Greifenstein was aware of it. Clara's vague absence of mind, which had
formerly been only occasional, was increasing, while her fits of
spasmodic laughter became fewer, till at last whole days passed during
which her features were not disturbed by a single smile. There was
indeed little to laugh at in her home, at the best, but she had laughed
frequently nevertheless, because people had told her long ago that it
was becoming to her style of beauty. But she was growing daily more
silent and abstracted, scarcely speaking at all, and not even
pretending to be amused at anything. Greifenstein watched her for a
week, and then inquired whether she were ill. She thanked him and said
there was nothing the matter, but during some hours after he had asked
the question she made an evident effort to return to her former manner.
The effect was painful in the extreme. Her affected mirth seemed more
hollow than ever, and her words more incoherent. Frau von Sigmundskron
began to fear that Clara was going mad, but the latter was not equal to
sustaining the effort long, and soon relapsed into her former silence.
Her face grew suddenly very old. She moved more slowly. The wrinkles
deepened almost visibly, and she became daily thinner. It was evident
that something was preying upon her, and that the mental suffering was
reacting upon her body.

Greifenstein said nothing more, and he told no one what he thought. If
his cousin had not suggested to him that Clara must know the story, he
would have supposed that she was ill, and would have sent for a
physician. It would never have entered his mind that she could have
understood all that the proclamation of the amnesty meant to him. He
would have supposed it a coincidence that she should have been first
affected by the malady on that particular day. But the baroness's
remark had had the effect of fixing in his mind what had immediately
preceded it. He remembered how his wife had suddenly taken advantage of