"That's an odd question for a man who is about to marry a very wealthy
heiress. You might live in future as sovereign lord upon your estates,
although I hardly think such an existence would satisfy you. You need
life, society, the stir and action of a capital. Well, contrive to
become attached to the embassy at Paris, as your father was before you.
It cannot be a difficult position to attain if one pulls the right
wires, and the dearest wish of your mother's heart would then be
fulfilled."
"And my grandfather? He never would consent."
"If he were consulted; but his power ceases with the termination of his
guardianship of your future wife. The will settles that. When does the
Countess Hertha come of age?"
"Upon her twentieth birthday,--next autumn."
"And then you need consult no one, and heed nothing save the wishes of
your young wife, who will hardly refuse to live with you in the capital
of Europe, its brilliant centre. The general's views can then have no
weight with you or with her."
"You do not know my grandfather," said Raoul, gloomily. "He will
maintain his authority even then, and I---- Is Madame de Nerac not
visible to-day?"
"She is dressing; we are going out to dine. Where shall you be this
evening?"
"With my betrothed."
"And what a face you put on as you announce it!" Clermont said,
laughing. "Every one envies you your brilliant match, and with justice.
Countess Hertha is beautiful, wealthy, and----"
"Cold as ice." Raoul completed the sentence with a bitter intonation.
"I can assure you that I am not so much to be envied as you suppose."
"True, the young Countess has a certain reputation for caprice. But
that is the prerogative of handsome women."
"If it were caprice only, that would be nothing new: she was always
capricious. But since our betrothal she has adopted a distant tone; she
is perfectly unapproachable. It puts my patience to the severest test.
I cannot stand it much longer."
There was extreme irritation in his tone. Clermont shrugged his
shoulders. "Who of us can make his own choice? I cannot, although
sooner or later I must marry, and my sister was married at sixteen to a
man over fifty, Needs must."
Raoul scarcely heard the last words; he had continued to watch the door
expectantly, and he suddenly started up, for it opened, and a silken
train rustled across the threshold.
The lady who entered was of medium height, slender, and, although no
longer in her first youth, exquisitely graceful. Her face could not be
called beautiful, perhaps not even pretty, but it had an odd, piquant
charm of its own. The black hair dressed in short close curls all over
the head made the face look younger than it really was; there was a
tender, veiled look in the dark eyes, which could, nevertheless,
sparkle brilliantly, as they did now when they perceived the young
Count. In vain was all attempt to analyze the charm that lay in those
irregular and scarcely refined features; there it was, and when the
face grew animated in conversation every line of it was interesting and
brilliant.
Raoul had risen instantly and hastened towards the new-comer, whose
hand he raised to his lips. "I have only a moment," he said, "but I
could not help waiting for a glimpse of you, since Henri tells me you
are going out."
"Oh, we need not go for half an hour yet," Frau von Nerac said, with a
glance at the clock. "You see, Henri is not dressed yet."
"I must go and dress now," said Clermont. "Excuse me, Raoul; I shall be
here again shortly."
He left the room, and Raoul certainly seemed nothing loath to be left
to a _tete-a-tete_ with his friend's sister. He took a seat opposite
her, and in a few moments the pair were engaged in eager and lively
conversation, chiefly concerning airy trifles, but gay and brilliant in
the extreme. Frau von Nerac showed herself a mistress of persiflage,
and the young Count was no whit her inferior in this regard. The cloud
upon his brow vanished, leaving not a trace; he was in his element.
But suddenly the talk took a different turn. Raoul casually mentioned
Castle Steinrueck, and the name evoked a smile from Frau von Nerac that
was half sarcastic, half malicious. "Ah, the castle in the mountains,"
said she; "Henri and I were to have made acquaintance with it, but
unfortunately our visit was prevented by the indisposition of the
Countess."
"My mother suffers frequently from those nervous attacks; they are very
sudden, and very distressing," said Raoul, quickly overcoming his
embarrassment. "They deprived her, on that occasion, of the pleasure of
receiving her guests."
