THE CROWING OF THE COCK.
A loud step roused the rapt enthusiast from her visions. The sacristan
was passing through the church, extinguishing the candles which,
meanwhile, had burned down in their sockets before the Madonna in the
distant corner.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," he said; "but I wanted to close
the church. There is plenty of time, however. Shall I leave a candle?
It will be too dark; the lamp alone does not give sufficient light."
"I thank you," replied Freyer, more thoughtful than the countess, who,
unable to control herself, remained on her knees with her face buried
in her hands.
"I will lock the church when we leave it and bring you the key," Freyer
added, and the sacristan was satisfied. The imperious high priest
withdrew silently and modestly, that he might not disturb the prayers
of the man whom he sentenced to death every week with such fury.
The lovers were again alone, but the door remained open. The shrill
crowing of a cock suddenly echoed through the stillness from the yard
of the neighboring parsonage. The countess started up. Her eyes were
painfully dazzled by the light of the wax candle so close at hand.
Before her, the face smeared with shining varnish, lay the wooden
Christ, hard and cold in its carven bareness and rigidity. The
pale-blue painted eyes gazed with the traditional mournfulness upon the
ground.
"What startled you just now?" asked Freyer.
"I don't know whether it was a miracle or a shadow, which created the
illusion, but I would have sworn that the statue moved its lids and
looked at me."
"Be it what it might, it was still a miracle," said Freyer. "If the
finger of God can paint the Saviour's eyes to the excited vision from
the wave of blood set in motion by the pulsation of our hearts, or from
the shadow cast by a smoking candle, is that any less wonderful than if
the stiff lids had really moved?"
The countess breathed a long sigh of relief; "Yes, you are right. That
is the power which, as you say, can do more than swell a human breast,
it can make, for the yearning soul, a heart throb even in a Christ
carved from wood. Even if what I have just experienced could have been
done by lifeless matter, the power which brought us together was
divine, and no one living could have resisted it. Lay aside your crown
of thorns trustfully and without remorse, you have accomplished your
mission, you have saved the soul for which God destined you, it was His
will, and who among us could resist Him?"
Freyer raised the crown of thorns, which he still held, to his lips,
kissed it, and laid it at the feet of the Pieta: "Lord, Thy will be
done, in so far as it is Thy will. And if it is not, forgive the
error."
"It is no error, I understand God's purpose better. He has sent me His
image in you and given it to me in an attainable human form, that I may
learn through it to do my duty to the prototype. To the feeble power of
the novice in faith. He graciously adds an earthly guide. Oh, He is
good and merciful!"
She raised Freyer from his knees: "Come, thou God-given one, that I may
fulfil the sweetest duty ever imposed on any mortal, that of loving you
and making you happy. God and His holy will be praised."
"And will you no longer grieve for the lost Christ?"
"No, for you were right. He is everywhere!"
"In God's name then, come and obey the impulse of your heart, even
though I perish."
"Can you speak so to-day, Joseph?"
"To-day especially. Would you not just now have sworn to the truth of
an illusion conjured up by a shadow? And were you not disappointed when
the light came and the spell vanished? The time will come when you will
see me, as you now do this wooden figure, in the light of commonplace
reality, and then the nimbus will vanish and nothing will remain save
the dross as here. Then your soul will turn away disenchanted and
follow the vanished God to loftier heights."
"Or plunge into the depths," murmured the countess.
"I should not fear that, for then my mission would have been vain! No,
my child, if I did not believe that I was appointed to save you I
should have no excuse in my own eyes for what I am doing. But come, it
is late, we must return home or our absence will occasion comment."
* * * * *
It was half-past nine o'clock. An elderly gentleman of distinguished
aristocratic bearing was pacing impatiently to and fro.
The two sisters were standing helplessly in the doorway, deeply
oppressed by the burden of so haughty a guest.
"If she would only come!" Sephi lamented in the utmost anxiety, for she
dreaded the father for the daughter's sake. It was the old Prince von
Prankenberg, and his bearing augured nothing good.
