shame!’ she cried. ‘Absurd and odious! What would the Countess say?’
That great Baron Gondremark, the excellent politician, remained for some little time upon his knees in a frame of mind which perhaps we are allowed to pity. His vanity, within his iron bosom, bled and raved. If he could have blotted all, if he could have withdrawn part, if he had not called her bride — with a roaring in his ears, he thus regretfully reviewed his declaration. He got to his feet tottering; and then, in that first moment when a dumb agony finds a vent in words, and the tongue betrays the inmost and worst of a man, he permitted himself a retort which, for six weeks to follow, he was to repent at leisure.
‘Ah,’ said he, ‘the Countess? Now I perceive the reason of your Highness’s disorder.’
The lackey-like insolence of the words was driven home by a more insolent manner. There fell upon Seraphina one of those storm-clouds which had already blackened upon her reason; she heard herself cry out; and when the cloud dispersed, flung the blood-stained dagger on the floor, and saw Gondremark reeling back with open mouth and clapping his hand upon the wound. The next moment, with oaths that she had never heard, he leaped at her in savage passion; clutched her as she recoiled; and in the very act, stumbled and drooped. She had scarce time to fear his murderous onslaught ere he fell before her feet.
He rose upon one elbow; she still staring upon him, white with horror.
‘Anna!’ he cried, ‘Anna! Help!’
And then his utterance failed him, and he fell back, to all appearance dead.
Seraphina ran to and fro in the room; she wrung her hands and cried aloud; within she was all one uproar of terror, and conscious of no articulate wish but to awake.
There came a knocking at the door; and she sprang to it and held it, panting like a beast, and with the strength of madness in her arms, till she had pushed the bolt. At this success a certain calm fell upon her reason. She went back and looked upon her victim, the knocking growing louder. O yes, he was dead. She had killed him. He had called upon von Rosen with his latest breath; ah! who would call on Seraphina? She had killed him. She, whose irresolute hand could scarce prick blood from her own bosom, had found strength to cast down that great colossus at a blow.
All this while the knocking was growing more uproarious and more unlike the staid career of life in such a palace. Scandal was at the door, with what a fatal following she dreaded to conceive; and at the same time among the voices that now began to summon her by name, she recognised the Chancellor’s. He or another, somebody must be the first.
‘Is Herr von Greisengesang without?’ she called.
‘Your Highness — yes!’ the old gentleman answered. ‘We have heard cries, a fall. Is anything amiss?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Seraphina ‘I desire to speak with you. Send off the rest.’ She panted between each phrase; but her mind was clear. She let the looped curtain down upon both sides before she drew the bolt; and, thus secure from any sudden eyeshot from without, admitted the obsequious Chancellor, and again made fast the door.
Greisengesang clumsily revolved among the wings of the curtain, so that she was clear of it as soon as he.
‘My God!’ he cried ‘The Baron!’
‘I have killed him,’ she said. ‘O, killed him!’
‘Dear me,’ said the old gentleman, ‘this is most unprecedented. Lovers’ quarrels,’ he added ruefully, ‘redintegratio —’ and then paused. ‘But, my dear madam,’ he broke out again, ‘in the name of all that is practical, what are we to do? This is exceedingly grave; morally, madam, it is appalling. I take the liberty, your Highness, for one moment, of addressing you as a daughter, a loved although respected daughter; and I must say that I cannot conceal from you that this is morally most questionable. And, O dear me, we have a dead body!’
She had watched him closely; hope fell to contempt; she drew away her skirts from his weakness, and, in the act, her own strength returned to her.
‘See if he be dead,’ she said; not one word of explanation or defence; she had scorned to justify herself before so poor a creature: ‘See if he be dead’ was all.
With the greatest compunction, the Chancellor drew near; and as he did so the wounded Baron rolled his eyes.
‘He lives,’ cried the old courtier, turning effusively to Seraphina. ‘Madam, he still lives.’
‘Help him, then,’ returned the Princess, standing fixed. ‘Bind up his wound.’
‘Madam, I have no means,’ protested the Chancellor.
‘Can you not take your handkerchief, your neck-cloth, anything?’ she cried; and at the same moment, from her light muslin gown she rent off a flounce and tossed it on the floor. ‘Take that,’ she said, and for the first time directly faced Greisengesang.
But the Chancellor held up his hands and turned away his head in agony. The grasp of the falling Baron had torn down the dainty fabric of the bodice; and — ‘O Highness!’ cried Greisengesang, appalled, ‘the terrible disorder of your toilette!’
‘Take up that flounce,’ she said; ‘the man may die.’
Greisengesang turned in a flutter to the Baron, and attempted some innocent and bungling measures. ‘He still breathes,’ he kept saying. ‘All is not yet over; he is not yet gone.’
‘And now,’ said she ‘if that is all you can do, begone and get some porters; he must instantly go home.’
‘Madam,’ cried the Chancellor, ‘if this most melancholy sight were seen in town — O dear, the State would fall!’ he piped.
‘There is a litter in the Palace,’ she replied. ‘It is your part to see him safe. I lay commands upon you. On your life it stands.’
‘I see it, dear Highness,’ he jerked. ‘Clearly I see it. But how? what men? The Prince’s servants — yes. They had a personal affection. They will be true, if any.’
‘O, not them!’ she cried. ‘Take Sabra, my own man.’
‘Sabra! The grand-mason?’ returned the Chancellor, aghast. ‘If he but saw this, he would sound the tocsin — we should all be butchered.’
She measured the depth of her abasement steadily. ‘Take whom you must,’ she said, ‘and bring the litter here.’
Once she was alone she ran to the Baron, and with a sickening heart sought to allay the flux of blood. The touch of the skin of that great charlatan revolted her to the toes; the wound, in her ignorant eyes, looked deathly; yet she contended with her shuddering, and, with more skill at least than the Chancellor’s, staunched the welling injury. An eye unprejudiced with hate would have admired the Baron in his swoon; he looked so great and shapely; it was so powerful a machine that lay arrested; and his features, cleared for the moment both of temper and dissimulation, were seen to be so purely modelled. But it was not thus with Seraphina. Her victim, as he lay outspread, twitching a little, his big chest unbared, fixed her with his ugliness; and her mind flitted for a glimpse to Otto.
Rumours began to sound about the Palace of feet running and of voices raised; the echoes of the
