Following the course of the brook, Walpurga had hurried down the
mountain-side. She soon saw the little town and the farmhouse, on the
roof of which a bright flag was fluttering.
Walpurga sat down on a rock by the stream, to recover her breath and
rest for a few moments. A cuckoo flew over her head and up the
mountain.
"That's a bad beginning," said she to herself.
She walked on toward the dairy-farm. Looking through the iron railing,
she saw a boy playing about the garden. His hair fell over his
shoulders, in long, fair curls.
He wore a light dress and a hat with a feather. She felt as if her
heart must burst and, with convulsive grip, she held fast to one of the
iron rails of the fence in order to support herself. Then she walked on
toward the garden-gate.
"Frau von Gerloff--the prince--my child! my child!" she cried, while
she rushed toward the prince and, kneeling down in the grass, kissed
and embraced him.
The boy screamed.
"Oh, that's his voice!" cried Walpurga.
Startled for a moment, Frau von Gerloff stood there as if rooted to the
spot. Then she approached and ordered Walpurga away. The servants also
advanced and ordered her to go. The prince nestled against Frau von
Gerloff, as if to hide himself.
Walpurga was still kneeling in the grass, and could not rise.
"He don't know me any more, and I'm his nurse!" she cried, looking
around confusedly at those about her. Her voice seemed to exert an
influence on the child. It turned its face toward her. It was flushed
with red and a tear still hung on his eyelashes, although his face was
wreathed in smiles.
"God greet you!" said he. He had been taught this expression, on
account of their sojourn in the country.
"He can say 'God greet you'--oh, he can speak! Dear me, he can speak!
Now just say, 'Walpurga,' child. Can you say, 'Walpurga'?"
"Walpurga," repeated the child.
The queen approached, attended by Countess Brinkenstein and Paula.
Walpurga was about to hasten toward her, but the queen motioned her
away, and ordered Frau von Gerloff to remove the prince. The prince was
led out of the garden, but he looked back at Walpurga, who nodded to
him and quite forgot that she was in the presence of the queen, until
the latter said:
"You have thrust yourself in here. You must certainly be aware that we
did not desire to see you, and you know why."
"I don't want to defend myself now. I've come for something else,"
urged poor Walpurga.
"What is it?" asked the queen.
Breathing heavily, and with frequent pauses, Walpurga hurriedly said:
"Your Majesty, one may be looked upon as wicked, or may not be looked
upon at all, and yet be honest. You and I are both of us in good health
and can settle that some other time. But I have a few words to tell
you--quite alone. Dear queen! for mercy's sake!--you'll be glad of it
to your dying hour. Dear queen, you must die as well as the rest of
us--I beg you, for pity's sake, listen to me alone, only for one
minute! Send the others away, there's no time to lose!"
The queen motioned Countess Brinkenstein and Paula to withdraw. She was
alone with Walpurga, and the latter, with throbbing heart, said:
"Irma lives!"
"What do you say?"
"She's dying; perhaps she's dead by this time!"
"I don't understand you. Are you mad?"
"No, dear queen. Sit down here on this seat. You're trembling all over.
I've been awkward about it, but I couldn't help it. But it doesn't
matter about me, now. Do with me what you choose--Irma lives--perhaps
only this day, perhaps not even that long. Dear queen, you must go with
me. You must go to her. It's all that's left her on earth--A single
word--a hand--"
Countess Brinkenstein and Paula, who saw that the queen was leaning
back, as pale as death, hurried to her assistance. As soon as she heard
the rustling of their dresses, she raised herself and said:
"Walpurga, repeat what you have just told me."
Walpurga repeated that Irma was still alive, and added that she had
been concealed with her for nearly four years, and that Gunther was now
with her.
The two ladies seemed dumb with surprise, but Walpurga again turned to
the queen and exclaimed:
"For God's sake, don't lose a minute! Come with me. Stasi, who once
turned a prayer for the queen to me, lives in there. Dear queen, if you
can't forgive others, how can they still pray for you? Just think how
you felt in that solemn night, dear queen. Stand up, put all else away
from you and hold fast to your good heart alone! Dear queen--"
"Do not annoy her majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, interrupting
her.
But Walpurga continued:
"Your Majesty, when you die, neither court ladies, nor anything else
can help you. Leave all behind you, for one short hour of your life!
Come with me alone, and ask me nothing more. She'll be dead before
night. This very day, you can perform a good deed which will last for
ever."