It seemed to these loyal souls a democratic impertinence on the part of
fate that _such_ a gentleman should be kept waiting, and the prince
regarded it in precisely the same light. The good creatures would
willingly have lent wings to the daughter for whom _such_ a father was
waiting. But what did it avail that the noble lord constantly quickened
his pace as he walked to and fro, time and his unsuspicious daughter
did not do the same. Prince Prankenberg had reached Ammergau at noon
that day and waited in vain for the countess. On his arrival he had
found the whole village in an uproar over the conflagration in the
woods, and the countess and Herr Freyer, who had been seen walking
together in that direction, were missing. At last the herder reported
that they had been in the mountain pasture with him, and Ludwig Gross,
on his return from directing the firemen in the futile effort to
extinguish the flames, set off to inform the Countess Wildenau of her
father's arrival. He had evidently failed to find her, for he ought to
have returned long before. So the faithful women had been on coals of
fire ever since. Andreas Gross had gone to the village to look for the
absent ones, as if that could be of any service! Josepha was gazing
sullenly through the window-panes at the prince, who had treated her as
scornfully as if she were a common maid-servant, when she offered to
show him the way to the countess' room, and answered: "People can't
stay in such a hole!" Meanwhile night had closed in.
At last, coming from exactly the opposite direction, a couple
approached whose appearance attracted the nobleman's attention. A
female figure, bare-headed, with dishevelled hair and tattered,
disordered garments, leaning apparently almost fainting on the arm of a
tall, bearded man in a peasant's jacket. Could it--no, it was
impossible, that _could_ not be his daughter.
The unsuspecting pair came nearer. The lady, evidently exhausted, was
really almost carried by her companion. It was too dark for the prince
to see distinctly, but her head seemed to be resting on the peasant's
breast. An interesting pair of lovers! But they drew nearer, the prince
could not believe his eyes, it _was_ his daughter, leaning on a
peasant's arm. There was an involuntary cry of horror from both as
Countess Wildenau stood face to face with her haughty father. The blood
fairly congealed in Madeleine's veins, her cheeks blanched till their
pallor glimmered through the gloom! Yet the habit of maintaining social
forms did not desert her: "Oh, what a surprise! Good evening, Papa!"
Her soul had retreated to the inmost depths of her being, and she was
but a puppet moving and speaking by rule.
Freyer raised his hat in a farewell salute.
"Are you going?" she said with an expressionless glance. "I suppose I
cannot ask you to rest a little while? Farewell, Herr Freyer, and many
thanks."
How strange! Did it not seem as if a cock crowed?
Freyer bowed silently and walked on, "Adieu!" said the prince without
lifting his hat. For an instant he considered whether he could possibly
offer his aim to a lady in _such_ attire, but at last resolved to do
so--she was his daughter, and this was not exactly the right moment to
quarrel with her. So, struggling with his indignation and disgust, he
escorted her, holding his arm very far out as though he might be soiled
by the contact, through the house into her room. The Gross sisters,
with trembling hands, brought in lights and hastily vanished. Madeleine
von Wildenau stood in the centre of the room, like an automaton whose
machinery had run down. The prince took a candle from the table and
threw its light full upon her face. "Pardon me, I must ascertain
whether this lady, who looks as if she had just jumped out of a
gipsy-cart, is really my daughter? Yes, it is actually she!" he
exclaimed in a tone intended to be humorous, but which was merely
brutal. "So I find the Countess Wildenau in _this_ guise--ragged, worn,
with neither hat nor gloves, wandering about with peasants! It is
incredible!"
The countess sank into a chair without a word. Her father's large,
stern features were flushed with a wrath which he could scarcely
control.
"Have you gone out of fashion so completely that you must seek your
society in such circles as these, _ma fille_? Could no cavalier be
found to escort the Countess Wildenau that she must strike up an
intimacy with one of the comedians in the Passion Play?"
"An intimacy? Papa, this is an insult!" exclaimed the countess angrily,
for though it was true, she felt that on his lips and in _his_ meaning
it was such! Again a cock crowed at this unwonted hour.
"Well _ma chere_, when a lady is caught half embraced by such a man,
the inference is inevitable."
"Dear me, I was so exhausted that I could scarcely stand," replied the
countess, softly, as if the cocks might hear: "We were caught by the
storm and the man was obliged to support me. I should think, however,
that the Countess Wildenau's position was too high for such
suspicions."
"Well, well, I heard in Munich certain rumors about your long stay here
which accorded admirably with the romantic personage who has just left
you. My imaginative daughter always had strange fancies, and as you
seem able to endure the peasant odor--I am somewhat more sensitive to
it ..."
"Papa!" cried the countess, frantic with shame. "I beg you not to speak
in that way of people whom I esteem."
"Aha!" said the prince with a short laugh, "Your anger speaks plainly
enough. I will make no further allusion to these delicate relations."
