Geza, however, swore that the priest had blabbed.

We swear to nothing, but think it right to mention that a few days previous the Abbe Samuel had received a letter from Vienna with the words, "What are you about? You are ruining the whole thing. That a.s.s Behrend is bringing about a reconciliation between the countess and the old prince. Get him out of Pesth, for he is working dead against us.--FELIX."

"At all events, we have pleased my pretty cousin," remarked Count Edmund. "She wanted him to be sent about his business, and we have done it."

"Oh, is that so?" And Count Stefan smiled sardonically. "_Cherchez la femme_, as Talleyrand said. But I know the dear, capricious s.e.x. When Ivan tells the ladies down-stairs that he is leaving, there will be a reaction, and your pretty cousin will cry out, 'Then we shall go together!'"

The others laughed incredulously; only Edmund a.s.sumed the air of Pontius Pilate.

"I should not be surprised," he said. "_Enfin_, there would be nothing disgraceful in the affair. The fellow is a gentleman; he was a soldier, and is of good birth. His land joins the Bondavara property; his income is something under two hundred thousand florins. Angela is heiress to twenty millions; but then, if our well-beloved uncle, Prince Theobald, lives another ten years and carries on as he is doing, it may result that Ivan and Angela may be on the same platform as regards their fortunes. So far as rank is in question, if the government continues to play the game they are playing with our rights and privileges, and if under the new parliamentary _regime_ the peasant's coat is to ascend the tribune, then I shall ask to be _raised_ to the peasantry."

The Countesses Theudelinde and Angela received Ivan in their private sitting-room--a mark of close intimacy. He came in with a constrained air; his face was pale, and the emotion he could not suppress gave softness to his usually stern expression. Theudelinde came to meet him with outstretched hands. When she drew near she took his in her clasp, and pressed his fingers warmly. Her lips trembled, and with difficulty she kept the tears which filled her eyes from coursing down her cheeks. She could not speak, but simply nodded to Ivan to take his place before a small table, upon which a splendid bouquet stood.

Theudelinde sat on the sofa, Angela beside her. The young countess was simply dressed; she had not even a flower in her hair. She was grave, and hardly raised her eyes to Ivan.

It was Theudelinde who broke the rather embarra.s.sing silence.

"We have been in terrible trouble about you," she said. "You cannot imagine what tortures of anxiety we have gone through during these two days."

Angela's eyes were on the carpet; she was included in the "we."

"I cannot forgive myself, countess, for the share I have had in causing you pain. I can only do penance for my fault, and to-morrow I am going into banishment at Bondathal."

"Ah!" Theudelinde's voice expressed surprise. "You are going to leave us? What are you going to do in Bondathal?"

"I will return to my business, which I have too long neglected."

"And do you like to live in Bondathal?"

"I am tranquil there."

"Have you relatives?"

"I have none."

"You have a household?"

"So far as I can, I do everything for myself."

"You have surely friends and acquaintances who form a pleasant circle around you?"

"I have only my workmen and my machines."

"You live there a hermit's life?"

"No, countess, for a hermit lives alone, while I have my books and my work; I am never alone."

The countess's face a.s.sumed almost a solemn expression.

"Herr von Behrend, give me your hand, and stay here."

Ivan got up, and bowed low before her. "The kind feeling which has prompted your words, as well as the honor you have done me, shall never be forgotten by me. It is a proof to me of your great goodness, and I beg of you to accept my heartfelt thanks."

"Then you will remain? How long?"

"Until to-morrow morning."

"Ah," cried the countess, with a petulant air, "when I ask you to stay!"

Her disappointment was so transparent, her annoyance so sincere, that it was impossible not to feel sorry for her. Theudelinde looked at Angela as if she expected her to come to her help; but Angela never raised her eyes, shaded by their long lashes, while her fingers plucked nervously at the petals of a marguerite, as if she were consulting that well-known oracle.

