At court also it was his influence which sustained her. The queen, out of consideration for him, showed the utmost patience in dealing with the countess spite of her total absence of sympathy with her. Thus the unfortunate woman lived in constant uncertainty. Her soul was filled with bitterness by the experiences she now endured. She felt like dagger thrusts the malevolence, the contempt with which she had been treated since the sun of royal favor had grown dim. She lost her self-command, and no longer knew what she was doing. Her pride rebelled. A Wildenau, a Princess von Prankenberg, need not tolerate such treatment! Her usual graciousness deserted her and, in its place, she assumed a cold, haughty scorn, which she even displayed while performing the duties of her office, and thereby still more incensed every one against her. Persons, whom she ought to have honored she ignored. Gradations of rank and lists of noble families, the alpha and omega of a mistress of ceremonies, were never in her mind. People entitled to the first position were relegated to the third, and similar blunders were numerous. Complaints and annoyances of all kinds poured in, and at a state dinner in honor of the visit of a royal prince, she was compelled to endure, in the presence of the whole court, a rebuke from the queen who specially distinguished a person whom she had slighted.
This dinner became fateful to her. Wherever she turned, she beheld triumphant or sarcastic smiles--wherever she approached a group, conversation ceased with the marked suddenness which does not seek to conceal that the new-comer has been the subject of the talk. Nay, she often encountered a glance which seemed to say: "Why do you still linger among us?"
It happened also that the prince had been summoned to Cannes by his father's illness and was not at hand to protect her. She had hoped that he would return in time for the dinner, but he did not come. She was entirely deserted. A few compassionate souls, like the kind-hearted duchess whom she met at the Passion Play, her ladies-in-waiting, and some maids of honor, joined her, but she felt in their graciousness a pity which humbled her more than all the insults. And her friends! The gentlemen who belonged to the circle of her intimate acquaintances had for some time adopted a more familiar tone, as if to imply that she must accept whatever they choose to offer. She was no longer even beautiful--a pallid, grief-worn face, with hollow eyes gazing hopelessly into vacancy, found no admirers in this circle. And as every look, every countenance wore a hostile expression, her own image gazed reproachfully at her from the mirror, the dazzling fair neck with its marvellous contours, supported a head whose countenance was weary and prematurely aged. "It is all over with you!" cried the mirror! "It is all over with you!" smiled the lips of society. "It is all over with you, you may be glad if we still come to your dinners!" the wine-scented breath of her former intimate friends insultingly near her seemed to whisper.
Was this the world, to which she had sacrificed her heart and conscience? Was this the honor for which she hourly suffered tortures. And on the wintry mountain height the husband who had naught on earth save the paltry scrap of love she bestowed, was perishing--she had avoided him for months because to her he represented that uncomfortable Christianity whose asceticism has survived the civilization of thousands of years. Yes! This christianity of the Nazarene who walked the earth so humbly in a laborer's garb is the friend of the despised and humbled. It asks no questions about crowns and the favor of courts, human power and distinction. And she who had trembled and sinned for the wretched illusions, the glitter of the honors of this brief life--was she to despise a morality which, in its beggar's garb, stands high above all for which the greatest and most powerful tremble? Again the symbol of the renewed bond between God and the world--the cross--rose before her, and on it hung the body of the Redeemer, radiant in its chaste, divine beauty--that body which for her descended from the cross where it hung for the whole world and, after clasping it in her arms, she repined because it was only the image of what no earthly desire will ever attain, no matter how many human hearts glow with the flames of love so long as the world endures.
"My Christus--my sacrificed husband!" cried a voice in her heart so loudly that she did not hear a question from the queen. "It is incredible!" some one exclaimed angrily near her. She started from her reverie. "Your Majesty?" The queen had already passed on, without waiting for a reply--whispers and nods ran through the circle, every eye was fixed upon her. What had the queen wanted? She tried to hurry after her. Her Majesty had disappeared, she was already going through the next hall--but the distance was so great--she could not reach her, the space seemed to increase as she moved on. She felt that she was on the verge of fainting and dragged herself into a secluded room.
The members of the court were retiring. Confusion arose--the mistress of ceremonies was absent just at the moment of the Congé! No one had time to seek her. All were assembling to take leave, and then hurrying after servants and wraps. Carriage after carriage rolled away, the rooms were empty, the lackeys came to extinguish the lights. The countess lay on a sofa, alone and deserted in the last hall of the suite.
"In Heaven's name, is your Highness ill?" cried an old major-domo, offering his assistance to the lady, who slowly rose. "Is it all over?" she asked, gazing vacantly around "Where is my servant?"
"He is still waiting outside for Your Highness," replied the old gentleman, trying to assist her. "Shall I call a doctor or a maid?"
"No, thank you, I am well again. It was only an attack of giddiness," said the countess, walking slowly out of the palace.
"Who is driving to-night?" she asked the footman, as he put her fur cloak over her bare shoulders.