The abbe entered from Lothario’s chamber, and said to Wilhelm, “The baron bids me ask you to remain here to share his hospitality, and, in the present circumstances, to contribute to his solacement.”

From this hour our friend was treated in the house as if he belonged to it.

“We have a kindness to ask of you,” said Jarno, the baron’s confidential companion, to Wilhelm one morning.  “The violent, unreasonable love and passionateness of the Lady Lydia only hinder the baron’s recovery.  She must be removed by some means.  His wound requires rest and calmness; you see how she tortures him with her tempestuous anxieties, her ungovernable terrors, her never-drying tears.  Enough!  Our doctor expressly requires that she should quit us for a while; we have persuaded her to pay a visit to a lady, an old friend of hers; it will be your task to escort her, as you can best be spared.”

“I willingly undertake the charge,” said Wilhelm, “though it is easy to foresee the pain I shall have to suffer from the tears, the despair, of Lydia.”

“And for this no small reward awaits you,” said Jarno.  “Fraulein Theresa, with whom you will get acquainted, is a lady such as you will rarely see.  Indeed, were it not for an unfortunate passage between her mother and the baron, she would long since have been married to his lordship.”

When they returned from their visit, Lothario was in the way of full recovery.  He was now for the first time able to talk with Wilhelm about the sad cause that had brought him to the castle.  “You may, however, well forgive me,” he said, with a smile, “that I forsook Aurelia for Theresa; with the one I could expect a calm and cheerful life, with the other not a happy hour.”

“I confess,” said Wilhelm, “that in coming hither I had no small anger in my heart against you, that I proposed to censure with severity your conduct towards Aurelia.  But, at the grave in which the hapless mother sleeps, let me ask you why you acknowledge not the child—­a son in whom any father might rejoice and whom you appear entirely to overlook.  With your tender nature, how can you altogether cast away the instinct of a parent?”

“Of whom do you speak?” said Lothario.  “I do not understand you.”

“Of whom but your son, Aurelia’s son, the lovely child to whose good fortune there is nothing wanting but that a tender father should acknowledge and receive him.”

“You mistake, my friend,” said Lothario; “Aurelia never had a son.  I know of no child, or I would gladly acknowledge it.  But did she ever give you to believe that the boy was hers—­was mine?”

“I cannot recollect that I ever heard a word from her expressly on the subject, but we took it so, and I never for a moment doubted it.”

“I can give you a clue to this perplexity,” interposed Jarno.  “An old woman, whom Wilhelm must have noticed, gave Aurelia the child, telling her that it was yours.  She accepted it eagerly, hoping to alleviate her sorrows by its presence; and, in truth, it gave her many a comfortable hour.”