"An abominable journey--the horses overheated by the ascent of the mountain and now this storm. And the lamps won't burn, the wind constantly blows them out. You were right, Prince, we ought to have taken a hired--" She does not finish the sentence, for the ray from one of the carriage lamps, which has just been lighted with much difficulty, falls upon a swiftly passing figure, which looks almost supernaturally tall in the uncertain glimmer. Long, black locks, dripping with moisture, are blown by the wind from under his broad-brimmed hat. He has evidently been surprised by the storm without an umbrella and is hurrying home--not timidly and hastily, like a person to whom a few drops of rain, more or less, is of serious importance, but rather like one who does not wish to be accosted. The countess cannot see his face, he has already passed, but she distinguishes the outlines of the slender, commanding figure in the dark dress, noticing with a rapid glance the remarkably elastic gait, and an involuntary: "There he goes again!" escapes her lips aloud. Obeying a sudden impulse, she calls to the servant: "Quick, ask the gentleman yonder the way to the house of Andreas Gross, where we are going."
The servant follows the retreating figure a few steps and shouts, "Here, you--" The stranger pauses a moment, half turns his head, then, as if the abrupt summons could not possibly be meant for him, moves proudly on without glancing back a second time.
The servant timidly returns. A feeling of shame overwhelms the countess, as though she had committed the blunder of ordering him to address a person of high rank travelling incognito.
"The gentleman wouldn't hear me," says the lackey apologetically, much abashed. "Very well," his mistress answers, glad that the darkness conceals her blushes. A flash of lightning darts from the sky and a sudden peal of thunder frightens the horses. "Drive on," the countess commands; the lackey springs on the box, the carriage rolls forward--a few yards further and the dark figure once more appears beside the vehicle, walking calmly on amid the thunder and lightning, and merely turns his head slightly toward the prancing horses.
The equipage dashes by--the countess leans silently back on the cushions, and shows no further desire to look out.
"Tell me, Countess Madeleine," asks the gentleman whom she has just addressed as 'Prince,' "what troubles you today?"
The countess laughs. "Dear me, how solemnly you put the question! What should trouble me?"
"I cannot understand you," the prince continued. "You treat me coldly and grow enthusiastic over a vision of the imagination which already draws from you the exclamation: 'There he is again!' I cannot help thinking what an uncertain possession is the favor of a lady whose imagination kindles so easily."
"This is charming," the countess tried to jest. "My prince jealous--of a phantom?"
"That is just it. If a phantom can produce such variations in the temperature of your heart toward me, how must my hopes stand?"