bower, the lady's dulcet tones called after her--
"And then, Bettine, return to me here. I have to speed thee with a
little note."
"It is well, madame," answered the French girl. (There was no "fashion"
in Westphalia without Gallic handmaids.)
Sidonia looked around, and then at the girl's hard face as she closed
the door. It seemed to her as if a bog quivered under her feet where
she had thought to find firm footing. Her ears had been first
disagreeably struck by the word "mademoiselle," and the emphasis that
the old lady had placed on it. _Mademoiselle!_--to her who had so
clearly introduced herself as the wife of Count Kielmansegg. The
reference to an expected visitor next filled her with inchoate
suspicion, which the order concerning a note intensified. She now read
an insolent meaning in Bettine's eyes as they appraised her.
"Whom does your mistress expect to supper?" she asked, with sharpness.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Madame la Marechale's supper-parties
are very amusing," she replied familiarly in her fluent but strangely
accented German. "Little suppers--very amusing, very discreet.
Mademoiselle will amuse herself to-night ... oh, she may be sure she
will amuse herself _royally_!" She paused on the word with an odious
smile, then pursued familiarly: "The great thing is that mademoiselle
should be beautiful. Voyons, we must off with this cloak. Will
mademoiselle sit down? Oh, how lovely is mademoiselle's figure! but her
hair--mademoiselle forgives?--her hair done in despite of all sense!"
Sidonia had felt it before she had the certainty into what a trap she
had walked. Now she knew; and with the clearness of her conviction, she
also knew what she had to do. She sat down silently, as bidden; and,
while the distasteful touch of the Marechale's maid played in her hair,
made a steady inventory of the room. There was no door but the one
leading back into the boudoir; great windows were curtained away behind
the dressing-table.
"Oh, how much better is mademoiselle like this!" cried Bettine, falling
back to admire her work.
Sidonia gave her own reflection an anxious scrutiny. One word, one
look, one sign of weakness, and her hastily formed plan might be
frustrated.... Beyond that possibility was the horror upon which she
could not look, ... upon which she would never look! For, at the worst,
there was still a refuge. The fiddler's words--"The release of a clean,
proud soul--that is joy!" came to her ever and again as upon a strain of
his own music, and ever with fresh strength and comfort.
"Oh, how beautiful is mademoiselle!" cried Bettine again, this time with
genuine enthusiasm. "Positively, it is flames she has in her glance, and
no rouge could beat me the colour of those cheeks."
"Bettine...!" rose the Marechale's silver voice from the next room; and
Sidonia, flinging herself into her part with the instinct of the
defenceless, smiled gaily on the girl as she bade her go.
"Mademoiselle will not forget 'tis I who has adorned her--when she is in
power?" insinuated the Marechale's maid.
"I shall not forget," said Sidonia between her teeth. She seized the
handle of the door as it closed between them: fortunately the Marechale
liked discreet hinges, and Sidonia was able, noiselessly, to draw it the
necessary fraction of an inch apart that she might listen. There was
not a tremor in her hands; she held her breath lest a rustle of silk
should betray her. The strong spirit rises to the great situation.
There was whispering within. The ear of the heiress of Wellenshausen
had been trained in forest glades, full of the small sounds of lesser
lives. She caught a word here, a word there.
"... The note ... in his Majesty's own hands.... Thou hast well
understood, my girl?"
"Yes, Excellence."
Bettine's whisper carried far. But now the Marechale made a softer
communication, of which the listener could gather no import, but
Bettine's answer again gave the dreadful clue. It was emitted with a
laugh. "Oh, no; your Excellency is wrong--we are not so scared as all
that, believe me!"
A dulcet titter joined the note of the servant's mirth.
"At any rate, the little bird is in the cage," said the Marechale, as
she laughed.
It was more than enough. Sidonia closed the door. She found a bolt
which moved willingly under her fingers. Then a frenzy of haste came
upon her. The cloak over her pale dress--the hood over Bettine's fine
coiffure! And now the window! People who shut up a little bird in a
cage should make sure that the bars are close enough to keep it safe;
for the bird has wings, and its heart beats towards freedom, towards the
mate, towards the nest! The Marechale's apartments were on the
_rez-de-chaussee_; but had they been on the top-most floor, that window
would yet have been the way of Sidonia's flight.
