disdainful head. The vision of it, pale and passionate, had lived in
her memory even as she had seen it at their parting. He would have
towered above these squat Westphalians, these popinjays of Frenchmen and
Corsicans; his presence would have shone out among them. Nay, she would
have marked his glance upon her among a thousand starers. She knew
well, poor Sidonia, that she would have felt it in every leaping pulse!
Her heart turned faint: had he cared, he would have come. Had he cared
even only for her honour, according to those fine words of his
yesterday, he must have been here to watch, to guard, his wife. She
pressed her hands against her eyeballs, for the brilliancy of the lights
became unbearable. And as she stood between the parted curtains in the
recess, the orchestra, half hidden behind a bank of flowers, at the end
of the room, struck up a gay French air which added to her sense of
misery.
Her uncle's words, "the annulment deed is already drawn out," seemed to
jig in her brain in time to the measure. It was almost the same phrase
that she herself had flung at Steven--but now it bore a sound of cruel
reality quite novel to her. And when a couple of horns took up the
fiddles' theme, they seemed to be blaring to the world her unutterable
shame: "A quixotic piece of nonsense, half-hearted, soon repented ... at
least, on one side.... Count Kielmansegg's signature will be quickly
affixed...."
How was it possible for any one to be so abandoned, so helpless? Even
the small furry things of the forest at home had their holes to which
they could run and hide when they were hurt.... The forest at home!
With what longing did her soul yearn to the thought of the green
shelter, the pine-alleys with their long shadows cutting the yellow
glades; of the great, sombre thickets, where not the most practised
huntsman of the _Revier_ could have tracked a startled hind.... Dawn in
the woods, with pipe of birds waking up ... violets, blinking dew in the
moss, and clean, tart breezes blowing free.... Eventide in the forest:
the mild sun setting at the end of the valley, through the clearings,
and the thrush chanting his last anthem on the topmost bough of the
stone pine.... The scent of the wood-smoke from the forest house, where
Forest-Mother Friedel was preparing supper for her hungry lads, where
all was so wholesome, so honest, so homelike; where at this moment--who
knows?--Geiger-Hans might be seated in the ingleglow, his music, lilt of
joy and sorrow mingled, of humour and tenderness, floating out through
the open door into the forest-aisle.... Sidonia's thoughts began to
wander from her own sorrow. She saw the sunrise in the forest, she felt
the evening peace.
All at once, in her lonely corner, she started and opened her eyes; she
brushed her hands across her wet lips. She was dreaming, surely! And
yet she could swear that the actual thrill of the vagabond's violin was
in the air, that its piercing sweetness and incomparable depth of sound
were ringing in her ears.
"_Allons voir danser la grande Jeanne_...." The orchestra was braying
the trivial French tune no more. The jigging and twiddling of fiddles,
the mock laughter of hautboys, the infectious rhythm of flute and drum,
had all given place to a stealing melody, infinitely apart:--yes, even
that mountain song which had been known between her and the wanderer as
"Sidonia's air"! Surely if she were not dreaming, then she was mad!
She stood, holding her breath. The strain went on. Above those
clamours of laughter and voices, yes, it was true ... her song,
Sidonia's air, was calling her, unmistakable, insistent, with all the
urgency of a whispered message.
Scarcely aware of what she was doing, she left her hiding-place and went
swiftly through the indifferent throng towards the call. With one
exception the men of the orchestra had left their platform: behind a
high group of palms, a solitary musician plied his bow softly, secretly,
as if rehearsing to himself.
Sidonia pushed some branches apart. The player looked up. Their eyes
met. Then she forgot to be astonished. She thought she had known it
all along. He had come to save her. True friend!
"I knew it was you," she said. She laughed at him through the green
palm-stems, her eyes sparkled. How could she ever have thought
Geiger-Hans would fail her? She had need of him, and of course he had
come!
But Geiger-Hans did not smile back. His face--so dark under powdered
hair, so odd over the mulberry uniform, bechained and besilvered, of
Jerome's Court Orchestra--was very grave.
"Little Madam Sidonia," he said, "what are you doing here?" He spoke
sadly; and under his unconscious fingers his violin gave a sad
accompaniment to the words.
Sidonia looked at him with her innocent gaze. She was hurt that he
should find fault with her--the Geiger-Onkel who hitherto had always
thought all she did perfect! Yet she was pleased that he should dub her
"madam" instead of the whilom "mamzell."