Frau von Nerac smiled again very sweetly and very significantly. "I am
afraid that the guests were the cause of the nervous attack."
"Madame!"
"The general may have had some share in it; but we certainly were the
innocent cause."
"You still visit upon me that unfortunate occurrence," Raoul said;
"Henri does not; he knows how difficult is the position in which my
mother and I are placed, and makes allowances."
"So do I. I persisted in going to see the Countess, although we were
obliged to confine ourselves to the merest call, since the general did
not feel called upon to renew the invitation. His Excellency seems to
be a very absolute monarch, and he certainly has a very obedient
grandson."
"What can I do but obey!" exclaimed Raoul, with suppressed impatience.
"My mother is right: she and I are both subject to an iron will that is
wont recklessly to bend everything beneath it and to break what will
not bend. If you knew how humiliating it is to be lectured, examined,
hectored like a boy! I have had enough, and more than enough, of it
all!"
He had started up in his agitation, whilst Frau von Nerac, leaning back
gracefully in her chair, toyed with her fan, and now rejoined, very
calmly, "Well, all that will end with your marriage."
"Yes,--with my marriage," the Count slowly repeated.
"How tragic that sounds! Take care that the Countess Hertha does not
hear you speak in that tone; she might resent it."
Raoul did not reply, but went up to where the lady was sitting, and
bent over her: "Heloise!"
The word sounded half reproachful, half entreating, but was apparently
not understood, for she looked up at the speaker as though in surprise.
"Well?"
"You best know what this marriage is to me. I have been hurried into
it, over-persuaded by my mother, and I feel it to be a fetter even
before it has taken place."
"And yet it will take place."
"That is the question."
There was a flash as of lightning in Heloise's dark eyes; then her
eyelashes drooped, and, as she seemed to examine the picture on her
fan, she said, in a careless tone, "Would you attempt a rebellion? It
would raise a tempest indeed, and would call down upon you supreme
displeasure."
"What should I care, if I could but hope for a certain prize? For its
sake I would defy my grandfather's anger. I thought I should be able to
overcome--to forget--when Hertha should be my betrothed. I saw you
again, Heloise, and I knew that the old spell was still around me, and
would always hold me fast. You are silent? Have you no word of reply
for me?"
His eyes sought and found hers; her glance was veiled and tender, and
her voice was as tender as she said, softly, "You are a fool, Raoul!"
"Do you call it folly to desire happiness?" he exclaimed. "You are a
widow, Heloise, you are free, and if----"
He could not finish his sentence, for the door opened rather noisily
and Clermont entered. The intruder did not seem to notice his friend's
start, or the annoyed glance which his sister bestowed upon him, but
called out, gayly, "Here I am! Now we can have a quarter of an hour
together, Raoul."
The young Count's face betrayed his annoyance at this interruption,
and, in the worst possible humour, he replied, "Unfortunately, I have
no more time. I told you I had but a minute. Madame----"
He turned to Heloise, and would apparently have addressed a question to
her in an undertone, but Clermont suddenly interposed between them,
and, laying his hand lightly upon his sister's arm, said, not without a
certain significance, "If you are really in such a hurry we will not
detain you, eh, Heloise? Until tomorrow, then."
"Until to-morrow," Raoul repeated, grasping his hand hurriedly. He was
evidently not inclined to make a confidant of his friend, but took his
leave in no very satisfied mood.
Scarcely had the door closed after him, when the young widow turned to
her brother with a very ungracious air: "You came most inopportunely,
Henri."
"So I perceived," he replied, calmly; "but I thought it high time to
put an end to the scene, which you were inclined to take seriously."
Heloise tossed her head defiantly. "And if I were? Would you interfere
to prevent it?"
"No; but I should explain to you that you were inclined to commit an
act of supreme folly, and I trust nothing more would be required to
bring you to reason."
"Do you think so? You may be mistaken," she said, exultingly. "You
underestimate my power over Raoul. I have but to speak the word, and he
will dissolve his betrothal and defy his family."
"And what then?"
