They silently saluted me, and suddenly the picture in the library reappeared before me.

“It is she,” I said, “Hugh’s first wife.  There is the fair and noble brow, there are the long lashes, and that sad, unfathomable smile.  Oh, how much past telling lies in a woman’s smile!  Seek not, then, for unmixed joy and pleasure!  Her smile serves but to veil untold sorrows, anxiety for the future, even heartrending cares.  The maid, the wife, the mother, smile and smile, even when the heart is breaking and the abyss is opening.  O woman! this is thy part in the mortal struggle of human life!”

I was pursuing these reflections when the lord of Nideck began to speak—­

“If my dear child Odile would but consult my wishes I believe my health would return.”

I looked towards the young countess; she fixed her eyes on the floor, and seemed to be praying silently.

“Yes,” the sick man went on, “I should then return to life; the prospect of seeing myself surrounded by a young family, and of pressing grandchildren to my heart, and beholding the succession to my house, would revive me.”

At the mild and gentle tone of entreaty in which this was said I felt deeply moved with compassion; but the young lady made no reply.

In a minute or two the count, who kept his watchful eyes upon her, went on—­

“Odile, you refuse to make your father a happy man?  I only ask for a faint hope.  I fix no time.  I won’t limit your choice.  We will go to court.  There you will have a hundred opportunities of marrying with distinction and with honour.  Who would not be proud to win my daughter’s hand?  You shall be perfectly free to decide for yourself.”

He paused.

There is nothing more painful to a stranger than these family quarrels.  There are such contending interests, so many private motives, at work, that mere modesty should make it our duty to place ourselves out of hearing of such discussions.  I felt pained, and would gladly have retired.  But the circumstances of the case forbade this.

“My dear father,” said Odile, as if to evade any further discussion, “you will get better.  Heaven will not take you from those who love you.  If you but knew the fervour with which I pray for you!”

“That is not an answer,” said the count drily.  “What objection can you make to my proposal?  Is it not fair and natural?  Am I to be deprived of the consolations vouchsafed to the neediest and most wretched?  You know I have acted towards you openly and frankly.”

“You have, my father.”

“Then give me your reason for your refusal.”

“My resolution is formed—­I have consecrated myself to God.”

So much firmness in so frail a being made me tremble.  She stood like the sculptured Madonna in Hugh’s tower, calm and immovable, however weak in appearance.

The eyes of the count kindled with an ominous fire.  I tried to make the young countess understand by signs how gladly I would hear her give the least hope, and calm his rising passion; but she seemed not to see me.