"I will--I must go to her!" said the queen, rising from her seat and
walking toward the house. Her step was quick, her cheeks flushed with
excitement.
"Your Majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, remonstrating, "the
gracious king is out riding, and will be at the waterfall at
dinner-time. Will Your Majesty not wait until then?"
"No," replied the queen, in a determined voice, as if the question had
interrupted a train of thought. "I desire," said she, "to be permitted
to act upon my own responsibility."
"Your Majesty, there is no carriage-road to the mountain meadow,"
mildly added Countess Brinkenstein.
"But there's a bridle-path almost all the way up to the cottage,"
replied Walpurga. "And there's Stasi's husband; he's a forester and
knows all the roads; I'll call him."
She hurried to the inspector's office and brought him out with her. He
confirmed her statement that they could drive for a good distance, and
that then they could ride.
The queen ordered him to precede them with saddle-horses. She retired
to her apartments, and soon afterward, accompanied by Paula, Sixtus,
and Walpurga, drove up the mountain. Two lackeys were sitting upon the
rumble.
The betrothed of the man who had once loved Irma, and the wife of
him whose love Irma had returned, sat side by side, hurrying to her
death-bed. It was not until they were well on their way that they
regained their composure.
There was but little that Walpurga could tell them about Irma's simple
life, and she, therefore, made so much the more of the uncle's account
of how Irma had traveled to the capital with him, in disguise, and how,
at the summer palace, she had once more beheld the queen and the
prince. Her recital was frequently interrupted by tears, while she went
on to tell them how Irma had nursed her dying mother, and how her
mother, who had known all, had, on her death-bed, given Irma her
blessing.
The queen held her handkerchief to her eyes and silently extended her
hand to Walpurga.
The more Walpurga told them, the more pure and exalted did Irma appear.
Turning to Paula, the queen said:
"That is life in death--it must have required inconceivable courage."
"There are saints even in our days," replied Paula. "All that olden
times knew of the great, the beautiful and the true, still exists in
the world, even though it be scattered and hidden from view."
In the depth of her sorrow, the queen's eye beamed with conscious
delight at the thought that, although Gunther was no longer with her,
that which was best in him was now beside her in his child.
Walpurga was again obliged to tell them of that morning by the lake.
And then she went on to speak of Irma's beautiful work, but she soon
noticed that the queen was not listening, and stopped.
They drove on in silence.
They reached the end of the carriage road, and now continued the
journey on horseback.
Soon after the queen's departure, the king and Bronnen returned from
the chase. They felt refreshed and invigorated by the sport, and the
king inquired whether the queen had already repaired to the waterfall,
for she had expressed a desire to sketch there.
For the first time in her life. Countess Brinkenstein was so
embarrassed that she almost lost her presence of mind. She, of course,
felt a proper sympathy for Irma, but as long as she had lived in
concealment she should have died in concealment. Why should she thus
agitate them all anew? She shook her head in deprecation of this
eccentric being who, long after one had mourned and forgotten her, was
not even decently dead.
With faltering voice, she informed the king of what had happened, and
scarcely ventured to tell him that on her own responsibility, and
contrary to all court regulations, the queen had gone away, attended by
no one but Paula and privy councilor Sixtus.
For some moments, the king neither moved nor uttered a word, but stood
there with his eyes bent on the ground. The very earth at his feet
seemed to tremble. Everything seemed unsteady as if in an earthquake,
and terrors and despair overwhelmed him.
All that he had experienced, during long years of suffering and
expiation, now rose before him again. He had striven and wrestled and
made sacrifices, and no one had thanked him for all this; least of all
his own heart, for he was burdened with guilt and yet anxious to do
good, and forced to acknowledge, in all humility, that the power to do
good was yet left him.
Trembling with agitation, he pressed his clenched hand against his
brow. His cheeks burned, while his limbs shook with a feverish chill.
God be thanked, she still lives! The guilt of death is lifted from my
soul; and she, too, will see what I have suffered, and what I have
become--
During the last few moments, he had lived the secret torments of past
years over again. He now looked about him, as if emerging from another
world. There had been no earthquake; the trees, the houses, the
mountains still stood in their old places. He looked at Bronnen and,
offering his icy cold hand, whispered almost inaudibly:
"And so the presentiment that you expressed at the hunting-seat, is
true."
His voice was thick. He ordered fresh saddle-horses and a second
carriage to be sent after him.
A few moments later, Bronnen and he were following in the wake of the
queen.