The cool direct question put an end to the young widow's triumphant
tone; she looked in surprise at her brother, who continued, very
composedly: "You know the general. Do you suppose that he ever would
forgive such a step, that he would ever consent to Raoul's marrying
you? And Raoul _cannot_ marry against his will, for he is entirely
dependent upon him."
"He is his grandfather's heir, and the general is over seventy----"
"And has a constitution of iron," Clermont interposed. "He may live ten
years longer, and you are scarcely so infatuated as to suppose that
Raoul's passion or your own youth will last so long. You are full five
years older than he."
Frau von Nerac folded her fan hastily and noisily. "Henri, you go
almost too far!"
"I am sorry, but I cannot spare you. You cannot reckon upon the future;
therefore you must comprehend the present. In a few years there will be
no choice left you."
Heloise made no reply, but her air was one of intense irritation.
Evidently she felt outraged, but Clermont coolly continued: "And even
supposing that Raoul should enter very shortly upon his inheritance, he
would still be no fitting match for you. The general's salary enables
him to live with a degree of elegance, but his grandson inherits
nothing of that. Castle Steinrueck is an article of luxury; it probably
costs a yearly outlay; it certainly brings in nothing, and all the
available property of the family belongs to the South German branch.
The North German cousins all have very good reasons for entering either
the army or the civil service. Their estates would, to be sure, be
sufficient for the support of a country nobleman who, with his family,
could consent to live upon his own soil and occupy himself with
agriculture. But for you and Raoul,--the idea is ridiculous. Moreover,
I am especially anxious that Raoul should remain at present upon good
terms with his grandfather; through him alone can we know aught of the
Steinrueck establishment."
"You might do that much more easily through the Marquis de Montigny,"
said Heloise, still irritated. "He has just been attached to our
embassy here, and of course goes to his sister's very frequently."
"Certainly; but you are much mistaken if you imagine that the haughty
Montigny would lend himself to such matters. He already treats me with
a careless indifference that sometimes makes my blood boil. He would
sacrifice his position rather than condescend---- But enough of this! I
fancy you now comprehend that Raoul's circumstances could never adapt
themselves to your requirements; what those requirements are you proved
with sufficient clearness during Nerac's lifetime."
"Was it my fault that he squandered his entire fortune?"
"You certainly helped him honestly in doing so; but we will not discuss
that. The fact is that we are without means, and that you are forced to
make a brilliant marriage. Your romance with Raoul must be nothing but
a romance, and you would be very unwise to induce him to break with his
betrothed. As long as the general lives, a marriage between you is an
impossibility; after that it would be a folly. Remember this, and be
reasonable."
"What is it?" asked the young widow, turning impatiently towards the
servant, who brought her a card. "We are just going out, and can
receive no visitors."
"A gentleman from the embassy wishes to speak with Herr von Clermont
for a few minutes only," the servant said, by way of excuse.
"Ah, that is another affair," Henri said quickly, taking the card; but
after a surprised glance at it he handed it to his sister, who,
evidently startled in her turn, said,--
"Montigny? Calling upon you? You said just now----"
"Yes, I do not understand it; there must be some special cause for his
visit. Leave us for a few minutes, Heloise; I must receive him."
The lady withdrew, and Clermont desired the servant to admit the
visitor, who straightway entered the room.
The Marquis de Montigny was a man about fifty years old, of very
distinguished appearance, whose bearing, at all times rather haughty,
was at present characterized by a certain cold formality. In spite
of it, Henri received him with the greatest cordiality. "Ah, Herr
Marquis, I am charmed to have the pleasure of receiving you. Let me beg
you,"--he invited his guest by a gesture to be seated, but Montigny
remained standing, and coldly rejoined,--
"You are probably surprised to see me here, Herr von Clermont."
"Not at all; our relations socially and nationally----"
"Are of a very superficial nature," the Marquis interrupted him. "It is
an entirely personal matter that brings me here. I did not wish to
discuss it at the embassy."
