The Play was over. "Christ is risen!" He had burst the sepulchre and hurled the guards in the dust by the sight of His radiant apparition. He had appeared to the Penitent as a simple gardener "early in the morning," as He had promised, and at last had been transfigured and had risen above the world, bearing in His hand the standard of victory.
The flood of human beings poured out of the close theatre into the open air. Not loudly and noisily, as they had come--no, reverently and gravely, as a funeral train disperses after the obsequies of some noble man; noiselessly as the ebbing tide recedes after flood raised by a storm. These were the same people, yet they returned in a far different mood.
The same vehicles in which yesterday the travelers had arrived in so noisy a fashion, now bore them away, but neither shouts nor cracking of whips was heard--the drivers knew that they must behave as if their carriages were filled with wounded men.
And this was true. There was scarcely one who did not suffer as if the spear which had pierced the Saviour's heart had entered his own, who did not feel the wounds of the Crucified One in his own hands and feet! The grief which the people took with them was grand and godlike, and they treasured it carefully, they did not desire to lose any portion of it, for--we love the grief we feel for one beloved--and to-day they had learned to love Christ.
So they went homeward.
The last carriages which drew up before the entrance were those of the countess and her friends. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps were already standing below, waiting for Countess Wildenau to assign them their seats in the two landaus. But the lady was still leaning against the pillar which supported one end of the box. Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, she vainly strove to control her tears. Her heart throbbed violently, her breath was short and quick--she could not master her emotion.
The prince stood before her, pale and silent, his eyes, too, were reddened by weeping.
"Try to calm yourself!" he said firmly. "The ladies are still in their box, the duchess seems to expect you to go to her. A woman of the world, like yourself, should not give way so."
"Give way, do you call it?" repeated Madeleine, who did not see that Prince Emil, too, was moved. "We shall never understand each other."
At this moment the ladies left their box and crossed the intervening space. They were the last persons in the theatre. The duchess, without a word, threw her arms around Countess von Wildenau's neck. Her ladies-in-waiting, too, approached with tearful eyes, and when the duchess at last released her friend from her embrace, the baroness whispered: "Forgive me, I have wronged you as well as many others--even yesterday, forgive me." The same entreaty was expressed in Her Excellency's glance and clasp of the hand as she said: "Whoever sees this must repent every unloving word ever uttered; we will never forget that we have witnessed it together."
"I thank you, but I should have borne you no ill will, even had I known what you have now voluntarily confessed to me!" replied the countess, kissing the ladies with dry, burning lips.
"Shall we go?" asked the duchess. "We shall be locked in."
"I will come directly--I beg you--will your Highness kindly go first? I should like to rest a moment!" stammered the countess in great confusion.
"You are terribly unstrung--that is natural--so are we all. I will wait for you below and take you in my carriage, if you wish. We can weep our fill together."
"Your Highness is--very kind," replied the countess, scarcely knowing what she answered.
When the party had gone down stairs, she passionately seized Prince Emil's arm: "For Heaven's sake, help me to escape going with them. I will not, cannot leave. I beseech you by all that is sacred, let me stay here."
"So it is settled! The result is what I feared," said the prince with a heavy sigh. "I can only beg you for your own sake to consider the ladies. You have invited them to dine day after to-morrow--"
"I know it--apologize for me--say whatever you please--you will know--you can manage it--if you have ever loved me--help me! Drive with the ladies--entertain them, that they may not miss me!"
"And the magnificent ovation which the gentlemen have arranged at your home?"
"What do I care for it?"
"A fairy temple awaits you at the Palace Wildenau, and you will stay here? What a pity to lose the beautiful flowers, which must now wither in vain."
"I cannot help it. For Heaven's sake, act quickly--some one is coming!" She was trembling in every limb with fear--but it was no member of the party sent to summon her. A short man with clear cut features stood beside her, shrewd loyal eyes met her glance. "I saw that you were still here, Countess, can I serve you in any way?"
