"For us to go down; they are expecting us."
"True, true; I had forgotten! Go first, Gerlinda. I will come
immediately; I have a trifle to arrange about my dress. Pray go!"
The words sounded so like a command that the young girl obeyed without
further delay, and she had hardly reached the staircase leading to the
lower story when she was met by a servant whom the general had sent to
beg that the young Countess would make haste, since the first carriage
had just driven into the courtyard.
Gerlinda turned to deliver the message herself; her footfall was
noiseless, and she opened the door of Hertha's room as noiselessly, but
paused in dismay upon the threshold.
Hertha was sitting, or rather lying, in an arm-chair by the window,
with hands clasped convulsively and head thrown back, while from
beneath her closed eyelids tear after tear coursed down her cheeks, and
her breast rose and fell with wild, passionate sobs. The young girl was
weeping,--weeping as violently and painfully as the child had wept
formerly when the white Alpine roses, snatched from her destructive
hands, had perished in the flames.
"Hertha, dear Hertha, what is the matter?" Gerlinda exclaimed,
hastening to her side.
The girl sprang up, her eyes flashing with anger. "What do yon want?
Why did you come back? Can I never be one moment alone?"
"I wanted--I came only to get you," said the young girl, retreating
timidly. "Count Steinrueck begs you to come down; the guests are
beginning to arrive."
Hertha arose and passed her handkerchief across her eyes. In a moment
all trace of tears had vanished, and the young Countess stood calmly
before her mirror, to give a last glance of inspection, as she took up
her bouquet. "Let us go, then."
They went; the satin train rustled over the stairs, and a few minutes
later they entered the reception-room, where Countess Hertha was
awaited with impatience.
Carriage after carriage rolled into the court-yard; the guests began to
fill the rooms, and at the end of an hour all were assembled, and
General Steinrueck announced in due form the betrothal of his grandson
to the Countess Hertha.
Every cloud had vanished from Raoul's brow, he had eyes only for his
betrothed, standing proud, beautiful, and triumphant at his side, with
a smile for every congratulation, for every compliment. All thought
this very natural, as was the beaming content on the face of the
general, whose special work this betrothal was. He had with a firm hand
united those which birth, name, and wealth should of right join
together, and what a handsome, happy couple they made!
* * * * *
A dull October sky hung above the endless sea of houses of the capital,
extending more widely with every year. There was the usual bustle in
the principal streets, where the crowd, the noise, and the rattling of
carriages were confusing enough to any one coming from the quiet
seclusion of the mountains to plunge into this flood of life.
General Steinrueck had his apartments in the military public buildings,
where he occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor. Its arrangement
was, so far as the Countess Hortense's apartments were concerned,
comfortable, and even luxurious. Steinrueck conformed to his
daughter-in-law's taste in this regard, and let her have her own way in
all outward matters, although otherwise he kept a tight rein on his
family affairs. His position enabled him to live expensively, in spite
of the comparatively small income derived from his estates.
The general's special rooms, on the contrary, were plainly furnished,
and his study was almost Spartan in its simple arrangement. No tender
half-light reigned here, as in the Countess's drawing-room; there were
no soft rugs or Oriental hangings; even the artistic decoration of
pictures and statuary was lacking. The daylight entered broad and clear
through the tall windows, papers, letters, and books were carefully
arranged upon the writing-table, the furniture of light oak, destitute
of carving and covered with dark leather, could not have been plainer,
and the pictures on the walls were evidently of value only as family
relics or as mementos. The room was made for labour and not for luxury,
and in its strict simplicity it corresponded perfectly with the
character of its occupant.
Steinrueck was seated at his writing-table, talking with his grandson,
who had just returned from Berkheim, whither he had escorted his
betrothed and her mother. Raoul really looked like a happy lover; his
face was all sunshine as he told of his journey; and the Count's stern
features too were lit up by a smile; the fulfilment of his favourite
scheme made him gentler and more accessible than was his wont.
They had been talking of the visit which Hertha and her mother were to
pay them, and of the marriage which was to take place in the coming
summer, and Raoul said at last, "You will have to dismiss me,
grandfather; this is the time for your military audience."
"Not yet," the general replied, with a glance at the clock. "We have a
quarter of an hour yet, and, moreover, there is nothing special for
to-day,--only a few introductions and reports from younger officers."
He took a written list from his writing-table and looked over it.
Suddenly his face darkened, and he muttered, half aloud, "Ah, to-day,
then."
Raoul, who was standing beside his grandfather's chair, had
also glanced at the list, and had noticed a name with which he
was acquainted. "Lieutenant Rodenberg. Has he been appointed
staff-officer?"
"Do you know him?" asked Steinrueck, turning hastily.
"Slightly. I went upon a hunting excursion last year with the
Rodenbergs. I suppose he is one of the sons of Colonel Rodenberg,
commanding officer at W----."
"No," said the general, coldly.
"Not? I did not know that there was any other of the name in the army."
"Nor did I; and I made the same mistake that you have done. I ought to
explain to you, Raoul, who this Rodenberg is. Your mother has probably
informed you long since as to our family history."
The young Count started, and looked inquiringly at his grandfather. "I
know that this name is one to arouse painful associations. It cannot
be----"
"Louise's son," Steinrueck said, sternly.
"Good heavens, this is too much!" exclaimed Raoul in dismay. "Is that
wretched story, which we supposed buried in oblivion long since, to be
revived? The boy was said to have run away, to be dead, or worse. How
comes this fellow, the son of an adventurer, to occupy such a
position?"
The general frowned; at the moment the old warrior's _esprit de corps_
outweighed all else, even his antipathy to the discarded and detested
son of 'the adventurer.' Michael wore a sword, and was therefore not to
be calumniated in his presence. "Take care!" he said, sternly. "You are
speaking of an officer in the army, of a very capable officer, with
regard to whom such expressions are not allowable."