His tone was certainly slighting. Clermont compressed his lips and
darted a menacing glance at the man who ventured to treat him thus
cavalierly beneath his own roof, but he said nothing and awaited
further explanations.
"I met my nephew a moment ago," Montigny began again; "he was probably
coming from you."
"Certainly; he has just left here."
"And he, Count Steinrueck, frequents your house daily, I hear."
"He does; we are intimate friends."
"Indeed?" was the cold rejoinder. "Well, Raoul is young and
inexperienced; but I would call your attention to the fact that this
friendship is quite worthless for you. No state secrets are confided to
so young and insignificant a member of the department. They are very
cautious here in such respects."
"Herr Marquis!" Clermont burst forth, angrily.
"Herr von Clermont?"
"I have frequently had occasion to object to the tone which you see fit
to adopt towards me. I must beg you to alter it."
Montigny shrugged his shoulders. "I was not aware that I had neglected
to treat you with due courtesy in society. Now that we are alone, you
must permit me to be frank. I learned but lately of Count Steinrueck's
intimacy in your household, and I do not know how great may be Frau von
Nerac's share in this intimacy. Be that as it may, however, you will
understand me when I beg, or rather require, that the Countess be left
entirely out of the question in the schemes which you are both
pursuing. Select another individual,--one who is not the son of the
Countess Hortense and the nephew of the Marquis de Montigny."
Clermont had grown very pale; he clinched his hands and his voice was
hoarse as he rejoined, "You appear to forget that we are equals in
rank. My name is as ancient and as noble as your own, and I demand
respect for it."
Montigny measured him from head to foot with a haughty glance as he
replied, "I respect your name, Herr von Clermont, but not your
calling."
Henri made a movement as if to throw himself upon the insulter. "This
is too much! I demand satisfaction!"
"No," said Montigny, as haughtily as before.
"I shall force you to grant it----"
"I advise you not to try to do that," the Marquis interposed. "You
would only force me to proclaim why I refuse you what you ask. It would
make you impossible in society, and impose upon me a responsibility
which I should assume only in a case of extreme necessity. I repeat my
demand. If it is not complied with, I must open the eyes of my sister
and of her son. I think you will scarcely drive me to do so."
He inclined his head so haughtily and contemptuously that the
salutation was almost an insult, then turned and left the room.
Clermont looked after him, trembling with rage, as he muttered under
his breath, "You shall pay me for this!"
* * * * *
The house of Colonel von Reval was a kind of centre for the social life
of the capital, and was much frequented not only by people of rank and
fashion, but also by members of the aristocracy of intellect. The
colonel and his wife prided themselves upon numbering among their
intimate friends the most distinguished lights of Art and Science, and
their ample means enabled them to exercise a generous hospitality.
To-night, at the close of the winter season, all their friends and
acquaintances were assembled beneath their roof at a final
entertainment. It was far more brilliant in these spacious princely
apartments than was possible in the comparative simplicity of their
country-seat Elmsdorf, and the guests were far more numerous. They
moved through rooms and halls bright with lights and flowers; there was
gay talk and laughter, and the cheerful, lively mood that seemed to
breathe in the very atmosphere of the Reval household reigned
everywhere. Among the throng of commonplace and insignificant
individuals, sure to be present at any great entertainment, there was
an unusually large proportion of beautiful women and distinguished men.
In fact, every one worth seeing and knowing in the capital seemed to be
present here to-night.
General Steinrueck, the life-long friend of the Reval family, was
present with his family, and the brother of the Countess Hortense, the
Marquis de Montigny, was of their party.
Even Professor Wehlau, who was not fond of large entertainments, and
who eschewed them for the most part, had made an exception to his rule
in favour of this evening, and had arrived with his two sons. Hans had
not yet made his appearance: he was helping to arrange the _tableaux
vivants_, which made part of the evening's entertainment, having
undertaken their management, while Michael, having declined to take any
part in them, was already among the guests.
"A word with you, my dear Rodenberg," the colonel said in an undertone,
drawing the captain aside for a moment. "Have you done anything to
displease the general?"