"Thank Heaven, it is Ludwig Gross!" cried the excited woman joyously, taking his arm. "Can you get me to your father's house without being seen?"
"Certainly, I can guide you across the stage, if you wish!"
"Quick, then! Farewell, Prince--be generous and forgive me!"
She vanished.
The prince was too thoroughly a man of the world to betray his feelings even for an instant. The short distance down the staircase afforded him ample time to decide upon his course. The misfortune had happened, and could no longer be averted--but it concerned himself alone. Her name and position must be guarded.
"Have you come without the countess?" called the duchess.
"I must apologize for her, Your Highness. The performance has so completely unstrung her nerves that she is unable to travel to-day. I have just placed her in her landlord's charge promising not only to make her apologies to the ladies, but also endeavor to supply her place."
"Oh, poor Countess Wildenau!" said the duchess, kindly. "Shall we not go to her assistance?"
"Permit me to remind your Highness that we have not a moment to lose, if we wish to catch the train!"
"Is it possible! Then we must hurry."
"Yes--and I think rest will be best for the countess at present," answered Prince Emil, helping the ladies into the carriage.
"Well, we shall see her at dinner on Tuesday? She will be able to travel to-morrow?"
"Oh, I hope so."
"But, Prince Emil! What will become of our flowers?" asked the gentlemen.
"Oh, they will keep until to-morrow!"
"I suppose she has no suspicion?"
"Of course not, and it is far better, for had she been aware of it, no doubt she would have gone to-day, in spite of her illness, and made herself worse."
The gentlemen assented. "Still it's a pity about the flowers. If they will only keep fresh!"
"She will let many a blossom wither, which may well be mourned!" thought the prince bitterly.
"Will you drive with us, Prince?" asked the duchess.
"If Your Highness will permit! Will you go to the Casino to-night, as we agreed, gentlemen?" he called as he entered the vehicle.
"Not I," replied Prince Hohenheim. "I honestly confess that I am not in the mood."
"Nor I," said St. Genois. "This has moved me to that--the finest circus in the world might be here and I would not enter! The burgomaster of Ammergau was right in permitting nothing of the kind."
"Yes, I will take back everything I said yesterday; I went to laugh and wept," remarked Wengenrode.
"It has robbed me of all desire for amusement," Cossigny added. "I care for nothing more to-day."
They bowed to the ladies and the prince, and silently entered their carriages. Prince Emil ordered the countess' coachman to drive back with the maid, who sat hidden in one corner, and joined the duchess and her companions.
The equipages rolled away in different directions--one back to the Gross house, the other to Munich, where the florists were toiling busily to adorn the Wildenau Palace for the reception of its fortunate owner, who was not coming.
Ludwig Gross led the countess across the now empty stage. It thrilled her with a strange emotion to thread its floor, and in her reverent awe, she scarcely ventured to glance around her at the vast, dusky space. Suddenly she recoiled from an unexpected horror--the cross lay before her. Her agitation did not escape the keen perception of Ludwig Gross, and he doubtless understood it; such things are not new to the people of Ammergau. "I will see whether the house of Pilate is still open, perhaps you may like to step out on the balcony!" he said, and moved away to leave her alone.
The countess understood the consideration displayed by the sympathizing man. Kneeling in the dark wings, she threw herself face downward on the cross, pressed her burning lips on the hard wood which had supported the noble body, on the marks left here also by the nails which had apparently pierced the hands of the crucified one, the red stains made by his painted wounds. Aye, it had become true, the miracle had happened. The artificial blood also possessed redeeming power.
Rarely did any pilgrim to the Holy Land ever press a more fervent kiss upon the wood of the true cross, than was now bestowed on the false one.
So, in the days of yore, Helen, the beautiful, haughty mother of the Emperor Constantine, may have flung herself down, after her long sea voyage, when she at last found the long sought cross to press it to her bosom in the unutterable joy of realization.
Ludwig's steps approached, and the countess roused herself from her rapture.
