The countess, deeply touched, smiled. "I knew that you would say so.

But, my angel, that would only do, if I had no other duties. But, you see, this is one of the snares with which the world draws back those who endeavor to escape its spell. I have a father--an unhappy man whom I can neither respect nor love--a type of the brilliant misery, the hollow shams, to which so many lives in our circle fall victims, a gambler, a spendthrift, but still _my father_! He asks pecuniary aid which I can render only if I remain the Countess Wildenau. Dare I be happy and let my father go to ruin?"

"No!" groaned Freyer, whose head sank like a felled tree on the arms which rested folded on the table.

"Then what is left to us--my beloved, save _separation_ or a secret marriage? Surely we would not profane the miracle which G.o.d has wrought in us by any other course?"

"No--never!"

"Well--then I must say to you: "choose!""

"Oh, Heaven! this is terrible. I must not be allowed to a.s.sert my sacred rights before men--must live like a dishonored man under ban?

And _where_ and _when_ could we meet?"

"Joseph--I can offer you the position of steward of my estates, which will enable us to live together constantly and meet without the least restraint. I can recompense you a hundredfold, for what you resign here, my property shall be yours, as well as all that I am and have--you shall miss nothing save outward appearances, the triumph of appearing before the world as the husband of the Countess Wildenau."

"Oh! G.o.d, Thou art my witness that no such thought ever entered my heart. If you were poor and miserable, starving by the wayside, I would raise you and bear you proudly in my arms into my house. If you were blind and lame, ill and deserted, I would watch and cherish you day and night--nay, it would be my delight to work for you and earn, by my own industry, the bread you eat. When I brought it, I would offer it on my knees and kiss your dear hands for accepting it. But your servant, your hireling, I cannot be! Tell me yourself--could you still love me if I were?"

"Yes, for my love is eternal!"

"Do not deceive yourself; you have loved me as a poor, but _free_ citizen of Ammergau--as your paid servant you would despise me."

"You shall not be my servant--it is merely necessary to find some pretext before the world which will render it possible for us to be constantly together without exciting suspicion--and the office of a steward is this pretext!"

"Twist and turn it as you will--I shall eat your bread, and be your subordinate. Oh, Heaven, I was so proud and am now so terribly humiliated--so suddenly hurled from the height to which you had raised me!"

"It will be no humiliation to accept what my love bestows and my superabundance shares with you."

"It _is_, and I could be your husband only on the condition that I might continue to work and earn my own support."

"Oh! the envious arrogance of the poor, who grudge the rich the n.o.blest privilege--that of doing good. Believe me, true pride would be to say to yourself that your n.o.ble nature a thousand times outweighed the petty sacrifice of worldly goods which I could make for you. He who scorns money can accept it from others because he knows that the outward gift is valueless, compared with the treasures of happiness love can offer. Or do you feel so poor in love that you could not pay me the trivial debt for the bit of bread I furnished? Then indeed--let me with my wealth languish in my dearth of happiness and boast that you sacrificed to your pride the most faithful of women--but do not say that you loved the woman!"

"My dove!"

"I am doing what I can!" she continued, mournfully, "I am offering you myself, my soul, my freedom, my future--and you are considering whether it will not degrade you to eat my bread and be apparently my servant, while in reality you are my master and my judge.--I have nothing more to say, you shall have your will, but decide quickly, for what is to be done must be done at once. My father himself (when he perceived that I really intended to marry) advised me to be wedded by our old pastor at Prankenberg. But I know my father, and am aware that he was only luring me into a trap. He will receive from me to-morrow a power of attorney to raise some money he needs--the day after he will invent some new device to keep me in his power. We must take the pastor at Prankenberg by surprise before he can prevent it. Now decide!"

"Omnipotent G.o.d!" exclaimed Freyer. "What shall I, what must I do? Oh!

my love, I ought not to desert you--and even if I ought--I _could_ not, for I could no longer live without you! You know that I must take what you offer, and that my fate will be what you a.s.sign! But, dearest, how I shall endure to be your husband and yet regarded as your servant, I know not. If you could let this cup pa.s.s from me, it would be far better for us both."

