THE LAST SUPPORT
There was alarm in the Wildenau Palace. The countess had suddenly returned, without notifying the servants--in plain words, without asking the servants' permission. She had intended to remain absent several months--they were not prepared, had nothing ready, nothing cleaned, not even a single room in her suite of apartments heated.
She seemed absent-minded, went to her rooms at once, and locked herself in. Then her bell rang violently--the servants who were consulting together below scattered, the maids darted up the main staircase, the men up a side flight.
"I want the coachman, Martin!" was the unexpected order.
"Martin isn't here," the footman ventured to answer--"as we did not know ..."
"Then send for him!" replied the countess imperiously. She did not appear even to notice the implied reproof. Then she permitted the attendant to make a fire on the hearth, for it was a raw, damp day in early spring, and after her stay in Cannes, the weather seemed like Siberia.
Half an hour elapsed. Meanwhile the maids were unpacking, and the countess was arranging a quantity of letters she had brought with her. They were all numbered, and of ancient date. Among them was one from Freyer, written four weeks previously, containing only the words:
"Even in death, Josepha has filled a mother's place to our child--she has rested in the chapel with him since this morning. I think you will not object to her being buried there.
"Joseph."
The countess again glanced at the letter, her eyes rested on the errors in orthography. Such tragical information, with so terrible a reproach between the lines--and the effect--a ludicrous one! She would gladly have effaced the mistakes in order not to be ashamed of having given this man so important a part in the drama of her life--but they stood there with the distinctness of a boy's unpractised hand. A man who could not even write correctly! She had not noticed it before, he wrote rarely and always very briefly--or had she possessed no eyes for his faults at that time? Yes, she must have been blind, utterly blind. She had not answered the letter. Now she tore it up and threw it into the fire. Josepha's death would have been a deliverance to her, had she not a few weeks later received another letter which she now read once more, panting for breath. But, however frequently she perused its contents, she found only that old Martin entreated her to return--Josepha had "blabbed."