Three weary days had passed. The countess was ill. At least she permitted her household to believe that she was unable to leave her room. No one was allowed to know that she had returned, and the windows of the Wildenau Palace remained closed, as when the owner was absent Thus condemned to total inactivity in the twilight of her apartments, she became the helpless prey of her gnawing anxiety. The third day brought a glimmer of hope, a telegram from the duke: "I will come at six this evening."
The countess trembled and turned pale as she read the lines. What was to be done now? She did not know, she only felt that the turning-point of her life had come.
"The Duke of Metten-Barnheim will call this evening and must be admitted, but no one else!" were the orders given to the servant.
Then, to pass away the time, she changed her dress. If she was to be poor and miserable, to possess nothing she formerly owned; she would at least be beautiful, beautiful as the setting sun which irradiates everything with rosy light.
And with the true feminine vanity which coquets with death and finds a consolation in being beautiful even in the coffin, she chose for the momentous consultation impending one of the most bewitching negligee costumes in her rich wardrobe. Ample folds of rose-colored crepe de chine were draped over an under-dress of pink plush, which reflected a thousand shades from the deepest rose to the palest flesh color, the whole drapery loosely caught with single grey pearls. How long would she probably possess such garments? She perhaps wore it to-day for the last time. Her trembling hand was icy cold, as she wound a pink ribbon through her curls and fastened it with a pearl clasp.
There she stood, like Aphrodite, risen from the foam of the sea, and--she smiled bitterly--she could not even raise herself from the mire into which a single error had lured her. Then she was again overwhelmed by an unspeakable consciousness of misery, her disgrace, which made all her splendor seem a mockery. She was on the point of stripping off the glittering robe when the duke was announced. It was too late to change.
She hurried into the boudoir to meet him--floating in like a roseate cloud.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed the duke, admiringly; "you look like a bride! It must be some joyful cause which brought you back here so soon and made you send for me."
"On the contrary, Duke--a bride of misfortune--a penitent who would fain varnish the ugliness of her guilt in her friend's eyes by outward beauty."
"H'm! That would be at any rate a useless deed, Madeleine; for beautiful as you are, I do not love you for your beauty's sake. Nor is it for your virtues--you never aspired to be a saint, not even in Ammergau, where you least succeeded! What I love is the whole grand woman with all her faults, who seems to have been created for me, in spite of the obstacles reared between us by temperament and circumstances. The latter are accidents which may prevent our union, but which cannot deprive me of my share in you, the part which I alone understand, and which I shall love when I see you before me as a white-haired matron, weary of life--perhaps then for the first time."
Emotion stifled the countess' words. She drew him down upon a chair by her side and sank feebly upon the cushions of her divan.
"Oh, how cold your hands are!" said the duke, gazing with loving anxiety into her eyes. "You alarm me. Spite of your rosy glimmer, you are pale as your own pearls. And now pearls in your eyes too? Madeleine--my poor tortured Madeleine--what has happened?"
"Oh, Duke--help, advise me--or all is lost. The Wildenaus have discovered my secret. Josepha, that half-crazy girl from Ammergau, has betrayed me!"
"So that is her gratitude for the life you saved." The duke nodded as if by no means surprised. "It was to be expected from that sort of person. Why did you preserve the fool?"
"I could not let her leap into the water."
"Perhaps it would have been better! This sham-saint had not even sufficient healthful nature in her to be grateful?"
"Ah, she had reason to hate me, she loved my child more than any earthly thing and reproached me for having neglected it. These people can imagine love only in the fulfillment of lowly duties and physical attendance. That a woman can have no time or understanding of these things, and yet love, is beyond their comprehension."
"A fine state of affairs, where the servant makes herself the judge of her mistress--nay even discovers in her conduct an excuse for the basest treachery. A plain maid-servant, properly reared by her parents, would have fulfilled her duty to her employers without philosophizing."