"Do you know what sort of a place this is?" pursued the fiddler, with
ever-increasing severity. "Do you know with what people you are
surrounded? Have you not heard the common saying, that if it be doubtful
whether an honest woman--save the unhappy Queen--ever crossed these
palace doors, to a certainty no honest woman ever went forth from them?
Why are you not with your husband?--with your husband," he repeated
sharply.
Sidonia, who had hung her head, ashamed--for in truth she felt the evil
about her in every fibre--reared it on the last words.
"Geiger-Onkel," she cried, "I have no husband, and you know it. That is
past and done with." Then her heart began to beat very fast and the
smarting tears gathered in her eyes. "From what motives I was married,
I know not; but that it was all a cheat, I do know. He does not want
me. He never cared for me. First it was pity, perhaps, I think; now it
is pride with him. On such terms I will be no man's wife. I will have
none of it--rather death!"
"Oh, death!" said the fiddler, and struck his strings, "death is the
least of evils. Nay, the release of a clean, proud soul ... that is
joy. The worst end of life is not death. Beware, little madam!" He had
another change of tone: never had Sidonia been rated with such
sternness. "Why, what a child you are! Yet none so childish but that
you know full well this is no child's mischief, but woman's danger!
With what anxiety am I here to save you from yourself; at what trouble!
... Only that the rats are flying already from the falling house; only
that I happened to meet the second violin of Jerome's orchestra, an
acquaintance of old--a musical rat in full scuttle!--I might still be
racking my brains for means to come near you! Here am I this hour,
wearing the livery of the Upstart, not knowing if I shall be given the
necessary minute for speech. The prisons are stuffed full to-night, and
Jerome always was afraid of me. Let but his eye, or that of his spies,
turn this way and recognize me, and it is to the lock-up with
Geiger-Hans! Oh, then, what of Madam Sidonia? Home to your husband!
Home, I say! You know where to find him. You toss your head at me? It
was through pride the angel fell--and he was Star of the Morning!"
"I don't know what you mean," said Sidonia.
"Nay," said Geiger-Hans; "you know too much already. Fie, what a dance
will there be here before the house falls! Even now Jerome is plotting
his last gratification. Did not his eye fall upon you? Your husband's
name, his sacred Austrian nationality--that is your only safeguard. And
that name you are not to keep long. You are to become Madame
d'Albignac."
"D'Albignac!" cried Sidonia. "I--Madame d'Albignac? You are mad,
Geiger-Onkel!"
But, even as she spoke, she felt a cold sweat upon her.
"And d'Albignac will not be for a long engagement," pursued the fiddler,
relentlessly. "The puppet King has very little time left, as his
lieutenant knows, and he, d'Albignac, will be but too eager to save
something out of the ruins--and, besides, they are amicably agreed
already."
"I don't understand," said Sidonia again. She went white, then red,
trembled, and caught at the prickly stem of the palm.
"Take me away with you," she broke out of a sudden, piteously. "Save
me!"
"I cannot save you," answered the wanderer. His voice was harsh, yet it
faltered. "No one can save you but your husband. Go home to him."
Then he began to tune his fiddle with fury, for his fellow-players were
straggling back. Some of them looked curiously at the fine lady who was
speaking to their unknown comrade so familiarly. Sidonia turned. Many
of the great company were looking at her, too. Right across the room
she saw Jerome and his equerry talking together; and, as they talked,
their eyes (or so she fancied) ever and anon sought her.
Panic seized her. But, even in panic, Sidonia was loyal. She must not
speak again to Geiger-Hans, lest she bring him into deeper danger.
Geiger-Hans her friend, the wild wanderer, in prison! In prison for
her! That would be terrible.
She wheeled round; and then, like a hunted thing, pushed her way blindly
through the throng, determined to retire to the Burgravine's apartment.
People nudged each other as she passed. At the door, an old lady, with
white hair and a soft, pink-and-white face, detained her by the skirt:
"Who are you, my dear, and whither so fast?"
"Oh, please," panted the girl, "let me go! I am Sidonia of
Kielmansegg." Even in her agitation she did not forget the name that
was her shield. "I must go back to my aunt, the Burgravine of
Wellenshausen."
The old lady nodded. "That is all right," she said. "But you seem
frightened, child. There is nothing to be frightened at. And if you
want any advice, my dear, or help, you have only to ask for _Madame la
Grande Marechale de la Cour_--that is myself. I am very fond of girls."
