She tried to speak, to thank them, but her
voice was gone. Tears sprang into her eyes. She had the power to do no
more than weep.
The duke was the first to relieve the awkwardness of the moment.
"Count, has it not occurred to you that we stand in the presence of two
very beautiful young women?"
Herbeck scrutinized Gretchen with care; then he compared her with the
princess. The duke was right. The goose-girl was not a whit the inferior
of the princess. And the thing which struck him with most force was
that, while each possessed a beauty individual to herself, it was not
opposite, but strangely alike.
The goose-girl had returned to her gloomy Krumerweg, the princess had
gone to her apartments, and Herbeck to his cabinet. The duke was alone.
For a long period he stood before the portrait of his wife. The beauties
of his courtship trooped past him; for God had given to the grand duke
of Ehrenstein that which He denies most of us, high or low, a perfect
love.
"Always, always, dear heart," he whispered; "in this life and in the
life to come. To love, what is the sickle of death?"
He passed on to his secretary and opened a drawer. He laid a small
bundle on the desk and untied the string. One by one he ranged the
articles; two little yellow shoes, a little cloak trimmed with ermine.
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