In the daytime a profound stillness as of the grave reigned around

Edgar's room, but in the night he often thought he heard in the

distance the echo of soft footfalls, the hollow murmur of many voices

together, the opening and shutting of doors, the clatter of weapons.

Some subterranean action seemed to be going on during the hours

of sleep. Edgar questioned the Franciscan, who only--and that

rarely--quitted him for an instant or two, tending him with the most

unwearied care. But the Franciscan was of opinion that as soon as Edgar

was well he would hear from Don Rafaele what it was that was going on.

And this was so. For when Edgar was well enough to leave his bed, Don

Rafaele came one night with a lighted torch and begged Edgar to dress

and follow him with Father Eusebio, which was the name of the

Franciscan, his doctor and nurse.

Don Rafaele led him through a long and rather narrow passage till they

came to a closed door, which was opened on Don Rafaele's knocking.

How amazed was Edgar to find himself in a spacious vaulted chamber

brilliantly lighted, in which there was a numerous assemblage of

persons for the most part of wild, dirty, sullen appearance. In the

middle stood a man who, though dressed like the commonest peasant, with

wild hair and all the marks of a homeless, nomadic life, had in all his

bearing something of the dauntless and the awe-aspiring. The features

of his face were noble, and from his eyes flashed a warlike fire which

bespoke the hero. To him Don Rafaele conducted his friend, announcing

him as the brave young German whom he had rescued from the enemy, and

who was prepared to take part in the grand contest for the freedom of

Spain. Then Don Rafaele, turning to Edgar, said, "You are here in the

heart of Valenzia, which is besieged by our enemies--the hearth on

which burns for ever that fire whose unquenchable flame, ever blazing

up with renewed vigour, is destined to destroy our accursed foe when

the moment comes when, misled by his fallacious successes, he shall

surpass himself in defiant arrogance. You are here in the subterranean

vaults of the Franciscan Monastery. Along a hundred bye-paths unknown

to betrayers the chiefs of the brave make their way to this spot, and

hence, as from a focus, they dart in all directions rays which carry

death and destruction to foreigners. Don Edgar, we look upon you as one

of ourselves. Take your part in the glory of our undertakings."

Empecinado (for the man dressed as a peasant was none other than the

renowned Guerilla chieftain)--Empecinado, whose fearless daring formed

the theme of many a popular tale amounting to the miraculous--who set

at defiance all the efforts of the enemy, like some incarnation of the

spirit of vengeance, who when he had vanished without a trace would

suddenly burst forth with redoubled force--who at the very moment when

the enemy announced the utter annihilation of his bands would suddenly

appear at the very gates of Madrid, placing the Pretender's life in

danger--this Empecinado took Edgar by the hand, addressing him in

enthusiastic words.

At this point in the proceedings a young man was brought in bound. His

face, of deathly pallor, wore all the signs of hopeless despair; he was

trembling, and appeared to find it difficult to stand upright when

placed in the presence of Empecinado. The latter pierced him through

and through with his glance of fire, and at length spoke to him, in a

tone of the most appalling calmness. "Antonio," he said, "you are in

league with the enemy. You have several times had interviews with

Souchet, at unusual hours. You endeavoured to hand over, by treachery,

our Place d'Armes at Cuença."--"It is so," answered Antonio, with a

terrible sigh, not raising his bowed-down head. "Is it possible," cried

Empecinado, breaking out into the wildest anger, "is it possible that

you are a Spaniard--that the blood of your ancestors runs in your

veins? Was not your mother Virtue personified? Would not the slightest

suspicion that she was capable of betraying the honour of her house be

an atrocious outrage? But for this I should believe you to be a bastard

sprung from the most despicable race on earth. You have merited death.

Prepare yourself to die."

Antonio threw himself at Empecinado's feet in anguish and despair,

crying, "Uncle! uncle! do you not know that all the furies of hell are

rending my breast. There are times--often--when the subtlety of Satan

can bring anything to pass. Yes, uncle, I am a Spaniard. Let me prove

it. Be merciful. Grant that I may blot out the disgrace which the most

abominable arts of hell have brought upon me--that I may appear to you

and to the Brethren purified from my offence. You understand me, uncle?

You know the reason of my so imploring you!"

Empecinado seemed somewhat moved by the young man's entreaties. He

raised him, and said gently, "Your repentance is sincere. You are right

in saying that the cunning of Satan is able to accomplish much. I know

the reason of your entreaty. I pardon you. Son of my dear sister, come

to my heart!" Empecinado with his own hands untied his bonds, embraced

him, and at once handed to him the dagger from his own girdle. "My

thanks," the young man cried. He kissed Empecinado's hands, bedewing

them with his tears, then he raised his eyes to heaven in prayer, and

drove the dagger deep into his heart, falling dead without a sound.

This occurrence so shook the invalid Edgar that he nearly fainted.

Father Eusebio took him back to his chamber.

Some weeks afterwards Don Rafaele Marchez considered that it was safe

for him to liberate his friend from the prison in which he could not

recover his health. He took him, in the night, up to a room which had

windows looking out upon an unfrequented street, and warned him not to

cross the threshold--at all events in the daytime, by reason that the

French were quartered in the house.

Edgar could not explain to himself the irresistible desire which one

day seized him to go out into the corridor. At the very instant that he

did so the door of the room opposite opened, and a French officer came

out meeting him.

"Why how came _you_ here, friend Edgar!" cried the Frenchman. "Welcome

a thousand times!" Edgar had at once recognized him as Colonel la Combe

of the Imperial Guard. Chance had brought this Colonel, just at the

time of Germany's terrible degradation, to his uncle's house, where he

himself was living, having had to abandon his military career. La Combe

came from the south of France. Through the tenderness (by no means a

common characteristic of his nation) with which he dealt with those

who were so bitterly tried, he succeeded in overcoming the deep

dislike--nay, the irreconcilable hatred, which was so firmly rooted in

Edgar's soul against the arrogant foe, and finally, by virtue of

certain traits of character, which placed beyond all doubt the true

nobility of la Combe's nature, in gaming his friendship.

"Edgar," cried the Colonel, "what has brought _you_ to Valenzia?"

It may be imagined how sorely the question embarrassed Edgar. He could

make no reply. The Colonel gazed at him gravely, and said in a serious

tone. "Ah, I understand. You have given the rein to your animosity--you

have drawn your sword for the imagined freedom of a nation of madmen,

and I cannot blame you for it. I should be forming a very poor opinion

of your friendship if I could suppose you capable of imagining that I

could betray you. No, my friend; now that I have found you, you are in

absolute safety for the first time. From this moment you shall be

nobody but the commercial traveller of a German house of business in

Marseilles, an old acquaintance of mine. So no more about that." Much

as it distressed Edgar, la Combe did not rest until he quitted his

hermitage, and shared with him the better quarters provided for him by

Don Rafaele.

Edgar hastened to acquaint the suspicious Spaniard with all the

circumstances of the case, and his previous relations with la Combe.

Don Rafaele restricted himself to the answer, delivered in a grave and

dry manner--

"Really; that is a very curious chance indeed!"

The Colonel sympathized keenly with Edgar's position. At the same time

he could not divest himself of the characteristic temper of his nation,

which sees in liveliness of movement, and the eager pursuit of

pleasure, the best means of healing a wounded heart. Thus it happened

that the Colonel walked arm in arm with the Marseilles commercial

traveller in the Alameda, and drew him into the wild amusements of his

light-hearted comrades.

Edgar noticed, clearly enough, that many strange forms dogged him

about, watching him with suspicious looks; and it went deeply to his

heart when, one day on entering a Posada with the Colonel, he heard

distinctly behind him a whisper of "Acqui esta el traïdor!" ("That is

the traitor.")

Don Rafaele grew daily more cold and monosyllabic towards Edgar, and at

last he saw him no more, and was given to understand by him that,

instead of taking his meals with him, he should take them with Colonel

la Combe.

One day, when duty had called the Colonel elsewhere, and Edgar was

alone, there came a gentle knock at his door, and Father Eusebio

entered. He made enquiry after Edgar's welfare, and talked on all kinds

of indifferent subjects, but presently came to a pause, and after

looking fixedly into Edgar's eyes, cried with much emotion--

"No, Don Edgar, _you_ are not a traitor. It is in human nature that, in

that waking dream which constitutes the delirium of fever--when the

forces of life are in bitter combat with man's earthly envelope, and

the strong tension of the fibres cannot hem in the thoughts and fancies

which strive for utterance--it is, I say, in human nature that a man

can then no longer help revealing phases of his being which are secret

at other times. How often have I, Don Edgar, watched by your pillow

during long nights? How often have you, all unknowing, allowed me to

read the very depths of your soul? No, Don Edgar, it is impossible that

you can be a traitor. But have a care of yourself--have a care of

yourself!"

Edgar implored Eusebio to tell him clearly what he was suspected of,

and what danger was threatening him.

"I will not conceal from you," said Eusebio, "that your intimacy with

Colonel la Combe and his companions has caused suspicion to rest upon

you--that fears are entertained that you might, from no evil intention,

but out of mere lightheartedness, on some occasion when you may have

taken more of our strong Spanish wines than was advisable, perhaps

divulge some of the secrets of this house, into which Don Rafaele has

initiated you. There is no doubt that you are in a certain amount of

danger."

"But," continued Eusebio, after having maintained a thoughtful silence,

with downcast eyes, for a time, "there _is_ one way of escaping all

risk. You have only to throw yourself into the arms of the Frenchmen.

They will get you out of Valenzia."

"What are you talking about?" Edgar burst out. "Sooner death without

reproach, than escape coupled with miserable disgrace."

"Don Edgar," cried the monk with enthusiasm, "you _are_ no traitor!" He

strained Edgar to his heart, and left the chamber with his eyes full of

tears.

That night Edgar, happening to be alone (the Colonel chancing to be

from home), heard steps approaching, and Don Rafaele's voice calling,

"Open your door, Don Edgar." On opening it he saw Don Rafaele with a

torch in his hand, and Father Eusebio behind him. Don Rafaele begged

Edgar to accompany him, he having to attend an important meeting in the

vault of the Franciscan monastery.

As they were passing along the subterranean passage, Don Rafaele being

in advance with the lighted torch, Eusebio whispered softly in his ear,

"Oh, God, Don Edgar! you are going to your death! There is no escape

possible for you now."

Edgar had ventured his life in many a fight with brave

lightheartedness; but here all the anxiousness, the uncertainty of the

manner of his assassination, could not but weigh heavily upon him, so

that Eusebio had some difficulty in supporting him. And yet, as the way

was still long, he managed to acquire a measure of self-control which

enabled him not only to command himself, but to resolve upon the line

of conduct which he should adopt in these circumstances. "When the door

of the vault opened, Edgar saw the terrible Empecinado, with rage and

fury flashing from his eyes. Behind him were standing several Guerillas

and one or two Franciscan friars. Having now quite recovered his calm

courage, Edgar walked firmly and fearlessly up to the Guerilla chief,

and, addressing him gravely and quietly, said--

"It happens very fortunately that I am brought face to face with you

to-day, Don Empecinado. I have been anxious to make a request to Don

Rafaele, and now I have the opportunity of laying it before yourself.

As Father Eusebio, my doctor and faithful guardian, will testify, I

have now quite recovered. I am well and strong, and find it impossible

to bear the tedious idleness of life among enemies whom I detest. I

therefore beseech you, Don Empecinado, let me be taken and placed upon

those secret paths known to you, that I may join your bands, and be

engaged in enterprises for which my soul yearns."

"H'm!" said Empecinado, in a tone approaching mockery. "Do _you_ then

hold with the crack-brained populace, who prefer death to doing homage

to the Grand Nation? Have not your friends taught you better?"

