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“Herr Berling,” she said, approaching him, “you
have a wonderful faculty for making people forget
who you are. I have not heard till to-day. I have
just been told the story of Ebba Dohna’s death,
and that it was the knowledge that the man she
loved was unworthy of her love which caused her
death. Your poem has shown me that you are the
man. I cannot understand how a man with a past
such as yours dares to show himself in the society
of a decent woman. I cannot understand it, Herr
Berling. Is my meaning sufficiently clear?”
“It is, Countess. I will only say one word in
defence. I was convinced—I have been convinced
all the time that you knew all about me. I have
never tried to hide anything, but there is no
pleasure in shouting out one’s bitterest griefs from the
housetops—least of all to do it one’s self.”
And he left them.
At the same moment Countess Dohna set her
foot upon the little bouquet of blue anemones.
“You have done what I desired,” said Anna
Stjärnhök to her in a hard voice; “but this is the
end of our friendship. You need not think I will
forgive you for having been cruel to him. You have
dismissed him, scorned and hurt him, and I—I
would follow him to prison, to the pillory if need
be. I will guard and defend him. You have done
what I desired, but I shall never forgive you.”
“But, Anna, Anna!”
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