Oh, how deliriously the chill, pure air beat upon her face after that
evil hothouse atmosphere! By the stillness and the fragrance, by the
soft earth under her feet, she knew she had alighted into the palace
garden. It was a murky night, and the rain was falling; the distant
lights of the park gates glimmered fitfully.
Sidonia had no idea whither to turn; but the intention of her heart was
undeviating as the flight of the homing bird. There was only one refuge
for her, only one place for her--her husband's arms. Her road was
clear: she was going to Steven, and, after that, nothing would ever
matter again.
She set off running in the direction of the gateway lamps. In a minute
her light ball-slippers were soaked with wet, clogged with mud; her
narrow skirts clung against her silk stockings; now she brushed against
low bushes, now nearly fell. She could run no more; she must grope her
way.
But presently her eyes became more accustomed to the dimness. A double
row of marble statues, mounting ghostly guard on each side of the great
alley, showed white through the trees. She knew her bearings now.
Yonder fantastic group of lights in front was the Orangerie, illumined
in honour of the royal fete. Fortunately for her, the skies to-night
were not such as to tempt guests to al fresco rambling. Further, to the
left, twinkled the lamps of the town, reflected through the branches in
the waters of the Kleine-Fulda, which ran parallel to the Avenue, as she
knew.
From the Friedrichsthor--the great gate of the palace grounds--came
distant sounds of voices, laughter and calls. Through that issue she
dared hardly venture. Even as she stood, hesitating, the rumble of an
approaching carriage grew out of the night. She turned and fled in the
opposite direction--there must be minor exits from the park, surely,
and, so long as she was within the precincts of the palace, terror would
dog her steps.
Her feet once on the firm sand of the alley, she girded up her impeding
skirts. The dim stone figures on each side seemed, to her excited
fancy, to move their heads and bend over to stare in wonder, to bid her
haste away, wise in old knowledge of the guilty secrets of such a court.
Somehow, these silent figures were company to her and she missed their
presence when she plunged into the first turning which, she trusted,
would lead towards the town. Yet, the darkness of the trees closing
about her brought a new sense of protection. She was not of those who
feel the night-horror of the woods; the trees were her friends from
childhood; they knew her and she them. The softness and damp smell of
the autumn leaves beneath her tread were grateful to her senses. The
sound of the Kleine-Fulda on her stony bed guided her way to a narrow
Chinese bridge over the ribbon of water. Soon she had to advance more
slowly once again and feel her way: here the ground began to ascend, the
trees to give place to shrubs; the path doubled and twisted suddenly. A
blank wall sprang at her out of the gloom. She drew a quick breath. An
illumined window-pane blinked:--it was the hoped-for gate of her escape,
could she now but elude the sentry's challenge or carry herself with
such assurance as to be allowed a passage.
But in Jerome's kingdom it was the unexpected that usually happened. By
the gate stood, indeed, the inevitable sentry-box; but as, with her
heart beating in her throat, Sidonia approached tiptoe with endless
precautions, behold, it was empty! The gate itself was open. From
within the guardian's lodge, behind that blinking window, came a merry
burst of song and laughter. Clearly it was "like master like man." If
Jerome thought that the enjoyment of the hour was the most urgent
business of existence, so did his servants, including his park sentries.
There was no doubt of the wholeheartedness of the entertainment in the
side lodge of the royal garden that night.
*CHAPTER XXIX*
*THE HOMING BIRD*
"_Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,_
_Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee...._"
(_The Taming of the Shrew_).
The street into which she stepped was ill-lighted, and contained but a
few poor houses facing the park walls. It seemed to lead downwards to
the open country and upwards to the heart of the town.
Lifting her torn and draggled skirts as neatly as she could, and pulling
the folds of her hood and cloak more closely about her, she started with
decision on the upward way. Here she must go sedately, though the
hammering of her own pulses seemed like the footsteps of pursuers and a
mad impulse, ever and anon, seized her to run. The gloom of the park
had been infinitely less terrible than the town with its staring belated
wayfarers, its circles of light under the hanging oil lamps, its
nauseous strips of darkness where the miserable houses seemed to touch
each other above her head, and where gutters mingled in noisomeness down
the middle of the street. She looked back on the solitude, with its
clean pine breath, as a haven of shelter. But she tramped unfalteringly
the maze of dirty streets, only pausing twice to inquire the way.