"Don Empecinado," said Edgar, "you do not understand the German mode of

looking at matters. It is not known to you that German courage, which

burns on for ever inextinguishably, like a pure naphtha flame, and

German faithfulness, firm as the primeval rock, form the most

impenetrable coat of mail, from which all the poisoned darts of

treachery and wickedness fall back harmlessly. I beg you once more, Don

Empecinado, to let me go out into the open country, that I may prove

myself deserving of the good opinion which I believe myself to have

already earned."

Empecinado looked at Edgar in amazement, whilst a low murmur circulated

amongst the assemblage. Don Rafaele moved forward to speak to

Empecinado, but he motioned him back, and going to Edgar, took his hand

and said with emotion--

"Another fate was in store for you. You had another destiny reserved

for you to-day. However, Don Edgar, think of your own country. The

enemies who have covered it with shame are here to-day before you.

Remember that your German peoples, too, will raise their eyes to the

Phoenix which will soar, with shining plumage, from the flames which

are kindling here, and their despair give place to warm longing, the

parent of dauntless courage, of battle to the very death!"

"I thought of all this," said Edgar, "before I left my own country, to

shed my blood for your freedom. All my being dissolved itself into lust

for vengeance, when Don Baldassare di Luna lay dying in my arms."

"If you are serious in this," cried Empecinado, as one suddenly

breaking into fury, "you must set forth this very night, this very

moment. You must not enter Don Rafaele's house again." Edgar declared

that this was precisely what he desired, and was immediately conducted

away by a man named Isidor Mirr (who afterwards became a guerilla

chief), and Father Eusebio.

As they went the good Eusebio could not sufficiently express his

delight at Edgar's escape.

"Heaven!" he said, "seeing your goodness put courage into your heart--a

divine miracle, in my belief."

It was much closer to Valenzia than he expected, or than the enemy

probably were aware, that Edgar met the first troop of Guerillas, and

to it he attached himself.

I pass over in silence Edgar's warlike adventures, which often might

sound as if taken from some book of knightly fables, and I come to the

time when he unexpectedly encountered Don Rafaele Marchez among the

Guerillas.

"You really had great injustice done to you, Don Edgar," said Don

Rafaele. Edgar turned his back upon him.

When morning broke, Don Rafaele got into a state of anxiety which grew

every instant till it attained a pitch of the most intense anguish. He

ran up and down, sighed, clasped his hands, raised them to heaven, and

prayed.

"What is the matter with the old fellow?" Edgar enquired.

"He has managed," said Isidor Mirr, "to get safe out of Valenzia

himself, and to save the best of his belongings, and get them loaded up

upon mules. He has been expecting them all night, and has every reason

to anticipate evil."

Edgar marvelled at Don Rafaele's avarice, which seemed to render him

oblivious of everything besides. It was midnight; the moon was shining

brightly among the hills; when musketry fire was heard from the ravine

beneath, and presently some rather seriously wounded Guerillas came

limping up, reporting that the troop which was escorting Don Rafaele's

mules had been unexpectedly attacked by some French Chasseurs, that

nearly all their comrades had fallen, and the mules been captured by

the enemy.

"Great heavens, my child--my poor, unfortunate child," Don Rafaele

cried, and sank to the ground.

"What is the matter here?" cried Edgar loudly. "Come on, come on,

brethren, down into the glen, to avenge our comrades, and snatch the

booty from the teeth of these pigs."

"The good German is right," cried Isidor Mirr. "The good German is

right," re-echoed all around, and away they rushed down into the ravine

like a bursting thunderstorm.

There were only a few Guerillas left, and they were fighting with the

courage of despair. With a cry of "Valenzia," Edgar rushed into the

thickest mass of the enemy, and with the death-announcing roar of

thirsting tigers the Guerillas dashed after him, planted their daggers

in the breasts of the foemen, and felled them with the butts of their

muskets. Well-directed bullets hit them in their headlong flight. These

were the Valenzia men who had overtaken General Moncey's Cuirassiers in

their march, dashed upon their flank, cut them down before they

gathered how they were situated, and retired into their lurking-places

masters of the arms and horses.

All this was over and done when Edgar heard a piercing scream from the

densest part of the thicket. He made haste to the spot, and found a

little man struggling with a Frenchman, and holding the bridle of the

mule he was in charge of in his teeth. Just as Edgar came on the scene

the Frenchman struck down the little man with a dagger, which he seemed

to have taken from him, and was trying to drive the mule further into

the thicket. Edgar gave a loud shout; the Frenchman fired at him,

missed him, and Edgar ran him through with his bayonet. The little

fellow was whimpering. Edgar raised him up, undid with some difficulty

the bridle, which he had been convulsively biting, and noticed for the

first time as he was helping him on to the mule that there was a

shrouded form upon it already clinging to the creature's neck with its

arms, and softly lamenting. Behind this girl, for such, judging by her

voice, was the shrouded form, Edgar deposited the little wounded man,

took the mule by the bridle, and thus made his way back to the little

Place d'Armes, where, as no more of the enemy was visible, Isidor Mirr

and his men had again taken up their positions.

The little man, who had fainted from loss of blood, though his wounds

did not seem to be dangerous, and the girl, were lifted from the mule.

At this moment Don Rafaele in a state of the most wild excitement

darted forward with cries of "My child, my sweet child!" and was in the

act to clasp the young creature, who did not seem to be more than about

eight or ten in years, in his arms, when, suddenly seeing the bright

torchlight shining on Edgar's face, he threw himself at his feet,

crying, "Oh Don Edgar, Don Edgar! this knee has never bent to mortal

man till now; but you are no mortal--you are an angel of light sent to

save me from deadly anxiety and inconsolable despair! Oh, Don Edgar,

fiendish mistrust was deeply rooted in my bosom, ever brooding upon

evil. It was an undertaking deserving the bitterest execration to plan

the destruction of one such as you with your true heart all honour

and valour---to devote you to a shameful death. Strike me down, Don

Edgar--execute a bloody vengeance upon me, vile wretch that I am! Never

can you forgive what I have done."

Edgar, fully conscious that he had done nothing more than his duty and

honour demanded of him, was pained by Don Rafaele's behaviour, and

tried by all means to calm and silence him, at length with difficulty

succeeding.

Don Rafaele said Colonel la Combe had been greatly distressed at

Edgar's disappearance, and suspecting foul play, he had been on the

point of ransacking the house and having him, Don Rafaele, arrested.

This was why it had been necessary for him to escape, and it had been

entirely owing to the Franciscan's help that he had been able to bring

away his daughter, his servant, and many things which he required.

Meanwhile the wounded servant and Don Rafaele's daughter had been taken

on some distance in advance, whilst Don Rafaele, too old to share in

the exploits of the Guerillas, was to follow them. At his sorrowful

parting with Edgar he gave him a certain talisman, which brought him

deliverance in many a serious danger.

Here Euchar ended his story, which had been listened to by the company

with the keenest interest.

The Poet, who had got over his coughing fit and returned to the room,

expressed the opinion that in Edgar's Spanish adventures there was fine

material for a tragedy, all that he thought wanting being a due spice

of love-making and an effective _finale_, such as a striking case of

insanity, a good apoplexy, or something of the kind.

"Oh, yes, love," said a young lady blushing at her own temerity. "The

only thing your delightful story wanted was some charmingly interesting

love affair!"

"Dear Lady," said Euchar laughing, "I was not telling you the story of

a novel, but the adventures of my friend Edgar. His life amongst the

wild Spanish mountains was unfortunately poor in experiences of that

kind."

"I have a strong belief," said Victorine in a low tone, "that I know

this same Edgar, who has remained in poverty, because he has despised

the most precious of gifts."

But no one's enthusiasm equalled that of Ludwig, who cried out most

excitedly, "I know that mysterious Profecia del Pirineo by the glorious

Don Juan Baptista de Arriaza. Oh, it fired my very veins! I wanted to

be off to Spain to fight for that glorious cause--had it only been

comprehended in the system of the mutual interdependence of things. I

can quite put myself in Edgar's place. How I should have spoken to that

terrible Empecinado in that awful situation in the Franciscan

monastery!" And he began a harangue, which was so pathetic that

everybody was astonished, and could not sufficiently marvel at his

brave and heroic resolution.

"But it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things," said

the lady of the house, "although, perhaps, it does form a part of that

interdependence--or, at all events, fits into it--that, as it happens,

I have provided an entertainment for my visitors which forms a suitable

pendant to Euchar's story."

The doors opened, and Emanuela came in followed by the stunted little

Biagio Cubas with his guitar in his hands, making all manner of quaint

obeisances and salutations. But Emanuela, with that indescribable charm

of manner which had so fascinated Euchar and Ludwig in the Park, came

into the circle curtseying, and said in a gentle voice that she was

going to exhibit a little piece of skilfulness, which would not have

much to recommend it except its being a little out of the common.

During the short time which had elapsed since our two friends had seen

the girl she seemed to have grown taller, more beautiful, and more

developed in figure--moreover, she was admirably, almost expensively

dressed. "Now," Ludwig whispered into his friend's ear, as Cubas

with quaint and comical features was getting things ready for the

egg-fandago, "now is your chance to get back your ring."

"My dear goose," said Euchar, "don't you see it is on my finger? I

found I had taken it off along with my glove; I discovered that on the

same evening when I thought I had lost it."

Emanuela's dancing took everybody by storm, no one having ever seen

such a thing before. Euchar kept his gaze fixed upon her earnestly.

Ludwig broke out into exclamations of the utmost rapture. Victorine,

close to whom he was sitting, whispered to him, "Hypocrite! You dare to

pretend to speak of love to me while you are devoted to this brazen

little wretch of a Spanish egg-dancer! Don't dare to look at her again,

sir!"

Ludwig was considerably discomposed on the whole by Victorine's passion

for him, with its tendency to flame out into jealousy without any

rational cause. He said to himself, "I really am one of the luckiest

fellows in the world; but all the same, this sort of thing rather bores

a man."

When she had ended her dance Emanuela took the guitar and began singing

Spanish ballads of cheerful, happy character. Ludwig begged her to sing

that splendid thing which had so greatly delighted Euchar. She at once

began--

"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox," etc.

Her enthusiastic delivery of these lines waxed in fervour as she went

on, her voice swelled into greater power, the chords of the instrument

clanged louder and louder. When she came to the Strophe, which speaks

of the liberation of the Fatherland, she fixed her beaming eyes on

Euchar, a river of tears rushed down her cheeks, and she fell on her

knees. The hostess hurried to her, raised her up, and said, "No more,

no more, sweet darling child," and, taking her to a sofa, kissed her on

the brow and stroked her cheeks.

"She's out of her mind," Victorine whispered excitedly to Ludwig. "You

can't be in love with a mad creature! No, no. Tell me at once--on the

spot--that you can't possibly be in love with a maniac!"

"Good gracious, no! Of course not," Ludwig cried, considerably alarmed.

He found the greatest possible difficulty in properly adapting himself

to the excessively passionate manifestation which Victorine's affection

had taken to displaying.

While the hostess was refreshing Emanuela with sweet wine and biscuits

the valiant little guitarist, Biagio Cubas, who had sunk down in a

corner and was sobbing profusely, was served with a glass of genuine

Xeres, which he drained to the last drop with a gladsome "Donna, viva

hasta mil annos."

It may readily be supposed that the ladies attacked Emanuela with a

string of enquiries as to her country, circumstances, and so forth. The

hostess felt the painfulness of her position too keenly not to so

contrive that the firmly-closed circle should disperse itself into

several subsidiary eddies, in which every one, the piquet players

included, soon began to revolve. The consistorial president considered

the little Spanish girl a delightful, natty little creature; the only

thing was that somehow her dancing got into his own legs and made his

head feel as giddy as if he were waltzing with the devil in person. The

singing struck him as something quite out of the common; it delighted

him immensely.