The countess remained silent a moment, struggling with her emotions.
Should she confess all--should she betray the mystery of the "God in
man?" Reveal it to this frivolous, prosaic man from whose mockery,
even in her childhood, she had carefully concealed every nobler
feeling--disclose to him her most sacred possession, the miracle of her
life? No, it would be desecration. "I _have_ no delicate relations! I
scarcely know these people--I am interested in this Freyer as the
representative of the Christ--he is nothing more to me."
The cede crowed for the third time.
"What was that? I am continually hearing cocks crow to-night. Did you
hear nothing?" asked the countess.
"Not the slightest sound! Have you hallucinations?" asked the prince:
"The cocks are all asleep at this hour."
She knew it--the sound was but the echo of her own conscience. She
thought of the words Freyer had uttered that day upon the mountain, and
his large eyes gazed mournfully, yet forgivingly at her. Now she knew
why Peter was pardoned! He would not suffer the God in whom he could
not force men to believe to be profaned--so he concealed Him in his
heart. He knew that the bond which united him to Christ and the work
which he was appointed to do for Him was greater than the cheap
martyrdom of an acknowledgment of Him to the dull ears of a handful of
men and maid-servants! It was no lie when he said: "I know not the
man"--for he really did _not_ know the Christ whom _they_ meant. He was
denying--not _Christ_, but the _criminal_, whom they believed Him to
be. It was the same with the countess. She was not ashamed of the man
she loved, only of the person her father saw in him and, as she could
not explain to the prince what Joseph Freyer was to her, she denied him
entirely. But even as Peter mourned as a heavy sin the brief moment in
which he faithlessly separated from his beloved Master, she, too, now
felt a keen pang, as though a wound was bleeding in her heart, and
tears streamed from her eyes.
"You are nervous, _ma fille_! It isn't worth while. Tears for the sake
of that worthy villager?" said the prince, with a contemptuous shrug of
the shoulders. "Listen, _ma chere_, I believe it would be better for
you to marry."
"Papa!" exclaimed the countess indignantly.
The prince laughed: "No offence, when women like you begin to be
sentimental--it is time for them to marry! You were widowed too
young--it was a misfortune for you."
"A misfortune? May God forgive you the sneer and me the words--it was a
misfortune that Wildenau lived so long--nay more: that I ever became
his wife, and you, Papa, ought never to remind me of it."
"Why not?"
"Because I might forget that you _are_ my father--as _you_ forget it
when you sold me to that greybeard?"
"Sold? What an expression, _chere enfant_! Is this the result of your
study of peasant life here? I congratulate you on the enlargement of
your vocabulary. This is the gratitude of a daughter for whom the most
brilliant match in the whole circle of aristocratic families was
selected."
"And her soul sold in exchange," the countess interrupted; "for that my
moral nature was not utterly destroyed is no credit of yours."
The prince smiled with an air of calm superiority: "Capital! Moral
nature destroyed! When a girl is wedded to one of the oldest members of
the German nobility and made the possession of a yearly income of half
a million! That is what she calls moral destruction and an outrageous
deed, of which the inhuman father must not remind his daughter without
forfeiting his _paternal rights_. It is positively delicious!" He
laughed and drew out his cigar case: "You see, _ma fille_--I understand
a jest. Will you be annoyed if I smoke a Havana in this rural
bed-room?"
"As you please!" replied the countess, who had now regained her former
cold composure, holding the candle to him. The prince scanned her
features with the searching gaze of a connoisseur as she thus stood
before him illumined by the ruddy glow. "You have lost a little of your
freshness, my child, but you are still beautiful--still charming. I
admit that Wildenau was rather too old for a poetic nature like
yours--but there is still time to compensate for it. When were you
born? A father ought not to ask his daughter's age--but the Almanach de
Gotha tells the story. You must be now--stop! You were not quite
seventeen when you married Wildenau--you were married nine years--you
have been a widow two--that makes you twenty-eight. There is still
time, but--not much to lose! I am saying this to you in a mother's
place, my child"--he added, with a repulsive affectation of tenderness.
His daughter made no reply.
"It is true, you will lose your income if you give up the name of
Wildenau--as the will reads 'exchange it for another.' This somewhat
restricts your choice, for you can resign this colossal dower only in
favor of a match which can partially supply your loss."
The countess turned deadly pale. "That is the curse Wildenau hurled
upon me from his grave. It was not enough that I was miserable during
his life, no--I must not be happy even after his death."
