The hours during which he was compelled to attend the marriage festivities dragged slowly and painfully. XVI. THE TWO BETROTHED BRIDES. Meantime Cornelia awaited him in her quiet salon, where the roses always bloomed like eternal lamps of love. She was alone. Veronica's health had become somewhat delicate of late, and she was taking an afternoon nap in her room. Cornelia hoped to receive _Heinrich's_ first glance unobserved. She had spent the three days since Ottilie's arrival in idle dreams, longings, and expectations, and had sought solitude that Veronica might not perceive her indolence. It was impossible for her to fix her attention upon anything except the one thought,--"He will soon arrive." She had never believed that any one could spend three whole days in such complete inaction. She did not go out, even to visit the prison, lest she should miss him, and thanked God when any one rang the bell, because she had the pleasure of fancying for a moment that it was he. To-day this satisfaction had fallen to her lot very rarely; the street and house were silent, and she walked impatiently up and down the smooth inlaid floor, played with the roses, made an old mandarin nod his head, incessantly looked into the glass to see whether she would please her lover, threw herself on the yellow sofa, and fancied he was beside her; thought of a thousand things she wanted to tell him, took up one of the faded velvet-covered albums, turned the leaves without reading a word, and at last started up in joyful surprise, for the bell was now really pulled, and so violently, so impatiently,--it must be he. She hurried into the antechamber. "I'll tell you if any one comes," said the old servant, as sulkily as if he knew whom Cornelia expected, and walked slowly on to open the door. Cornelia retired in great embarrassment, and waited behind the folding-doors. Yes, it was the well-known step upon the stairs, along the corridor; he was approaching. The blissful certainty overwhelmed her with suffocating violence, and now she could see nothing, for two eager arms had clasped her and pressed her closely to a throbbing heart. There was a moment of silence, a moment when the world seemed to be hushed, and divinity itself listened in delight to the sweetest language given to the human heart,--the mute language of love. Then _Henri's_ lips sought her own, and softly, softly she whispered a thousand sweet names; but every word died in a kiss; and thus words and caresses struggled long in a secret conflict for the mastery. "Let me look at you," said Cornelia, at last; and drawing back, took his head between her hands and raised it. "You have grown handsomer; you look milder, graver, and yet happier."