Count Walther Puck was of quite a different opinion. Of her singing he

thought nothing at all; there was no such thing as a trillo in it all.

But he praised her dancing most warmly, and thought it quite delicious.

He said that his opinion on the subject was of some value, seeing that

at one time he had been as good a performer as the most celebrated

Maîtres de ballet.

"Will you believe me, brother Consistorial-President," he said, "when I

tell you that in my youthful days, when I was a perfect model specimen

of nimbleness and vigour, I used to be able to spring the fiocco and

knock down a tambourine hung up nine feet above the tip of my nose with

my toe! And as for this egg-fandago, why I have often smashed more eggs

in performing that dance than seven hens would lay in four-and-twenty

hours."

"Bless my soul," said the Consistorial-President, "that was doing the

thing in a most stupendous style!"

"Yes," said the Count. "And then I must tell you my good old Cochenille

plays the flageolet really very nicely indeed. And now and then I get

him to play for me in the dressing-room; and then I really give myself

full swing in the dancing line--of course, only there quite in private.

You see what I mean?"

"Of course, of course," answered the Consistorial-President, "I quite

understand."

Meanwhile Emanuela and her companion had disappeared.

As the company were about dispersing the hostess said, "Friend Euchar,

I feel certain that you know a great deal more than you have told us

about your friend Edgar, We should be deeply interested to hear a great

deal more. "What you have told us was only a fragment of it, though it

has so excited and interested us that none of us will sleep a wink to

night. I can't accord you longer time than till to-morrow evening for

satisfying our curiosity. "We must hear more of Don Rafaele, and

Empecinado, and the Guerillas. And if it is possible that Edgar can get

into a love affair, please don't deprive us of the satisfaction of

that."

"That would be delightful!" sounded from all sides; and Euchar had to

promise that he would be present with the matter necessary for the

completing of his story.

As they were going home Ludwig could not say enough on the subject of

Victorine's passion for him, bordering, as it seemed to do, on

insanity. "All the same," he said, "that jealousy of hers has had the

effect of enabling me to read my own heart clearly. And I have read

there that my love for Emanuela is a thing unutterable. I am going to

find her out, declare my passionate adoration for her--and clasp her to

my heart."

"Exactly, my dear child," said Euchar imperturbably. "That is, of

course, the proper thing for you to do."

On the next evening when the company were assembled again _chez Madame

la Présidente_, she told them with much regret that Baron Euchar had

written to say that he was unexpectedly obliged to start immediately on

a journey, and must postpone the continuation of his story till he came

back.

EUCHAR'S RETURN. SCENES IN A TRULY HAPPY MÉNAGE. CONCLUSION OF THE

STORY.

Two years had past away when one morning a handsome carriage well

loaded with baggage drew up at the door of the Golden Angel (principal

hotel in W----), and out of it got a young gentleman, a lady very

closely shrouded in wraps, and an old man. Ludwig happened to be

passing at the time, and naturally he had a look at the arrivals

through his eye-glass. The young gentleman happened to turn round, and

he immediately embraced Ludwig, crying out, "My dear old fellow!"

The latter was not a little astonished to see his old friend Euchar,

for it was he who had got out of the carriage. "My dear fellow," he

said, "who is that terribly muffled-up lady?--and the old gentleman?

And, bless my soul, here comes a fourgon with baggage, and sitting on

the back of it--good gracious, do my eyes deceive me?"

Euchar took Ludwig by the arm, led him a step or two across the street,

and said, "You shall hear all about everything in good time, dear

friend; but, to begin with, how have things been going with you? You

are terribly pale--the fire of your eyes has gone out. To tell you the

honest truth, you look about ten years older than when I saw you last.

Have you been having a bad illness or some serious trouble?"

"Oh, dear no!" answered Ludwig. "Quite the contrary. I believe I am the

very happiest fellow under the sun, for I am living a life of utterly

ideal, Utopian love and bliss. The heavenly Victorine gave me that

exquisite, tender hand of hers--bestowed it, my dear fellow, upon

unworthy me rather more than a year ago! That pretty house which you

see there with its windows shining in the sun is my home, and you must

come there with me this moment and see that earthly paradise of mine.

How delighted my dear wife will be to see you again! Let us give her a

surprise."

Euchar begged for a few minutes time just to change his dress, and

promised to come then at once and see with his own eyes how all things

had worked together for Ludwig's happiness.

Ludwig came to meet his friend at the bottom of the stair, and begged

him to make as little noise as possible in coming up, explaining that

Victorine often suffered terribly from nervous headaches, and had a bad

one just then, which rendered her nervous system so sensitive that she

could hear the very softest footfall in any part of the house, although

her own rooms were in the most distant part of it. Consequently they

two now crept as softly as they could up the stairs, which were thickly

carpeted, into Ludwig's own room. After the heartiest outpourings of

gladness at seeing his old companion again, Ludwig rang the bell, but

immediately cried out, "Oh, Lord, what have I done, wretch that I am!"

putting both his hands before his face. And it was not long before a

snappish creature of a lady's maid came in screeching out to Ludwig in

a horrible, vulgar tone of voice, "Herr Baron, for heaven's sake what

are you doing? You'll kill my lady. She's in spasms now."

"Good gracious! my good Nettie," said Ludwig in a lamentable voice, "I

really forgot all about it. I was so happy. Here is the greatest friend

I have in the world come to see me. We haven't met for years. He's an

old intimate friend of your mistress, too. Go and beg her--implore

her--to let me bring him to her." Ludwig put money into her hand, and

she made her exit with a vixenish "I'll see what I can do."

Euchar, finding himself in presence of a situation which is but too

common in life, and is consequently served up to us _ad nauseam_ in

comedies and novels, had his own particular ideas as to his friend's

domestic happiness. He felt with Ludwig all the painfulness of the

position, and began to talk about indifferent subjects. But Ludwig

would not give in to this, saying that what had been happening to him

since they had been apart had been too remarkable and interesting that

he should delay for a moment to communicate it to Euchar.

"Of course," he began, "you remember that evening when we were all at

Madame Veh's and you told the Story of your friend Edgar's adventures.

And, of course, you remember how Victorine flamed up into jealousy and

showed her heart, which was blazing with passion, without disguise.

Idiot that I was--I fully admit to you that I was an idiot--I fell

desperately in love with that little Spanish dancing girl, and thought

that I could read in her eyes that my love was not without some hope.

Perhaps you noticed that at the finish of her fandango, whim she made

the eggs into a pyramid the apex of that pyramid was directed towards

me. I was sitting just in the centre of the circle behind Madame Veh's

chair. Now could she have expressed more clearly how deep her interest

in me was? I wanted to find the dear little creature out the next

morning, but it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things

that I should succeed in that. I had almost forgotten all about her

when chance----"

"The mutual interdependence of things, you mean," interrupted Euchar.

"Well, well," went on Ludwig. "But, at all events, a few days

afterwards I was going through the Park, and in front of that Café

where you and I saw that little Spanish girl for the first time, out

came the landlady rushing--oh, you have no idea what an interest that

good woman, who got the vinegar and water that day when I hurt my knee,

takes in me still--but that is not to the present purpose--to ask if I

knew what had become of the little Spanish girl and her companion, who

used to come there so often, and of whom nothing had been seen for

several weeks. Next day I took a great deal of trouble to find out

whether she was in the town or not, but it did not lie in the mutual

interdependence of things that I should succeed in this. And my heart

repented of the foolishness it had been so near committing, and turned

back again to the heavenly Victorine. But my crime of infidelity to her

had made such a profound impression upon that super-sensitive

organization of hers that she refused to see me or even to hear my name

mentioned. Good old Cochenille assured me that she had fallen into a

state of absolute melancholia; that she would often cry till the was

almost breathless, and wail in the most pathetic manner, saying 'He is

lost to me. I have lost him for ever.' You may imagine the effect which

all this produced upon me--how I was dissolved in sorrow over this

unfortunate misunderstanding. Cochenille proffered me his aid. He said

he would diplomatically convince the Countess that I was quite an

altered man, never dancing more than four times at the most at balls,

sitting at the theatre staring at the stage in an oblivious manner, and

paying not the smallest attention to my clothes. I sent a flowing

stream of gold pieces into his hands, and in return he gave me fresh

hopes every morning. At last Victorine allowed me to see her again. How

lovely she was! Oh, Victorine, my darling--beautiful, sweetest of

wives--amiability and kindness personified!"

Here Nettchen came in and said that the Baroness was astonished at the

Baron's extraordinary conduct. First he rang the bell as if the house

were on fire, and then he asked her to receive a visitor in the

exceedingly critical state of her health. She most certainly could not

see anybody that day whoever it might be, and begged the strange

gentleman to excuse her. Nettchen looked Euchar straight in the eyes,

scanned him over carefully from head to foot, and left the room.

Ludwig stared before him in silence, and then continued his tale in a

low voice and with bated breath, saying, "You can't imagine the degree

of almost contemptuous coldness with which Victorine received me. If it

hadn't been that her previous outbursts of burning affection had

convinced me that this coldness was merely put on to punish me, I

should really have had my doubts, and should have hesitated. But at

last this counterfeiting got too difficult for her, her behaviour grew

kindlier and kindlier, till all in a moment she gave me her shawl to

carry. And then my triumph was utterly brilliant. I rearranged that

'_seize_' of mine, which had played such an important part in my

destiny, danced it with her in the most heavenly manner, whispered in

her ear--at the proper moment, whilst balancing myself on tiptoe and

placing my arm about her--'Heavenly Countess, I love you unspeakably!

Angel of light, I implore you to be mine.' Victorine smiled into my

eyes; but that did not prevent me from paying the proper visit the next

morning, with the good help of my friend Cochenille, at the fitting

hour, about one o'clock, and making my formal proposal for her hand.

She gazed at me in silence. I threw myself at her feet, seized that

hand which was to be mine, and covered it with glowing kisses. She

allowed me to do this; but I really felt it a good deal, and thought it

was extremely queer, that all the time her eyes were fixed steadfastly

upon nothing that I could discover, staring before her as if she had

been a lifeless image. But at last a great tear or two came to her

eyes. She pressed my hand so vehemently that, as I happened to have a

sore finger, I could scarcely help crying out with the pain of it, rose

from her chair, and left the room with her handkerchief over her face.

I had no doubts as to my good fortune. I hastened to the Count and made

my formal proposal for his daughter.

"'Good. Very good, indeed, my dear Baron,' said the Count, smiling

in the most affable manner. 'But have you given the Countess any

intimation of this? Have you given her any opportunity of inferring it

at all? Are you beloved? I admit that I am foolish enough to take the

greatest possible interest in love matters.'

"I told him what had happened during the 'seize.' His eyes sparkled

with delight. 'That was delicious!' he cried over and over again. 'That

was most delicious, indeed, Herr Baron! Tell me what your "tour"

consisted of, dear Baronetto.' I danced this 'tour' for him, and

remained pausing in the position which I described to you long since.

'Charming; charming, indeed, my angelic friend!' he cried, and ringing

the bell, he shouted, 'Cochenille, Cochenille!'

"When Cochenille came in I had to sing him the music of my 'seize,'

which was composed by myself. 'Get your flageolet, Cochenille,' said

the Count, 'and play what the Baron has been singing.' Cochenille did

so tolerably correctly. I had to dance with the Count, taking the

lady's part, and I should not have believed it of the old gentleman,

while poising himself on his right tiptoe he whispered into my ear,

'Most incomparable of barons, my daughter Victorine is yours.'