"No, Herr Colonel," replied Michael, quietly.
"No? It occurred to me that he passed you by without a word and with
rather a cold acknowledgment of your undeniably formal salute. There is
really nothing the matter, then?"
"Nothing whatever. I have talked with the general but once, when I
reported to him, and have only seen him now and again when on duty. Why
should he pay me any special attention?"
"Because he knows you and what you have done. He spoke very highly of
it to me before he made your personal acquaintance, and, besides, I
know that my opinion has weight with him. Nevertheless, he has taken
scarcely any notice of you during the entire winter; you have never
received the invitation usually extended by him to his subalterns, and
when I speak of you he always tries to change the subject. It is
inexplicable."
"The explanation is probably to be found in the fact that I have not
the good fortune to please his Excellency," Michael said, with a shrug.
But the colonel shook his head: "The general is not whimsical; this
would be the first time that he ever treated unjustly an officer of
whose excellence he was convinced. You must have neglected some duty."
Rodenberg was silent, preferring to suffer under this implication
rather than to prolong so annoying a discussion. Fortunately, the
colonel was called elsewhere and released him.
Meanwhile, Professor Wehlau paid his respects to the Countess
Steinrueck, whom he had not seen for several years, and who received him
very cordially. She never forgot that he had once left important and
pressing affairs of his own to hasten to her husband's deathbed. To his
inquiries concerning her health she replied by complaints of her
invalid condition, expressing a desire to avail herself of his advice,
although aware that he had for many years ceased to practise medicine.
The Professor courteously declared himself always ready to make an
exception in her case, and placed himself entirely at her disposal.
Thus the best of understandings was established between them, when the
Countess unfortunately touched upon a dangerous subject. "I have an
appointment at your son's for tomorrow. He tells me that his large
picture is almost entirely finished and is to be placed on exhibition
next week. I am very anxious for a private view of it beforehand, since
it is already mine, as you are probably aware."
"Yes," replied the Professor, laconically, his good humour all gone.
Hans had triumphantly announced to him that his picture had been bought
from the easel, and by the Countess Steinrueck, who now innocently
asked,--
"And what do you say to this work of our young artist?"
"Nothing at all; I have never even seen it," was the curt reply.
"What! His studio is in your garden."
"Unfortunately. But I have never set foot inside it, and mean never to
do so."
"Still so implacable?" said the Countess, reproachfully. "I grant that
the game that your son played with you was rather audacious and very
provoking, but you must be convinced by this time that so talented and
highly gifted a nature is not fitted for cold, grave, scientific
pursuits."
"There you are right, madame," the Professor interrupted her, somewhat
harshly. "The lad is fit for nothing serious or sensible, and may be a
painter for all that I care."
"Do you estimate Art so meanly? I should have thought it of equal rank
with Science."
Wehlau shrugged his shoulders with all the arrogance of the scholar who
holds no calling equal in rank to his own, and by whom Art is regarded,
more or less, as a plaything. "Yes, yes, pictures look very pretty in a
drawing-room, I do not deny, and you have a whole gallery of them at
Berkheim. This latest acquisition of yours will find a place among
them."
The Countess stared at him in surprise. "You do not seem to know the
subject of the picture; it is destined for the church at Saint
Michael."
"For the church?" asked Wehlau, surprised in his turn.
"Certainly, since it is a sacred picture."
The Professor started to his feet. "What! _My_ son paint a sacred
picture!"
"Assuredly. Did he never tell you of it?"
"He took good care not to do that. Nor did Michael even mention it to
me, although he doubtless knew all about it."
"He certainly did, for Captain Rodenberg stood to him for a model."
"Ah! He must have made a charming saint!" the Professor laughed,
bitterly. "Michael is well suited to the part. Have the fellows gone
crazy? Excuse me, madame,--I am conscious of my discourtesy,--but it is
beyond belief,--that is, I must find out about it."
He bowed hastily, and rushed off so quickly that he very nearly ran
against a young girl who was standing hidden in a window-recess, behind
the Countess, and who looked after him half terrified.