"Unfortunately the house is closed," said Ludwig, who had probably been perfectly aware of it. They went on to the dressing-rooms. "I'll see if Freyer is still here!" and the drawing-master knocked at the first door. The countess was so much startled that she was forced to lean against the wall to save herself from falling. Was it to come now--the fateful moment! Her knees threatened to give way, her heart throbbed almost to bursting--but there was no answer to the knock, thrice repeated. He was no longer there. Ludwig Gross opened the door, the room was empty. "Will you come in?" he asked. "Would it interest you to see the dressing-room?"
She entered. There hang his garments, still damp with perspiration from the severe toil.
Madeleine von Wildenau stooped with clasped hands in the bare little chamber. Something white and glimmering rustled and floated beside her--it was the transfiguration robe. She touched it lightly with her hand in passing, and a thrill of bliss ran through every nerve.
Ah, and there was the crown of thorns.
She took it in her hand and tears streamed down upon it, as though it were some sacred relic. Again the dream-like vision stood before her as she had seen it for the first time on the mountain top with the thorny branches swaying around the brow like an omen. "No, my hands shall defend thee that no thorn shall henceforth tear thee, beloved brow!" she thought, while a strange smile irradiated her face. Then looking up, she met the eyes of Ludwig, fixed upon her with deep emotion as she gazed down at the crown of thorns.
She replaced it and followed him to the door of the next room. Caiaphas! An almost childlike dread and timidity assailed her--the sort of feeling she had had when a young girl at the time of her first presentation at court--she was well-nigh glad that he was no longer there and she had time to calm herself ere she confronted the mighty priest.
"It is too late, they have all gone!" said Ludwig, offering his companion his arm to lead her down the staircase.
Numerous groups of people were standing in front of the theatre and in the street leading to the village.
"What are they doing here?" asked the lady.
"Oh, they are waiting for Freyer! It is always so. He has slipped around again by a side path to avoid seeing anyone, and the poor people must stand and wait in vain. I have often told him that he ought not to be so austere! It would please them so much if he would but give them one friendly word--but he cannot conquer this shyness. He cannot suffer himself to be revered as the Christ, after the Play is over. He ought not to permit the feeling which the people have for the Christ to be transferred to his person--that is his view of the matter."
"It is a lofty and noble thought, but hard for us poor mortals, who so eagerly cling to what is visible. It is impossible not to transfer the impression produced by the character to its representative, especially with a personality like Freyer's!"
Ludwig Gross nodded assent. "Yes, we have had this experience of old. Faith needs an earthly pledge, says our great poet, and Freyer's personation is such a pledge, a guarantee of whose blessed power everyone feels sure."
The countess eagerly pressed Ludwig's hands.
"I have seen people," Ludwig added, "who were happy, if they were only permitted to touch Freyer's garment, as though it could bring them healing like the actual robe of Christ! Would not Christ, also, if He beheld this pious delusion, exclaim: 'Woman, thy faith hath saved thee!'"
A deep flush crimsoned the countess' face, and the tears which she had so long struggled to repress flowed in streams. She leaned heavily on Ludwig's arm, and he felt the violent throbbing of her heart. It touched him and awakened his compassion. He perceived that hers, too, was a suffering soul seeking salvation here, and if she did not find it, would perish. "It shall be yours, poor woman; for rich as you may be, you are still poor--and we will give you what we can!" he thought.
The two companions pursued their way, without exchanging another word. The countess now greeted the old house like a lost home which she had once more regained.
Andreas Gross met her at the door, took off her shawl, and carried it into the room for her.
Josepha had already returned and said that the countess was ill.
"I hope it is nothing serious?" he asked anxiously.
"No, Herr Gross, I am well--but I cannot go; I must make the acquaintance of these people--I cannot tear myself away from this impression!"
She sank into a chair, laid her head on the table and sobbed like a child. "Forgive me, Herr Gross, I cannot help it!" she said with difficulty, amid her tears.