"Why--who has told you so? You have your choice among any of the
handsome and wealthy men who can offer you an equivalent for all that
you resign. Prince von Metten-Barnheim, for instance! He is a
visionary, it is true--"
"Prosaic Prince Emil a visionary!" said the countess, laughing
bitterly.
"Well, I think that a man who surrounds himself so much with plebeian
society, scholars and authors, might properly be termed a visionary!
When his father dies, the luckless country will be ruled by loud-voiced
professors. What does that matter! He'll suit you all the better, as
you are half a scholar yourself. True, it might be said that the
Barnheim family is of inferior rank to ours--the Prankenbergs are an
older race and from the days of Charlemagne have not made a single
_mesalliance_, while the Barnheim genealogical tree shows several
gaps--which explains their liberal tendencies. Such things always
betray themselves. Yet on the other hand, they are reigning dukes, and
we a decaying race--so it is tolerably equal. You are interested in
him--so decide at last and marry him, then you will be a happy woman
and the curse of the will can have no power."
"Indeed?" cried the countess, trembling with excitement. "But suppose
that I loved another, a poor man, whom I could not wed unless I
possessed some property of my own, however small, and the will made me
a _beggar_ the moment I gave him my hand--what then? Should I not have
a right to hate the jealous despot and the man who sacrificed me to his
selfish interests--even though he was my own father?" A glance of the
keenest reproach fell upon the prince.
He was startled by this outburst of passion, hitherto unknown in his
experience of this apathetic woman. He could make no use of her present
mood. Biting off a leaf from his cigar, he blew it into the air with a
graceful movement of the lips. Some change had taken place in
Madeleine, that was evident! If, after all, she should commit some
folly--make a love-match? But with whom? Again the scene he had
witnessed that evening rose before his mind! She had let her head rest
on the shoulder of a common peasant--that could not be denied, he had
_seen_ it with his own eyes. Did such a delusion really exist? A woman
of her temperament was incomprehensible--she would be quite capable, in
a moment of enthusiasm, of throwing her whole splendid fortune away and
giving society an unparalleled spectacle. Who could tell what ideas
such a "lunatic" might take into her head. And yet--who could prevent
it? No one had any power over her--least of all he himself, who could
not even threaten her with disinheritance, since it was long since he
had possessed anything he could call his own. An old gambler,
perpetually struggling with debt, who had come that day, that very day,
to--nay, he was reluctant to confess it to himself. And he had already
irritated his daughter, his last refuge, the only support which still
kept his head above water, more than was wise or prudent--he dared not
venture farther.
He had the suppressed brutality of all violent natures which cannot
have their own way, are not masters of their passions and their
circumstances, and hence are constantly placed in the false position of
being compelled to ask the aid of others!
After having busied himself a sufficiently long time with his cigar,
he said in a soothing and--for so imperious a man--repulsively
submissive tone: "Well, _ma fille_, there is an expedient for that case
also. If you loved a man who was too poor to maintain an establishment
suitable for you--you might do the one thing without forfeiting the
other--Wildenau's will mentions only _a change of name_: you might
marry secretly--keep his name and with it his property."
"Papa!" exclaimed the countess--a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks,
but her eyes were fixed with intense anxiety upon the speaker--"I could
not expect that from a husband whom I esteemed and loved."
"Why not? If he could offer you no maintenance, he could not ask you to
sacrifice yours! Surely it would be enough if you gave him yourself."
"If he would accept me under such conditions,"' she answered,
thoughtfully.
"Aha--we are on the right track!" the prince reflected, watching her
keenly. "As soon as he perceived that there was no other possibility of
making you his--certainly! A woman like you can persuade a man to do
anything. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but, _ma fille_--I fear that
you have made a choice of which you cannot help being ashamed. Could
you think of forming such an alliance except in secret. If, that is,
you _must_ wed? What would the world say when rumor whispered:
'Countess Wildenau has sunk so low that she'--I dare not utter the
word, from the fear of offending you."
The countess sat with downcast eyes.
The world--! It suddenly stood before her with its mocking faces.
Should she expose her sacred love to its derision? Should she force the
noble simple-mannered man who was the salvation of her soul to play a
ridiculous part in the eyes of society, as the husband of the Countess
Wildenau? Her father was right--though from very different motives.
Could this secret which was too beautiful, too holy, to be confided to
her own father--endure the contact of the world?