"But, grandfather, you cannot but perceive that this Rodenberg may
annoy us extremely, precisely because he is an officer, and as such
justified in meeting us on terms of social equality. How are we to
treat him? And he comes to the front just at this time, when my
betrothal to Hertha makes us especially conspicuous in society. Of
course his first object will be to proclaim abroad his relations with
us."
"I doubt it, or it would have been done long ago. No one at present
knows anything of the matter, as I have taken pains to ascertain. He
certainly must know that we are not inclined to acknowledge any
relationship."
"No matter for that. Acknowledged or not, he will sooner or later
proclaim himself the grandson of Count Steinrueck, and take advantage of
the fact. Do you really imagine that any bourgeois officer would
renounce such advantage and suppress his relationship with the general
in command?"
"I shall certainly endeavour to silence him upon the subject. You are
right; at this particular time any revival of old, long-buried stories
should be avoided at all hazards. I have seen Rodenberg but once; but
from the impression I have of him I do not think that an appeal to his
sense of honour will be in vain. He will not obtrude himself upon a
family that does not choose to know him, and he has at least as much
reason as we have to consign his father's memory to oblivion. However
the affair may turn out, you must not utter a word concerning it to
your betrothed or to her mother. They accidentally became acquainted
with Rodenberg, and have not the slightest idea who he is."
"Just as I said! This man's being an officer is a positive misfortune,"
exclaimed Raoul, angrily. "In any other sphere of life he could be
ignored; now he has already found an opportunity for presenting himself
to the ladies of our family, doubtless with some ulterior motive. Of
course they must not know who he is. How Hertha, in her pride, would
scorn such a cousin! The matter must be kept absolutely secret, cost
what it may. We surely are willing to make any sacrifice if----"
"You seem to forget that you are speaking of _Lieutenant_ Rodenberg,"
the general sharply interrupted him. "One cannot purchase silence of an
officer in our army; the most that can be done is to appeal to his
pride. He must and will understand that there is no honour in a
connection with the son of his father; this is the only way in which he
can be influenced."
Raoul was silent, but his manner showed that he did not share in this
view of the case. Further conversation was impossible, for Lieutenant
Rodenberg was at that moment announced, and the general gave orders
that he should be admitted. "Leave me," he said in an undertone to
Raoul; "I wish to speak with him alone."
Raoul obeyed, but just as he was about to leave the room Rodenberg
entered, and the two young men met in the door-way. Michael bowed
slightly to the stranger, who merely bestowed upon him a half-hostile,
half-contemptuous glance, and was about to pass him without further
notice. The young officer, however, confronted him for a moment,
barring his way without a word, but with an expression in his eyes that
so authoritatively demanded the recognition of his salute that the
Count half involuntarily returned it. He inclined his head and
withdrew. Steinrueck observed this scene, which lasted only a few
seconds, and little as he approved of his grandson's discourtesy, he
was almost angry with him for yielding as he did.
Michael now approached, and the keenest observer would never have
suspected the existence of a tie of relationship between the two men.
The subaltern made his report in strict accordance with prescribed
rules, and his superior officer, cool, grave, and attentive, received
it in the usual way. Neither for an instant departed from strict
military rule. But when all that the occasion required had been said
and the young officer awaited his dismissal, the general addressed him:
"I should like to discuss with you a matter of some moment to us both.
When we first met, neither the time nor the place was fitting for such
a discussion; to-day we are undisturbed. May I request your attention?"
"I am at your Excellency's command," was Michael's brief reply.
"Your bearing at that first interview proved to me that you understand
in their entire scope the relations existing between us; how those
relations are regarded by each of us remains to be explained."
"I see no necessity for any explanation on that point," Michael said,
coldly.
The general bestowed a dark glance upon him; he had judged it best to
preserve a cold, proud demeanour during this interview that might repel
beforehand any familiarity of approach, and he now encountered a
behaviour quite as haughty as his own: there was nothing here to repel.
"But I see the necessity for our understanding each other," he rejoined
with sharp emphasis. "You are the son of the Countess Louise Steinrueck"
(he did not say "of my daughter"). "I can neither deny this nor prevent
you from laying claim to a perfectly legitimate relationship. Hitherto
you have refrained from doing so, and have treated the matter as a
secret, which leads me to hope that you yourself perceive the
undesirability of a revelation----"
"Which you fear," Michael completed the sentence.
"Which I at least deprecate. I will be perfectly frank with you. You
have probably heard from Colonel Reval that an entertainment was lately
given in my house to celebrate the betrothal of my grandson, Count
Raoul, with the Countess Hertha Steinrueck, with whom, I believe, you
are acquainted."
Something like emotion flashed up for an instant in the young officer's
face, but it was gone before it could be perceived, and he replied,
with apparently perfect composure, "So I have heard."
"Well, then. The marriage will shortly take place. During the winter
the betrothed couple will appear at court, and in society. This union
of the two last scions of my race renders it doubly my duty to keep the
escutcheon of that race free from every stain. I do not wish to offend
you, Lieutenant Rodenberg, but I presume that you are acquainted with
your father's mode of life and with his past?"
"Yes."
The word came harsh and curt from the quivering lips, but it did not
reveal the man's mental torture.
"I am sorry to touch upon such a subject to a son, but unfortunately I
cannot avoid doing so. You are entirely guiltless in the matter, and
you will hardly be a sufferer by it. Your intimate connection with
Professor Wehlau prevents any annoying investigations. I hear that you
pass for the son of an early friend of his, who has been brought up in
his household; a perfectly satisfactory expedient. Moreover, your
father has been dead more than twenty years, and he spent the latter
part of his life in foreign countries. Then, too, so far as I know, he
never openly transgressed any law of the land."
