She was too lofty to shun punishment which she had deserved, though it were her death. So she awaited her fate.
She brought a little bottle filled with a pungent essence from her sleeping-room, and poured a few drops into his mouth. It was long ere he gave any sign of life--it seemed as though the soul was reluctant to awake, as if it would not return to consciousness. At last he opened his eyes;--they rested as coldly on the little trembling hand which was busied about him as if he had never clasped it, never kissed it, never pressed it to his throbbing heart. The storm had spent its fury--he was calm!
The countess had again been mistaken in him, as usual--his conduct was always unlike her anticipations. He rose as quickly as his strength permitted, passed his hand over his disordered hair, and looked for his hat: "I beg your pardon for having startled you--forget this scene, which I might have spared you and myself, had I known what I do now. I deeply lament that the error which clouded your life has lasted so long!"
"Yes," she said, and the words fell from her lips with the sharp sound of a diamond cutting glass: "Yes, it was not worth it!"
Freyer turned and gave her one last look--she felt it through her lowered lids. She had sunk on the sofa and fixed her eyes on the ground. A death-like chill ran through her limbs--she waited in her position as if paralysed. All was still for a moment, then she heard a light step cross the soft carpet of the room--and when she looked up, the door had closed behind Joseph Freyer.
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
IN THE DESERTED HOUSE
The night had passed, day was shining through the closed curtains--but Countess Wildenau still sat in the same spot where Freyer had left her. Yes, he had gone "silently, noiselessly as a shadow"--perhaps vanished from her life, as he had said! She did not know what she felt, she would fain have relieved her stupor by tears, but she dared not weep--why should she? Everything was proceeding exactly as she wished. True, she had been harsh, too severe and harsh, and words had been uttered by both which neither could forgive the other! Yet it was to be expected that the bond between them would not be sundered without a storm--why was her heart so heavy, as if some misfortune had happened--greater than aught which could befall her. Tears! What would the duke think? It would be an injustice to him. And it was not true that she felt anything; she had no emotion whatever, neither for the vanished man nor for the duke! Honor--honor was the only thing which could still be saved! But--his sudden silence when she mentioned her betrothal to the duke--his going thus, without a farewell--without a word! He despised her--she was no longer worthy of him. That was the cause of his sudden calmness. There was a crushing grandeur and dignity in this calmness after the outbursts of fierce despair. The latter expressed a conflict, the former a victory--and she was vanquished, hers was the shame, the pangs of conscience, and a strange, inexplicable grief.
So she sat pondering all night long, always imagining that she had seen what she had not witnessed, the last look he had fixed upon her, and then--his noiseless walk through the room. It seemed as though time had stopped at that moment, and she was compelled, all through the night, to experience that one instant!
Some one tapped lightly on the door, and the maid entered with a haggard face. "I only wanted to ask," she said, in a weary, faint tone, "whether I might go to bed a little while. I have waited all night long for Your Highness to ring--"