"Countess," said Ivan, still standing, and with his hand on the back of his chair, "when I answer a friendly invitation such as yours with an apparently uncivil refusal to remain, as you so kindly wish me to do, I feel that it is inc.u.mbent on me to give you my true reason for withdrawing myself from your society. I cannot say to you what I would to a mere acquaintance; I cannot make such excuses as 'that I have business at home; that I have been too long here; that I shall return soon.' To you I must confess that I go away because no inducement would prevail on me to remain, and that when I go I mean never to return. Countess, this is not my world; here I _could_ not live. I have spent three months here; I have been a daily guest in the best circles; I have lived with members of the highest and most cultivated society, have studied closely their manner of life. I quite agree that these people have every right to live in what manner they choose; but I, who have been accustomed to a totally different manner of life, who have been taught to consider existence from a different point of view, to reverence the higher aims and obey its finer instincts, _I_ should be acting a lie and violating my own principles were I to remain in such an atmosphere and live after such a fashion. Here, in this exalted rank, you are all solitary rings, while we in the lower order hang together as links of one chain. You are totally independent one of the other, therefore you follow each one his own inclinations. With us the pressure of life knits us more closely together, and we call egotism and generosity by different names from what you do. I am, therefore, not fit for your circle. I am ashamed to be haughty towards those upon whom you look down, and I cannot bend before those whom you delight to honor. I do not recognize the G.o.ds whom you adore, neither can I mock at _my_ G.o.d, and ignore Him as you do. In this world of yours there is a malicious demon who transforms all that is good in man's nature, and who prompts him to laugh and deny every inclination to virtue. Who tells his friend or neighbor the truth to his face, and who cares for any one who is not present? Dear friends race together over hill and dale; but suppose one makes a false step and breaks his neck, good-bye to him, the dear friend is gone. Another does not break his neck in the race, but he dissipates all his fortune; those who are running with him never say to him, 'Step out of the course; you are going to the bottom.' All at once he stumbles, and his fortune and the honors of his ancestors lie tumbled in the dust. Good-bye to him; his name is struck out of the club-list; that dear friend is no more. It is true we knew yesterday and the day before yesterday that he would surely get a bad fall, but no one else knew of it, so we rode with our dear friend to the last. Now all the world is aware of his tumble in the dust, therefore we know him no more. If any one wishes to go on his own way, and live a rational life to himself, oh, then, he is a coward, a miser, a carpet knight! And how do the women fare in this world of yours? What about domestic life, and the sweet joys of the home? What tragedies are enacted inside those splendid mansions, and outside what fun is made of them by friends and acquaintances! What refinement in sin! what idolatry of false joys! And when these are over, what _ennui_ of life, what endless weariness! No, countess, this life is not for me. I should be poisoned in such an atmosphere. You can bear it, you grace it by your presence; but for me, I should go mad were I to remain. Therefore I go, and all that is now left is to ask your forgiveness for my bold words. I acknowledge my indiscretion; I have spoken bitterly of society, and yet I stand on its parquet floor. I have been ungrateful; I have given expression to my antipathies in the presence of those who have shown tolerance towards my faults and my awkward manners; who have accompanied me to the door of the circle where I have often played a ridiculous part, and, notwithstanding, have never been laughed at before my face. But, countess, the words I have uttered I have felt, so to speak, constrained by your goodness to say. You have, with extraordinary kindness, asked me to remain, and I would prove to you that I am forced to leave by a power stronger than myself."

During Ivan's rather lengthy address Countess Theudelinde had risen to her feet. Her eyes began to light up, her face to wear a glorified expression, her lips to move as if she repeated each word he said; and when he had spoken the concluding sentence she seized both his hands, while she stammered out:

"You speak the truth--the truth--nothing but the truth; you speak as I spoke forty years ago, when _I_ left the world as you are doing now!

The world is ever the same; it does not change." Here she wrung her hands pa.s.sionately. "Go home," she sobbed out; "go back to your solitude, hide yourself under the earth, conceal yourself in your mine, G.o.d will be with you wherever you are--everywhere! G.o.d bless you! G.o.d bless you!"

She did not remark that Angela had also risen from her seat, and as Ivan took his leave she made a step forward, and said, in a firm, decided voice:

"If you go away, you do not go alone, for I shall go with you." Her whole face glowed as she spoke these words.

Ivan was master of the situation. Standing upon this giddy height, he did not for that reason lose his balance. With wonderful presence of mind he answered the excited girl:

"You will do well, countess. To-morrow is your grandfather's birthday, and early to-morrow you can be with him. He is ready to clasp you in his arms."

Angela grew white as a marble statue. She sank back in her armchair, the leaves she had plucked from the flower lay scattered at her feet.

Ivan bowed to her respectfully, kissed the hand of Countess Theudelinde, and quitted the room.

Ah, there are men who never forget their first and only love!

Not long after Ivan had left, Count Edmund dropped in to see the ladies. He appeared to come by accident, but he was dying with curiosity. Countess Angela was more amiable than usual. When he was leaving, she said to her cousin:

"Go to Salista, and tell him that I have inquired for him."

Count Edmund was courtier enough to conceal the astonishment he most certainly felt, but as he went down the stairs he began to hum Figaro's song from the _Barber of Seville_:

"The falseness of women One never can know, One never can know!"

Countess Angela wrote that same evening to her grandfather. Ivan was right in saying the next day was his birthday, and this was her birthday greeting:

"I am not coming home. Adieu."

For two days every one in Pesth spoke of Ivan and his duel with Salista; the third day he was forgotten. Good-bye to him!