The duke shook his head. "What a relation; you made the man you loved your servant, and believed that you could love him still? How little you knew yourself! Had you seen him on the mountains battling with wind and storm as a wood-cutter, a shepherd, but free, you might have continued to love him. But as 'the steward' at whom the servants look with one eye as their equal, with the other as their mistress' favorite--never! You placed him in a situation where he could not help despising himself--how could you respect him? But a woman like you no longer loves where she can no longer esteem!" He was silent a moment, then with sudden determination exclaimed: "Do you understand what I say now? Not free yourself from him--but free him from himself! You have done the same thing as the giantess who carried the farmer and his plough home in her apron. Do you understand what a deep meaning underlies Chamisso's comical tale? The words with which the old giant ordered her to take her prize back to the spot where she found it, say everything: 'The peasant is no plaything.' Only in the sphere where a man naturally belongs is he of value, but this renders him too good for a toy. You have transplanted Freyer to a sphere in which he ceased to have any value to you and are now making him play a part there which I would not impose on my worst enemy."
"Yes, you are right."
"Finally we owe it to those who were once dear to us, not to make them ridiculous! Or do you believe that Freyer, if he had the choice, would not have pride enough to prefer the most cruel truth to a compassionate lie?"
"Certainly."
"And still more. We owe it to the law of truthfulness, under which we stand as moral beings, not to continue deliberately a deception which was perhaps unconsciously begun. When self-respect is lost--all is lost."
The duke rose: "It is time for me to go. Consider my advice, I can say nothing more in your interest and his."
"But what shall I do--how am I to find a gentle way--oh! Heaven, I don't know how to help myself."
"Do nothing at present, everything is still too fresh to venture upon any positive act--the wounds would bleed, and what ought to be severed would only grow together the more firmly. Go away for a time. You are out of favor with the queen. What is more natural than to go on a journey and sulk. To the so-called steward also, this must at present serve for a pretext to avoid a tragical parting scene."
"Go now! Now!--leave--you?" she whispered, blushing as she spoke.
"Madeleine," he said gently, drawing her hand to his breast. "How am I to interpret this blush? Is it the sign of a sweeter feeling, or embarrassment because circumstances have led you to say something which I might interpret differently from your intention?"