"Yes."

"Is he a relative of yours?"

"Yes, my cousin."

"He is here still, isn't he?"

"Why, of course."

"He is--her--what is his t.i.tle?"

"Steward."

"Is he at home?"

"No, he has gone to the city for a doctor."

"Oh, I am very sorry. We should have been glad to make his acquaintance. We have heard so many pleasant things about him. A man in whom our cousin was so much interested--"

"Then she speaks of him?"

"Oh--to her intimate friends--certainly!" said Wildenau equivocally gazing intently at Josepha, whose face beamed with joy at the thought that the countess spoke kindly of Freyer.

"Why is he never seen in the city? He must live like a hermit up here."

"Yes, Heaven knows that."

"He ought to visit my cousin sometimes in the city, everybody would be glad to know the Ammergau Christus."

"But if she doesn't wish it--!" said Josepha thoughtlessly.

"Why, that would be another matter certainly, but she has never told me so. Why shouldn't she wish it?" murmured Wildenau with well-feigned surprise.

"Because she is ashamed of him!"

"Ah!" Wildenau almost caught his breath at the significance of the word. "But, tell me, why does Herr Freyer--isn't that his name--submit to it?"

Josepha shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, what can he do about it?"

A pause ensued. Josepha stopped, as if fearing to say too much. The two gentlemen had become very thoughtful.

At last Wildenau resumed the conversation. "I don't understand how a man who surely might find a pleasant position anywhere, can be so dependent on a fine lady's whims. You won't take it amiss, I see that your kinsman's position troubles you--were I in his place I would give up the largest salary rather than--"

"Salary?" interrupted Josepha, with flashing eyes. "Do you suppose that my cousin would do anything for the sake of a salary? Oh, you don't know him. If the countess described him to you in that way, the shame is hers!"

Wildenau listened intently. "But, my dear woman, that isn't what I meant, you would not let me finish! I was just going to add that such a motive would not affect your kinsman, that it could be nothing but sincere devotion, which bound him to our cousin--a loyalty which apparently wins little grat.i.tude."

"Yes, I always tell him so--but he won't admit it--even though his heart should break."

Two dark interlaced veins in Josepha's sunken, transparent temples throbbed feverishly.

"But--how do you feel? We are certainly disturbing you!" said the baron.

"Oh, no! It does not matter!" replied Josepha, courteously.

"Could you not take us into some other room--the countess doubtless comes here constantly--there must be other apartments which can be heated."

"Yes, but no fire has been made in them for weeks; the stoves will smoke."

"Has not the countess been here for so long?"

"No, she scarcely ever comes now."

"But the time must be very long to you and your cousin--you were doubtless accustomed to the countess' visits."

"Certainly," replied Josepha, lost in thought--"when I think how it used to be--and how things are now!"

Wildenau glanced around the room, then said softly: "And the little son--he is dead."

Josepha stared at him in terror. "Do you know that?"

"I know all. My cousin has his picture in her boudoir, a splendid child."

Josepha's poor feverish brain was growing more and more confused. The tears she had scarcely conquered flowed again. "Yes, wasn't he--and to let such a child die without troubling herself about him!"

"It is inexcusable," said Wildenau.

"If the countess ever speaks of it again, tell her that Josepha loved it far more than she, for she followed it to the grave while the mother enjoyed her life--she must be ashamed then."

"I will tell her. It is a pity about the beautiful child--was it not like an Infant Christ?"

"Indeed it was--and now I know what picture you mean. In Jerusalem, where the child was christened, a copy as they called it of the Infant Christ hung in the chapel over the baptismal font. The countess afterwards bought the picture on account of its resemblance to the boy."

"I suppose it resembles Herr Freyer, too?" the baron remarked carelessly.

"Somewhat, but the mother more!"

Baron Wildenau began to find the room too warm--and went to the window a moment to get the air, while his companion, horrified by these disclosures, shook his head. He would gladly have told the deluded woman that they had only learned the child's death from a wood-cutter whom they met in the forest--but he dared not "contradict" his cousin.

After a pause, Wildenau again turned to Josepha. He saw that there was danger in delay, for at any moment the fever might increase to such a degree that she would begin to rave and no longer be capable of making a deposition: The truth must be discovered, now or never! He felt, however, that Josepha's was no base nature which could be led to betray her employer by ordinary means. Caution and reflection were necessary.

"I am really touched by your fidelity to my cousin. Any one who can claim such a nature is fortunate. I thank you in her name."

He held out his hand. But she replied with her usual blunt honesty: "I don't deserve your thanks, sir. I have not remained here for the sake of the countess, but on account of the child and my unfortunate cousin.

She has been kind to me--but--if I should see her to-day, I would tell her openly that I would never forgive her treatment of the child and Joseph--no matter what she did. The child is dead and my cousin will die too. Thank Heaven, I shall not live to witness it."

"I understand you perfectly--oh, I know my cousin. And--my poor dear Fraulein Josepha--I may call you Fraulein now, may I not, since you are no longer obliged to pa.s.s for the child's mother?--it was an unprecedented sacrifice for you--! Alas! My dear Fraulein, you and your cousin must be prepared to fare still worse, to be entirely forgotten, for I can positively a.s.sure you that the countess is about to wed the Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim."

"What?" Josepha shrieked loudly.