"The lovely Victorine behaved rather coyly, as young ladies are apt to

do under such circumstances. She was reserved and silent, formal and

stiff, said neither 'Yes' nor 'No,' and on the whole behaved to me in

such a way that my hopes began to sink again. Besides, it so happened

that I just then, for the first time, found out that on the celebrated

occasion, when I put my arm round the cousin instead of Victorine in

the 'seize,' those two girls had planned this practical joke on purpose

just to make me the victim of a contemptible mystification. I really

was terribly distressed and annoyed, and could almost have cried, to

think that it had formed a part of the mutual interdependence of things

that I should be led about by the nose in this sort of way. But those

doubts were vain. Ere I knew where I was, wholly unexpectedly the

heavenly 'Yes' came trembling from her beautiful lips just when I had

fallen into the deepest dejection. It was only then that I found out

what a constraint Victorine had been putting upon herself before, for

she was now so wildly happy and in such amazing spirits that anything

like this condition had never been seen in her before. No doubt it was

only maidenly coyness that made her refuse to allow me to take her hand

or to kiss it, or to indulge in any kind of innocent little endearment.

Many of my friends did try to put a quantity of absurd nonsense into my

head. But the day before our wedding was destined to drive the last

shadow of doubt from my mind. Early on that morning I hastened to her.

Some papers were lying on her work-table. I glanced at them; they were

in her own handwriting. I began reading. It was a diary. Oh, heavens!

Oh, all ye Gods! Each day's entries gave me fresh proof how dearly,

with what unspeakable fondness Victorine had loved me all along. The

most trifling incidents were recorded, and always there came, 'You do

not comprehend this heart of mine. Cold and unfeeling, must I cast

aside all maidenly reserve in the wildness of my despair, throw myself

at your feet, and tell you that without your love life is only death to

me?' And it went on in this strain. On the night when I fancied myself

so wildly in love with the little Spanish girl she had written, 'All is

lost and done. He loves her; nothing can be, more certain. Mad

creature, don't you know that the eye of the woman who loves is

all-seeing?' Just as I was reading this aloud in came Victorine. I

threw myself at her feet with the diary in my hand, crying, 'No, no; I

never was in love with that strange child. You, you alone, were always

my idol!'

"Victorine fixed a gaze on me, cried out in a screaming sort of tone,

which rings in my ears still, 'Unfortunate fellow, it was not you I

meant,' and rushed from the room. Now could you have imagined that

maidenly coyness would have been capable of being carried so far?"

Here Nettchen came in to enquire on the Baroness's part why the

Baron did not bring the visitor to see her, inasmuch as she had been

expecting him for the last half hour. "A splendid model wife," cried

the Baron with much emotion, "always sacrificing herself to my wishes."

It astonished Euchar not a little to find the Baroness very much

dressed as if for company.

"Here is our dear old Euchar!" the Baron cried. "We have got him back

again." But when Euchar approached and took her hand she was seized

with a violent trembling, and, with a faint cry of "Oh, God," fell back

on her couch fainting.

Euchar could not bear the pain of the situation, and he left the room

as quickly as possible. "Unfortunate fellow," he cried, "it was,

indeed, not you she meant." He understood now the fathomless depth of

misery into which his friend's incredible vanity had plunged him--he

knew now upon whom Victorine's love had been bestowed, and felt himself

strangely moved and touched. He comprehended now, and only now, the

significance of many things which his own simple straightforwardness

had prevented him from seeing before. Now, and only now, he saw through

and through the impassioned Victorine, and could scarcely explain to

himself how he had failed to discover that it was with him she was in

love. The occasions on which her fondness for him had led her to give

expression to it, almost in defiance of all considerations, rose more

clearly before his mental sight, and he distinctly remembered that just

on those very occasions some strange unaccountable antipathy to her had

caused a curious, inexplicable irritation of feeling towards her. This

feeling of angry irritation he now brought to bear upon himself, filled

as he was by the profoundest pity for the poor girl, whose destiny

seemed to have been ruled by such an evil star.

It so happened that on this very evening the self-same party to which

Euchar had told the story of Edgar's adventures in Spain, two years

previously, were assembled at Madame Veh's. He was greeted with the

greatest warmth, but an electric thrill went through him when he saw

Victorine, as he had not thought he would meet her there. There was no

trace of illness about her. Her eyes shone as brilliantly as of old,

and a carefully-chosen costume of great tastefulness enhanced her

loveliness and charm. Euchar, distressed by her presence, was depressed

and put out, contrary to his usual wont. Victorine so managed matters

as to be able to approach him, and suddenly seizing his hand, drew him

aside, saying gravely and calmly--

"You know my husband's pet theory of the mutual interdependence of

things? I believe what constitutes the real 'mutual interdependence of

things' in our lives to be the follies which we commit, repent of, and

commit again and again. So that our lives appear to consist of a

process of being wildly hunted hither and thither by a species of

enchantment beyond our control, which drives us on before it till it

mocks and dashes us into death. I know all, Euchar; I know whom I am

going to see this evening. It was not you who brought those bitter,

hopeless sorrows upon me; not you, but an evil fate. The demon was laid

and vanished at the moment when I saw you again. May peace and rest be

upon us, Euchar."

"Yes, Victorine," Euchar answered, "may rest and peace be upon us.

However miscomprehended a life may be, the Eternal Power does not leave

it without hope."

"All is ended--and well," said Victorine; and, wiping a tear away, she

turned to the company.

Madame Veh had been observant of this pair, and now whispered to

Euchar--

"I told her everything. Was I right?"

"I must go through with the whole business," Euchar answered.

The company--as often happens in such circumstances--felt a fresh

impulse to festivity and enjoyment in Euchar's unexpected return, and

besieged him with enquiries as to where he had been and what had

happened to him during his absence.

"What has really brought me here," said Euchar, "is the obligation

which I am under to keep my promise of two years ago that I would tell

you a good deal more of my friend Edgar's history, and put a copestone

upon it such as our friend the Poet thought it wanted. As I can now

assure you that no dark clouds have come over his path, that there have

been no deeds of violence, but that, on the contrary, as the ladies

wished, my story will be concerned with a rather romantic love-affair,

I feel sure that I may reckon upon a fair measure of approval."

All applauded, and speedily formed into a narrower ring. Euchar at once

commenced as follows--

I pass over in silence the warlike adventures which Edgar met with

while fighting in company with the Guerillas--although _they_ were

sufficiently romantic--contenting myself with explaining that the

talisman which Don Rafaele Marchez gave him when parting with him, was

a little ring inscribed with mystic characters, which showed that he

was an initiate in the most secret of the confederacies or societies;

thus assuring him, wherever he might be, of the most absolute and

unlimited confidence of those acquainted with those signs, and

rendering all danger such as he had been exposed to in Valenzia

impossible.

Soon afterwards he joined the English forces, and served under

Wellington. He was never touched by a hostile bullet again, and when

the campaign was over he returned to his own country safe and sound.

Don Rafaele Marchez he had never seen again, nor had he heard anything

of his further fortunes.

Edgar had been a long while back in his native town, when, one day, Don

Rafaele's little ring (which he always wore on his finger) disappeared

under peculiar circumstances. Early on the morning of the day following

this, a queer little fellow came into his room, held the missing ring

up to him, and asked him if it was his. When Edgar replied that it was,

the little man cried out excitedly in Spanish--

"Oh, _you are_ Don Edgar; there can be no doubt about it." And then

Edgar clearly remembered the face and figure of the little fellow, who

was Don Rafaele's faithful servant, the same who had displayed the lion

courage of despair in trying to save his master's daughter.

"In the name of all the saints!" Edgar cried, "you must be Don

Rafaele's faithful servant! I recognise you. Where is _he_? My strange

presentiment is going to come true."

The little man implored Edgar to go with him at once.

He took him to one of the most distant suburbs, climbed with him to the

garret of a miserable house, and--what a spectacle! Sick, worn to a

shadow, with all the traces of the most mortal suffering upon his

deathlike face, Don Rafaele Marchez was lying upon a bed of straw, with

a girl praying by his side. When Edgar came in, the girl rushed up to

him, and drew him to the side of the old man, crying in a tone of the

warmest delight--

"Father, father! this is he, is it not?"

"Yes," said the old man, his dim eyes brightening as he raised his

folded hands to heaven, "it is he--our preserver. Ah, Don Edgar, who

would have believed that the fire which burned within me for my country

and freedom would have turned upon me for my destruction."

After the first outpourings of mingled delight and regret, Edgar

learned that Don Rafaele's enemies had managed, after the establishment

of peace, to bring charges against him causing him to be regarded with

suspicion by the government. He was sentenced to be banished, and his

property was confiscated. He fell into the deepest poverty. His devoted

daughter and his faithful servant supported him by dancing and playing.

"Emanuela and Biagio Cubas, of course!" Ludwig cried out. And all the

others repeated after him, "Of course, of course--Emanuela and Biagio

Cubas!"

The hostess enjoined silence on the ground that, although there might

be many things which could be gradually explained, the narrator ought

not to be interrupted until he had come to the end of his story.

Moreover she felt no doubt that as soon as Edgar saw the lovely

Emanuela he must, of course, have fallen desperately in love with her.

"That, of course, is exactly what he did do," said Euchar, a slight

redness overspreading his cheeks. Even before this particular meeting

with her, on other occasions of his seeing that marvellously

beautifully child, he had felt the most distinct presentiments of what

would follow, and a sense of the deepest affection, like nothing which

he had ever experienced before. He immediately set to remedy the

condition of affairs. He took away Don Rafaele, Emanuela, and the

trusty Cubas, to a country estate belonging to his uncle. And in

arranging this I was of some assistance to him. It seemed as if Don

Rafaele's lucky star was going to rise again; for soon after this there

came a letter from good Father Eusebio to say that the brethren, well

acquainted with the secret corners of his house, had hidden away the

very considerable property (in the shape of gold and jewels) which he

possessed (and which he had walled up before his flight) in their own

convent; so that all that was necessary was to send some trustworthy

person to fetch them. Edgar set out at once for Valenzia with the

faithful Cubas. He saw his kind old nurse, Father Eusebio, again, and

Don Rafaele's treasure was handed over to him. But he knew that Don

Rafaele prized honour above everything, and he succeeded in Madrid in

completely re-establishing his innocence. The decree of banishment was

cancelled.

The doors opened and there entered a beautifully dressed lady, followed

by an old gentleman of lofty bearing and aristocratic looks. The

hostess rose to receive them, and led the lady within the circle. The

other guests had all risen, and the host presented "Donna Emanuela

Marchez, our friend Euchar's bride. Ron Rafaele Marchez."

"Yes," said Euchar, with the bliss of the happiness which he had

achieved radiating from his eyes, and glowing in brilliant roses on his

cheeks, "I have only now to tell you that he whom I spoke of to you as

Edgar was none other than myself."

Victorine clasped the beautiful Emanuela in her arms, and pressed her

warmly to her heart. They seemed to know each other already. But

Ludwig, casting a glance of sorrow upon the group, said--

"All this was a part of the mutual interdependence of things."

The friends were pleased with Sylvester's tale, and were unanimous in

thinking that Edgar's adventures in Spain during the War of

Independence, although they might perhaps be considered to be

interwoven in merely an episodical form, really constituted the kernel

of the story, and that their happy effect was accounted for by their

being founded upon actual historical facts.