The words were like a dagger thrust,--'so far as I know!' Michael had
grown ghastly pale; he made no reply, but shot a baleful glance at the
man who so pitilessly stretched him on the rack, and who continued in
the same cold, calm manner: "The affair would wear an entirely
different aspect if you should mention your mother's name. It would, of
course, create a vast sensation in aristocratic circles, and in the
army it would give rise to endless gossip, which would be annoying, and
perhaps dangerous, for in such cases rumour always transcends reality,
and all that has been buried in oblivion for half a lifetime would be
ruthlessly dragged to light. I leave it to you whether you could or
would endure to have your father's memory thus resuscitated. With
regard to my position in the matter, I can only appeal to your sense of
justice, which will tell you----"
"Stay!" the young officer interrupted him in a half-stifled tone.
"Spare me further words, your Excellency. I have already told you that
this entire explanation was superfluous, since I have never for an
instant contemplated giving publicity to a relationship quite as
distasteful to me as to you. I thought I had made this sufficiently
clear at our first interview, when I declined your offered 'patronage.'
I see now that it was to have been the price of my silence."
Michael's words were uttered with extreme bitterness, and his hand
rested heavily upon the hilt of his sword, but he preserved his
self-control, although by an extreme effort of will. The general
probably perceived this, for he said, in a tone perceptibly gentler,
"That is a very erroneous view of the case. I repeat, I do not wish to
offend you."
"You do not?" Michael burst forth, indignantly. "What is this entire
interview but an offence, an insult, from first to last? What do you
call it, then, this subjecting a son to listen to such words regarding
his father, clearly explaining to him the while that therefore he
himself has forfeited all claim to consideration? I can neither defend
nor avenge my father,--he has deprived me of the right to do so,--and
you suppose that I do not suffer under this consciousness! There was a
time when it wellnigh ruined me, until I roused myself to do battle
with the phantom. I am but at the outset of my career. I have no record
to show as yet. When a lifetime filled with honest effort and
fulfilment of duty lies behind me, that old phantom will have vanished.
Men are not all as pitiless as yourself, Count Steinrueck, and, thank
God! all have not an escutcheon that must be kept free from stain."
The general suddenly arose with the commanding air with which he was
wont to rebuke presumption or arrogance. "Take care, Lieutenant
Rodenberg; you forget in whose presence you are."
"In that of my grandfather, who can, perhaps, forget for a few moments
that he is also my general. Fear nothing; it is the first time that I
ever called you thus, and it will be the last. For me there are no
tender or sacred associations with the name. My mother died in misery
and want, in agony and despair, but she never once opened her lips to
ask aid of him who could have saved both her child and herself by a
word. She knew her father."
"Yes, she knew him," said Steinrueck, sternly. "When she fled from her
father's house to be the wife of an adventurer she knew that every tie
binding her to her home was severed, that there could be no return, and
no reconciliation. Will her son presume to condemn the severity of an
outraged father?"
"No," replied Michael; "I know that my mother openly defied you, that
she had forfeited her home, and that if the father's heart was silent,
and only his sense of justice spoke, he could not but repudiate her.
But I know, also, that her worst crime lay in her following a bourgeois
adventurer. Had he been her equal in rank, the prodigal, debauched son
of some noble family, she would not have been so irrevocably condemned,
her father's arms would have been opened to her in her misery, and her
son would not now have had his father's memory cast up to him as a
disgrace. I should have inherited an ancient name; all else would have
been carefully suppressed. Most assuredly I should not have been
consigned to the hands of a Wolfram, that I might go to ruin."
The general's eyes flashed, but he gave up treating the young officer
any longer as a stranger; he now spoke angrily, but it was to a
grandson: "Not another word, Michael! I am not accustomed to be thus
addressed. Of what do you dare to accuse me?"
"Of what I can vouch for, for it is the truth," declared Michael,
returning the Count's look of menace. "It would have been easy for you
to place the orphaned boy in some remote educational establishment,
where you never would have seen or heard of him, but where at least he
might have been made fit for something in life; but this was just what
must not be. Therefore I was exiled to a lonely forest, where, with
only rude and rough companionship, blows and hard words were all the
instruction I received; where all intellectual aspiration was
suppressed, all talent ignored, and the only aim was to make of me a
rude, ignorant boor, whose life was to be wasted in the depths of the
forest. A stranger hand snatched me from that misery. I owe my
education, the social position in which I now confront you, to a
stranger. To my near relatives I should have owed only intellectual
death."
Steinrueck seemed speechless at the young officer's incredible audacity,
but it was not that alone that silenced him. Once before, years
previously, he had heard similar words; the same reproach had been
uttered by a priest. Now they were hurled in his face with fiery
energy, and the accusation came from the lips of him whom he certainly
had hoped to make harmless by a 'peasant life.' Count Michael was not
the man to receive an offence or an insult in silence; but now he had
no reply to make, for he felt the truth of what the young officer had
said. If he had formerly refrained from any clear analysis of his mode
of action, it was distinctly revealed to him now as in a mirror, and it
was an ugly sight,--one quite unworthy the proud wearer of the
Steinrueck name.
"You seem not yet to have entirely forgotten Wolfram's teaching," he
said at last. "Do you wish to raise another disturbance, as you did
formerly at Steinrueck? This looks like it."
He could not have done worse than to evoke this memory. Ten years had
passed, but Michael's blood still boiled at the remembrance which
goaded him to fresh indignation. "Then you called me thief," he said,
in a terrible tone; "without proof, without examination, upon a mere
suspicion! You would have allowed any one of your servants to exculpate
himself, but your grandson was immediately pronounced a criminal. Yes,
I then seized upon the first thing at hand that could serve as a
weapon; I did not know that it was my own grandfather that had so
disgraced me, but from the hour when I learned it I was filled with a
burning desire for retribution."
"Michael!" the general interrupted him, warningly "Not another word in
that tone, which is unbecoming both to your superior officer and to
your mother's father. I forbid it, and you must obey!"