The old man laid his hand upon her shoulder with a gesture of paternal kindness. "Weep your fill, we are accustomed to it, do not heed us!" He drew her gently into the sitting-room.
Ludwig had vanished.
Josepha entered to ask whether she should unpack the luggage which was up in her room.
"Yes," replied the countess, "and let the carriages return to Munich, until I need them again."
"His Highness the Prince has left his valet here for your service," Josepha reported.
"What can he do? Let him go home, too! Let them all go--I want no one except you!" said the countess sternly, hiding her face again in her handkerchief. Josepha went out to give the order. Where could Ludwig Gross be?--He had become a necessity to her now, thus left alone with her overflowing heart! He had been right in everything.--He had told her that she would learn to weep here, he had first made her understand the spirit of Ammergau. Honor and gratitude were his due, he had promised nothing that had not been fulfilled. He was thoroughly genuine and reliable! But where had he gone, did not this man, usually so sympathetic, know that just now he might be of great help to her? Or did he look deeper still, and know that he was but a substitute for another, for whom her whole soul yearned? It was so lonely. A death-like stillness reigned in the house and in the street. All were resting after the heavy toil of the day.
Something outside darkened the window. Ludwig Gross was passing on his way toward the door, bringing with him a tan, dark figure, towering far above the low window, a figure that moved shyly, swiftly along, followed by a throng of people, at a respectful distance. The countess felt paralyzed. Was he coming? Was he coming in.
She could not rise and look--she sat with clasped hands, trembling in humble expectation, as Danae waited the moment when the shower of gold should fall. Then--steps echoed in the workshop--the footsteps of two--! They were an eternity in passing down its length--but they were really approaching her room--they came nearer--some one knocked! She scarcely had breath to call "come in." She would not believe it--from the fear of disappointment. She still sat motionless at the table--Ludwig Gross opened the door to allow the other to precede him--and Freyer entered. He stooped slightly, that he might not strike his head, but that was needless, for--what miracle was this? The door expanded before the countess' eyes, the ceiling rose higher and higher above him. A wide lofty space filled with dazzling light surrounded him. Colors glittered before her vision, figures floated to and fro; were they shadows or angels? She knew not, a mist veiled her eyes--for a moment she ceased to think. Then she felt as if she had awaked from a deep slumber, during which she had been walking in her sleep--for she suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer, he was holding her hands in his, while his eyes rested on hers--in speechless silence.
Then she regained her self-control and the first words she uttered were addressed to Ludwig: "You have brought him--!" she said, releasing Freyer's hands to thank the man who had so wonderfully guessed her yearning.
Gift and gratitude were equal--and here both were measureless! She scarcely knew at this moment which she valued more, the man who brought this donation or the gift itself. But from this hour Ludwig Gross was her benefactor.
"You have brought him"--she repeated, for she knew not what more to say--that one word contained all! Had she possessed the eloquence of the universe, it would not have been so much to Ludwig as that one word and the look which accompanied it. Then, like a child at Christmas, which, after having expressed its thanks, goes back happily to its presents, she turned again to Freyer.
Yet, as the child stands timidly before the abundance of its gifts, and, in the first moments of surprise, does not venture to touch them, she now stood, shy and silent before him, her only language her eyes and the tears which streamed down her cheeks.
Freyer saw her deep emotion and, bending kindly toward her, again took her hands in his. Every nerve was still quivering--she could feel it--from the terrible exertion he had undergone--and as the moisture drips from the trees after the rain, his eyes still swam in tears, and his face was damp with perspiration.
"How shall I thank you for coming to me after this day of toil?" she began in a low tone.
"Oh, Countess," he answered with untroubled truthfulness, "I did it for the sake of my friend Ludwig--he insisted upon it."
"So it was only on his friend's account," thought the countess, standing with bowed head before him.
He was now the king--and she, the queen of her brilliant sphere, was nothing save a poor, hoping, fearing woman!