"Gerlinda, are you there?" asked the Countess, turning towards her. "My
child, what is to be done if, whenever you go into society, you hide
yourself behind the window-curtains! If you had only been beside me you
would have been presented to one of the celebrities of the capital."
The young girl advanced, and asked, timidly, "That angry old man who
does not like sacred pictures----?"
"Is one of the first scientists of the age, a magnate in science, in
whom all eccentricity must be forgiven. He is, it is true, of a rather
choleric temperament."
Gerlinda still gazed after the Professor with some anxiety. No name had
been mentioned in the conversation which she had overheard, and she
asked no further question, for the beginning of the tableaux was
announced, and all the guests betook themselves to the drawing-room,
where the stage was set up.
Hans Wehlau, on this evening, covered himself with glory. The pictures
which he arranged, not after famous examples, but after his own ideas,
in illustration of familiar legends and poems, did honour to his
artistic capacity. Each was a creation in itself, and every time the
curtain was raised there was a fresh surprise.
The laurels of the evening, however, were borne off by the Countess
Hertha Steinrueck, enthroned upon a rock, in the richest of robes, as
the Loreley. Hans knew very well why he chose to have this picture last
in the series, placing the young Countess alone in the frame, with no
companion-figure. A long-drawn 'Ah!' of admiration pervaded the
assembly at sight of a loveliness that threw all else that had been
seen into the shade. She was, indeed, the breathing embodiment of the
legend with its intoxicating witchery.
Even Professor Wehlau forgot his vexation for a few minutes, although
he had been nursing it all through the entertainment, and was all
admiration. But when the curtain had fallen for the last time, and the
youthful manager with his assistants appeared in the drawing-room,
Wehlau's indignation began to boil afresh, and he tried to speak with
his son. This was no easy matter, however, for Hans was in great
requisition, the hero of the hour, flattered and caressed; he shared
with the Countess Hertha the triumph of the evening. Nearly a quarter
of an hour elapsed before the Professor succeeded in capturing him. "I
wish to speak with you," he said, with an ominous countenance, drawing
the young man aside into the window-recess where Fraeulein von Eberstein
had been standing.
"With pleasure, papa," said Hans, who was positively beaming with
delight.
This only increased the Professor's vexation, and he came to the point
at once. "Is what I heard just now from the Countess Steinrueck true? Is
the picture you have painted a sacred picture?"
"It is, papa."
"Indeed! Have you both lost your senses? Michael as a saint! It must be
a perfect caricature."
"On the contrary, he makes an extremely striking archangel. The picture
you see represents Saint Michael----"
"It may represent the devil, for all I care!" Wehlau angrily
interrupted him.
"Oh, he's there, too, and as large as life. But how can the subject of
my picture affect you?"
"How can it affect me?" the Professor burst out, having much ado to
preserve the low tone of voice required by the situation. "You know my
attitude with regard to the ecclesiastical party. You know that because
of it I am excommunicated by the priests, and here you are painting
pictures of saints for their churches. I will not permit it! I will not
have it! I forbid it!"
"Impossible, papa," said Hans, composedly. "The picture belongs to the
Countess, and is, moreover, promised to the church at Saint Michael."
"Where, of course, it will be installed with all due ecclesiastical
pomp."
"To be sure, papa,--on the feast of Saint Michael."
"Hans, you will be the death of me with your 'To be sure, papa.' At
the feast of Saint Michael, when all the mountain population is
assembled,--oh, this grows better and better! The clerical newspapers
will of course get hold of the affair; they will devote columns to the
procession, the mass, the worshippers, and among it all will appear
everywhere the name of Hans Wehlau,--_my_ name."
"_My_ name, if you please," the young artist interposed with emphasis.
"I wish to heaven I had had you christened Pancratius or Blasius, that
the world might have known the difference!" exclaimed the Professor, in
desperation.
