When she left, she kissed Mamselle Marie and asked her to come to Borg.
Mamselle Marie’s heart was as empty as the swallow’s-nest at Christmas. She was free, but she sighed for chains like a slave freed in his old age.
Now there began again for Mamselle Marie a time of joy and a time of sorrow; but it did not last long,—only one short week.
The countess sent for her continually to come to Borg. She played her comedy for her and told about all her lovers, and Mamselle Marie laughed as she had never laughed before. They became the best of friends. The countess soon knew all about the young organ-builder and about the parting. And in the twilight she made Mamselle Marie sit on the window-seat in the little blue cabinet. Then she hung the guitar ribbon round her neck and got her to sing love-songs. And the countess sat and watched how the old maid’s dry, thin figure and little plain head were outlined against the red evening sky, and she said that the poor old Mamselle was like a languishing maiden of the Middle Ages. All the songs were of tender shepherds and cruel shepherdesses, and Mamselle Marie’s voice was the thinnest voice in the world, and it is easy to understand how the countess was amused at such a comedy.
There was a party at Borg, as was natural, when the count’s mother had come home. And it was gay as always. There were not so many there, only the members of the parish being invited.
The dining-room was on the lower floor, and after supper it so happened that the guests did not go upstairs again, but sat in Countess Märta’s room, which lay beyond. The countess got hold of Mamselle Marie’s guitar and began to sing for the company. She was a merry person, Countess Märta, and she could mimic any one. She now had the idea to mimic Mamselle Marie. She turned up her eyes to heaven and sang in a thin, shrill, child’s voice.
“Oh no, oh no, countess!” begged Mamselle Marie.
But the countess was enjoying herself, and no one could help laughing, although they all thought that it was hard on Mamselle Marie.
The countess took a handful of dried rose-leaves out of a pot-pourri jar, went with tragic gestures up to Mamselle Marie, and sang with deep emotion:—
“Thou goest far from us. Ah! welcome again! Hear the voice of my friendship, which greets thee. Be happy: forget not a true, loving friend Who in Värmland’s forests awaits thee!”