When Frederick came to his senses he found himself in his chamber,
seated on the same sofa of Utrecht brocade which he had watered with his
tears two hours before. On the table before him lay the fiddle which he
had dashed to atoms against the corner of the chimney. On seeing the
object of his affection, the enraptured musician, the rival of Castero,
rushed towards it with a cry of joyful surprise. He took the instrument
in his hands--he devoured it with his eyes, and then, at the summit of
his felicity, he clasped it to his bosom. The instrument was perfectly
uninjured, without even a mark of the absurd injustice of its owner. Not
a crack, not a fissure, only the two gracefully shaped Sec. Sec. to give vent
to the double stream of sound. But is he not the victim of some
trick--has no other fiddle been substituted for the broken Straduarius?
No!--'tis his own well-known fiddle, outside and in--the same delicate
proportions, the same elegant neck, and the same swelling rotundity of
contour that might have made it a model for the Praxiteles of violins.
He placed the instrument against his shoulder and seized the bow. But
all of a sudden he paused--a cold perspiration bedewed his face--his
limbs could scarcely support him. What if the proof deceives him. What
if--; but incertitude was intolerable, and he passed the bow over the
strings. Oh blessedness! Frederick recognized the unequalled tones of
his instrument--he recognized its voice, so clear, so melting, and yet
so thrilling and profound,
"The charm is done,
Life to the dead returns at last,
And to the corpse a soul has past."
Now, then, with his fiddle once more restored to him, with love in his
heart, and hatred also lending its invigorating energies, he felt that
the future was still before him, and that Castero should pay dearly for
his triumph of the former day.
When these transports had a little subsided, Frederick could reflect on
the causes which gave this new turn to his thoughts. The defeat he had
sustained--his insane anger against his Straduarius--his attempt at
suicide--his meeting with the stranger, and his extraordinary
disappearance amidst the waves of the lake.
But, with the exception of the first of these incidents, had any of them
really happened? He could not believe it. Was it not rather the sport of
a deceitful dream? His fiddle--he held it in his hands--he never _could_
have broken it. In fact, the beginning of it all was his despair at
being beaten, and he was indebted to his excited imagination for the
rest--the suicide, the lake, and the mysterious Unknown.
"That must be it," he cried at last, delighted at finding a solution to
the mystery, and walking joyously up and down his chamber. "I have had a
horrible dream--a dream with my eyes open; that is all."
Two gentle taps at the door made him start; but the visitor was only one
of the brewery boys, who gave him a letter from the burgomaster.
"Yoran, did you see me go out about two hours ago?" asked Frederick
anxiously.
"No, meinheer," said the boy.
"And you did not see me come in?"
"No, meinheer."
"That's all right," said the youth, signing for Yoran to retire. "Now,
then," he said, "there can be no doubt whatever that it was all a
dream." Opening the burgomaster's letter, he ran through it in haste.
The first magistrate of Haarlem informed Frederick Katwingen that he had
an important communication to make to him, and requested him to come to
his house.
The musician again placed his lips on his instrument, and again pressed
it gratefully to his heart; and then placed it with the utmost care
within its beautiful case, which he covered with a rich cloth. Locking
the case, and looking at it as a mother might look at the cradle of her
new-born baby, he betook himself to the mansion of Jansen Pyl.
That stately gentleman was luxuriously reposing in an immense armchair,
covered with Hungary leather. His two elbows rested on the arms and
enabled him to support in his hands the largest, the reddest, the
fattest face that had ever ornamented the configuration of a Dutch
functionary before. Mr Jansen Pyl wore at that moment the radiant look
of satisfaction which only a magistrate can assume who feels conscious
that he is in the full sunshine of the approbation of his sovereign. His
whole manner betrayed it--the smile upon his lip, the fidgety motion of
his feet, and the look which he darted from time to time around the
room, as if to satisfy himself that his happiness was "not a sham but a
reality." But his happiness seemed far from contagious. On his right
hand there was a lovely creature, seated on a footstool, who did not
partake his enjoyment. There was something so sweet and so harmonious in
her expression, that you felt sure at once she was as good as she was
beautiful. There was poetry also in her dejected attitude, and in the
long lashes that shadowed her blue eyes; nor was the charm diminished by
the marble neck bent lowly down, and covered with long flowing locks of
the richest brown. And the poetry was, perhaps, increased by the
contrast offered by the sorrowing countenance of the girl to the radiant
visage of the plethoric individual in the chair. Whilst the ambitious
thoughts of the burgomaster rose to the regions inhabited by the
Stadtholder, the poor girl's miserable reflections returned upon
herself. Her eyes were dimmed with tears. It was easy to see that that
had long been their occupation, and that some secret sorrow preyed upon
the repose of the fair maid of Haarlem.
It was Maina, the betrothed of Frederick. On the left of the
burgomaster, negligently leaning on the back of the magistrate's chair,
was a man still young in years, but so wrinkled and careworn, from study
or bad health, that he might have passed for old. The man's expression
was cold and severe; his look proud and fiery; his language rough and
harsh. On analysing his features you could easily make out that he had
prodigious powers of mind, a character imperious and jealous, and such
indomitable pride that he might do a mischief to any rival who might be
bold enough to cross his path.
Now, we are aware of one at least who ran the risk; for the man was
Laurentius Castero. Frederick Katwingen started back on entering the
burgomaster's room. His eye encountered the glance of Castero, and in
the look then interchanged, they felt that they were enemies between
whom no reconciliation could take place. From Laurentius, Frederick
turned his eye to Maina. The sorrowful attitude of the maiden would have
revealed to him all that had happened, if the self-satisfied look of his
rival had left any thing to be learned. The conqueror brow-beat the
vanquished.
"Mr Katwingen," said the burgomaster, deliberately weighing every word,
"you are aware of the high compliment paid by the Stadtholder to our
city."
"My dream comes true," thought Frederick as he bowed affirmatively to
the magistrate's enquiry.
"And you are also aware," pursued the burgomaster, "of the Stadtholder's
wishes as far as you are personally concerned?"
Frederick bowed again.
"Thanks to my humble supplications," continued Jansen Pyl, raising his
enormous head with an air of dignity, "our gracious governor has
condescended to honour our good town with his august presence for
twenty-four hours longer. But what ought to fill you with eternal
gratitude is this: that he has determined to hear you a second time when
he returns to-morrow from inspecting the works at Shravnag. I hope you
will redouble your efforts, and do all you can to please your
illustrious auditor; and, if any thing is required to stimulate your
ambition, and add to your endeavours to excel, I will add this--the hand
of Maina will be bestowed on the conqueror at this second trial."
"But, father!----" said the maiden.
"It is all settled," interrupted the burgomaster, looking astonished at
the girl's audacity; "you are the reward I offer to the protege of the
Stadtholder. You hear what I say, gentlemen?" he added, turning to the
rivals.
"I shall certainly not miss the appointment," said Castero, throwing
back his head proudly. "If to-morrow is not as glorious to me as to-day
has been, I will break my violin, and never touch a bow again as long as
I live."
"As for me," said Frederick, "if I do not make up for the check I
unluckily met to-day by a glorious victory, I swear I will renounce the
flattering name my countrymen have given me, and will hide my shame in
some foreign land. The Orpheus of his country must have no rival of his
fame."
"To-morrow, then," said the burgomaster.
"To-morrow!" repeated the rivals, casting on each other looks of proud
defiance.
"To-morrow!" whispered Maina and buried her face in her hands.