tendency to mysticism, nevertheless, in the shock of
despair that now passed through it, became almost superstitious because
of this repetition of cruelty. But when, months ago, she had combated
and worn out her sorrow, it had been followed by an indifference to any
further suffering that she might yet have to experience in life. The
death of her illusions was a final death; after her betrothal she had as
it were found herself with a new soul, hardened and girt about with
indifference. It was strange that in this indifference the only thing to
which she continued sensible was that exquisiteness in Othomar's
character: his delicacy in sparing her at Altseeborgen, against Oscar's
desire; his wide feeling of universal love for his people; all his
gentle nature and simple sense of duty.... But, however indifferent she
might generally think herself to be, this second incident struck her
cruelly, as though a refinement of fate had chosen the moment for it.
The official journey from Sigismundingen to Altara had been a martyrdom.
Valerie had endured like an automaton the receptions on the frontiers,
the welcome at the Central Station at Altara, with the greeting of her
imperial bridegroom, who had there kissed her, and the addresses of the
authorities, the offering of bread and salt by the canons of the chapter
of St. Ladislas. She had swallowed it, their bread and salt. And then
the drive through the town, gay with bunting and with triumphal arches
erected from street to street, to the Old Palace, in the open landau
with the emperor and her bridegroom, amid the cheering of the populace
which cut her ears and her overexcited nerves as though with sharp-edged
knives! Then, at the palace, it had struck Othomar how like a hunted
fawn she looked, with her frightened eyes. Prince Lohe's death was known
at Altara; and, though the people had cheered, cheered from true
affection for the future crown-princess, they had stared at her because
of that tragedy, curious and eager to see an august anguish shuddering
in the midst of their festivities, hunted through arches of green and
bunting. They had seen nothing. Valerie had bowed, smiled, waved her
hand to them from the balcony of the Old Palace, standing by Othomar's
side! They had seen nothing, nothing, for all their tense expectation.
But then Valerie's strength had come to an end. Her part was played: let
the curtain fall. Othomar left her alone, with a pressure of the hand.
For hours s