"And did G.o.d spare the Saviour the cup? Was Christ too proud to take upon Him His cross and His ignominy, while you--cannot even bear the yoke your wife imposes, is _forced_ to impose?"

He bowed his head to the earth. Tears sparkled in his radiant eyes, he was once more the Christ. As his dark eyes rested upon her in the dim light diffused by the lamp, with all the anguish of the Crucified Redeemer, Madeleine von Wildenau again felt a thrill of awe in the presence of something supernatural--a creature belonging to some middle realm, half spirit, half mortal--and the perception that he could never belong wholly to the earth, never wholly to _her_. She could not explain this feeling, he was so kind, so self-sacrificing. Had she had any idea that such a man was destined to absorb _us_, not we _him_, the mystery would have been solved. What she was doing was precisely the reverse. His existence must be sacrificed to hers--and she had a vague suspicion that this was contrary to the laws of his n.o.ble, privileged nature.

But he, unconscious of himself, in his modest simplicity, only knew that he must love the countess to the end--and deemed it only just that he should purchase the measureless happiness of calling this woman his by an equally boundless sacrifice. The appeal to Christ had suddenly made him believe that G.o.d proposed to give him the opportunity to continue in life the part of a martyr which he was no longer permitted to play on the stage. The terrible humiliation imposed by the woman whom he loved was to be the cross received in exchange for the one he had resigned.

"Very well, then, for the sake of Christ"s humility!" he said, sadly, as if utterly crushed. "Give me whatever position you choose, but I fear you will discover too late that you have robbed yourself of the _best_ love I have to bestow. Your nature is not one which can love a va.s.sal. You will be like the children who tear off the b.u.t.terfly"s wings and then--throw aside the crawling worm with loathing. My wings were my moral freedom and my self-respect. At this moment I have lost them, for I am only a weak, love-sick man who must do whatever an irresistible woman requires. It is no free moral act, as is usual when a man exchanges an equal existence with his chosen wife.

"If you think _that_, Joseph," said the countess, turning pale, "it will certainly be better--for me to leave you." She turned with dignity toward the door.

"Yes, go!" he cried in wild anguish--"go! Yet you know that you will take me with you, like the crown of thorns you dragged caught in the hem of your dress!" He threw himself on his knees at her feet. "What am I? Your slave. In Heaven"s name, be my mistress and take me. I place my soul in your keeping--I trust it to your generosity--but woe betide us both, if you do not give me yours in return. I ask nothing save your soul--but that I want wholly."

The exultant woman clasped him in a pa.s.sionate embrace: "Yes, give yourself a prisoner to me, and trust your fate to my hands. I will be a gentle mistress to you--you, beloved slave, you shall not be _more_ mine than I am yours--that is, _wholly_ and _forever_."

CHAPTER XVII.

FLYING FROM THE CROSS.

The burgomaster went to the office every morning at six o"clock, for the work to be accomplished during the day was very great and required an early beginning. Freyer usually arrived about seven to share the task with him. On Fridays, however, he often commenced his labor before the energetic burgomaster. It was on that day that the rush upon the ticket office began, and every one"s hands were filled.

But to-day Freyer seemed to be in no hurry. It was after seven--he ought to have arrived long before. He had been absent yesterday, too.

The stranger must have taken complete possession of him. The burgomaster shook his head--Freyer"s conduct since the countess"

arrival, had not pleased him. He had never neglected his duties to the community. And at the very time when the Pa.s.sion Play had attained unprecedented success. How could any one think of anything else--anything _personal_, especially the man who took the part of the Christ! There were heaps of orders lying piled before him, how could they be disposed of, if Freyer did not help.

This countess was a beautiful woman--and probably a fascinating one.

But to the burgomaster there was but _one_ beauty--that of the angel of his home. High above the turmoil of the crowd, in quiet, aristocratic seclusion, the lonely man sat at his desk in his bare, plain office.

