“You go?—of your own will, you go?” she cried.
“I cannot say so much, perhaps,” he answered; “but I go with good alacrity. I have desired a change some time; behold one offered me! Shall I refuse? Thank God, I am not so destitute of humour as to make a tragedy of such a farce.” He flicked the order on the table. “You may signify my readiness,” he added grandly.
“Ah,” she said, “you are more angry than you own.”
“I, madam? angry?” he cried. “You rave! I have no cause for anger. In every way I have been taught my weakness, my instability, and my unfitness for the world. I am a plexus of weaknesses, an impotent Prince, a doubtful gentleman; and you yourself, indulgent as you are, have twice reproved my levity. And shall I be angry? I may feel the unkindness, but I have sufficient honesty of mind to see the reasons of this coup d’état.”
“From whom have you got this?” she cried in wonder. “You think you have not behaved well? My Prince, were you not young and handsome, I should detest you for your virtues. You push them to the verge of commonplace. And this ingratitude—”
“Understand me, Madame von Rosen,” returned the Prince, flushing a little darker, “there can be here no talk of gratitude, none of pride. You are here, by what circumstance I know not, but doubtless led by your kindness, mixed up in what regards my family alone. You have no knowledge what my wife, your sovereign, may have suffered; it is not for you—no, nor for me—to judge. I own myself in fault; and were it otherwise, a man were a very empty boaster who should talk of love and start before a small humiliation. It is in all the copybooks that one should die to please his ladylove; and shall a man not go to prison?”
“Love? And what has love to do with being sent to gaol?” exclaimed the Countess, appealing to the walls and roof. “Heaven knows I think as much of love as anyone; my life would prove it; but I admit no love, at least for a man, that is not equally returned. The rest is moonshine.”
“I think of love more absolutely, madam, though I am certain no more tenderly, than a lady to whom I am indebted for such kindnesses,” returned the Prince. “But this is unavailing. We are not here to hold a court of troubadours.”
“Still,” she replied, “there is one thing you forget. If she conspires with Gondremark against your liberty, she may conspire with him against your honour also.”
“My honour?” he repeated. “For a woman, you surprise me. If I have failed to gain her love or play my part of husband, what right is left me? or what honour can remain in such a scene of defeat? No honour that I recognise. I am become a stranger. If my wife no longer loves me, I will go to prison, since she wills it; if she love another, where should I be more in place? or whose fault is it but mine? You speak, Madame von Rosen, like too many women, with a man’s tongue. Had I myself fallen into temptation (as, Heaven knows, I might) I should have trembled, but still hoped and asked for her forgiveness; and yet mine had been a treason in the teeth of love. But let me tell you, madam,” he pursued, with rising irritation, “where a husband by futility, facility, and ill-timed humours has outwearied his wife’s patience, I will suffer neither man nor woman to misjudge her. She is free; the man has been found wanting.”
“Because she loves you not?” the Countess cried. “You know she is incapable of such a feeling.”
“Rather, it was I who was born incapable of inspiring it,” said Otto.
Madame von Rosen broke into sudden laughter. “Fool,” she cried, “I am in love with you myself!”
“Ah, madam, you are most compassionate,” the Prince retorted, smiling. “But this is waste debate. I know my purpose. Perhaps, to equal you in frankness, I know and embrace my advantage. I am not without the spirit of adventure. I am in a false position—so recognised by public acclamation: do you grudge me, then, my issue?”
“If your mind is made up, why should I dissuade you?” said the Countess. “I own, with a bare face, I am the gainer. Go, you take my heart with you, or more of it than I desire; I shall not sleep at night for thinking of your misery. But do not be afraid; I would not spoil you, you are such a fool and hero.”
“Alas! madam,” cried the Prince, “and your unlucky money! I did amiss to take it, but you are a wonderful persuader. And I thank God, I can still offer you the fair equivalent.” He took some papers from the chimney. “Here, madam, are the title-deeds,” he said; “where I am going, they can certainly be of no use to me, and I have now no other hope of making up to you your kindness. You made the loan without formality, obeying your kind heart. The parts are somewhat changed; the sun of this Prince of Grünewald is upon the point of setting; and I know you better than to doubt you will once more waive ceremony, and accept the best that he can give you. If I may look for any pleasure in the coming time, it will be to remember that the peasant is secure, and my most generous friend no loser.”
“Do you not understand my odious position?” cried the Countess. “Dear Prince, it is upon your fall that I begin my fortune.”
“It was the more like you to tempt me to resistance,” returned Otto. “But this cannot alter our relations; and I must, for the last time, lay my commands upon you in the character of Prince.” And with his
