am engaged to be married,” Steinbock replied, “and I love a woman with whom no other can compete or compare.—But you are, and always will be, to me the mother I have lost.”
The words fell like an avalanche of snow on a burning crater. Lisbeth sat down. She gazed with despondent eyes on the youth before her, on his aristocratic beauty—the artist’s brow, the splendid hair, everything that appealed to her suppressed feminine instincts, and tiny tears moistened her eyes for an instant and immediately dried up. She looked like one of those meagre statues which the sculptors of the Middle Ages carved on monuments.
“I cannot curse you,” said she, suddenly rising. “You—you are but a boy. God preserve you!”
She went downstairs and shut herself into her own room.
“She is in love with me, poor creature!” said Wenceslas to himself. “And how fervently eloquent! She is crazy.”
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