When Count Steinrueck spoke in this tone he was accustomed to implicit
obedience; but here, for the first time, his personality failed of its
effect. Even Raoul, who was by no means easily daunted, bowed before
the angry glance of those eyes, but Michael did not bow. He did,
indeed, by an effort recover his self-possession, but if his voice
sounded more quiet and controlled, it had lost none of its firmness.
"As your Excellency commands. I did not seek this interview: it was
forced upon me; but I imagine you are now entirely relieved of all fear
lest I should presume upon any tie of relationship. You fancy yourself,
with your ancient pedigree, exalted far above the world around us; you
have, with an iron hand, thrust out and blotted from your life the only
member of your family who dared to defy your pride of ancestry. But
your escutcheon is not, after all, as high as the sun in the heavens;
there may come a day when it will wear a stain that you cannot wipe
out. Then you will know what it is to be obliged, while a passionate
love of honour glows in your heart, to atone for the sin and the
disgrace of another, as you now force me to expiate the memory of my
father; then you will comprehend what a pitiless judge you have been
towards my mother. May I consider myself dismissed, your Excellency?"
He stood erect in stiff military guise. The general did not reply;
something like a shudder thrilled through him at Michael's words,
sounding as they did almost prophetic; for an instant there rose before
his mind something dark and formless, like a foreboding of coming evil,
but it faded instantly. He mutely motioned to the young officer to
withdraw, and Michael went without one backward glance. In another
minute the door was closed behind him.
When Steinrueck was alone he began to pace the room restlessly to and
fro, but his glance rested again and again upon a portrait on the wall
of himself as a young officer. No, there was no resemblance between
that handsome head, with its nobly-formed, regular features, and that
other characteristic but plain face, not the least! And yet those very
eyes had flashed at him from that face; it was his voice that he had
heard from Michael's lips, and his was the inflexible pride, the iron
resolve which did not shun a strife with whatever life might bring; the
resemblance lay, not in the features, but in the look and the air.
This was borne in irresistibly upon the mind of the Count, as he stood
still at last, and gazed fixedly and gloomily at his youthful
presentment. He was indignant, offended, and yet there was in his soul
a glimmer of something which had always been lacking in his thoughts of
his son and his grandson,--the consciousness that there existed an heir
of his blood, and of his character. He had tried in vain to discover a
trace of it in Raoul,--in vain! But the repudiated son of the outcast
daughter, the young man who had just left his presence as a stranger,
had this blood in his veins, and in spite of all his hatred and
indignation his grandfather felt that he was an offshoot of his race.
* * * * *
Professor Wehlau occupied a moderately-sized but very pretty villa in
the western part of the city. The garden attached to it was large, and
the comfortable and tasteful arrangement of the whole bore witness to
the fact that advanced science is in no wise hostile to the amenities
of life.
The winter was nearing its end; March had begun, and the air was full
of hints of spring. In the Wehlau mansion, however, there was always a
threatening of storm; the discord between father and son was still far
from being resolved into harmony, and the 'thunder-cloud,' as Hans
disrespectfully dubbed his father's mood, frequently lowered above his
head. This was the case to-day, when the young artist was sitting in
the study of the Professor, who had just emptied the vials of his wrath
upon his disobedient son.
"Look at Michael," he said at last, in conclusion. "He knows what it is
to work, and he gets on in the world. Here he is a captain at only
twenty-nine,--and what are you?"
"I wish Michael would for once make an infernal ass of himself!" Hans
said, fretfully, "just that I might not have his excellence forever
dinned into my ears. You behold in the new-fangled captain the future
general field-marshal, who will win no end of battles for our country,
and in your son, your own flesh and blood, a fellow of undoubted
genius, you see nothing to admire. Really, father, it is past
endurance."
"Have done with your nonsense!" Wehlau interrupted him in the
worst possible humour. "You would fain persuade me that you are
'industrious'! Of course, according to your artistic conception of the
word! Run about and amuse yourself for half the day, under the pretence
of making studies, and spend the rest of it playing all kinds of pranks
in the various studios! And then comes the inevitable Italian tour,
when amusement is the order of the day, all of course in the interest
of art! And that you call working industriously! Oh, the life is
precisely to your taste, and, moreover, it is the only one for which
you are fit."
These reproaches, unfortunately, produced not the slightest effect.
Hans seated himself astride of his chair and rejoined without any
irritation, "Don't scold, papa, or I will paint you life-size and
present the portrait to the university, which will, you may be sure,
return me a vote of thanks. I have long wanted to ask you to sit to
me."
"This is too much!" the Professor burst forth. "I positively forbid you
to represent me with your daubs."
"Then come at least and see my studio. You have never seen one of my
'daubs.'"
"No," growled Wehlau, "I will not put myself in the way of being so
irritated; crazy, idealistic stuff,--faded sentimentality,--at best
some exasperating caricature. You never can go beyond that, as I know
well enough. I do not want to see or to hear anything of the matter."
"But you have heard something of it already," the young artist said,
with exultation. "When I sent the portrait of my master, Professor
Walter, to the exhibition, various newspapers discussed it; one of them
even introduced a very agreeable variation of the usual theme, 'the son
of our distinguished investigator;' it said, 'the talented son of a
distinguished father!' Take care, papa, I shall one day cast all your
scientific fame into the shade. But will you excuse me now? I am to
have some distinguished visitors."
Wehlau shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Fine visitors, I've no
doubt!"
"The Countesses Steinrueck, an it please you."
"What! they are going to pay _you_ a visit?" The Professor gazed at his
son in surprise.
"Of course; we are beginning to be famous, and we receive the
aristocracy in our studio. It is not all in vain to be the 'talented
son of a distinguished father.' Are you really determined not to sit to
me for your portrait, papa?"
"Confound you, no!" shouted the Professor.
"Very well; then I shall paint you clandestinely, and shall send you
treacherously to the exhibition. Adieu, papa!"
And with the most amiable smile, as if the best understanding reigned
between himself and his father, Hans withdrew. Outside the door he
encountered Michael, who had just come home, and who asked him whether
the Professor were in his study.