"Papa, why are you so furious?" asked Hans, complacently. "In fact, you
ought to be grateful to me if I should devote myself to the task of
reconciling you and your opponents; and, moreover, the picture is not a
sacred picture in the ordinary sense of the term. It is the conflict of
light with darkness. I intended, of course, to portray in the figure of
the archangel, Science, and in that of Satan, Superstition. It is after
your own heart, papa,--a glorification of your teaching. I should like
to hang the picture in the University, in your lecture-room, it is
painted so exactly to please you. I hope you will be grateful to me
and----"
"Boy, you will send me to my grave!" gasped the Professor, taken aback
afresh by this extraordinary peroration.
"God forbid! We shall live together long and happily. But now excuse
me. I must not stay here any longer."
With which the young man, quite unconcernedly, mingled again with the
guests, and began to search for Michael.
In a small room adjoining the large drawing-room Fraeulein von Eberstein
was sitting quite lonely and deserted. When the curtain fell and the
spectators began to circulate through the various rooms again, the
Countess Steinrueck had been in great requisition. All were anxious to
compliment her upon her lovely daughter, and thus Gerlinda lost sight
of her chaperon. Timid, and a total stranger among the crowd, she had
taken refuge in this deserted room, here to wait patiently until some
one should remember her and seek her out.
The young girl had been for a week in the city. The Freiherr had at
last yielded to the Countess's wish, and to her repeated representation
that Gerlinda ought to see something of the world and have a chance at
least of marrying in her own station. This last consideration had
prevailed over the father's obstinacy his state of health was such as
to remind him constantly of the uncertainty of his life, and he well
knew that if he should die Berkheim would be his daughter's sole
refuge. She would be left quite alone, and, although the Countess had
declared most kindly that after her daughter's marriage she should look
to Gerlinda to replace her, old Eberstein's pride revolted at the idea
of accepting what was in fact a shelter for his child, delicately as it
might be proffered.
For this reason he would have been very glad to see his daughter well
and suitably married. For him the word suitably signified a son-in-law
with a long and stainless pedigree, and the aristocratic principles of
the Steinruecks set his mind at ease on that score. Therefore he made
Gerlinda repeat once more to him the entire genealogical chronicle of
the Ebersteins, admonished her never to forget that she was sprung from
the tenth century, and let her set off with the maid, sent by the
Countess, for the capital, where she was to spend some weeks with the
Steinruecks, and then accompany them to Berkheim.
The little chatelaine had of course no suspicion of any schemes devised
for her future, and had taken but a half-hearted interest in her visit.
The brilliant turmoil of society, of which she had a glimpse during her
stay at Steinrueck, and into which she was now plunged, distressed
rather than amused her. Thus she felt glad to be alone for a few
minutes on this evening, and sat quite contentedly, but timid as a
frightened bird, on a corner divan in the empty room.
Suddenly the _portiere_ at the entrance was pulled aside, and a young
man, casting a hasty glance around the room as if in search of some
one, stood as if rooted to the spot upon perceiving its solitary
occupant.
"Fraeulein von Eberstein!"
Gerlinda started at the sound of that voice; she instantly recognized
its possessor. "Herr von Wehlau Wehlenberg."
Hans was already at her side. He had had no suspicion of her presence
here, or, indeed, in the city; his duties as manager had kept him
behind the scenes, and when he entered the drawing-room Gerlinda had
already left it. Their meeting was a surprise to both, and certainly
not an unpleasant one, as was evident from the young man's sparkling
eyes and the little chatelaine's blushing cheeks.
"I fancied you far away in your mountain home," said Hans, taking a
seat beside her. "How is your father?"
"Poor papa has been very far from well this winter," replied Gerlinda;
"but as spring approached he grew better, so that I could leave him
without anxiety."
"And Muckerl? How is Muckerl?"
The account of Muckerl's health was very satisfactory: she was as gay
and hearty as she had been in the autumn; and as her young mistress
talked of her she half forgot her timidity; she was so glad to tell of
her home, and Hans did not interrupt her, but kept his eyes attentively
fixed upon her face.