The countess nodded, she was thinking of old Martin.
"But," the duke continued, "extra allowance must of course be made for these Ammergau people."
"We will let her rest; she is dead. Who knows how it happened, or the struggles through which she passed?"
"Is she dead?"
"Yes, she died just after the child."
"Indeed?" said the duke, thoughtfully, in a gentler tone: "Well, then at least she has atoned. But, my dear Madeleine, this does not undo the disaster. The Wildenaus will at any rate try to make capital out of their knowledge of your secret, and, as the dear cousins are constantly incurring gaming and other debts--especially your red-haired kinsman Fritz--they will not let slip the opportunity of making their honored cousin pay for their discretion the full amount of their notes!"
"Ah, if that were all!"
"That all! What more could there be? I admit that it is unspeakably painful for you to know that your honor and your deepest secrets are in such hands--but how long will it be ere, if it please God, you will be in a position which will remove you from it all, and I--!"
"Duke--Good Heavens!--It is far worse," cried the countess, wringing her hands: "Oh, merciful God--at last, at last, it must be told. You do not know all, the worst--I had not courage to tell you--are you aware of the purport of my late husband's will?"
"Certainly--it runs that you must restore the property, of which he makes you sole heiress, to the cousins, if you marry again. What of that--do you suppose I ever thought of your millions?" He laughed gayly: "I flatter myself that my finances will not permit you to feel the withdrawal of your present income when you are my wife."
"Omnipotent Father!--You do not understand me! This is the moment I have always dreaded--oh, had I only been truthful. Duke, forgive me, pity me, I am the most miserable creature under the sun. I shall not be your wife, but a beggar--for I am married, and the Wildenaus know it through Josepha!"
There are moments when it seems as if the whole world was silent--as if the stars paused in their courses to listen, and we hear nothing save the pulsing of the blood in our ears. It is long ere we perceive any other sound. This was the case with the duke. For a long time he seemed to himself both deaf and blind. Then he heard the low hissing of the gas jets, then heavy breathing, and at last the earth began to turn on its axis again and things resumed their natural relations.
Yet his energetic nature did not need much time to recover its poise. One glance at the hopeless, drooping woman showed him that this was not the hour to think of himself--that he never had more serious duties to perform than to-day. Now he perceived for the first time that he had unconsciously retreated from her half the length of the room.
She held out her hand imploringly, and with the swiftness of thought he was once more at her side, clasping it in his own. "I have concealed this, deceived your great, noble love--for years--because I perceived that you were as necessary to my life as reason and science and all the other gifts I once undervalued. I did not venture to reveal the secret, lest I should lose you. The moment has come--you will leave me, for you must now make another choice--but do not be angry, grant me the one consolation of parting without rancor."
"We have not yet gone so far. I told you ten minutes ago that the accidents of temperament and circumstance may divide us, but cannot rob you of what was created for me, we do not part so quickly.--You have not deceived me, for you have never told me that you loved me or would become my wife, and your bearing was blameless. Your husband might have witnessed every moment of our intercourse. Believe me, the slightest coquetry, the smallest concession in my favor at your husband's expense would find in me the sternest possible judge. But though an unhappy wife, you were a loyal one--to that I can bear witness. If I yielded to illusions, it is no fault of yours--who can expect a nature so delicately strung as yours to make an executioner of the heart of her best friend? Those are violent measures which would not accord with the sweet weakness, which renders you at once so guilty and so excusable."
The countess hid her face as if overwhelmed by remorse and shame.
"Do not let us lose our composure and trust to me to care for you still, for your present position requires the utmost caution and prudence. But now, Madeleine--you have no further pretext for not telling me the whole truth! Now I must know all to be able to act. Will you answer my questions?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me--are you really married to Freyer?"
"Yes!"
"So the farce must end tragically!" murmured the duke. "I cannot, will not believe it--it is too shocking that a woman like you should be ruined by the Ammergau farce."