"Yes; but there is thunder in the air again," said Hans. "Come to the
studio for half an hour, Michael, after you have seen my father. I want
to make a slight change in my picture, and I must have you."
The young officer nodded compliance, and went to the Professor, whose
gloomy face brightened somewhat at his entrance.
"I am glad you are come," he said. "Hans has just irritated me to such
a degree that I fairly long for the sight of a sensible man."
"What has Hans been doing now?"
"Nothing at all; that's just it. I have been remonstrating with him
about the idleness to which he has been given over for the past five
months, and which he is pleased to call work. And what effect do you
suppose I produced? None, except to make him more nonsensical than
ever. That boy will be my death."
"Do not be unjust, uncle," said Michael, reproachfully. "You know that
Hans is at work upon an important picture, and I assure you that he
works very hard, although you persistently refuse to bestow a glance
upon it. I should suppose that you, as well as the rest of us, have had
sufficient proof of his talent. His portrait of Professor Walter made
quite a sensation; it was universally admired, and the newspapers even
alluded to----"
"To 'the talented son of a distinguished father!'" Wehlau angrily
interrupted him. "Are you going to harp upon the same string? Have I
not had to endure all sorts of congratulations, and have I not been
rude enough in reply to them? But 'tis of no use. Every one sides with
the boy; everybody takes his part, and is immensely delighted with the
trick he played me at the university."
"Even Professor Bauer took his part, as you call it, when he stopped to
see you on his way through the city," interposed Michael.
"Yes, that capped the climax. 'Do you know,' I asked him, 'how that
wretched lad of mine employed himself at your lectures? He caricatured
you and your audience. He made a sketch of you, recognizable at once,
surrounded by all the emblems of natural science, stirring up the four
elements in a witches' caldron, while your favourite pupils were
blowing the fire.' And what was his reply? 'I know, my dear friend, I
know. I saw the picture, and it really was so clever, so capitally
done, that I had to laugh and forgive my recreant pupil on the spot; do
you do the same.'"
"You had better take his advice, uncle. However, I only meant to say
good-morning. I promised Hans to go to his studio."
"To his studio?" the Professor said, with a sneer. "There must be a
deal going on there. I wish that pavilion in the garden had been dark
as pitch, and foul with damp, rather than have that fellow daubing
there. He has taken up his abode right under my nose, as if it were the
most natural thing in the world. Go, go, for all I care, to the
'studio'! The aristocracy may stare, if they choose, at what it
contains,--I'll not set my foot inside it, you may rely upon that."
He turned grumbling to his books, and Michael, who knew that it was
best to leave him alone in his present mood, betook himself to his
friend.
The pavilion in which the young painter had temporarily set up his
modest studio was at the end of the garden, and contained one
good-sized room. A window had been closed up, another enlarged, a
skylight had been put in, and thus had been arranged the studio that so
outraged the Professor, all the more that his permission had never been
asked for these changes. Hans always pursued the same line of conduct
with his father. 'Certainly, sir,' was his constant phrase, while he
calmly and persistently acted in direct opposition to his parent's
commands; this being in fact the only way to deal with the choleric old
Herr.
Wehlau had in the harshest terms refused to supply his son with the
means for renting a studio, and Hans, who as yet had no income of his
own, was forced to submit. But that very day he took possession of the
garden pavilion, sent for masons and carpenters, had everything
arranged according to his wishes, and when his father returned from a
short excursion he found the bill for the whole upon his writing-table.
Of course the Professor was furious; he protested that he would have
nothing of the kind upon his property, and would not even glance
towards the pavilion; but he paid the bill, and Hans had again carried
his point.
At the present moment the young artist was standing before his easel,
painting away at a large picture, while Michael stood opposite him with
folded arms, leaning against a short pillar. Conversation was evidently
at a stand-still, quite ten minutes having passed without a word from
either of the two; suddenly Hans paused in his work and said, "I tell
you what, Michael, you're no good to-day."
Michael seemed to have entirely forgotten that he was there as a model
for his friend. There was something in his look of the old boyish
dreaminess. At the sound of Hans's voice he started as if awakening.
"Who? I? Why not?"
"There it is! Yon start like a somnambulist suddenly awakened. What
were you thinking of? You have been a perfect John-a-Dreams since we
came back from the mountains. You are not the same fellow at all."
The young captain passed his hand across his forehead and smiled in a
constrained way. "I think I need active service. I may have overtasked
my brain during these last few months."
"Probably. You are a thorough fanatic in respect to work,--quite unlike
myself. But please do me the favour of adopting another expression of
countenance; I can do nothing at all with your present melancholy air."
"How shall I look, then?"
"As furious as possible. Just as my papa looks when he surveys my
studio at the distance of a couple of hundred paces, only grander, more
heroic. Oh, you can look just as I want you to, and I have been
tormenting myself for weeks with trying to put what I mean on canvas,
and in vain. I must copy it from nature, and you must help me."
"I cannot understand why you are so persistently determined to make use
of my face," Michael said, impatiently. "It is not at all suitable for
an ideal picture, and it is not in the least like the face you have put
upon your canvas."
"You don't understand," Hans declared, with an air of conviction. "Your
face is the best model I could have. Of course I shall not make the
thing a portrait. All that I can use of your features is already in the
picture. But the expression,--the eyes are all wrong! I wish I could
provoke you to the last degree,--put you into such a passion with
something that you would like to hurl it into an abyss ten hundred
thousand fathoms deep, after the example of your namesake with the Evil
One,--then I should be all right!"
"Your desire is very disinterested. Unfortunately, there is little hope
of its fulfilment, for I am not in a mood to be provoked."
"No, you are in a very tiresome mood, to which your face is admirably
adapted; we must give it up for to-day. 'Tis a pity; I should like to
give the characteristic expression to my archangel to-day, for he is to
be marched out before the aristocratic family whose patron saint he
is."