He had just seen the Countess Hertha in all the pride of triumphant
beauty, and his artist eye had revelled in the sight. Here he saw only
a delicate, child-like creature, who could not possibly be compared
with that other, and whose soft brown eyes gazed up into his own half
shyly, half confidingly. Nevertheless, little Dornroeschen looked to him
unutterably lovely to-night in her ball-dress of some airy, pale pink
material, relieved by bunches of wild roses and floating cloud-like
about the graceful figure. There was in her air and carriage something
of the dewy freshness of a rose-bud just opening to the light.
"And how are you pleased here?" Hans asked, when the young girl paused.
"Is there not something intoxicating, bewildering, in the life of a
great city for one who mingles in it for the first time?"
Gerlinda shook her head and looked down. "I do not like it," she
declared. "I would rather be at home with papa and my Muckerl. I feel
so lonely and forsaken among all these strange people; they do not
understand me, and I do not understand them."
"Oh, you will soon learn to understand them," Hans said, consolingly.
But she still shook her head; the poor child had a vague idea of what
was ridiculous about her, and she went on in a pathetic little voice:
"They seem to care so little here about their pedigrees! No one knows
that we date from the tenth century, and that our family is the very
oldest. If I begin to tell of it, Hertha says, 'Gerlinda, stop; you are
making yourself ridiculous,' and my godmother says, 'My child, that is
out of place here,' and Count Raoul smiles so disagreeably. I know now
that he laughs at me. Herr von Wehlau Wehlenberg, you do not think it
ridiculous, do you? Your aristocratic self-consciousness is so
admirably developed, my papa says."
The knight of the Forschungstein felt extremely uncomfortable at this
appeal to his aristocratic self-consciousness. It suddenly occurred to
him that his sin had found him out, for as soon as Gerlinda returned to
the drawing-room and heard his name, all would be explained. There was
only one thing to be done,--make confession himself upon the spot.
"We searched through all the books of heraldry, and at last we found
your family," the young girl continued, with an air of importance; and
then, falling into what might be called her heraldic style, she began
to repeat what had been found in the books: "The lords of Wehlenberg,
an ancient imperial race, settled in the Margraviate since sixteen
hundred and forty-three, owning estates of value in the various
provinces, the head of the family being Baron Friedrich von Wehlenberg
of Bernewitz----" Here she broke off to say, with some regret, "We
could not find the Forschungstein."
"No, you could not find it, for there is no such place," said Hans,
whose resolution was formed. "You and your father have fallen into an
error for which I am accountable. I told you, however, at our first
interview that I was an artist."
Gerlinda nodded gravely. "I told my papa; he thought it very unbecoming
in a man of an ancient noble line."
"But I am not of an ancient noble line, nor even of a modern one."
Gerlinda looked terrified, and recoiled from him. The young man
perceived it, and there was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he
went on: "I have a confession to make to you, Fraeulein von Eberstein,
and forgiveness to ask for a deception which sprang from necessity. I
reached the Ebersburg that evening wet through, and having lost my way;
there was no other shelter to be found far and wide, night was falling
fast, and the Baron refused me admittance because, as he would have
expressed it, I was not 'of rank.' I had no choice save to be thrust
out into the storm or to thrust myself into the ranks of the
aristocracy, and I preferred the latter course. But I owe it to you to
tell the truth. My name is simply Hans Wehlau, without any mediaeval
adjunct; I am a painter by profession; my father is a professor in the
university here, and we are both bourgeois from head to foot."
The effect of these words was annihilating; the little chatelaine sat
stark and stiff as if paralyzed with horror, staring at this bourgeois
Hans Wehlau who told her so fearful a tale. At last she recovered her
voice, folded her hands, and said, with a profound sigh, "This is
horrible!"
Hans rose and made her a formal bow. "I confess myself very guilty, but
I did not think that the truth would so startle you. I have, it seems,
lost all worth in your estimation, and shall please you best by leaving
you. Farewell, Fraeulein von Eberstein."
He turned to go, but Gerlinda started and put out her hand as if to
detain him. "Herr Wehlau."