Her voice was purring, her smile was comfortable. As Sidonia moved away,
she felt vaguely reassured. If her own kindred failed her, there might
yet be salvation--salvation other than the inadmissible humiliation of
that return to the man she loved but who did not love her ... all that
Geiger-Hans (so suddenly, unaccountably unkind!) would devise for her.
In the Chancellor's apartment she found bustle and confusion. A footman
staggered past her, bringing in trunks. A couple of the new Cassel
maids were running to and fro with folded packets of lace and silk.
For a second Sidonia stared amazed; then her heart leaped with sudden
joy. These preparations for departure could have but one significance:
the Chancellor had got wind of the infamous plot against his niece, ...
by his orders Betty was already preparing to take her into safety. Ah,
how could she have doubted her kinsman's sense of family honour? Had not
even his desperate intention, in the matter of the _oubliette_, shown
him a true Wellenshausen? She had ceased to blame him since she had
understood: rather slay than be dishonoured! Cassel was no place for
honest women; in his decision to keep his wife away from it, he had been
right, a thousand times! And who, better than Sidonia, knew how his
hand had been forced before he consented to bring them thither? But, in
this emergency, he would be master once more--and she was safe.
She burst into the room: yes, there was her aunt, already engaged in
donning a travelling garb, and ever and anon clapping jewels into their
cases with fervid haste. Betty looked up and her olive face grew
thunder-dark as she recognized her niece.
"Geiger-Hans has told me all!" cried the-girl from the door. "Did you
look for me? How horrible it all is. But I shall be ready in a minute!
Where are we going?"
The Burgravine was silent for a second, fixing her with cold eyes. Then
she spoke, with an acid composure:
"_I_ am going back to Austria. I have done with Westphalia and all that
belongs to it. I do not know what your plans may be, but they concern
me no longer."
She closed the case she held in her hand; the snap seemed to give final
emphasis to her words. Sidonia stood, aghast.
"I have done with your Westphalia, my love," pursued the Burgravine:
"done with your uncle, my Bluebeard, _en premier lieu_, and with Jerome,
that plebeian, that upstart!"
Intense was the scorn with which she spoke the words.
Apart from this, the irredeemable wound that her vanity had received
to-night from the "little Corsican," Betty had another reason for her
sudden determination. Flighty she might be, but she was a woman of
business instincts where her self-esteem was concerned. She had met a
countryman of hers at the concert, an elderly diplomat, a man of
standing. He had breathed certain information into her little ear....
He had received a courier. Napoleon had been finally vanquished at
Leipzig. The news had not yet reached Jerome, but it spelt "the End"
this time! Himself intended to take the high-road, _sans tambour ni
trompette_, the very next morning. He was getting on in years, and he
would prefer not to be caught in the _debandade_. And, as he had parted
from her, he had pressed her hand, and discreetly trusted that she might
soon be paying her relatives in Vienna a visit, and that they might meet
again there.
The obvious hint had not been wasted. Excellent M. de Puffendorff--he
would be toiling his elderly, quiet way homewards by the next sunshine.
What was to keep Betty from starting that very night? The Burgrave had
put it out of his own power to resent anything she did. And, whatever
should betide between them, she was sure of a comfortable pension. To
leave at once was certainly her best course, since this ludicrous Cassel
had nothing to offer her but the discomfort of a _revolution pour rire_.
To be involved in the stampede of the Westphalian court would for ever
cover her with ridicule. She shuddered as she thought of her escape
from the unpardonable absurdity, from the madness she had actually
contemplated--a _liaison_ with M. Jerome Buonaparte!
As for Wellenshausen, the horses were not foaled (she swore) that would
take her back to that prison. It was hey for Vienna this time, and in
earnest!
She laughed out loud now, as her eye rested upon Sidonia's bewildered
face. Here, in sooth, was Fate avenging her with unexpected
completeness.
"Fortunately, I have my own people to go to," she remarked airily. "You
will, I think, see pretty things before long in your Cassel. But,
there, you have a feeling heart, my dear. You can wipe your little
monarch's tears first, and make up to M. d'Albignac for the loss of his
pension afterwards. _C'est un beau role_, and you have your uncle's
blessing upon it."
D'Albignac again! An odious, open threat. Yet, though it inspired
horror, Sidonia scarcely felt fear of its execution. No one could force
her into such a marriage. But the other allusion, because of its very
mystery, brought the former anguished sense of approaching evil upon the
girl; a dread of something unspeakable, and so secret that she knew not
where it might lurk for her, or at what moment it might seize her.