But the angel of Ammergau visited him here; he leaned his weary head upon His breast, _His_ kiss rewarded his unselfish labor, _His_ radiance illumined the una.s.suming citizen. No house was so poor and insignificant that at this season the angel of Ammergau did not take up His abode within and shed upon it His own sanct.i.ty and dignity. But to him who was the personification of Ammergau, the man who was obliged to care for everything--watch over everything--bear the responsibility of everything, to him the angel brought the reward which men cannot give--the proud consciousness of what he was to his home in these toilsome days. But it was quite time that Freyer should come! The burgomaster rang his bell. The bailiff entered.

"Kleinhofer, see where Herr Freyer is--or the drawing-master. _One_ of them can surely be found."

"Yes, Herr Burgomaster." The man left the room.

The burgomaster leaned back in his chair to wait. His eyes rested a few seconds on one of Dore"s pictures, Christ condemned by Pontius Pilate.

He involuntarily compared the engraving with the grouping on the stage.

"Ah, if we could do that! If living beings, with ma.s.sive bones and clumsy joints, would be as pliable as canvas and brushes!" he thought, sorrowfully. "Wherever human beings are employed there must be defects and imperfections. Perfection, absolute beauty, exist only in the imagination! Yet ought not an inflexible stage manager, by following the lines of the work of art, to succeed in shaping even the rudest material into the artistic idea."

"Much--much remains to be done," said the singular stage manager in pitiless self-criticism, resting his head on his hand. "When one thinks of what the Meininger company accomplishes! But of course they work with _artists_--I with natural talent! Then we are restricted in alloting the parts by dilettante traditional models--and, worst of all, by antiquated statutes and prejudices." The vision of Josepha Freyer rose before him, he keenly felt the blow inflicted on the Pa.s.sion Play when the beautiful girl, the very type of Mary Magdalene, was excluded.

"The whole must suffer under such circ.u.mstances! The actors cannot be chosen according to talent and individuality; these things are a secondary consideration. The first is the person"s standing in the community! A poor servant would be allowed to play only an inferior part, even if he possessed the greatest talent, and the princ.i.p.al ones are the monopoly of the influential citizens. From a contingent thus arbitrarily limited the manager is compelled to distribute the characters for the great work, which demands the highest powers. It is a gigantic labor, but it will be accomplished, nothing is needed save patience and an iron will! They will grow with their task. The increasing success of the Pa.s.sion Play will teach them to understand how important it is that artistic interests should supersede all others. Then golden hours will first dawn on Ammergau. May G.o.d permit me to witness it!" he added. And he confidently hoped to do so; for there was no lack of talent, and with a few additions great results might be accomplished. This year the success of the Play was secured by Freyer, who made the audience forget all less skilful performers. With him the Pa.s.sion Play of the present year would stand or fall. The burgomaster"s eyes rested with a look of compa.s.sion upon the Christ of Dore and the Christ personated by Freyer, as it hovered before his memory--and Freyer bore the test. He had come from the hand of his Creator a living work of art, perfect in every detail. "Thank Heaven that we have him!" murmured the burgomaster, with a nod of satisfaction.

Some one knocked at the door. "At last," said the burgomaster: "Come in!"

It was not the person whom he expected, but Ludwig Gross!

He tottered forward as if his feet refused to obey his will. His grave face was waxen-yellow in its hue and deeply lined--his lips were tightly compressed--drops of perspiration glittered on his brow.

The burgomaster glanced at him in alarm: "What is it? What has happened?"

Ludwig Gross drew a letter from his pocket, "Be prepared for bad news."

"For Heaven"s sake, cannot the performance take place? We have sold more than a thousand tickets."

"That would be the least difficulty. Be strong, Herr Burgomaster--I have a great misfortune to announce."

"Has it anything to do with Freyer?" exclaimed the magistrate, with sudden foreboding.

"Freyer has gone--with Countess Wildenau!"