Raoul scarcely left her side. He seemed to-night to be fully conscious
of the value of the prize which had fallen to his share so easily, and
the old love for his cousin, dating from his boyhood, flamed up afresh.
It was one of those crises when one loving glance from Hertha's eyes,
one cordial word from her lips, might perhaps have delivered him from
those other fetters, and have won him back to his betrothed,--bridging
over the gulf which each day yawned more widely between them. But there
was a cold reserve, imperceptible to strangers, in her demeanour
towards him which cut him to the soul, chilling all warmth of feeling
and awakening his antagonism.
For the moment the young Countess was not in the reception-rooms, but
in Frau von Reval's dressing-room. Like all who had taken part in the
tableaux, she had retained her costume; the veil that floated over her
shoulders had become disarranged; Frau von Reval's maid was fastening
it afresh. It was soon adjusted, and the maid dismissed; but Hertha,
instead of returning to the reception-rooms, sat motionless in an
arm-chair, gazing dreamily into space.
Frau von Reval's dressing-room was one of a suite of rooms quite
removed from those used for entertaining, and upon this evening the
entire range of apartments upon this side of the house was deserted,
and but dimly lighted,--a quiet, agreeable refuge for any one wishing
to withdraw for a few minutes from the heat and turmoil of the
drawing-rooms. The young Countess seemed, indeed, weary, worn out with
conquest and homage.
Yes, the evening had been one long triumph for her. All had bowed
before the victorious power of her beauty,--all save one. One alone had
dared to defy her; he only had retained sufficient strength of will in
the tempest of passion to break the meshes of the net thrown around
him, and go on his way free from all bondage. Had he not greeted her
to-night as coldly and formally, complimented her with as conventional
a courtesy, as if that hour at Saint Michael were forgotten,
obliterated from his memory?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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