At last, however, the truth broke upon her.  She sank down upon her knees by the side of the bed, hiding her face in the drapery, and repeating with fierce sobs,—­

“My mother, my darling mother!”

It was nearly morning, and the pale dawn was stealing into the room, when at last some sisters of charity came, who had been sent for; and then a couple of priests; a little later (it was towards the end of January) one of the count’s friends appeared, who undertook all those sickening preparations which our civilization demands in such cases.  On the next day the funeral took place.

More than two hundred persons called to condole with the count, twenty-five or thirty ladies came and kissed Henrietta, calling her their poor dear child.

Then horses were heard in the court-yard, coachmen quarrelling; orders were given; and at last the hearse rolled away solemnly—­and that was all.

Henrietta wept and prayed in her chamber.

Late in the day, the count and Henrietta sat down at table alone for the first time in their lives; but they did not eat a morsel.  How could they do it, seeing before them the empty seat, once occupied by her who was the life of the whole house, and now never to be filled again?

And thus, for a long time, their meals were a steady reminder of their loss.  During the day they were seen wandering about the house, without any apparent purpose, as if looking or hoping for something to happen.

But there was another true and warm heart, far from that house, which had been sorely wounded by the death of the countess.  Daniel had loved her like a mother; and in his heart a mysterious voice warned him, that, in losing her, he had well-nigh lost Henrietta.

He had called several times at the house of mourning; but it was only a fortnight later that he was admitted.  When Henrietta saw him, she felt sorry she had not let him come in before.  He had apparently suffered as much as she; he looked pale; and his eyes were red.

They remained for some time seated opposite each other, without saying a word, but deeply moved, and feeling instinctively that their common grief bound them more firmly than ever to each other.

The count, in the meantime, walked up and down in the large room.  He was so much changed, that one might have failed to recognize him.  There was a strange want of steadiness in his movements; he looked almost like a paralytic, whose crutches had suddenly broken down.  Was he conscious of the immense loss which he had suffered?  His vanity was too great to render that very probable.

“I shall master my grief as soon as I go back to work,” he said.

He ought not to have done it; but he resumed his duties as a politician at a time when they had become unusually difficult, and when great things were expected of him.  Two or three absurd, ridiculous, in fact unpardonable blunders, ruined him forever.  He lost his reputation as a statesman, and with it his influence.