At this moment all the vanity of her worldly splendor fell from her--for the first time in her life she stood in the presence of a man where she was the supplicant, he the benefactor. What a feeling! At once humiliating and blissful, confusing and enthralling! She had recognized by that one sentence the real state of the case--what to this man was the halo surrounding the Reichscountess von Wildenau with her coronet and her millions? Joseph Freyer knew but one aristocracy--that of the saints in whose sphere he was accustomed to move--and if he left it for the sake of an earthly woman, he would stoop to her, no matter how far, according to worldly ideals, she might stand above him!
Yet poor and insignificant as she felt in his presence--while the lustre of her coronet and the glitter of her gold paled and vanished in the misty distance--one thing remained on which she could rely, her womanly charm, and this must wield its influence were she a queen or the child of a wood-cutter! "Then, for the earthly crown you have torn from my head, proud man, you shall give me your crown of thorns, and I will still be queen!" she thought, as the spirit of Mother Eve stirred within her and an intoxicating breeze blew from the Garden of Paradise. Not for the sake of a base emotion of vanity and covetousness, nay, she wished to be loved, in order to bless. It is the nature of a noble woman to seek to use her power not to receive, but to give, to give without stint or measure. The brain thinks quickly--but the heart is swifter still! Ere the mind has time to grasp the thought, the heart has seized it. The countess had experienced all this in the brief space during which Freyer's eyes rested on her. Suddenly he lowered his lashes and said in a whisper: "I think we have met before, countess."
"On my arrival Friday evening. You were standing on the top of the mountain while I was driving at the foot. Was it not so?"
"Yes," he murmured almost inaudibly, and there was something like an understanding, a sweet familiarity in the soft assent. She felt it, and her hand clasped his more firmly with a gentle pressure.
He again raised his lashes, gazing at her with an earnest, questioning glance, and it seemed as if she felt a pulse throbbing in the part of the hand which bore the mark of the wound--the warning did not fail to produce its effect.
"Christus, my Christus!" she whispered repentantly. It seemed as if she had committed a sin in suffering an earthly wish to touch the envoy of God. He was crucified, dead, and buried. He only walked on earth like a spirit permitted to return from time to time and dwell for a brief space among the living. Who could claim a spirit, clasp a shadow to the heart? Grief oppressed her, melancholy, akin to the grief we feel when we dream of the return of some beloved one who is dead, and throw ourselves sobbing on his breast, while we are aware that it is only a dream! But even if but a dream, should she not dream it with her whole soul? If she knew that he was given to her only a few moments, should she not crowd into them with all the sweeter, more sorrowful strength, the love of a whole life?
After us the deluge, says love to the moment--and that which does not say it is not love.
But in this moment, the countess felt, lay the germ of something imperishable, and when it was past there would begin for her--not annihilation, but eternity. To it she must answer for what she did with the moment!
Ludwig Gross was standing by the window, he did not wish to listen what was communicated by the mute language of those eyes. He had perceived, with subtle instinct, the existence of some mysterious connection, in which no third person had any part. They were alone--virtually alone, yet neither spoke, only their tearful eyes expressed the suffering which he endured and she shared in beholding.
"Come, poor martyr!" cried her heart, and she released one of his hands to clasp the other more closely with both her own. She noticed a slight quiver. "Does your hand still ache--from the terrible nail which seemed to be driven into your flesh?"
"Oh, no, that would cause no pain; the nail passes between the fingers and the large head extends toward the center of the palm. But to-day, by accident, Joseph of Arimathea in drawing out the nail took a piece of the flesh with it, so that I clenched my teeth with the pain!" he said, smiling, and showing her the wound. "Do you see? Now I am really stigmatized!"
"Good Heavens, there is a large piece of the flesh torn out, and you bore it without wincing?"
"Why, of course!" he said, simply.
Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in an unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it pressed a kiss upon the bloody stigma.
Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared not accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved passionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself from falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once consuming and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!