"Not by that; by the presumption with which I sought to draw the deity down to me. Oh, it is a hard punishment. I prayed so fervently to God and, instead of His face, He showed me a mask and then left me to atone for the deception by the repentance of a whole life."
"Ah, can you really believe that the Highest Wisdom would have played so cruel a masquerade with you? Why should you be so terribly punished? No, ma chere amie, God has neither deceived nor wished to punish you. He showed Himself in response to your longing, or rather your longing made you imagine that you saw Him--and had you been content with that, you would have returned home happy with the vision of your God in your heart, like thousands who were elevated by the Passion Play. But you wanted more; you possess a sensuous religious nature, which cannot separate the essence from the appearance and, after having seen, you desired to possess Him in the precise form in which He appeared to you! Had it depended upon you, you would have robbed the world of its God! Fortunately, it was only Herr Freyer whom you stole, and now that you perceive your error you accuse God of having deceived you. You talk constantly of your faith in God, and yet have so poor an opinion of Him? What had God to do with your imagining that the poor actor in the Passion Play, who wore His mask, must be Himself, and therefore wedded him!"
The countess made no reply. This was the tone which she could never endure. He was everything to her--her sole confidant and counselor--but he could not comprehend what she had experienced during the Passion Play.
"I am once more the dry sceptic who so often angered you, am I not?" said the Prince, whose keen observation let nothing escape. "But I flatter myself that you will be more ready to view matters from a sober standpoint after having convinced yourself of the dangers of intercourse with 'phantoms' and demi-gods, who lure their victims into devious paths where they are liable morally to break their necks."
The countess could not help smiling sorrowfully. "You are incorrigible!"
"Well, we must take things as they are. As you will not confess that you--pardon the frankness--have committed a folly and ruined your life for the sake of a fanciful whim, the caprice must be elevated to the rank of a 'dispensation of Providence,' and the inactive endurance of its consequences a meritorious martyrdom. But I do not believe that God is guilty either of your marriage or of your self-constituted martyrdom, and therefore I tell you that I do not regard your marriage, to use the common parlance, one of those 'made in Heaven'--in other words, an indissoluble one."
The countess shrank as though her inmost thoughts were suddenly pointing treacherous fingers at her. "Do you take it so lightly, Duke?"
"That I do not take it lightly is proved by the immense digression which I made to remove any moral and religious scruples. The practical side of the question scarcely requires discussion. But to settle the religious moral one first, tell me, was your marriage a civil or religious one?"
"Religious."
"When and where?"
"At Prankenberg, after the Passion Play. It will be ten years next August."
"How did it all happen?"
"Very simply: My father, who suddenly sought me, as usual when he was in debt, saw that I wanted to marry Freyer and, fearing a public scandal, advised me, in order to save the property--which he needed almost more than I--to marry secretly. Wherever the Tridentine Council ruled, the sole requisite of a valid marriage was that the two persons should state, in the presence of an ordained priest and two witnesses, that they intended to marry. As my father was never very reliable, and might change his opinion any day, I hastened to follow his advice before it occurred to him to put any obstacles in my way, as the pastor at Prankenberg was wholly in his power. So I set off with Freyer and Josepha that very night. An old coachman, Martin, whose fidelity I had known from childhood, lived at Prankenberg. I took him and Josepha for witnesses, and we surprised the old pastor while he was drinking his coffee."
The prince made a gesture of surprise. "What--over his coffee?"
"Yes--before he could push back his cup, we had made our statement--and the deed was done."
The prince started up; his eyes sparkled, his whole manner betrayed the utmost agitation. "And you call that being married? And give me this fright?" He drew a long breath, as if relieved of a burden. "Madeleine, if you had only told me this at once!"
"But why? Does it change the matter?"
"Surely you will not persuade yourself that this farce with the old pastor in his dressing-gown and slippers, his morning-pipe and the fragrance of Mocha--was a wedding? You will not expect me as a Protestant, or any enlightened Catholic, to regard it in that light?"