"You are a wicked woman," she said, dropping her words slowly.
Betty laughed. In the forcing-house atmosphere of Jerome's mock
Versailles, it had not required long for the flowers of Betty's nature
to develop in strange luxuriance.
"_Ecoutez, ma chere_," said she, brazen, "the only act of virtue I ever
perpetrated (and, by the way, you were my instrument in it) I have
regretted ever since. Bah! the _oubliette_ would have opened its old
jaws in vain, for Kielmansegg and I would have been far away, on the
wings of love, before my amiable husband had had time to set the ancient
machinery in motion. Of course you stood haranguing each other, for
poor Steven could not believe that I meant to fail him. Anyhow,"
pursued the speaker, with her inimitable logic, "there is no reason why
I should have been killed any more than you. I suppose Steven could
have nursed me in his arms all night as safely as he did you. (Poor
boy, it might have made the time seem shorter to him.) So much for
virtue.... How you stare, my love! It is one comfort that to repent of
being good is so much easier than to repent of being wicked--and so much
more successful, as a rule! My journey back to Vienna has only been
postponed, you see."
Countess Kielmansegg stood stonily. The Burgravine, running from place
to place like a mouse, halted now in the middle of the room. Their eyes
met, and their thoughts flashed at each other.
"And do you go alone?" asked Sidonia.
In her own ears her voice sounded strange; her heart was gripped as by
iron fingers. Oh, if Betty would only not laugh like that!
The Burgravine suddenly ceased laughing. An idea had struck her. Why
should she go alone, indeed, if there was a chance of the excellent
company of a well-favoured, rich, and noble youth? What a magnificent
culmination to her dull career as Burgravine von Wellenshausen! And
what a double vengeance! It seemed as if it must have been predestined,
so perfect was it. It was worth trying for; and, at any rate, the
pleasure of tormenting Sidonia was worth a fib or two. Betty laughed
again.
"Who knows?" she answered. "I may perchance find an escort. Count
Waldorff-Kielmansegg will have signed by now a certain precious document
of yours, which I hear they bring him to-night. Then it will be
'_Hop-la, postilion!_' with him also, I suppose.--He is my cousin,"
giggled pretty Betty. "So, if I accept his protection, it will be
perfectly right and proper."
Sidonia gave a quiver like a startled hind. Then she turned and fled,
even as flies the hind with the hunt on her traces, and Betty's laugh
pursued her like to the note of the horn.
*CHAPTER XXVIII*
*A TREACHEROUS HAVEN*
"_While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn_
_Down ... hissed each at other's ear_
_What shall not be recorded--women they,_
_Women, or what had been those gracious things...._"
(_Geraint and Enid_).
She ran headlong down the passage, and struck against the burly figure
of the Burgrave himself. The omen of trunks had not yet met him. He was
in high good humour. Indeed, he was of those that have no scent for
omens. His kinglet, but now, had promised him, for no special reason
that appeared yet, territorial honour and rich regard, and he had no
doubt of the royal power.
"Whither so fast, my maid?" he inquired, holding her not unkindly.
She clung to him with passion: "O, Uncle Ludo, take me away from this
place! Take me away to-night, this hour, at once! Let us go back to
the dear old Burg!"
"Why, what is this?" He pushed her from him, good-humoured, bantering,
fuddled with the royal Sillery. His sovereign and he had pledged a
bumper to the heiress of Wellenshausen's altered prospects. "Na, na,"
said the Burgrave, and wagged his head jocosely. "Somebody would not be
in such a hurry to run away if somebody knew what her old uncle had
planned for her. Ha, my dear, that hasty marriage was never more to my
liking than to yours; and now we have a new husband for you. Aye, and a
place at court! Hey, little Sidonia! Such a fine husband, such a fine
position!"
The girl raised her eyes and desperately scanned his empurpled
countenance. Again the Burgrave archly shook his head, and laughter
rumbled in his huge body.--Aye, aye, it was the way of women to feign
coyness, but men knew what was good for them. One must humour them from
time to time, but never yield.--She read something implacable in the
stupidity of his eye. She thought of the old wild boars in the forest:
as well might she try to appeal to one of those!
He clutched her hands in his hot grasp; a faintness came over her.