"You are weary, pardon me for not having asked you to sit down long ago!" said the countess, making an effort to calm herself, and motioning to Ludwig Gross, in order not to leave him standing alone.
"Only a moment"--whispered Freyer, also struggling to maintain his composure, as he sank into a chair. Madeleine von Wildenau turned away, to give him time to regain his self-command. She saw his intense emotion, and might perhaps have been ashamed of her hasty act had she not known its meaning--for her feeling at that moment was too sacred for him to have misunderstood it. Nor had he failed to comprehend, but it had overpowered him.
Ludwig, who dearly perceived the situation, interposed with his usual tact to relieve their embarrassment: "Freyer is particularly exhausted to-day; he told me, on our way here, that he had again been taken from the cross senseless."
"Good Heavens, does that happen often?" asked the countess.
"Unfortunately, yes," said Ludwig in a troubled tone.
"It is terrible--your father told me that the long suspension on the cross was dangerous. Can nothing be done to relieve it?"
"Something might be accomplished," replied Ludwig, "by substituting a flat cross for the rounded one. Formerly, when we had a smooth, angular one, it did not tax his strength so much! But some authority in archaeology told us that the crosses of those days were made of semi-circular logs, and this curve, over which the back is now strained, stretches the limbs too much."
"I should think so!" cried the countess in horror. "Why do you use such an instrument of torture?"
"He himself insists upon it, for the sake of historical accuracy."
"But suppose you should not recover, from one of these fainting fits?" asked the lady, reproachfully.
Then Freyer, conquering his agitation, raised his head. "What more beautiful fate could be mine, Countess, than to die on the cross, like my redeemer? It is all that I desire."
"All?" she repeated, and a keen emotion of jealousy assailed her, jealousy of the cross, to which he would fain devote his life! She met his dark eyes with a look, a sweet, yearning--fatal look--a poisoned arrow whose effect she well knew. She grudged him to the cross, the dead, wooden instrument of martyrdom, which did not feel, did not love, did not long for him as she did! And the true Christ? Ah, He was too noble to demand such a sacrifice--besides. He would receive too souls for one, for surely, in His image, she loved Him. He had sent her the hand marked with blood stains to show her the path to Him--He could not desire to withdraw it, ere the road was traversed.
"You are a martyr in the true sense of the word," she said. Her eyes seemed to ask whether the shaft had struck. But Freyer had lowered his lids and sat gazing at the floor.
"Oh, Countess," he said evasively, "to have one's limbs wrenched for half an hour does not make a martyr. That suffering brings honor and the consciousness of serving others. Many, like my friend Ludwig, and other natives of Ammergau, offer to our cause secret sacrifices of happiness which no audience beholds and applauds, and which win no renown save in their own eyes and God's. They are martyrs, Countess!--I am merely a vain, spoiled, sinful man, who has enough to do to keep himself from being dazzled by the applause of the world and to become worthy of his task."
"To become!" the countess repeated. "I think whoever speaks in that way, is worthy already."
Freyer raised his eyes with a look which seemed to Madeleine von Wildenau to lift her into a higher realm. "Who would venture to say that he was worthy of this task? It requires a saint. All I can hope for is that God will use the imperfect tool to work His miracles, and that He will accept my will for the deed,--otherwise I should be forced to give up the part this very day."
The countess was deeply moved.
"Oh, Freyer, wonderful, divinely gifted nature! To us you are the Redeemer, and yet you are so severe to yourself."
"Do not talk so, Countess! I must not listen! I will not add to all my sins that of robbing my Master, in His garb, of what belongs to Him alone. You cannot suspect how it troubles me when people show me this reverence; I always long to cry out, 'Do not confound me with Him--I am nothing more than the wood--or the marble from which an image of the Christ is carved, and withal bad wood, marble which is not free from stains.' And when they will not believe it, and continue to transfer to me the love which they ought to have for Christ--I feel that I am robbing my Master, and no one knows how I suffer." He started up. "That is why I mingle so little with others--and if I ever break this rule I repent it, for my peace of mind is destroyed."
