ago!"
"Yes, the weather changes rapidly in the mountains. I saw the shower rising. While you were admiring some worthy wood-cutter up yonder as a heavenly apparition, I was watching the approaching tempest." He draws the travelling rug, which has slipped down, closer around the lady and himself. "Come what may, I am resigned; when we are in Rome, we must follow the Roman customs. Who would not go through fire and water for you, Countess?" He tries to take her hand, but cannot find it among the shawls and wraps. He bites his lips angrily; he had expected that the hand he sought would gratefully meet his in return for so graceful an expression of loyalty! Large drops of rain beat into his face.
"Not even a clasp of the hand in return for the infernal journey to this peasant hole," he mutters.
The carriages thunder past the church, the flowers and crosses on the graves in the quiet church-yard tremble with the shaking of the ground. The lamps in the parsonage are already lighted, the priest comes to the window and gazes quietly at the familiar spectacle. "Poor travellers! Out in such a storm!"
One carriage after another turns down a street or stops before a house. The Countess and her companion alone have not yet reached their destination. Meantime it has grown perfectly dark. The driver is obliged to stop to shut up the carriage and light the lantern, for the rain and darkness have become so dense and the travellers are drenched. An icy wind, which always accompanies a thunderstorm in the mountain, blows into their faces till they can scarcely keep their eyes open. The servant, unable to see in the gloom, is clumsy in closing the carriage, the hand-bags fall down upon the occupants; the driver can scarcely hold the horses, which are frightened by the crowds in pursuit of lodgings. He is not familiar with the place and, struggling to restrain the plunging four-in-hand, enquires the way in broken sentences from the box, and only half catches the answers, which are indistinct in the tumult. Meantime the other servants have arrived. The Countess orders the courier to drive on with the second carriage and take possession of the rooms which have been engaged. The man, supposing it is an easy matter to find the way in so small a place, moves forward. The Countess can scarcely control her ill humor.