"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 a.s.sent.

"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 const.i.tute 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.sionate 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 embarra.s.sment 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 embarra.s.sment 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 embarra.s.sments 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 coa.r.s.e 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 a.s.sert 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."

CHAPTER XVI.

PRISONED.

The prince had left the room, and she heard him walk through the work-shop. Silence fell upon the house and the street. The tortured woman, utterly exhausted, sank upon her bed--her feet would support her no longer. But she could get no rest; an indescribable grief filled her heart. Everything had happened precisely as Freyer had predicted.

Before the c.o.c.k crowed, she had thrice betrayed him, betrayed him in the very hour when she had sworn fidelity. At the first step she was to take on the road of life with the man she loved, at the first glance from the basilisk eyes of conventional prejudice, she shrank back like a coward and could not make up her mind to acknowledge him. This was her purification, this the effect of a feeling which, as she believed, had power to conquer the world? Everything was false--she despaired of all things--of her future, of herself, of the power of Christianity, which she, like all new converts, expected would have the might to transform sinners into saints in a single moment. One thing alone remained unchanged, _one_ image only was untouched by any tinge of baseness amid the turmoil of emotions seething in her heart--Freyer. He alone could save her--she must go to him. Springing from her bed she hurried into the work-shop. "Where is your son?" she asked Andreas Gross, who was just preparing to retire.

"I suppose he is in his room, Countess."

"Bring him to me at once."

"Certainly, Countess."

"Shall I undress Your Highness?" asked Josepha, who was still waiting for her orders.

Madeleine von Wildenau's eyes rested on the girl with a searching expression, as if she saw her now for the first time. Was she faithful--as faithful as a maid must be to make it possible to carry out the plan her father had suggested? Josepha gazed steadily into the countess' eyes, her frank face expressed nothing but innocent wonder at so long a scrutiny. "Yes--you are faithful," said the countess at last--"are you not?"

"Certainly, Countess," replied the girl, evidently surprised that she needed to give the a.s.surance.

"You know what unhappiness means?"

"I think so!" said Josepha, with bitter emphasis.

"Then you would aid the unhappy so far as you were able?"

"It would depend upon who it was," answered Josepha, brusquely, but the rudeness pleased the countess; it was a proof of character, and character is a guarantee of trustworthiness. "If it were I, Josepha, could I depend upon you in _any_ situation?"

"Certainly!" the girl answered simply--"I live only for you--otherwise I would far rather be under the sod. What have I to live for except you?"

"I believe, Josepha, that I now know the reason Providence sent me to you!" murmured her mistress, lost in thought.

Ludwig Gross entered. "Did you wish to see me?"

Madeleine von Wildenau silently took his hand and drew him into her room.

"Oh, Ludwig, what things I have been compelled to hear--what sins I have committed--what suffering I have endured!" She laid her arm on the shoulder of the faithful friend, like a child pleading for aid. "What time is it, Ludwig?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I was asleep when my father called me. I wandered about looking for you and Freyer until about an hour ago. Then weariness overpowered me." He drew out his watch. "It is half past ten."