"But how could a secret marriage be arranged?" she asked, with feigned
indifference.
Prince von Prankenberg was startled by the earnestness of the question.
Had matters gone so far? Caution was requisite here. Energetic
opposition could only produce the opposite result, perhaps a public
scandal. He reflected a moment while apparently toiling to puff rings
of smoke into the air, as if the world contained no task more
important. His daughter's eyes rested on him with suspicious keenness.
At last he seemed to have formed his plan.
"A secret marriage? Why, that is an easy matter for a woman of your
wealth and independent position! Is the person in question a Catholic?"
Madeleine silently nodded assent.
"Well--then the matter is perfectly simple. Follow the example of
Manzoni's _promessi sposi_, with whom we are sufficiently tormented
while studying Italian. Go with your chosen husband to the pastor and
declare before him, in the presence of two witnesses, who can easily be
found among your faithful servants, that you take each other in
marriage. According to the rite of the Catholic church, it is
sufficient to constitute a valid marriage, if both parties make this
declaration, even without the marriage ceremonial, in the presence of
an ordained priest--your ordained priest in this case would be our old
pastor at Prankenberg. You can play the farce best there. You will thus
need no papers, no special license, which might betray you, and if you
manage cleverly you will succeed in persuading the decrepit old man not
to enter the marriage in the church register. Then let any one come
and say that you are married! There will be absolutely no proof--and
when the old pastor dies the matter will go down to the grave with him!
You will choose witnesses on whom you can depend. What risk can there
be?"
"Father! But will that be a marriage?" cried the countess in horror.
"Not according to _our_ ideas," said the prince, laconically: "But the
point is merely that _he_ shall consider himself married, and that _he_
shall be bound--not you?"
"Father--I will not play such a farce!" She turned away with loathing.
"If you are in earnest--there will be no farce, _ma chere_! It will
rest entirely with you whether you regard yourself as married or not.
In the former case you will have the pleasant consciousness of a moral
act without its troublesome consequences--can go on a journey after the
pseudo wedding, roam through foreign lands with a reliable maid, and
then return perhaps with one or two 'adopted' children, whom, as a
philanthropist, you will educate and no one can discover anything. The
anonymous husband may be installed by the Countess Wildenau under some
title on one of her distant estates, and the marriage will be as happy
as any--only less prosaic! But you will thus spare yourself an endless
scandal in the eyes of society, keep your pastoral dream, and yet
remain the wealthy and powerful Countess Wildenau. Is not that more
sensible than in Heaven knows what rhapsody to sacrifice honor,
position, wealth, and--your old father?"
"My father?" asked the countess, who had struggled with the most
contradictory emotions while listening to the words of the prince.
"Why yes"--he busied himself again with his cigar, which he was now
obliged to exchange for another, "You know, _chere enfant_, the duties
of our position impose claims upon families of princely rank, which,
unfortunately, my finances no longer allow me to meet. I--h'm--I find
myself compelled--unpleasant as it is--to appeal to my daughter's
kindness--may I use one of these soap dishes as an ash-receiver? So I
have come to ask whether, for the sake of our ancient name--I expect no
childish sentimentality--whether you could help me with an additional
sum of some fifty thousand marks annually, and ninety thousand to
be paid at once--otherwise nothing is left for me--a light,
please--_merci_--except to put a bullet through my head!" He paused to
light the fresh cigar. The countess clasped her hands in terror.
"Good Heavens, Papa! Are the sums Wildenau gave you already exhausted?"
"What do you mean--can a Prince Prankenberg live on an income of fifty
thousand marks? If I had not been so economical, and we did not live in
the quiet German style, I could not have managed to make such a trifle
hold out so _long_!"
"A trifle! Then I was sold so cheaply?" cried Madeleine Wildenau with
passionate emotion. "I have not even, in return for my wasted life, the
consciousness of having saved my father? Yes, yes, if this is true--I
am no longer free to choose! I shall remain to the end of my days the
slave of my dead husband, and must steal the happiness for which
I long like forbidden fruit. You have chosen the moment for this
communication well--it must be true! You have destroyed the first
blossom of my life, and now, when it would fain put forth one last bud,
you blight that, too."
The prince rose. "I regret having caused you any embarrassment by my
affairs. As I said, you are your own mistress. If I did not put a
bullet through my head long ago, it was purely out of consideration for
you, that the world might not say: 'Prince von Prankenberg shot himself
on account of financial embarrassment because his wealthy daughter
would not aid him!' I wished to save you this scandal--that is why I
gave you the choice of helping me if you preferred to do so."