He laid aside his palette and brush with a sigh, but Michael had
suddenly grown attentive.
"Before whom is he to be marched out?" said he.
"Before the Countess Steinrueck and her daughter---- What's the matter?"
"Nothing; I am only surprised that they should visit your studio. Did
you invite them to come?"
"Not exactly, but it came about in the course of conversation. I met
the ladies yesterday at Frau von Reval's; they asked about my pictures,
the subject of this one seemed to interest them, and they arranged to
come here to-day. I have a suspicion that they are thinking of giving
me a commission for the church of their patron saint, which would
gratify me hugely, for it would prove to my father that my 'daubing'
might have practical results; at present he thinks it all child's play.
What! are you going?"
"Certainly; you do not want me any longer."
"No; but I told the Countess, who asked after you, that you were always
at home at this time, and would be delighted to pay your respects to
her."
Michael's face grew dark; he seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then
said, coldly, "Then I cannot but stay."
"Assuredly not, if you would atone in any degree for your
unconscionable behaviour in the summer. The Countess Hertha was
evidently provoked about it; I perceived that very clearly when you
were spoken of. Moreover, she was very grave and depressed yesterday."
"Happily betrothed as she is?"
There was contempt in the tone of inquiry, but Hans took no notice of
it as he went on: "Why, as for her future happiness, I should hardly go
surety for that. If the old general thinks he can restrain his grandson
and keep him within bounds by this marriage, he is greatly mistaken."
"How so? What do you know of the young fellow?" asked Michael.
"I hear enough of him. An artist frequents all kinds of society, and I
have met the young Count several times. He is undeniably attractive,
talented, chivalrously amiable, but I am afraid---- There come the
ladies. Their carriage has just driven up. I call that punctuality."
He had cast a glance through the window, and had seen the Countess
Steinrueck and her daughter in the act of alighting from their carriage,
which was drawn up before the garden-gate. He hastened to receive them,
and in a few minutes ushered them into the studio.
Captain Rodenberg had not seen the ladies since meeting them at St.
Michael's, although they had been in town for six weeks, for they
frequented aristocratic circles almost exclusively. The Countess
returned his salutation with her accustomed gentle cordiality. She no
longer reproached him for not coming to Castle Steinrueck, in spite of
her express invitation, for she had learned in conversation with the
general that the young officer for some reason or other was not liked
by his chief. He probably was aware of this, and hence his reserve; but
the gentle lady felt herself all the more called upon to treat him with
the greatest kindness.
"We have not seen each other for a long time," she said, offering him
her hand; "and our last meeting at St. Michael was disturbed by my
daughter's indisposition. Hertha was very imprudent to stay out in the
open air while a storm was coming up, and then to come home through the
rising tempest. It was fortunate that the rain fell only in the
valleys, or her cold might have had serious results."
Michael touched the offered hand with his lips, and bowed low to the
young Countess, who had taken advantage of the first available pretext
to avoid a meeting which, after the scene on the mountain roadside,
would have been impossible for each of those concerned. He had seen the
ladies only for an instant, when he had taken leave of them as they
were getting into their carriage. Now the young Countess hastily
interposed, "It was of no consequence, mamma; I begged you to hasten
your departure only because I knew how anxious you always are."
"Nevertheless, you were indisposed for several days," observed her
mother. "I am sure that Lieutenant Rodenberg, or rather----" She
glanced at his uniform. "You have since been promoted, I see. Let me
congratulate you, Captain Rodenberg."
"He has worn his new dignity for two weeks now," said Hans. "I have
begged permission to paint the future general as soon as that rank is
attained."
The Countess smiled. "Well, who knows? Captain Rodenberg advances
quickly in his career. We, too, have had an event in our family, of
which you may have heard; my daughter has been betrothed."
"I am aware of it." Michael turned to Hertha, whose eyes for the first
time encountered his own. He was forced to utter his good wishes upon
the occasion of her betrothal; but if she looked for any sign of
agitation in his manner, any trace of the passionate gleam that
sometimes proved the traitor to his cold reserve, she was mistaken. His
bow was as coolly courteous as his words were purely conventional. They
could not have been more politely or more indifferently uttered to one
whom he had never before seen.
"Countess Hertha is in her haughtiest mood to-day," Hans thought,
observing the air with which she received Michael's good wishes, as he
led the ladies to the picture, which occupied the prominent place in
the studio, although it was only partly finished. The life-size figure
of the Archangel stood forth powerfully and effectively upon the
canvas, but the face was unfinished, and the head of the Fiend was only
sketched in. Nevertheless, the grandeur and boldness of the conception
of the picture were manifest, as were also the technical skill and the
artistic force of the young painter, who might well be content with the
impression produced by his work.
Hertha, who first approached the picture, shuddered slightly, and cast
a glance of surprised inquiry at the artist, while her mother, who had
followed her immediately, exclaimed, eagerly, "That is--no, it is not
Captain Rodenberg, but you have made your archangel strikingly like
him."
"Very naturally, since he was my model," Hans said, with a laugh. "I
have indeed only made use of his characteristic expression,--one of
indignant reproof."
The Countess seemed quite carried away by the picture, and was lavish
in her praise. Hertha thought the conception fine, the composition
broad, the colouring magnificent, but while noticing and admiring all
this, she had no word of praise for the countenance of the Saint.
Hans, with his wonted amiability, played the part of cicerone to the
ladies in his studio, since they were desirous to see all his work. He
brought out a picture that had been leaning face to the wall, set it
up, and was endeavouring to place it in the best light, while the
Countess opened a large portfolio lying upon the table, containing a
number of sketches and studies, all the result of the young artist's
last autumnal excursion,--clever drawings of huntsmen and peasants in
the national costume, with here and there a head of some pretty
peasant-girl; there was a sketch--slight enough, but wonderfully
like--of the priest of Saint Michael, and there were various mountain
and forest views, all so fresh and full of life that the Countess
turned over leaf after leaf with delight. Suddenly Hans perceived what
she was doing, and hurried towards her as if to guard his portfolio
from attack: "Allow me, madame,--the portfolio is very awkwardly
placed. Let me show you the sketches," he said, hastily, pushing
forward a chair with eager courtesy, and beginning to lay the sketches
out upon the table one by one. As he did so, he took one of them,
apparently by chance, and laid it aside.