"Aunt Betty is packing," she cried wildly, inspired by woman's wit.
"Don't you know? ... She is going back to Austria."
"What?" roared the Burgrave. He released her and cantered sidelong down
the passage to Betty's room.
It was blow upon blow. Sidonia stood, trying to collect her scattered
thoughts. Suddenly Eliza came upon her, tripping from the outer door
upon gay sandalled foot. She flung her shawl from her head at sight of
Sidonia, and her eyes danced under dishevelled curls.
"We are going to Vienna, mademoiselle," she announced breathlessly, "and
no later than to-night. I have just ordered the post-chaise for madame.
One cannot trust that Kurtz. It is a great secret. Will not
mademoiselle come with us? One is so happy at Vienna! And mademoiselle
will probably meet the young count quite easily there--or somebody else
just as handsome," added Eliza. Her eyes rollicked.
Sidonia looked at the gleeful, unscrupulous, excited face and recoiled.
Wine flowed as freely in the menials' hall, on fete nights, at the
Palace of Bellevue as in the salons. And Eliza was one who would profit
of the occasion. But now the Burgrave's voice rose from the inner room
with sudden clangour. The maid, suddenly sobered, caught Sidonia's
wrist.
"Ah, _ciel_," she cried, "what is passing within there? And we, who
thought monsieur safe away, in attendance of the King! ... Why,
mademoiselle, how white you are, and how you tremble!" Immoral she
might be, like her mistress; but, unlike her, she was kind. "Ah, he was
not there, then, to-night," she proceeded with rapid intuition. "Listen,
Mademoiselle Sidonia, since he won't come, if I were you I should just
go to him.... And quick, quick, before he signs. He can't turn you away
... even if he wanted it. _Sapristi_, but you are still his wife."
A fresh outburst of wrangling voices in Betty's rooms here drew her
curiosity in another direction.
"I must go and be with poor madame," she exclaimed; the twinkle in her
eye, over the delight of witnessing the marital scene, contrasted oddly
with the pious devotion of her tone.
"_Tu verras que cela va rater encore cette fois_," she was telling
herself philosophically, as she hurried away.
"If you want help," had said the soft-voiced old lady, "ask for _la
Grande Marechale de la Cour_." If ever a poor daughter of Eve wanted
help, it was surely Sidonia, standing between the Scylla of nameless
evil and the Charybdis of dire humiliation.
A refuge for the night, the loan of a small sum, to enable her to gain
the Forest House--for Sidonia was still kept like a child and had no
purse of her own--surely, it was small assistance that she required.
She paused but to catch up a travelling cloak in her room; then, seeking
the outer corridor again, bade the first valet on her way guide her to
the apartment of Madame la Grande Marechale. She would wait, she
planned, for the great lady's return from festivity. There must be
safety where such gentle old age presided; and good counsel; perchance
even an escort, forthcoming on the morrow for her journey back to the
Thuringian forest.
The Marechale's apartments were on the ground floor, and Sidonia thought
fortune favoured her when the porter informed her that "Her Excellency"
herself had that instant entered. Still more at ease felt she when the
pretty old lady received her with open arms and cooing words of welcome:
"_Ma belle enfant_, this is well! I had presentiments. I expected you.
That great bear of a Chancellor, your uncle, and the little minx of a
wife he has ... (linnet-head, wasp-temper, ferret-heart--I know the
kind! One look at her, _ma chere_, it was enough): that was no place
for you. Nay, you wanted a friend, and it is well you came to me, very
well." She nodded; and the bird-of-paradise plume in her gauzy turban
quivered over her white curls.
Sidonia had to struggle with rising tears; but they were tears of
gratitude, of relief. Madame la Marechale patted her on the shoulder,
stooped to embrace her; there was about her a delicate atmosphere of
Parma powder and amber-scented laces.
"It is good, my child," she murmured, "to have a friend at court--some
one who knows the ways of it. _Ma petite_, you and I, we'll do great
things together! Nay, but we will talk no more now. A little supper
would not come amiss. Hey, what have you eaten to-day?"
She rang a silver bell, and a smart _soubrette_ appeared, who stared
with bold, black eyes at the visitor.
"Bettine, my good girl," said the suave lady, "take ... mademoiselle
into my chamber, and arrange me her coiffure before supper.--We must be
beautiful," she added, turning pleasantly again to Sidonia, "for we may
have a guest."
"This way, mademoiselle," said Bettine, briefly.