He took his hat. His whole nature seemed changed--this was the chaste severity with which he had driven the money changers from the temple, and Madeleine turned pale--chilled to the inmost heart by his inflexible bearing.
"Are you going?" she murmured in a trembling voice.
"It is time," he answered, gently, but with an unapproachable dignity which made the words with which she would fain have entreated him to stay longer, die upon her lips.
"Your Highness win leave to morrow?"
"The countess intends to remain some time," said Ludwig, pressing his friend's arm lightly, as a warning not to wound her feeling.
"Ah," replied Freyer, thoughtfully, "then perhaps we shall meet again."
"I have not yet answered what you have said to-day; will you permit me to do so to-morrow?" asked the countess, gently; an expression of quiet suffering hovered around her lips.
"To-morrow I play the Christ again, Countess--but doubtless some opportunity will be found within the next few days."
"As you please--farewell!"
Freyer bowed respectfully, but as distantly as if he did not think it possible that the lady would offer him her hand. Ludwig, on the contrary, as if to make amends for his friend's omission, frankly extended his. She clasped it, saying in a low, hurried tone: "Stay!"
"I will merely go with Freyer to the door, and then return, if you will allow me."
"Yes," she said, dismissing Freyer with a haughty wave of the hand. Then, throwing herself into the chair by the table, she burst into bitter weeping. She had always been surrounded by men who sued for her favor as though it were a royal gift. And here--here she was disdained, and by whom? A man of the people--a plebeian! No, a keen pang pierced her heart as she tried to give him that name. If he was a plebeian, so, too, was Christ. Christ, too, sprang from the people--the ideal of the human race was born in a manger! She could summon to confront Him only one kind of pride, that of the woman, not of the high-born lady. Alas--she had not even this. How often she had flung her heart away without love. For the mess of pottage of gratified vanity or an interesting situation, as the prince had said yesterday, she had bartered the birthright of the holiest feeling. Of what did she dare to be proud? That, for the first time in her life, she really loved? Was she to avenge herself by arrogance upon the man who had awakened this divine emotion because he did not share it? No, that would be petty and ungrateful. Yet what could she do? He was so far above her in his unassuming simplicity, so utterly inviolable. She was captured by his nobility, her weapons were powerless against him. As she gazed around her for some support by which she might lift herself above him, every prop of her former artificial life snapped in her grasp before the grand, colossal verity of this apparition. She could do nothing save love and suffer, and accept whatever fate he bestowed.
Some one knocked at the door; almost mechanically she gave the permission to enter.
Ludwig Gross came in noiselessly and approached her. Without a word she held out her hand, as a patient extends it to the physician. He stood by her side and his eyes rested on the weeping woman with the sympathy and understanding born of experience in suffering. But his presence was infinitely soothing. This man would allow nothing to harm her! So far as his power extended, she was safe.
She looked at him as if beseeching help--and he understood her.
"Freyer was unusually excited to-day," he said, "I do not know what was passing in his mind. I never saw him in such a mood before! When we entered the garden, he embraced me as if something extraordinary had happened, and then rushed off as though the ground was burning under his feet--of course in the direction opposite to his home, for the whole street was full of people waiting to see him."
The countess held her breath to listen.
"Was he in this mood when you called for him?" she asked.
"No, he was as usual, calm and weary."
"What changed him so suddenly?"
"I believe, Countess, that you have made an impression upon him which he desires to understand. You have thrown him out of the regular routine, and he no longer comprehends his own feelings."
"But I--I said so little--I don't understand," cried the countess, blushing.
"The important point does not always depend on what is said, but on what is not said, Countess. To deep souls what is unuttered is often more significant than words."
Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes and silently clasped Ludwig's hand.
"Do you think that he--" she did not finish the sentence, Ludwig spared her.
"From my knowledge of Freyer--either he will never return, or--he will come to-morrow."