"There is no doubt," said Lothair, "that matter which is absolutely

historical possesses a certain peculiar quality which the inventive

faculty, when it merely hovers about in empty space, with nothing to

anchor upon, cannot attain to. In the same way the skilful introduction

of truly historical customs, manners, habitudes and so forth, belonging

to any race, or people, or to any particular class of people, gives to

a work of fiction a life-like colouring which it is difficult otherwise

to attain. But I insist upon their being introduced _skilfully_. For

there is no doubt that it is not so easy to introduce historical

facts--things which have actually happened--into a work of which the

incidents belong to the domain of pure imagination, as many people

think it is. And it requires a peculiar skilfulness, which everybody is

not fortunate enough to possess. In the absence of it there appears

merely a pale, distorted simulacrum of life, instead of the freshness

of reality. I know works--particularly some by literary ladies--in

which one feels, at every instant, how the writer has gone dipping the

brush into the colour-box, bringing nothing out of it, after all, but a

sort of jumble of strokes of different colours, just where what was

wanted was a thoroughly life-like picture."

"I quite agree with you," said Lothair. "And, having just chanced to

remember a particular novel, written by an otherwise fairly clever

woman (which, notwithstanding all the dippings of her brush into the

aforesaid paint-box, does not possess a single atom of real semblance

of life, or of poetic truth, from one end of it to the other, so that

one cannot remember it for a single moment), I merely wish to say that

this particular skill in producing an effect of reality and historical

truth, brilliantly distinguishes the works of a writer who has only

rather recently become known to us. I mean Walter Scott. I have only

read his 'Guy Mannering.' But _ex ungue leonem_. The 'exposition' of

this tale is based upon Scotch manners and customs, and matters

belonging peculiarly to the place in which the scene of it is laid.

But, without any acquaintance with them, one is carried away by the

vivid reality of the characters and incidents in an extraordinary

degree, and the 'exposition' is to be termed so utterly masterly just

because we are landed _in medias res_ in a moment, as if by the wave of

an enchanter's wand. Moreover, Scott has the power of drawing the

figures of his pictures with a few touches, in such a way that they

seem to come out of their frames, and move about before us in the most

living fashion imaginable. Scott is a splendid phenomenon appearing in

the literature of Great Britain. He is as vivid as Smollett, though far

more classic and noble. But I think he is wanting in that brilliant

lire of profound humour which coruscates in the writings of Sterne and

Swift."

"I am just in your position, Ottmar," said Vincenz. "'Guy Mannering' is

the only work of Scott's which I have read. But I was much struck by

the originality of it, and the manner in which, in its methodical

progress, it gradually unwinds itself like a clue of thread, gently and

quietly, never breaking its firm-spun strands. My chief objection to it

is, that (no doubt in faithfulness to British manners) the female

characters are so tame and colourless, except that grand gipsy

woman--although she is scarcely so much to be called a woman as a kind

of spectral apparition. Both of the young ladies in 'Guy Mannering'

remind me of the English coloured engravings, which are all exactly

alike--_id est_, as pretty as they are meaningless and expressionless,

and as to which one sees distinctly that the originals of them would

never allow anything further than 'Yea, yea; nay, nay!' to cross those

pretty little delicate lips of theirs, as anything more might lead unto

evil. Hogarth's milkmaid is a prototype of all these creatures. Both of

the girls in 'Guy Mannering' lack reality--the god-like vivifying

breath of life."

"Might not one wish," said Theodore, "in the case of some of the female

characters of one of our most talented writers (particularly in some of

his earlier works) that they had a little more flesh and blood, since

they are really all so very apt to melt into wreaths of mist when one

looks at them closely? Nevertheless, let us love and honour both of

those writers--the foreigner and our countryman, because of the true

and glorious things which they have bestowed upon us."

"It is remarkable," said Sylvester, "that--unless I mistake--another

great writer appeared on the other side of the channel, about the same

time as Walter Scott, and has produced works of equal greatness and

splendour, but in a different direction. I mean Lord Byron, who appears

to me to be much more solid and powerful than Thomas Moore. His 'Siege

of Corinth' is a masterpiece, fall of genius. His predominant tendency

seems to be towards the gloomy, the mysterious and the terrible; and

his 'Vampire' I have avoided reading, for the bare idea of a vampire

makes my blood run cold. So far as I understand the matter, a vampire

is an animated corpse which sucks the blood of the living."

"Ho! ho!" cried Lothair, laughing, "a writer such as you, my dear

friend, Sylvester, must of course have found it necessary to dip more

or less deeply into all kinds of accounts concerning magic, witches,

sorcery, enchantment, and other such works of the devil, because they

are necessary for your work, and part of your stock in trade. And I

should suppose you have gone into those subjects yourself with the view

of getting some personal experience of them as well. As regards

vampirism--that you may see how well read I am in these matters--I will

tell you the name of a delightful treatise in which you may study this

dark subject. The complete title of this little book is 'M. Michael

Ranft (Deacon of Nebra). Treatise on the Mastication and Sucking of the

Dead in their Graves; wherein the true nature and description of the

Hungarian vampires and bloodsuckers is clearly set forth, and all

previous writings on this subject are passed in review and subjected to

criticism.' This title in itself will convince you of the thoroughness

of this treatise, and you will learn from it that a vampire is nothing

other but an accursed creature who lets himself be buried as being

dead, and then rises out of the grave and sucks people's blood in their

sleep. And those people become vampires in their turn. So that,

according to the accounts received from Hungary and quoted by this

magister, the inhabitants of whole villages become vampires of the most

abominable description. To render those vampires harmless they must be

dug out of their graves, a stake driven through their hearts, and their

bodies burnt to ashes. Those horrible beings very often do not appear

in their own proper forms, but _en masque_. A certain officer, I happen

to remember, writing from Belgrade to a celebrated doctor in Leipzig

for information as to the true nature of vampires, expresses himself

thus: 'In a village called Kinklina it chanced that two brothers were

troubled by a vampire, so that one of them used to sit up by the other

at night whilst he slept. The one who was watching used to see

something like a dog opening the door, but this dog used to make off

when he cried out at it. At last one night they both were asleep at the

same time, and the vampire bit and sucked a place under the right ear

of one of them, leaving a red mark. The man died of this in three days'

time. In conclusion,' said the officer, 'as the people of this place

make all this out to be miraculous, I venture to take the liberty of

requesting you to tell me your private opinion as to whether it is

caused by the intervention of sympathetic, diabolical, or astral

spirits. And I remain, with much respect, &c.' Take example by this

officer of enquiring mind. As it happens his name occurs to me at this

moment. He was an ensign in the Prince Alexander regiment, Sigismund

Alexander Friedrich von Kottwitz. The military mind seems to have been

considerably exercised on the subject of vampirism about that time.

Magister Ranft quotes in his book an official declaration made by an

army surgeon before two of his brother officers concerning the

detection and destruction of a vampire. This declaration contains,

_inter alia_, the following passage: 'Inasmuch as they perceived, from

the aforesaid circumstances, that this was unmistakably a vampire, they

drove a stake through its heart, upon which it gave vent to a distinct

gasp, emitting a considerable quantity of blood.' Is that not both

interesting and instructive?"

"All this of Magister Ranft's," said Sylvester, "may, no doubt, be

sufficiently absurd and even rather crack-brained; but, at the same

time, if we keep to the subject of vampirism itself, never minding in

what particular fashion it may be treated, it certainly is one of the

most horrible and terrible notions imaginable. I can conceive nothing

more ghastlily repulsive to the mind."

"Still," said Cyprian, "it is capable of providing a material, when

dealt with by a writer of imagination possessed of some poetical tact,

which has the power of stirring within us that profound sense of awe

which is innate in our hearts, and when touched by the electric impulse

from an unseen spirit world causes our soul to thrill, not altogether

unpleasantly after a fashion. A due amount of poetic tact on the

author's part will prevent the horror of the subject from going so far

as to be loathsome; for it generally has such an element of the absurd

about it that it does not impress us so deeply as if that were not the

case. Why should not a writer be permitted to make use of the levers of

fear, terror, and horror because some feeble soul here and there finds

it more than it can bear? Shall there be no strong meat at table

because there happen to be some guests there whose stomachs are weak,

or who have spoiled their own digestions?"

"My dear, fanciful Cyprian," Theodore said, "there was no occasion for

your vindication of the horrible. We all know how wonderfully great

writers have moved men's hearts to their very depths by means of that

lever. We have only to think of Shakespeare. Moreover, who knew better

how to use it than our own glorious Tieck in many of his tales? I need

only instance the 'Love-Spell.' The leading idea of that story cannot

but make everybody's blood run cold, and the end of it is full of the

utmost fear and horror; but still the colours are blended so admirably

that, in spite of all the terror and dismay, the mysterious magic charm

so seizes upon us that we yield ourselves up to it without an effort to

resist. How true is what Tieck puts in the mouth of his Manfred in

answer to women's objections to the element of the awe-inspiring in

fiction. Of course, what is the fact is that whatsoever of the terrible

encounters us in our daily life is just what tortures and tears our

hearts with irresistible pain. And, indeed, the cruelty of mankind, as

exercised by tyrants, great and small, without pity or mercy, and with

the diabolical malignity of hell itself, produces misery on a par with

anything told of in fiction. And how finely the author says: 'In those

imaginary legends the misery cannot reach the world with its rays until

they have been broken up into prismatic colours,' and I should have

supposed that in that condition they would have been endurable by eyes

even not very strong."

"We have often spoken already," said Lothair, "of this most genial

writer; the full recognition of whom, in all his grand super-excellence

and variety, is reserved for posterity, whilst Wills o' the Wisp

rapidly scintillating into our ken and blinding the eye for a moment

with borrowed light, go out into darkness just as speedily. On the

whole, I believe that the imagination can be moved by very simple

means, and that it is often more the _idea_ of the thing than the thing

itself which causes our fear. Kleist's tale of the 'Beggar Woman of

Lucarno' has in it, at least to me, the most frightening idea that I

can think of, and yet how simple it is. A beggar woman is sent

contemptuously, as if she were a dog, to lie behind the stove, and dies

there. She is heard every night hobbling across the floor towards the

stove, but nothing is seen. It is, no doubt, the wonderful colouring of

the whole affair Which produces the effect. Not only could Kleist 'dip'

into the aforesaid colour-box, but he could lay the colours on, with

the power and the genius of the most finished master. He did not need

to raise a vampire out of the grave, all he needed was an old woman."

"This discussion about vampirism," said Cyprian, "reminds me of a

ghastly story which I either heard or read a very long time ago. But I

think I heard it, because I seem to remember that the person who told

it said that the circumstances had actually happened, and mentioned the

name of the family and of their country seat where it took place. But

if this story is known to you as being in print, please to stop me and

prevent my going on with it, because there's nothing more wearisome

than to tell people things which they have known for ever so long."

"I foresee," said Ottmar, "that you are going to give us something

unusually awful and terrible. But remember Saint Serapion and be as

concise as you can, so that Vincenz may have his turn; for I see that

he is waiting impatiently to read us that long-promised story of his."

"Hush! hush!" said Vincenz. "I could not wish anything better than that

Cyprian should hang up a fine dark canvas by way of a background so as

to throw out the figures of my tale, which I think are brightly and

variedly coloured, and certainly excessively active. So begin, my

Cyprianus, and be as gloomy, as frightful, as terrible as the vampirish

Lord Byron himself, though I know nothing about him, as I have never

read a word of his writings."