The countess shuddered. "You know that such threats are not needed! If
I wept, it was not for the sake of the paltry money, but all the
unfortunate circumstances. How can I ever be happy, even in a secret
marriage, if I am constantly compelled to dread discovery for my
father's sake? If it were for a father impoverished by misfortune,
the tears shed for my sacrifice of happiness would be worthy of
execration--but, Papa, to be compelled to sacrifice the holiest feeling
that ever thrilled a human heart for gambling, race-courses, and the
women of doubtful reputation who consume your property--that is hard
indeed!"
"Spare your words, _ma fille_, I am not disposed to purchase your help
at the cost of a lecture. Either you will relieve me from my
embarrassments without reproaches, or you will be the daughter of a
suicide--what is the use of all this philosophizing? A lofty unsullied
name is a costly article! Make your choice. _I_ for my own part set
little value on life. I am old, a victim to the gout, have grown too
stiff to ride or enjoy sport of any kind, have lost my luck with
women--there is nothing left but gambling. If I must give that
up, too, then _rogue la galere_! In such a case, there are but two
paths--_corriger la fortune_--or die. But a Prankenberg would rather
die &an to take the former."
"Father! What are you saying! Alas, that matters have gone so far! Woe
betide a society that dismisses an old man from its round of pleasures
so bankrupt in every object, every dignity, that no alternative remains
save suicide or cheating at the gaming-table--unless he happens, by
chance, to have a wealthy daughter!"
"My beloved child!" said the prince, who now found it advisable to
adopt a tone of pathos.
"Pray, say no more, Father. You have never troubled yourself about your
daughter, have never been a father to me--if you had, you would not now
stand before me so miserable, so poor in happiness. This is past
change. Alas, that I cannot love and respect my father as I ought--that
I cannot do what I am about to do more gladly. Yet I am none the less
ready to fulfill my duties towards you. So far as lies in my power, I
will afford you the possibility of continuing your pitiful life of
shams, and leave it to your discretion how far you draw upon my income.
It is fortunate that you came in time--in a few days it might have been
too late. I see now that I must not give up my large income so long as
my father needs the money. My dreams of a late, but pure happiness are
shattered! You will understand that one needs time to recover from such
a blow and pardon my painful excitement."
She rose, with pallid face and trembling limbs: "I will place the
papers necessary to raise the money in your hands early to-morrow
morning, and you will forget this painful scene sooner than I."
"You have paid me few compliments--but I shall bear no malice--you are
nervous to-day, my fair daughter. And even if you do not bestow your
aid in the most generous way, nevertheless you help me. Let me kiss
your liberal hand! Ah, it is exactly like your mother's. When I think
that those slender, delicate fingers have been laid in the coarse fist
of Heaven knows what plebeian, I think great credit is due me--"
"Do not go on!" interrupted the countess, imperiously. "I think I have
done my duty, Papa--but the measure is full, and I earnestly entreat
you to let me rest to-day."
"It is the fate of fathers to let their daughters rule them," replied
the prince in a jesting tone. "Well, it is better to be ill-treated by
a daughter than by a sweetheart. You see I, too, have some moral
impulses, since I have been in your strict society. May the father whom
you judge so harshly be permitted to kiss your forehead?"
The countess silently submitted--but a shudder ran through her frame as
if the touch had defiled her. She felt that it was the Judas kiss of
the world, not the caress of a father.
The prince wiped his mouth with a sensation of secret disgust. "Who
knows what lips have touched that brow today?" He dared not think of
it, or it would make him ill.
"_Ma chere_, however deeply I am indebted to you, I must assert my
paternal rights a few minutes. You have said so many bitter things,
whose justice I will not deny, that you will permit me to utter a few
truthful words also." Fixing his eyes upon her with a stern, cold gaze,
he said in a low tone, placing a marked emphasis on every word: "We
have carried matters very far--you and I--the last of the ancient
Prankenberg race! A pretty pair! the father a bankrupt, and the
daughter--on the eve of marrying a peasant."
Madeleine von Wildenau, deadly pale, stood leaning with compressed lips
on the back of her armchair.
The prince laid his hand on her shoulder. "We may both say that to-day
_each_ has saved the _other_! This is my reparation for the humiliating
role fate has forced upon me in your presence. Am I not right?
Good-night, my queenly daughter--and I hope you bear me no ill-will."