Gotzkowsky listened to her, without interrupting her by a word or even a sigh.  Only now and then he raised his hand to his forehead, or cast a wandering, doubtful look at his daughter, as if to convince himself that all that was passing was not a mad, bewildering dream, but painful, cruel reality.

But when Elise, breathless and trembling with excitement, stopped for a moment, and he no longer heard her cutting accents of reproach, he pressed both hands upon his breast, as if to suppress a wail over the annihilation of his whole life.  “O God!” muttered he in a low voice, “this is unparalleled agony!  This cuts into a father’s heart!”

After a pause, Elise continued:  “I too was a beggar, and I hungered for the bread of your love.”

“Elise, oh, my child, do you not know then that I love you infinitely?”

But she did not perceive the loving, almost imploring looks which her father cast upon her.  She could see and think only of herself and her own tormented heart.

“Yes,” said she, “you love me as one loves a jewel, and has it set in gold in order to make it more brilliant.  You loved me as a costly ornament of your rooms, as something which gave you an opportunity of exercising the splendor of your liberality, and to be produced as an evidence of your renowned wealth.  But you did not love me as a father; you did not perceive that I wept in secret, or if you did see it, you consoled me with diamonds, with rich dresses, to make me smile.  But you did not give me your father’s heart.  At last the rich man’s child discovers a happiness not to be bought with gold or treasures, a happiness that the millions of her father could not purchase for her.  This happiness is—­love.  The only possession that I have owned, father, contrary to your will, you have deprived me of, because it was mine against your will.  Now, poor rich man, take all your gold, and seek and buy yourself a child with it.  Me you have lost!” and staggering back with a sob, she sank fainting on the carpet.

A dread silence now reigned in the room.  Gotzkowsky stood motionless, with his eyes directed toward heaven.  The cruel, mocking words of his daughter sounded over and over again in his ears, and seemed to petrify the power of his will and chain him fast, as if rooted to the floor.  Gradually he recovered from this apathy of grief.  The stagnant blood revived in his veins, and shot like burning streams of fire to his heart.  He bent over his daughter, and gazing for a long time at her, his features assumed a gentler and softer expression.  Tenderly with his hand he smoothed the tresses from her clear, high forehead; and as he did so, he almost smiled again, so beautiful and charming did she seem to him in her death-like repose.

“She has fainted,” whispered he, low, as if fearful of awakening her.  “So much the better for her; and when she recovers, may she have forgotten all the cruel words that she has uttered!”