The first time she was kindly answered by the poor faded woman she had
stopped.... The Hotel de l'Aigle Imperial was in the Koenig's Platz. To
reach it one must take to the left, then to the right, till one crossed
the Friedrich's Platz; then, keeping along the Obere Koenig's Gasse, one
would find herself by the Hotel.... The woman wrapped her thin shawl
closer about her shoulders, smiled vaguely in response to Sidonia's
thanks and sped on--God knows to what miserable home. Trying to follow
her instructions, Sidonia, chilled, fatigued and bewildered, soon began
to doubt again, and requested the help of the next reputable-looking
being of her sex on her path. This was a stout, red-faced dame,
followed by a serving wench with a lantern; some excellent business
woman on the way to fetch her man from the beerhouse, doubtless. She
measured Sidonia from head to foot, caught the gleam of the muddied
satin of her skirts, of the pearls at her throat, and suddenly, instead
of replying to the meek question, began to rate her in round dialect for
a trollop and a strumpet: "_Du, mein Jott_, and she so young, too!"
Most of the epithets were meaningless to Sidonia; but voice and eye were
not. And when the virtuous dame proceeded to threats of night-watch and
lock-up, the girl fairly took to her heels and ran blindly.
When labouring heart and panting lungs forced a halt upon her, she found
herself in the very region of her seeking. By the wide space around
her, the better lighting, the statue dominating in the centre of the
tree-planted square, this could be no other than the Friedrich's Platz.
But even as she paused to draw a quieter breath, before proceeding
again, a new alarm was upon her.
Reeling as they advanced, linked together arm in arm, roaring out a
chorus, the real tune of which was a matter of conjecture, three
fantastic figures turned into the square from a side street, and
suddenly confronted her. Students they were proclaimed in every long
lock of hair, every extravagant item of attire; in the high boots and
the spurs, the scarves, the clanking rapiers.
The Platz, with its staid burgherlike respectability, was filled with
tipsy clamour. Judging by the colours profusely displayed and the
bellowed words of the chorus, a bellicose patriotism was the night's
inspiration. But, not content with wine-jug and harmony, the singers
were not proof against lighter relaxation, as became evident upon their
catching sight of the girl under the shadow of the trees.
"A prize, a prize!" shouted he who seemed to be the leader of the three,
a red-headed Hercules. He took a lurching run in front of his
companions, seized Sidonia playfully by the shoulders, and pulled her
under the light of the nearest lamp.
The furious gesture with which she flung him off revealed again the
ill-timed splendour of her attire. For a moment the three students stood
staring open-mouthed. Then he who seemed the soberest of the party--he
had a sleek impertinent face and an air of jocose solemnity--broke into
cackling laughter:
"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary," he cried. "A foreign,
French bird! By all the laws of civilized warfare, a prize of the
captor! ... Matam!" he pursued; in a vile French, bowed extravagantly,
seized Sidonia's hand and tucked it against his side. "Matam, fly to
the guardianship of the Law."
[Illustration: "_Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary,_" _he
cried._ "_A foreign, French bird! By all the laws of civilized
warfare, a prize of the captor!_"]
"Nay, take refuge within the bosom of the Church," interrupted the
third, intoning the words: "Raise your glances heavenwards!" He shot
out a black arm and lifted her chin with two dank fingers reeking of
canaster.
Sidonia, who had been paralyzed with fright and the sense of her own
helplessness, here once more struck herself free--this time with a wild
cry for the watch. Her cry was answered by shouts and cat-calls; and
now, with a mighty clatter of spurred boots, a fresh detachment of
_Studiosi_ joined the advance party. As in a nightmare, Sidonia found
herself the centre of a struggling drunken laughing babel, which
presently resolved itself into a circle that wheeled, stamping and
jingling in time to a ribald chorus.
One of the dancers suddenly broke the ring; a flaring bearded face was
thrust forward.
"A kiss, matamazell, and long live Westphalia!"
At this last insult the terror of the girl gave place to overpowering
anger. She struck the coarse face so valiant a blow with her open palm,
that, already none too steadily balanced, the red-haired giant staggered
and would have fallen but for an officious comrade. A howl of laughter
rose from the rest of the gang.
