The duke became very thoughtful. The countess was silent, she had clasped her hands on her knee, and was gazing, deeply moved, into vacancy.
"You are a noble woman, Madeleine!" he said in a low tone. "I always ranked you high, but never higher than at this moment! I will never again wound your feelings. But however worthy of esteem Freyer may be, deeply as I pity the unfortunate man--you are my first consideration--and you cannot, must not continue in this relation. Throughout the whole system of the universe the lower existence must yield to the higher. You are the higher--therefore Freyer must be sacrificed! You are a philosopher--accept the results of your view of the world, be strong and resolve to do what is inevitable quickly. You yourself say that you no longer love him--whether you have ever done so, I will not venture to decide! If he is really what you describe him to be, he must feel this and--I believe, that he, too, is not to be envied. What kind of respite is this which you are granting the hapless man under the sword of the executioner. Pardon me, but I should term it torture. You feign, from motives of compassion, feelings you no longer have, and he feels the deception. So he is continually vibrating between the two extremes of fear and hope--a prey to the most torturing doubts. So you permit the victim whom you wish to kill to live, in order to destroy him slowly. You pity him--and for pity are cruel."
The countess cast a startled glance at him. "You are terribly truthful."
"I must say that I am sorry for that man," the duke went on in his usual manner. "I think it is your duty to end this state of things. If he has a good, mentally sound character, he will conquer the blow and shape his life anew. But such a condition of uncertainty would unnerve the strongest nature. This cat and mouse sport is unworthy of you! You tried it with me ten years ago in a less painful way--I, knowing women, was equal to the game, so no harm was done, and I could well allow you the graceful little pastime. It is different with Freyer. A man of his stamp, who stakes his whole life upon a single feeling, takes the matter more tragically, and the catastrophe was inevitable. But must romance be carried to tragedy? See, my dear friend, that it is confined within its proper limits. Besides, you have already paid for it dearly enough--it has left an indelible impress upon your soul--borne a fruit which matured in suffering and you have buried with anguish because destiny itself, though with a stern hand, tried to efface the consequences of your error. Heed this portent, for your sake and his own! I speak in his behalf also. My aim is not only to win you, but to see the woman whom I have won worthy of herself and the high opinion I cherish of her."
The countess' features betrayed the most intense emotion. What should she do? Should she tell this noble man all--confess that she was married. The hour that he discovered it, he would desert her. Must she lose him, her last support and consolation? No, she dared not. The drowning woman clung to him; she knew not what was to come of it--she only knew that she would be lost without him--and kept silence.
"Where is he? In the old hunting-box of which your cousin Wildenau spoke?" asked the duke after a long pause.
"Yes."
"As what?"
"As steward."
"Steward? H'm!"