"Am I not to see that drawing?" the lady asked, a fleeting glimpse
having shown her a study of the head of a young girl.
"Oh, it is not worth showing. A mere study,--a failure," the young man
declared, but his face flushed as he spoke.
The Countess shook her finger at him: "Aha! Herr Hans Wehlau seems to
have secrets of his own. Who can tell what romances have been woven
among the mountains?"
Hans defended himself with a laugh; but when the portfolio had been
looked through, and the Countess turned to the picture he had placed
on an easel, he thought it best to hide his 'failure' behind a
window-curtain, where it was quite safe from curious eyes.
Hertha was still standing before the large painting, and Michael was at
her side. He made no attempt to avoid her, but kept his place with
perfect composure, and went on talking of his friend's talent, of his
prospects, of his intention to compete for the prize offered for a
large historical painting, and of the sketches he had already made of
it. The entire absence of constraint in his conversation was a relief
to the young Countess, although it slightly embarrassed her. Woman of
the world though she were, she could hardly adopt the same tone
after--after that hour at Saint Michael.
"I frankly confess," she said, in an undertone, "that this picture of
Herr Wehlau's surprises me. We have known only one side of his talent.
His sketches and caricatures at M----, where we met him, were clever,
and abounded in merriment, like himself. I should not have credited him
with the force, the energy, shown in this work."
"And yet it has been play to him," observed Rodenberg. "Hans is one of
those fortunate beings who attain the highest aims almost without any
effort. To all his other physical and mental endowments a kind fate
added this talent, which lifts him far above all commonplace
existence."
"A kind fate, indeed. Do you not envy your friend these gifts?"
"No; I should scarcely know how to prize them, for I value highest what
must be struggled for. Hans, with his constantly cheerful, sunny
disposition, is born for the smiles and sunshine of existence; I am
created more for the tempests and conflicts of life. Each has a part to
play."
Hertha gazed at the picture that portrayed a scene of tempest and
conflict. She knew that the man beside her could contend not only with
an enemy from without, but with himself, if need were. She had seen him
when his every fibre was quivering with passion, and yet here he stood
beside her, perfectly composed and calm; not one traitorous glance gave
the lie to his repose of manner. Her presence seemed to produce not the
slightest effect upon him.
"Do you prefer conflict, then?" she asked, with something of a sneer.
"You seem to me very ambitious, Captain Rodenberg."
"It may be so. I certainly wish to rise, and no one can do so who does
not at the outset fix his eyes upon a lofty goal. I can never be aided
and abetted by circumstances, like my friend Hans, but it is surely
worth something to be conscious of being entirely self-dependent; to
know that you have no one save yourself, and that you likewise belong
to no one save yourself."
Quietly as the words were uttered, there was iron resolution in them,
and they were comprehended. Hertha suddenly turned her eyes full upon
the speaker, with something like anger gleaming in their depths. "And
you really think thus? Can ambition, indeed, indemnify you for all
else?"
"Yes," was the cold reply. "All that I carry towards the future with me
is gratitude to the man who has been a father to me, and friendship for
his son; in all other respects I have cleared away everything from my
path."
The young Countess's lip quivered slightly, but she held her head
proudly erect as she said, "Good fortune attend you, Captain Rodenberg.
I do not doubt that you will make a career for yourself."
She turned away to her mother, but while together they discussed his
sketches with the young painter, Hertha's thoughts were busy with the
last conversation. She could not have been more distinctly informed
that Michael had come off conqueror in his struggle, and the conviction
that this was the case aroused an inexplicable emotion within her. He
had chosen to crush out and annihilate his love, and speedy success had
crowned his efforts.
When the Countess took leave of the young artist, Michael paid his
farewell respects in the studio, while Hans escorted the ladies to
their carriage. When he returned, he made haste to take the 'failure'
from its hiding-place and to put it in a separate portfolio, which he
locked up. "There would have been a pretty to-do if the Countess
had seen this," said he; "she would instantly have recognized her
god-child, and what would have become of the dignity of Hans Wehlau
Wehlenberg of the Forschungstein? He would no longer have formed a part
of the chivalric reminiscences of the Ebersburg."
"Whom did the picture represent?" asked Michael, who had been pacing
the floor, lost in thought.
"Gerlinda von Eberstein. I drew it from memory. I told you of my
adventure among the mountains, and of my promotion in rank. 'Tis odd,
but I cannot help thinking continually of the little Dornroeschen, who
seemed so ridiculous, and yet was so lovely; she thrusts herself
between me and all other memories. Just now, in presence of the Fair
One with the Golden Locks, I was haunted by her sweet little face with
its dark eyes looking out so dreamily upon a world that vanished ages
ago. Moreover, Countess Hertha seems to me changed since her betrothal.
It is sure to be so in these _mariages de convenance_, where there is
no question of love. Count Raoul is not so very much devoted, either,
to his fair betrothed; he certainly is wilder and more dissipated than
ever, and I am greatly mistaken if he is not entangled elsewhere."
Michael suddenly stood still. "What? Now? And betrothed? That would be
villanous!"
Hans looked at him in surprise. "What a tragic tone! Are you acquainted
with the young Count?"
"I first saw him at the general's, and since then we have met several
times. I was compelled to make it emphatically clear to him that he was
in company of an officer who, if need were, would exact the
consideration he seemed inclined to deny him. He seemed to understand
at last."
