"I have saddened you!" she said, clasping her hands penitently.
"Oh, no!" he drew the little hands down to his lips, and with a sorrowful smile kissed them.
"My cheerfulness can bear some strain--but the malapert must be permitted to be silent sometimes when there are serious matters to be considered."
"You are too noble to let me feel that you are suffering. Yet I see it--you would not be the man you are if you did not suffer to-day."
The duke bit his lips, it seemed as if he were struggling to repress a tear: "Pshaw--we won't be sentimental! You have wept enough to-day! The world must not see tear-stains on your face. Give me a cup of coffee--I do not belong to the chosen few whom a mortal emotion raises far above all the needs of their mortal husk."
The countess rang for breakfast.
The servant brought the dishes ordered into the boudoir, as the dining-room was not yet thoroughly heated. In the chimney-corner beside the blazing fire the coffee was already steaming in a silver urn over an alcohol lamp, filling the cosy room with its aroma and musical humming.
"How pleasant this is!" said the duke, throwing himself into an armchair beside the grave mistress of the house.
"I will pour it myself," she said to the servant who instantly withdrew. The countess was now simply dressed in black, without an ornament of any kind, and with her hair confined in a plain knot.
"What a contrast!" the duke remarked, smiling--"you alone are capable of such metamorphoses. Half an hour ago in a court costume, glittering with diamonds, an aching heart, and hands half frozen from being clasped in prayer in the chilled church, now a demure little housewife, peacefully watching the coffee steam in a cosy little room, waiting intently for the moment when the water will boil, as if there were no task in the whole world more important than that of making a good decoction."