But as Sidonia, tossing back her hood, broke into vigorous German,
silence succeeded to clamour. The sight of that head, so extraordinarily
young, so golden in the lamp-shine, struck the group with overwhelming
surprise. And upon surprise came shame, as the meaning of the words
that fell indignantly from Sidonia's lips, pierced to the fuddled
brains. Wild, dissipated boys they were, but not vicious at the core of
their German hearts.
Here was a girl, a lady--more, a country-woman of their own; and, in
their own tongue, she was telling them what she thought of them. She
had always been so proud of being a German, and now she was ashamed,
ashamed to think that Germans could so behave to a woman! Students,
too, "nobles of learning," patriots, they called themselves, and to
offer such a spectacle to the _Welsch_! She had fled from the palace
down there because she had thought it not the right place for a good
German woman: now she knew she would have been safer among the
French....
Here a groan escaped a youth less tipsy or more susceptible than the
rest, the quickest at any rate to catch the galling significance of this
reproach. It was echoed here and there from the listening circle, by
sounds of remorse and dismay. The ring melted apart; one or two caps
were lifted, there was a shuffling of feet, as the most abashed slunk
away. She stood, a flaming spot on each cheek, head held high, still
flashing scorn and fury upon the remainder, when, with the perpetual
irony of fate, the help that would have been so valuable to her a few
minutes ago, and now unneeded, arrived upon the scene.
A burly watchman, bearing a lantern in one hand, and in the other a
halbert with which he struck the pavement at rhythmic intervals, came
striding upon them.
"Come, sirs, come, sirs, this is no manner of behaviour! No scandal in
the streets, I beg. Honest folk should be in bed this hour! Disperse,
disperse, _meine Herren_! And as for the _Maedel_ there----"
He flung the light upon Sidonia's face and stopped, he also astounded.
But she had caught in his words the music of a well-beloved and familiar
accent.
"_Ach, Gott, Freund!_" she cried, in his own speech, flinging out both
hands towards him, "do you come from my Thuringia? Then I am safe! By
these Westphalians to-night, I, an unprotected woman, have been cruelly
insulted."
Thuringian wits are not specially quick; but Thuringian hearts are
sound, as Sidonia knew, and the appeal of the home language went
straight to the watchman's. He flung himself before the girl, and
turned threateningly upon her molesters, raising his halbert in a
fashion which in any other circumstances would have been fiercely
resented by students as against their academic privileges.
But to-night the situation was hardly one that admitted of academic
haughtiness. The over-cheerful band scattered like night birds, here
and there a shamefaced youth lifting his ridiculous head-gear before
vanishing.
Sidonia and her countryman were alone. Then he, a stout veteran,
grey-whiskered, with a comfortable fatherly presence, turned a shrewd,
kind, yet grave scrutiny upon her:
"Na, child!" he exclaimed; "and what, in the name of God, brings you in
the streets at this hour?"
She told him the bare truth, down to her name: how she had left the
palace to seek the protection of her husband, who was at an inn in the
town.
The old man nodded two or three times comprehendingly. He knew the
Chancellor, as small people know the great; knew Wellenshausen, as who
did not know the noble name on the marches of Thuringia; knew that a
Thuringian lady was wise to leave that place yonder--with a jerk of his
lantern. But why came she apart from her husband at all--how had he
left her there?
"It was against his will; but I was angry with him," said Sidonia,
ingenuously. She looked up at the old face, like a child, and tears
welled into her eyes.
The good man gave a chuckle. A great lady was the daughter of
Wellenshausen, the greatest lady in his own country; but to him, in very
truth, to-night only a foolish child under his guardianship. He shook
his head at her and began to chide in homely fashion.
Aye, aye, it was very wrong for a woman to disobey her husband. All
good German women were submissive to their lords. Now she saw what
dangers surrounded rebellious wives! She was right to go back to him.
She must be humble and ask forgiveness. Aye, aye, he would guide her to
the hotel door. Certainly! Was it likely indeed that he would leave
her till he had seen her safe within?
He shifted his lantern into the hand that held the halbert, and gladly
Sidonia felt his rough fingers close on her wrist. She went beside him,
weak now and shaken, and listened in meekness to his homily. By-and-by,
finding her in such good disposition, he endeavoured to beguile the way
with more general topics. The Thuringian dialect became broader and
broader as he foretold the clean-out of honest Germany from the _Welsch_
intruders; the downfall of the monkey tyrant, and the approaching good
days when true-minded folk would come by their own again in Westphalia.
