y
to bestow upon his disappointing offspring. This was in Eberhard Ludwig's
mind as his eyes rested absently upon the street opening whither had
vanished the erect little form of Joseph Suess--'preux chevalier,' as the
Duke had dubbed him. The summer storm had passed, leaving a delicious
freshness in the air and a fragrance which penetrated from the gardens to
the Duke. Eberhard Ludwig stood waiting near the entrance to the narrow
street or gangway, where the overhanging roofs dripped large splashing
drops upon the unpaved earth below. Now that realisation was in all
probability so near, his wild desire for Wilhelmine seemed to have
passed; a curious anxiety had taken its place. How strange, the Duke
reflected, that loss or absence should enhance the value of the beloved.
He tried to conjure up his agony of longing for his mistress. What mad
rapture, could he have clasped her at the moment of tremendous desire
which had been his half an hour earlier in the castle garden! Are we
really only children crying for the moon? and if the moon were given to
us, should we but throw it away into the nearest ditch--merely another
broken toy? he thought. These moods of Eberhard Ludwig's were frequent.
Like all poets, he had a vein of melancholy, a tendency to indulge
himself in a half-sensuous sadness, and these dreamings of his, which had
never been received with ought save uncomprehending impatience by the
Duchess, Wilhelmine had known so well how to assuage--not entirely to
dissipate, for she would have robbed him of a certain joy had she done
so; but she humoured him, understood him, wandered with him in the paths
of his enchanted melancholy, then suddenly brought him back to gaiety by
some witty word, some tender pleasantry. It was part of her immense power
over him, and indeed, it was no thing of the senses, but rather her
womanly genius, her innate knowledge of loving. As he stood awaiting her,
his heart cried for her; he was no longer stirred by physical desire,
but he craved the consolation of her presence as a child wearies for its
mother's love. Indeed, in most passions which have outlasted the flash of
sheer animal attraction, there has ever been that touch of mother-love in
the affection given by the woman to the man. And it is this which
eternally makes the entirely desirable woman older than the man she
loves.

The minutes passed slowly as Eberhard Ludwig stood waiting for some sign
from Wilhelmine. At length his High