Count Hyppolitus (began Cyprian) had just returned from a long time

spent in travelling to take possession of the rich inheritance which

his father, recently dead, had left to him. The ancestral home was

situated in the most beautiful and charming country imaginable,

and the income from the property was amply sufficient to defray

the cost of most extensive improvements. Whatever in the way of

architecture and landscape gardening had struck the Count during his

travels--particularly in England--as specially delightful and apposite,

he was going to reproduce in his own demesne. Architects, landscape

gardeners, and labourers of all sorts arrived on the scene as they were

wanted, and there commenced at once a complete reconstruction of the

place, whilst an extensive park was laid out on the grandest scale,

which involved the including within its boundaries of the church, the

parsonage, and the burial ground. All those improvements the Count, who

possessed the necessary knowledge, superintended himself, devoting

himself to this occupation body and soul; so that a year slipped away

without its ever having occurred to him to take an old uncle's advice

and let the light of his countenance shine in the Residenz before the

eyes of the young ladies, so that the most beautiful, the best,

and the most nobly born amongst them might fall to his share as wife.

One morning, as he was sitting at his drawing table sketching the

ground-plan of a new building, a certain elderly Baroness--distantly

related to his father--was announced as having come to call. When

Hyppolitus heard her name he remembered that his father had always

spoken of her with the greatest indignation--nay, with absolute

abhorrence, and had often warned people who were going to approach her

to keep aloof, without explaining what the danger connected with her

was. If he was questioned more closely, he said there were certain

matters as to which it was better to keep silence. Thus much was

certain, that there were rumours current in the Residenz of some most

remarkable and unprecedented criminal trial in which the Baroness had

been involved, which had led to her separation from her husband, driven

her from her home--which was at some considerable distance--and for the

suppression of the consequences of which she was indebted to the

prince's forbearance. Hyppolitus felt a very painful and disagreeable

impression at the coming of a person whom his father had so detested,

although the reasons for this detestation were not known to him. But

the laws of hospitality, more binding in the country than in town,

obliged him to receive this visit.

Never had any one, without being at all ill-favoured in the usual

acceptation of that term, made by her exterior such a disagreeable

impression upon the Count as did this Baroness. When she came in she

looked him through and through with a glance of fire, and then she cast

her eyes down and apologized for her coming in terms which were almost

over humble. She expressed her sorrow that his father, influenced by

prejudices against her with which her enemies had impregnated his mind,

had formed a mortal hatred to her, and though she was almost starving,

in the depths of her poverty he had never given her the smallest help

or support. As she had now, unexpectedly as she said, come into

possession of a small sum of money she had found it possible to leave

the Residenz and go to a small country town a short distance off.

However, as she was engaged in this journey she had not found it

possible to resist the desire to see the son of the man whom,

notwithstanding his irreconcilable hatred, she had never ceased to

regard with feelings of the highest esteem. The tone in which all this

was spoken had the moving accents of sincerity, and the Count was all

the more affected by it that, having turned his eyes away from her

repulsive face, he had fixed them upon a marvellously charming and

beautiful creature who was with her. The Baroness finished her speech.

The Count did not seem to be aware that she had done so. He remained

silent. She begged him to pardon--and attribute to her embarrassment at

being where she was--her having neglected to explain that her companion

was her daughter Aurelia. On this the Count found words, and blushing

up to the eyes implored the Baroness, with the agitation of a young man

overpowered by love, to let him atone in some degree for his father's

shortcomings--the result of misunderstandings--and to favour him by

paying him a long visit. In warmly enforcing this request he took her

hand. But the words and the breath died away on his lips and his blood

ran cold. For he felt his hand grasped as if in a vice by fingers cold

and stiff as death, and the tall bony form of the Baroness, who was

staring at him with eyes evidently deprived of the faculty of sight,

seemed to him in its gay many tinted attire like some bedizened corpse.

"Oh, good heavens! how unfortunate just at this moment," Aurelia cried

out, and went on to lament in a gentle heart-penetrating voice that her

mother was now and then suddenly seized by a tetanic spasm, but that it

generally passed off very quickly without its being necessary to take

any measures with regard to it.

Hyppolitus disengaged himself with some difficulty from the Baroness,

and all the glowing life of sweetest love delight came back to him as

he took Aurelia's hand and pressed it warmly to his lips. Although he

had almost come to man's estate it was the first time that he felt the

full force of passion, so that it was impossible for him to hide what

he felt, and the manner in which Aurelia received his avowal in a

noble, simple, child-like delight, kindled the fairest of hopes within

him. The Baroness recovered in a few minutes, and, seemingly quite

unaware of what had been happening, expressed her gratitude to the

Count for his invitation to pay a visit of some duration at the Castle,

saying she would be but too happy to forget the injustice with which

his father had treated her.

Thus the Count's household arrangements and domestic position were

completely changed, and he could not but believe that some special

favour of fortune had brought to him the only woman in all the world

who, as a warmly beloved and deeply adored wife, was capable of

bestowing upon him the highest conceivable happiness.

The Baroness's manner of conduct underwent little alteration. She

continued to be silent, grave, much wrapped up in herself, and when

opportunity offered, evinced a gentle disposition, and a heart disposed

towards any innocent enjoyment. The Count had become accustomed to the

death-like whiteness of her face, to the very remarkable network of

wrinkles which covered it, and to the generally spectral appearance

which she displayed; but all this he set down to the invalid condition

of her health, and also, in some measure, to a disposition which she

evinced to gloomy romanticism. The servants told him that she often

went out for walks in the night-time, through the park to the

churchyard. He was much annoyed that his father's prejudices had

influenced him to the extent that they had; and the most earnest

recommendations of his uncle that he should conquer the feeling which

had taken possession of him, and give up a relationship which must

sooner or later drive him to his ruin, had no effect upon him.

In complete certainty of Aurelia's sincere affection, he asked for her

hand; and it may be imagined with what joy the Baroness received this

proposal, which transferred her into the lap of luxury from a position

of the deepest poverty. The pallor and the strange expression, which

spoke of some invincible inward pain or trouble, had disappeared from

Aurelia's face. The blissfulness of love beamed in her eyes, and

shimmered in roses on her cheeks.

On the morning of the wedding-day a terrible event shattered the

Count's hopes. The Baroness was found lying on her face dead, not far

from the churchyard: and when the Count was looking out of his window

on getting up, full of the bliss of the happiness which he had

attained, her body was being brought back to the Castle. He supposed

she was only in one of her usual attacks; but all efforts to bring her

back to life were ineffectual. She was dead. Aurelia, instead of giving

way to violent grief, seemed rather to be struck dumb and tearless by

this blow, which appeared to have a paralyzing effect on her.

The Count was much distressed for her, and only ventured--most

cautiously and most gently--to remind her that her orphaned condition

rendered it necessary that conventionalities should be disregarded, and

that the most essential matter in the circumstances was to hasten on

the marriage as much as possible, notwithstanding the loss of her

mother. At this Aurelia fell into the Count's arms, and, whilst a flood

of tears ran down her cheeks, cried in a most eager manner, and in a

voice which was shrill with urgency:

"Yes, yes! For the love of all the saints. For the sake of my soul's

salvation--yes!"

The Count ascribed this burst of emotion to the bitter sense that, in

her orphaned condition, she did not know whither to betake herself,

seeing that she could not go on staying in the Castle. He took pains to

procure a worthy matron as a companion for her, till in a few weeks,

the wedding-day again came round. And this time no mischance interfered

with it, and it crowned the bliss of Aurelia and Hyppolitus. But

Aurelia had all this while been in a curiously strained and excited

condition. It was not grief for her mother, but she seemed to be

unceasingly, and without cessation, tortured by some inward anxiety. In

the midst of the most delicious love-passage she would suddenly clasp

the Count in her arms, pale as death, and like a person suddenly seized

by some terror--just as if she were trying her very utmost to resist

some extraneous power which was threatening to force her to

destruction--and would cry, "Oh, no--no! Never, never!" Now that she

was married, however, it seemed that this strange, overstrained,

excited condition in which she had been, abated and left her, and the

terrible inward anxiety and disturbance under which she had been

labouring seemed to disappear.

The Count could not but suspect the existence of some secret evil

mystery by which Aurelia's inner being was tormented, but he very

properly thought it would be unkind and unfeeling to ask her about it

whilst her excitement lasted, and she herself avoided any explanation

on the subject. However, a time came when he thought he might venture

to hint gently, that perhaps it would lie well if she indicated to him

the cause of the strange condition of her mind. She herself at once

said it would be a satisfaction to her to open her mind to him, her

beloved husband. And great was his amazement to learn that what was at

the bottom of the mystery, was the atrociously wicked life which her

mother had led, that was so perturbing her mind.

"Can there be anything more terrible," she said, "than to have to hate,

detest, and abhor one's own mother?"

Thus the prejudices (as they were called) of his father and uncle had

not been unfounded, and the Baroness had deceived him in the most

deliberate manner. He was obliged to confess to himself--and he made no

secret of it--that it was a fortunate circumstance that the Baroness

had died on the morning of his wedding-day. But Aurelia declared that

as soon as her mother was dead she had been seized by dark and terrible

terrors, and could not help thinking that her mother would rise from

her grave, and drag her from her husband's arms into perdition.

She said she dimly remembered, one morning when she was a mere child,

being awakened by a frightful commotion in the house. Doors opened and

shut; strangers' voices cried out in confusion. At last, things

becoming quieter, her nurse took her in her arms, and carried her into

a large room where there were many people, and the man who had often

played with her, and given her sweetmeats, lying stretched on a long

table. This man she had always called "Papa," and she stretched her

hands out to him, and wanted to kiss him. But his lips, always warm

before, were cold as ice, and Aurelia broke into violent weeping,

without knowing why. The nurse took her to a strange house, where she

remained a long while, till at last a lady came and took her away in a

carriage. This was her mother, who soon after took her to the Residenz.

When Aurelia got to be about sixteen, a man came to the house whom her

mother welcomed joyfully, and treated with much confidentiality,

receiving him with much intimacy of friendship, as being a dear old

friend. He came more and more frequently, and the Baroness's style of

existence was soon greatly altered for the better. Instead of living in

an attic, and subsisting on the poorest of fare, and wearing the most

wretched old clothes, she took a fine lodging in the most fashionable

quarter, wore fine dresses, ate and drank with this stranger of the

best and most expensive food and drink daily (he was her daily guest),

and took her part in all the public pleasurings which the Residenz had

to offer.

Aurelia was the person upon whom this bettering of her mother's

circumstances (evidently attributable solely to the stranger) exercised

no influence whatever. She remained shut up in her room when her mother

went out to enjoy herself in the stranger's company, and was obliged to

live just as miserably as before. This man, though about forty, had a

very fresh and youthful appearance, a tall, handsome person, and a face

by no means devoid of a certain amount of manly good looks.

Notwithstanding this, he was repugnant to Aurelia on account of his

style of behaviour. He seemed to try to constrain himself, to conduct

himself like a gentleman and person of some cultivation, but there was

constantly, and most evidently, piercing through this exterior veneer

the unmistakable evidence of his really being a totally uncultured

person, whose manners and habits were those of the very lowest ranks of

the people. And the way in which he began to look at Aurelia filled her

with terror--nay, with an abhorrence of which she could not explain the

reason to herself.