Eh, it would not be long, he added mysteriously. Na, he knew what he
knew. It was a good thing she was out of the French palace, for more
reasons than one--aye, aye.
Sidonia could have cried for joy when, emerging upon the little round
Koenig's Platz, she saw the gilt eagle, illumined by a red lamp, shine
out in sanguinary grandeur from the front of the old German house. On
the doorstep she once again offered both her hands to the watchman; he
shook them cordially.
"Thank you, thank you!" she said. "Oh, I wish I had something to give
you to remember me by! ... I have not any money." She made a hesitating
gesture towards a ring on her finger. He interrupted her:
"Let that alone, child--I shall not forget you. Good night ... and be
good!"
He knocked for her; stood firmly planted on the pavement, watching her
entrance and smiling into his whiskers.
* * * * *
"I am the Countess Kielmansegg," said Sidonia to the sleepy porter.
"Show me to the count's room."
Her tone was imperious. The man stared sullenly a moment, then
swallowed a yawn; he had but just been roused from a comfortable nap to
take up the night work, and the only perception awake in him was an
acute sense of injury. Without a word, he turned and led the way up the
square, dark stairs to the second floor. Before Steven's door his
slouch came to a halt; he lifted a hand to knock, but she arrested him.
"Is that the room? You may go," she said.
She waited till his heavy foot had tramped the whole downward way, then,
with a sudden overwhelming feeling that if she hesitated now her courage
would after all fail her, she turned the handle of the door and went
quickly in.
The room was deserted. As she realized this, Sidonia's heart seemed to
empty itself of the hopes, the yearnings, even the terror, which had so
filled it these last hours. All became a blank, a void. Never for a
moment had she contemplated the possibility of Steven's absence. She
closed the door and sank dully on the first chair. Presently the sense
of shelter, the warmth about her, the serenity of the silence and
solitude, began to soothe her into comfort. She lifted her head and
looked around. The room was lighted by an oil lamp on the table; fire
was lapping in the china stove; sundry chattels of Steven's were
scattered about; his valise gaped, still open, in a corner. No fear,
then, but that he would return to-night.
The vague fragrance of the lavender scent he liked brought his presence
suddenly and vividly to her. The little bride melted into tears. She
was worn out; her aching feet stung her as she held them against the
warm porcelain of the stove. Her whole being seemed melted, her spirit
broken; but there was a balm sweeter than triumph in this hour of her
woman's surrender. All Betty's words, her gibes and threats, even what
had seemed to be actual proofs of Steven's deceit, passed from her mind,
as if washed away by these healing tears. There are moments when the
soul can see beyond facts.
Presently, in the general relaxation of mind and body, the exhaustion
consequent on the fatigues and emotions of the day overcame her. She
sank into vague brief sleeps, to awake, her heart beating in her throat
with reminiscences of past alarms. Thus she started at length from a
vivid dream that the Burgrave, Betty, d'Albignac and Jerome had tracked
her and were carrying her back to the palace. She came to full
consciousness of solitude, but could not still the wild fear at her
heart.... Betty's cunning was as a sleuth-hound's--Betty would well
know where to trace her.... Sidonia had given her name to the porter.
It would be bootless to lock the door, for one thrust of the Burgrave's
shoulder would dispose of sounder defences. They would be dragging her
away; Steven would return and never know! ... She rose, shaking in every
limb, and looked desperately round.
Then a thought sprang into her brain, quaint and childish, yet to her an
inspiration of angels. The great old German bed in the alcove was hung
with curtains; she would creep into its shelter and draw the yellow
damask folds close around her. There would she be safe as a bird in her
nest in the leaves--in a room within a room. And, hidden, she could
listen for her husband's step.
*CHAPTER XXX*
*DAWN MUSIC*
"Wir fuhren allein im dunkeln
Postwagen die ganze nacht;
Wir ruhten einander am Herzen,
Wir haben gescherzt und gelacht...
Doch als es morgen tagte,
Mein kind, wie staunten wir!
Denn zwischen uns sass Amor,
Der blinde Passagier...."
HEINE.