"But what does the form matter? Protestantism cares nothing for the form--it heeds only the meaning."
"But the meaning was lacking--at least to you--to you it was a mere form which you owed to the sanctity of your lover's mask of Christus." He seized her hand with unwonted passion. "Madeleine, for once be truthful to yourself and to me--am I not right?"
"Yes!" she murmured almost inaudibly.
"Well, then--if the meaning was lacking and the chosen form an illegal one--what binds you?"
Madeleine was silent. This question was connected with her secret, which he would never understand. His nature was too positive to reckon with anything except facts. The duke felt that she was withholding an answer, not because she had none, but because she did not wish to give the true one. But he did not allow himself to be disconcerted. "Did the old pastor give you any written proof of this 'sacred rite'--we will give it the proud name of a marriage certificate."
"Yes."
"Who has the document?"
"Freyer!"
"That is unfortunate; for it gives him an apparent right to consider himself married and make difficulties, which complicate the case. But we can settle with Freyer--I have less fear of him. Your situation is more imperilled by this tale of a secret marriage, which Josepha, in good faith, brought to the ears of the Wildenaus. This is a disaster which requires speedy remedy. In other respects everything is precisely as it was when you went to Cannes. This complication changes nothing in my opinion. I hold the same view. If you no longer love Freyer, break with him; the way of doing so is a minor matter. I leave it to you. But break with him and give me your hand--then the whole spectre will melt. We will gladly restore the Wildenau property to the cousins, and they will then have no farther motive for pursuing the affair."
"Is that true? Could you still think seriously of it--and I, good Heavens, must I become doubly a criminal?"
"But, chere amie, look at things objectively a little."
"Even if I do look at them objectively, I don't understand how I could marry again without being divorced, and to apply for a divorce now would be acknowledging the marriage."
"Who is to divorce you, if no one married you? According to civil law, you are still single, for you are not registered in accordance with your rank--according to religious law you are not married, at least not in the opinion of the great majority of Christian countries and sects, to whom the Tridentine Council is not authoritative! Will you insist upon sacrificing your existence and honor to a sentimental scruple? Will you confess to the Wildenaus that you are married? In that case you must not only restore the property, but also the interest you have illegally appropriated for nine years, which will swallow your little private property and rob you of your sole means of support. What will follow then? Do you mean to retire with the 'steward' from the scene amid the jeering laughter of society, make soup for him at his home in Ammergau, live by the labor of his hands, and at Christmas receive the gift of a calico gown?"
The countess shuddered, as though shaken by a feverish chill.
"Or will you continue to live on with Freyer as before and suffer the cousins to begin an inquiry against you, and afford the world the spectacle of seeing you wrangle with them over the property? Then you must produce the dogmatic and legal proof that you are not married. This certainly would not be difficult--but I must beg you to note certain possibilities. If it is decided that your marriage was illegal, then the question will be brought forward--how did you yourself regard it? And it might occur to the Wildenaus' lawyers that, no matter whether correctly or not, you considered yourself married and intentionally defrauded them of the property!"
"Merciful Heaven!"
"Or will you then escape a criminal procedure by declaring that you regarded your connection with Freyer as an illegal marriage?"
"Oh!" the countess crimsoned with shame.
"There the vindication would be more dishonoring than the accusation--so you must renounce that. You see that you have been betrayed into a circulus vitiosus from which you can no longer escape. Wherever you turn--you have but the choice between poverty or disgrace,--unless you decide to become Duchess of Metten-Barnheim and thus, at one bound, spring from the muddy waves which now threaten you, into the pure, unapproachable sphere of power and dignity to which you belong. My arms are always open to save you--my heart is ready to love and to protect you--can you still hesitate?"
The tortured woman threw herself at his feet. "Duke--Emil--save me--I am yours!"