Up to this point the Baroness had never taken the trouble to say a

single word to Aurelia about this stranger. But now she told her his

name, adding that this Baron was a man of great wealth, and a distant

relation. She lauded his good looks, and his various delightful

qualities, and ended by asking Aurelia if she thought she could bring

herself to take a liking to him. Aurelia made no secret of the inward

detestation which she felt for him. The Baroness darted a glance of

lightning at her, which terrified her excessively, and told her she was

a foolish, ignorant creature. After this she was kinder to her than she

had ever been before. She was provided with grand dresses in the height

of the fashion, and taken to share in all the public pleasures. The man

now strove to gain her favour in a manner which rendered him more and

more abhorrent to her. But her delicate, maidenly instincts were

wounded in the most mortal manner, when an unfortunate accident

rendered her an unwilling, secret witness of an abominable atrocity

between her abandoned and depraved mother and him. When, a few days

after this, this man, after having taken a good deal of wine, clasped

Aurelia in his arms in a way which left no doubt as to his intention,

her desperation gave her strength, and she pushed him from her so that

he fell down on his back. She rushed away and bolted herself in her own

room. The Baroness told her, very calmly and deliberately, that,

inasmuch as the Baron paid all the household expenses, and she had not

the slightest intention of going back to the old poverty of their

previous life, this was a case in which any absurd coyness would be

both ludicrous and inconvenient, and that she would really have to make

up her mind to comply with the Baron's wishes, because, if not, he had

threatened to part company at once. Instead of being affected by

Aurelia's bitter tears and agonized intreaties, the old woman, breaking

into the most brazen and shameless laughter, talked in the most

depraved manner of a state of matters which would cause Aurelia to bid,

for ever, farewell to every feeling of enjoyment of life in such

unrestrained and detestable depravity, defying and insulting all sense

of ordinary propriety, so that her shame and terror were undescribable

at what she was obliged to hear. In fact she gave herself up for lost,

and her only means of salvation appeared to her to be immediate flight.

She had managed to possess herself of the key of the hall door, had got

together the few little necessaries which she absolutely required, and,

just after midnight, was moving softly through the dimly-lighted front

hall, at a time when she thought her mother was sure to be fast asleep.

She was on the point of stepping quietly out into the street, when the

door opened with a clang, and heavy footsteps came noisily up the

steps. The Baroness came staggering and stumbling into the hall, right

up to Aurelia's feet, nothing upon her but a kind of miserable wrapper

all covered with dirt, her breast and her arms naked, her grey hair all

hanging down and dishevelled. And close after her came the stranger,

who seized her by the hair, and dragged her into the middle of the

hall, crying out in a yelling voice--

"Wait, you old devil, you witch of hell! I'll serve you up a wedding

breakfast!" And with a good thick cudgel which he had in his hand he

set to and belaboured and maltreated her in the most shameful manner.

She made a terrible screaming and outcry, whilst Aurelia, scarcely

knowing what she was about, screamed aloud out of the window for help.

It chanced that there was a patrol of armed police just passing. The

men came at once into the house.

"Seize him!" cried the Baroness, writhing in convulsions of rage and

pain. "Seize him--hold him fast! Look at his bare back. He's----"

When the police sergeant heard the Baroness speak the name he shouted

out in the greatest delight--

"Hoho! We've got you at last, Devil Alias, have we?" And in spite of

his violent resistance, they marched him off.

But notwithstanding all this which had been happening, the Baroness had

understood well enough what Aurelia's idea had been. She contented

herself with taking her somewhat roughly by the arm, pushing her into

her room, and locking her up in it, without saying a word. She went out

early the next morning, and did not come back till late in the evening.

And during this time Aurelia remained a prisoner in her room, never

seeing nor hearing a creature, and having nothing to eat or drink. This

went on for several days. The Baroness often glared at her with eyes

flashing with anger, and seemed to be wrestling with some decision,

until, one evening, letters came which seemed to cause her

satisfaction.

"Silly creature! all this is your fault. However, it seems to be all

coming right now, and all I hope is that the terrible punishment which

the Evil Spirit was threatening you with may not come upon you." This

was what the Baroness said to Aurelia, and then she became more kind

and friendly, and Aurelia, no longer distressed by the presence of the

horrible man, and having given up the idea of escaping, was allowed a

little more freedom.

Some time had elapsed, when one day, as Aurelia was sitting alone in

her room, she heard a great clamour approaching in the street. The maid

came running in, and said that they were taking the hangman's son

of ---- to prison, that he had been branded on the back there for

robbery and murder, and had escaped, and was now retaken.

Aurelia, full of anxious presentiment, tottered to the window. Her

presentiment was not fallacious. It _was_ the stranger (as we have

styled him), and he was being brought along, firmly bound upon a

tumbril, surrounded by a strong guard. He was being taken back to

undergo his sentence. Aurelia, nearly fainting, sank back into her

chair, as his frightfully wild look fell upon her, while he shook his

clenched fist up at the window with the most threatening gestures.

After this the Baroness was still a great deal away from the house; but

she never took Aurelia with her, so that the latter led a sorrowful,

miserable existence--occupied in thinking many thoughts as to destiny,

and the threatening future which might unexpectedly come upon her.

From the maidservant (who had only come into the house subsequently to

the nocturnal adventure which has been described, and who had probably

only quite recently heard about the intimacy of the terms in which the

Baroness had been living with this criminal), Aurelia learned that the

folks in the Residenz were very much grieved at the Baroness's having

been so deceived and imposed upon by a scoundrel of this description.

But Aurelia knew only too well how differently the matter had really

stood; and it seemed to her impossible that, at all events, the men of

the police, who had apprehended the fellow in the Baroness's very

house, should not have known all about the intimacy of the relations

between them, inasmuch as she herself had told them his name, and

directed their attention to the brand-marks on his back, as proofs of

his identity. Moreover, this loquacious maid sometimes talked in a very

ambiguous way about that which people were, here and there, thinking

and saying; and, for that matter, would like very much to know better

about--as to the courts having been making careful investigations, and

having gone so far as to threaten the Baroness with arrest, on account

of strange disclosures which the hangman's son had made concerning her.

Aurelia was obliged to admit, in her own mind, that it was another

proof of her mother's depraved way of looking at things that, even

after this terrible affair, she should have found it possible to

go on living in the Residenz. But at last she felt herself constrained

to leave the place where she knew she was the object of but too

well-founded, shameful suspicion, and fly to a more distant spot. On

this journey she came to the Count's Castle, and there ensued what has

been related.

Aurelia could not but consider herself marvellously fortunate to have

got clear of all these troubles. But how profound was her horror when,

speaking to her mother in this blessed sense of the merciful

intervention of Heaven in her regard, the latter, with fires of hell in

her eyes, cried out in a yelling voice--

"You are my misfortune, horrible creature that you are! But in the

midst of your imagined happiness vengeance will overtake you, if I

should be carried away by a sudden death. In those tetanic spasms,

which your birth cost me, the subtle craft of the devil----"

Here Aurelia suddenly stopped. She threw herself upon her husband's

breast, and implored him to spare her the complete recital of what the

Baroness had said to her in the delirium of her insanity. She said she

felt her inmost heart and soul crushed to pieces at the bare idea of

the frightful threatenings--far beyond the wildest imagination's

conception of the terrible--uttered to her by her mother, possessed, as

she was at the time, by the most diabolical powers.

The Count comforted his bride to the best of his ability, although he

felt himself permeated by the coldest and most deathly shuddering

horror. Even when he had regained some calmness, he could not but

confess to himself that the profound horribleness of the Baroness, even

now that she was dead, cast a deep shadow over his life, sun-bright as

it otherwise seemed to be.

In a very short time Aurelia began to alter very perceptibly. Whilst

the deathly paleness of her face, and the fatigued appearance of

her eyes, seemed to point to some bodily ailment, her mental

state--confused, variable, restless, as if she were constantly

frightened at something--led to the conclusion that there was some

fresh mystery perturbing her system. She shunned her husband. She shut

herself up in her rooms, sought the most solitary walks in the park.

And when she then allowed herself to be seen, her eyes, red with

weeping, her contorted features, gave unmistakable evidence of some

terrible suffering which she had been undergoing. It was in vain that

the Count took every possible pains to discover the cause of this

condition of hers, and the only thing which had any effect in bringing

him out of the hopeless state into which those remarkable symptoms of

his wife's had plunged him, was the deliberate opinion of a celebrated

doctor, that this strangely excited condition of the Countess was

nothing other than the natural result of a bodily state which indicated

the happy result of a fortunate marriage. This doctor, on one occasion

when he was at table with the Count and Countess, permitted himself

sundry allusions to this presumed state of what the German nation

calls "good hope." The Countess seemed to listen to all this with

indifference for some time. But suddenly her attention became vividly

awakened when the doctor spoke of the wonderful longings which women in

that condition become possessed by, and which they cannot resist

without the most injurious effects supervening upon their own health,

and even upon that of the child. The Countess overwhelmed the doctor

with questions, and the latter did not weary of quoting the strangest

and most entertaining cases of this description from his own practice

and experience.

"Moreover," he said, "there are cases on record in which women have

been led, by these strange, abnormal longings, to commit most terrible

crimes. There was a certain blacksmith's wife, who had such an

irresistible longing for her husband's flesh that, one night, when he

came home the worse for liquor, she set upon him with a large knife,

and cut him about so frightfully that he died in a few hours' time."

Scarcely had the doctor said these words, when the Countess fell back

in her chair fainting, and was with much difficulty recovered from the

succession of hysterical attacks which supervened. The doctor then saw

that he had acted very thoughtlessly in alluding to such a frightful

occurrence in the presence of a lady whose nervous system was in such a

delicate condition.

However, this crisis seemed to have a beneficial effect upon her, for

she became calmer; although, soon afterwards there came upon her a very

remarkable condition of rigidity, as of benumbedness. There was a

darksome fire in her eyes, and her deathlike pallor increased to such

an extent, that the Count was driven into new and most tormenting

doubts as to her condition. The most inexplicable thing was that she

never took the smallest morsel of anything to eat, evincing the utmost

repugnance at the sight of all food, particularly meat. This repugnance

was so invincible that she was constantly obliged to get up and leave

the table, with the most marked indications of loathing. The doctor's

skill was in vain, and the Count's most urgent and affectionate

entreaties were powerless to induce her to take even a single drop of

medicine of any kind. And, inasmuch as weeks, nay, months, had passed

without her having taken so much as a morsel of food, and it had become

an unfathomable mystery how she managed to keep alive, the doctor came

to the conclusion that there was something in the case which lay beyond

the domain of ordinary human science. He made some pretext for leaving

the Castle, but the Count saw clearly enough that this doctor, whose

skilfulness was well approved, and who had a high reputation to

maintain, felt that the Countess's condition was too unintelligible,

and, in fact, too strangely mysterious, for him to stay on there,

witness of an illness impossible to be understood--as to which he felt

he had no power to render assistance.

It may be readily imagined into what a state of mind all this put the

Count. But there was more to come. Just at this juncture an old,

privileged servant took an opportunity, when he found the Count alone,

of telling him that the Countess went out every night, and did not come

home till daybreak.

The Count's blood ran cold. It struck him, as a matter which he had not

quite realized before, that, for a short time back, there had fallen

upon him, regularly about midnight, a curiously unnatural sleepiness,

which he now believed to be caused by some narcotic administered to him

by the Countess, to enable her to get away unobserved. The darkest

suspicions and forebodings came into his mind. He thought of the

diabolical mother, and that, perhaps, her instincts had begun to awake

in her daughter. He thought of some possibility of a conjugal

infidelity. He remembered the terrible hangman's son.

It was so ordained that the very next night was to explain this

terrible mystery to him--that which alone could be the key to the

Countess's strange condition.

She herself used, every evening, to make the tea which the Count always

took before going to bed. This evening he did not take a drop of it,

and when he went to bed he had not the slightest symptom of the

sleepiness which generally came upon him as it got towards midnight.

However, he lay back on his pillows, and had all the appearance of

being fast asleep as usual.

And then the Countess rose up very quietly, with the utmost

precautions, came up to his bedside, held a lamp to his eyes, and then,

convinced that he was sound asleep, went softly out of the room.

His heart throbbed fast. He got up, put on a cloak, and went after the

Countess. It was a fine moonlight night, so that, though Aurelia had

got a considerable start of him, he could see her distinctly going

along in the distance in her white dress. She went through the park,

right on to the burying-ground, and there she disappeared at the

wall. The Count ran quickly after her in through the gate of the

burying-ground, which he found open. There, in the bright moonlight, he

saw a circle of frightful, spectral-looking creatures. Old women, half

naked, were cowering down upon the ground, and in the midst of them lay

the corpse of a man, which they were tearing at with wolfish appetite.

