"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows
some things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on
me with dignity, almost with displeasure.
"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she
said. "We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only
his silence."
"Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we
have?"
"His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my
presumption lay in her calling me "my lord," for, save on formal
occasions, she always used to call me Fritz.
"His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In truth, madam--"
"He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's right."
"No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. "The count will keep
his word, given to me."
Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but
then he turned to me, and said in a low tone:
"By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve her in everything--"
"My lord," said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, "you
lighten the burden on me no less by your help than because I no
longer feel your honor stained through me. Come, we will go to
the palace." And she went to him, saying, "We will go together.
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