"Why, have you been waiting for me?" said the countess, rising slowly from the sofa. "I did not know it was so late. What time is it?"
"Nearly six o'clock. But Your Highness looks so pale! Will you not permit me to put you to bed?"
"Yes, my good Nannie, take me to my bedroom. I cannot walk, my feet are numb."
"You should lie down at once and try to get warm. You are as cold as ice!" And the maid, really alarmed by the helplessness of her usually haughty mistress, helped the drooping figure to her room.
The countess allowed herself to be undressed without resistance, sitting on the edge of the bed as if paralysed and waiting for the maid to lift her in. "I thank you," she said in a more gentle tone than the woman had ever heard from her lips, as the maid voluntarily rubbed the soles of her feet. Her head instantly sank upon the pillows, which bore a large embroidered monogram, surmounted by a coronet. When her feet at last grew warm, she seemed to fall asleep, and the maid left the room. But Madeleine von Wildenau was not asleep, she was merely exhausted, and, while her body rested, she constantly beheld one image, felt one grief.
The maid had determined not to rouse her mistress, and left her undisturbed.
At last, late in the morning, the weary woman sank into an uneasy slumber, whence she did not wake until the sun was high in the heavens.
When she opened her eyes, she felt as if she was paralysed in every limb, but attributed this to the terrible impressions of the previous day, which would have shaken even the strongest nature.
She rang the bell for the maid and rose. She walked slowly, it is true, and with great effort--but she did walk. After she had been dressed and her breakfast was served she wrote:
"The footman Franz is dismissed for rude treatment of the steward Freyer, and is not to appear in my presence again. The intendant is to settle the matter of wages.