There was a peculiar expression in the glance which the young artist
riveted upon his friend, while with apparent unconcern he took up his
palette and brushes and began to paint again. "You surprise me. Count
Raoul probably prides himself upon his long line of ancestors, but I
have never found him as haughty as is usual with his class. He must
have some reason for disliking you."
"Or I for disliking him? I think each is pretty well aware of the
other's sentiments."
"Aha! now it's coming," Hans muttered to himself, while he painted
away. Then aloud, he continued, quietly: "You see, I have only known
the amiable side of the Count. As for his betrothal, every one knows
that it is all his grandfather's doing. His Excellency commanded, and
the grandson bowed to his august will."
"So much the worse, and the more pitiable," Rodenberg burst forth. "Who
forced him to obey? Why did he not refuse to comply? The fact is that
this much-lauded, accomplished Steinrueck is, with all his boasted
chivalry, but a poor coward where there is any need of moral courage."
There was so passionate a hatred expressed in his words that Hans was
startled. But with the egotism of the artist, who has no regard save
for his work, and who overlooks all else, he never sought to discover
the cause of his friend's almost savage irritability. He continued to
gaze at him steadily, while his brush made stroke after stroke upon the
canvas. "I think the Count would have come to grief if he had attempted
any resistance," he observed. "They say the general preserves the same
discipline in his household as among his soldiers, and will not suffer
any opposition to his will. You know your iron chief. How would you
like to confront him with a frank 'no'?"
"I have said much more to him than merely 'no.'"
"You--to the general?" Hans was so astonished that for a moment he
stopped painting. Michael forgot all his usual caution, and went on,
carried away by his emotion: "To General Count Steinrueck? Yes. He tried
to quell me with his commanding glance, and ordered me to be silent in
the tone to which every one else bows; but I was not silent. He had to
hear from my lips what he had probably never in his life heard before.
I hurled it ruthlessly in his teeth, and he listened. Now, indeed, we
are done with each other, but he knows how much I value his name and
his coronet, and that as for him and his entire race, I----"
"Would fain dash them down ten hundred thousand fathoms deep into the
burning pit! At last!" the artist burst forth, exultantly, as he laid
down his brush. "Bravo, Michael! Now you can be good-humoured again; I
have got it!"
"Got what?" asked Michael.
"The expression, the glance of flame, for which I have been looking so
long. You were incomparable in your indignation,--you were Saint
Michael himself."
Rodenberg seemed to recollect himself for the first time; he bit his
lip. "And you have been all this time studying me in cold blood? Hans,
it is unpardonable."
"Possibly, but it was necessary. Look at the picture yourself; see that
brow and those eyes. I hit it off with a few strokes of the brush."
Michael, still irritated and annoyed, approached the easel and looked
at the picture. He was struck with the change in it, but before he
could speak Hans threw his arm around his shoulder and said, with
sudden seriousness, "Come, tell me about yourself and the Steinruecks.
Why do you hate Count Raoul, and what gives you the right to say such
things to the general, your chief? There must be something here which
yon have concealed from me."
Rodenberg made no reply, and turned away.
"Do I not deserve your confidence?" Hans asked, reproachfully. "I never
have had a secret from you. What are your relations with Steinrueck?"
There ensued a brief pause, and then Michael said, coldly and sternly,
"The same as Count Raoul's."
Hans stared at him in blank incredulity; he could not trust his ears.
"What do you mean? The general----?"
"Is the father of my mother. Her name was Louise Steinrueck."
* * * * *
March of this year was a very disagreeable month. After being ushered
in by a few bright sunny days it veiled the city in gray mist and rain
for weeks. The first buds perished of cold and damp, and people gazed
out from behind their window-panes, disgusted with the spring month
that did so little honour to its name.
On one of these rainy afternoons Count Raoul Steinrueck mounted the
steps and pulled the bell of the apartments upon the first floor of a
house in the fashionable quarter of the city. He must have been well
known to the servant who opened the door, for he merely bowed in answer
to the inquiry whether Herr de Clermont was at home, and admitted the
visitor without further question.
The young Count entered the drawing-room, in which, in spite of its
rich furniture, an air of comfort was lacking. All the demands of the
prevailing fashion were fully met in its arrangement, but there was
nothing to indicate the individuality of the owners of the apartment.
Everything seemed placed where it was only for the time being, and to
suggest that the entire interior might shortly be removed, to be put at
the disposal of others requiring a temporary home.
At the Count's entrance a young man who had been standing at a window
turned and came towards him eagerly. "Ah, here you are, Raoul! We had
given you up for to-day."
"I have only half an hour," said Raoul, taking off his overcoat and
throwing himself into a chair with an ease betokening that he was quite
at home here. "I have just come from the department."
"And the future minister has of course brought away a fit of
ill-humour," said Clermont, laughing. "Important government
business,--oh, we have no chance at all where that is in question."
The conversation was carried on in French. Henri de Clermont was
perhaps a few years older than the young Count Steinrueck, and was
wonderfully attractive in appearance and manner, although the innocent
gayety of his air was not entirely in harmony with the keen glance of
his dark eyes, which were those of a sharp observer. They now rested
searchingly upon Raoul's countenance as he replied, impatiently,--
"Minister--government business--of course! If you only knew what an
endless waste of dulness and ennui there is to be struggled through. I
have been an entire year in the department, and nothing has yet fallen
to my lot save the veriest trifles. A Count Steinrueck is of no more
importance to our chief than is any one of his bourgeois officials, and
indeed not of as much if the latter happens to have a greater power of
application. You must rise from the ranks."
"Yes, you Germans are wonderfully thorough in such matters," Clermont
said, ironically. "With us one rises more quickly with a name and
connections to aid him. And so you have been intrusted as yet with
nothing important?"
"No." Raoul glanced impatiently towards the door that led into the next
apartment, as if expecting some one. "At best a transcript of some
confidential transaction, in which the name and position of the one
concerned are due warranty for his silence; and this may go on for
years."
"If you can endure it. Do you really mean to remain in the government
employ?"