The chancellor called to the two halberdiers on guard at his door:
“Seize this rascal; he annoys me by his impudence.”
The guards led away the amazed and confounded Nychol, who ventured one
word more: “My lord--”
“You are no longer hangman for the province of Throndhjem; I deprive you
of your office!” cried the chancellor, slamming the door.
The chancellor returned to his letters, angrily read and re-read them,
maddened by his dishonor; for these were the letters which once passed
between the countess and Musdœmon. This was Elphega’s handwriting. He
found that Ulrica was not his daughter; that, it might be, the Frederic
whom he mourned was not his son. The unhappy count was punished through
that same pride which had caused all his crimes. He cared not now if
vengeance evaded him; all his ambitious dreams vanished,--his past was
blasted, his future dead. He had striven to destroy his enemies; he had
only succeeded in losing his own reputation, his adviser, and even his
marital and paternal rights.
But he must see once more the wretched woman who had betrayed him. He
hastily crossed the spacious apartment, shaking the letters in his hand
as if they were a thunderbolt. He threw open the door of Elphega’s room;
he entered--
The guilty wife had just unexpectedly learned from Colonel Vœthaün of
her son Frederic’s fearful death. The poor mother was insane.