Aurelia was amongst them.

The Count took flight in the wildest horror, and ran, without any idea

where he was going or what he was doing, impelled by the deadliest

terror, all about the walks in the park, till he found himself at the

door of his own Castle as the day was breaking, bathed in cold

perspiration. Involuntarily, without the capability of taking hold of a

thought, he dashed up the steps, and went bursting through the passages

and into his own bedroom. There lay the Countess, to all appearance in

the deepest and sweetest of sleeps. And the Count would fain have

persuaded himself that some deceptive dream-image, or (inasmuch as his

cloak, wet with dew, was a proof, if any had been needed, that he had

really been to the burying-ground in the night) some soul-deceiving

phantom had been the cause of his deathly horror. He did not wait for

Aurelia's waking, but left the room, dressed, and got on to a horse.

His ride, in the exquisite morning, amid sweet-scented trees and

shrubs, whence the happy songs of the newly-awakened birds greeted him,

drove from his memory for a time the terrible images of the night. He

went back to the Castle comforted and gladdened in heart.

But when he and the Countess sate down alone together at table, and,

the dishes being brought and handed, she rose to hurry away, with

loathing, at the sight of the food as usual, the terrible conviction

that what he had seen was true, was reality, impressed itself

irresistibly on his mind. In the wildest fury he rose from his seat,

crying--

"Accursed misbirth of hell! I understand your hatred of the food of

mankind. You get your sustenance out of the burying-ground, damnable

creature that you are!"

As soon as those words had passed his lips, the Countess flew at him,

uttering a sound between a snarl and a howl, and bit him on the breast

with the fury of a hyena. He dashed her from him on to the ground,

raving fiercely as she was, and she gave up the ghost in the most

terrible convulsions.

The Count became a maniac.

"Well," said Lothair, after there had been a few minutes of silence

amongst the friends, "you have certainly kept your word, my

incomparable Cyprianus, most thoroughly and magnificently. In

comparison with this story of yours, vampirism is the merest children's

tale--a funny Christmas story, to be laughed at. Oh, truly, everything

in it is fearfully interesting, and so highly seasoned with

asafœtida that an unnaturally excited palate, which has lost its

relish for healthy, natural food, might immensely enjoy it."

"And yet," said Theodore, "our friend has discreetly thrown a veil

over a great many things, and has passed so rapidly over others,

that his story has merely caused us a passing feeling of the eery and

shuddery--for which we are duly grateful to him. I remember very well

having read this story in an old book, where everything was told with

the most prolix enumeration of all the details; and the old woman's

atrocities in particular were set forth in all their minutiæ, truly

_con amore_, so that the whole affair produced, and left behind it, a

most repulsive impression, which it took a long while to get over. I

was delighted when I had forgotten the horrible thing, and Cyprian

ought not to have recalled it to my memory; although I must admit that

he has acted in accordance with the principles of our patron saint

Serapion, and caused us a sufficient thrill of horror, particularly

towards the end. It made us all turn pale, particularly the narrator

himself!"

"We cannot hurry away too quickly from this gruesome picture," Ottmar

said. "And it will not serve as a dark background (as Vincenz expected

it would), because the figures of it are in too glaring colours. Allow

me, by way of a grand change of subject--a sort of sideways spring away

from the hell-broth which Cyprian has served up to us--to say a word or

two (merely to give Vincenz time to clear his throat, as I hear him

doing) concerning a certain aesthetic tea society, which was brought

to my memory by a little paper which accidentally came into my hand

to-day. Have I your permission, Vincenz?"

"Strictly speaking," said Vincenz, "it is a breach of all Serapiontic

rule to keep chattering in this sort of style; and not only that, but,

moreover, without any especial motive or inducement, the most unseemly

things about gruesome vampires, and other such matters, are brought

forward, so that I am obliged to shut my mouth just as I have got it

opened. But go on, my Ottmar. The hours are flying, and I shall have

the last word, like a quarrelsome woman, in spite of you. So go on, my

Ottmar, go on."

"Chance," began Ottmar, "or rather, a kindly-intentioned introduction,

brought me into the aesthetic tea society which I mentioned; and there

were circumstances which induced me, or rendered it incumbent on me, to

attend its meetings regularly for a time, although heaven knows they

were tedious and wearisome enough. It greatly vexed me that, on an

occasion when a really talented man read something which was full of

true wit, and admirably appropriate to the occasion, all the people

yawned, and grew impatient of it; whilst they were charmed and

delighted by the marrowless, spiritless trash of a conceited young

poetaster. This latter was all in the line of the gushing and the

exuberant, but he also thought very highly of his epigrams. As what

they were chiefly remarkable for was the absence of the sting in their

tails, he always gave the signal for the laugh himself by beginning it

at the proper time; and everybody then joined in it. One evening I

asked, modestly, if I might be allowed to read out a few little verses

which had occurred to me in moments of a certain amount of inspiration.

And as people were good enough to credit me with the possession of a

certain amount of brains, my request was received with a good deal of

applause. I took out my manuscript and read, with great solemnity--

"'ITALY'S MARVELS.

'When tow'rds the orient heav'n my gaze I bend,

The western sun shines warm upon my back;

Whilst, when I turn me to the beauteous west,

The golden glory strikes upon mine eyeballs.

Oh, sacred land! where nature thus displays

Such mighty marvels to the sight of men,

All adoration, quite compact of love.'

"'Ah! glorious! heavenly! dear Ottmar, and so deeply felt, Bo

sensitively expressed, right out of the fulness of your heart, so rich

in emotions!' cried the lady of the house, whilst several white ladies

and black gentlemen (I only mean black-dressed ones, with great hearts

under their jabots) followed her by crying, 'Glorious! heavenly!' and

one young lady sighed profoundly, weeping away a scalding tear. Being

asked to read something more, I gave to my voice the expression of a

deeply moved heart, and read--

"'LIFE DEPTHS.

'A little lad at Yarrow

Had a pretty little sparrow.

The other day he let it fly,

And now 'tis gone, alas! we sigh,

Heigho! the little lad at Yarrow

He hath no more the pretty sparrow.'

"There was a fresh tumult of applause. They begged for more; but I

said, modestly, that I could not but feel that stanzas of this kind,

grasping as they did comprehensively at the bases of all life, have, in

the long run, a tendency to impress the hearts of delicate, impassioned

women too strongly, so that I should prefer to quote a pair of

epigrams, in which the distinctive feature of the epigram--the sudden

flashing out of the species of squib which constitutes the tail--would

not fail to be duly appreciated. I read--

"'WIT.

'The pudgy Master Schrein

Drank many a glass of wine,

But death cut short his thread.

Then quoth his neighbour Spry

(A gossip, deep and sly),

"Our pudgy Master Schrein

No longer drinks his wine,

And, why?--because he's dead."'

"When the sparkling wit of this roguish epigram had been sufficiently

admired, I treated them to the following one in addition--

"'STINGING REPLY.

'Of Hans's book the folks make much ado;

"Say, neighbour Hamm, hast read the wonder yet?"

Thus Humm to Hamm: and Hamm (a joker he)

Said, "Faith, good Humm, I have not read it yet."'

"Everybody laughed heartily, but the lady of the house shook a minatory

forefinger at me, saying, 'Ah, wicked scoffer! Is nothing to escape

that scathing wit of yours?'

"The clever man shook hands with me as he passed me, saying--

"'Admirably done. Much obliged to you.'

"The young poet turned his back upon me with much contempt. But the

young lady who had shed a few tears over 'Italia's Marvels,' came to

me, and blushing, as she cast down her eyes, said the maidenly,

virginal heart was more disposed to open to the sense of sweet sadness

than to the comic; and she begged me to give her a copy of the first

poem I had read. She said she had felt so curiously happy and creepy

when she heard it. I promised to give it to her, and I kissed the

charming young lady's sufficiently pretty hand with all the appropriate

rapture of a bard duly appreciated by beauty, with the sole intention

of angering the poet, who cast upon me glances as of an infuriated

basilisk."

"It is strange enough," said Vincenz, "that, without being in the

smallest degree aware of it, you have spoken what may be called a

Goldsmith's prologue to my story. Of course you notice my pretty

allusion to Shakespeare's Hamlet, and his question, 'Is this a

prologue, or the posy of a ring?' What I mean is, that your prologue

consists of what you have said about the irritated poet; for I am

greatly mistaken if a poet of that kind is not one of the principal

characters in my story; which story I am now going to begin, and I

don't intend to stop it until the last word of it is out. And that last

word is just as hard to speak as the first."

Vincenz read--

THE KING'S BETROTHED.

(A Story Sketched from Life.)

CHAPTER I.

WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE VARIOUS CHARACTERS, AND THEIR MUTUAL

RELATIONS TO EACH OTHER, AND PREPARES THE WAY, PLEASANTLY, FOR

THE MANY MARVELLOUS AND MOST ENTERTAINING MATTERS OF WHICH THE

SUCCEEDING CHAPTERS TREAT.

It was a blessed year. In the fields the corn, the wheat, and the

barley grew most gloriously. The boys waded in the grass, and the

cattle in the clover. The trees hung so full of cherries that, with

the best will in the world, the great army of the sparrows, though

determined to peck everything bare, were forced to leave half the fruit

for a future feast. Every creature filled itself full every day at the

great guest-table of nature. Above all, however, the vegetables in Herr

Dapsul von Zabelthau's kitchen-garden had turned out such a splendid

and beautiful crop that it was no wonder Fräulein Aennchen was unable

to contain herself with joy on the subject.

We may here explain who Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau and Aennchen were.

Perhaps, dear reader, you may have at some time found yourself in that

beautiful country which is watered by the pleasant, kindly river Main.

Soft morning breezes, breathing their perfumed breath over the plain as

it shimmered in the golden splendour of the new-risen sun, you found it

impossible to sit cooped up in your stuffy carriage, and you alighted

and wandered into the little grove, through the trees of which, as you

descended towards the valley, you came in sight of a little village.

And as you were gazing, there would suddenly come towards you, through

the trees, a tall, lanky man, whose strange dress and appearance

riveted your attention. He had on a small grey felt hat on the top of a

black periwig: all his clothes were grey--coat, vest, and breeches,

grey stockings--even his walking-stick coloured grey. He would come up

to you with long strides, and staring at you with great sunken eyes,

seemingly not aware of your existence, would cry out, almost running

you down, "Good morning, sir!" And then, like one awaking from a dream,

he would add in a hollow, mournful voice, "Good morning! Oh, sir,

how thankful we ought to be that we have a good, fine morning. The

poor people at Santa Cruz just had two earthquakes, and now--at this

moment--rain falling in torrents." While you have been thinking what to

say to this strange creature, he, with an "Allow me, sir," has gently

passed his hand across your brow, and inspected the palm of your hand.

And saying, in the same hollow, melancholy accents as before, "God

bless you, sir! You have a good constellation," has gone striding on

his way.

This odd personage was none other than Herr Dapsul Von Zabelthau, whose

sole--rather miserable--possession is the village, or hamlet, of

Dapsulheim, which lies before you in this most pleasant and smiling

country into which you now enter. You are looking forward to something

in the shape of breakfast, but in the little inn things have rather a

gloomy aspect. Its small store of provisions was cleared out at the

fair, and as you can't be expected to be content with nothing besides

milk, they tell you to go to the Manor House, where the gracious

Fräulein Anna will entertain you hospitably with whatever may be

forthcoming there. Accordingly, thither you betake yourself without

further ceremony.