Then entering a compartment at the rear of the train the old fellow resumed his journey, smiling to himself, and stroking his beard with his thin, bony hand, as though he had made a very valuable discovery and yet was puzzled.
Chapter Twelve.
“An Open Scandal!”
At Klosterneuberg, six miles from Vienna, Leitolf kissed her hand in deep reverence, taking sad leave of her, for on arrival at the capital she would probably be recognised, and they both deemed it judicious that she should be alone.
“Good-bye,” he said earnestly, holding her hand as the train ran into the suburban station. “This meeting of ours has been a strange and unexpected one, and this is, I suppose, our last leave-taking. I have nothing to add,” he sighed. “You know that I am ever your servant, ever ready to serve your Imperial Highness in whatsoever manner you may command. May God bless and comfort you. Adieu.”
“Good-bye, Carl,” she said brokenly. It was all she could say. She restrained her tears by dint of great effort.
Then, when he had gone and closed the carriage door, she burst into a fit of sobbing. By his absence it seemed to her that the light of her life had been extinguished. She was alone, in hopeless despair.
Darkness had now fallen, and as the train rushed on its final run along the precipitous slopes of the Kahlenberg, little Ignatia placed her arms around her mother’s neck and said,—