You would never think her unhappy. Everything about her speaks of
happiness. She wears necklaces of gold, and purple robes. When she
goes out, a throng of vassals lie prostrate in her path, and
obedient pages spread carpets before her feet. But none see her in
the solitude that she loves; for then she weeps, and her husband
does not see her tears.--I am that miserable being, the spouse of
an honorable man, of a noble count, the mother of a child whose
smiles stab me to the heart.--MATURIN: _Bertram_.
The Countess d’Ahlefeld rose after a sleepless night to face a restless
day. Half-reclining on a sofa, she pondered the bitter after-taste of
corrupt pleasures, and the crime which wastes life in ecstasy without
enjoyment and grief without alleviation. She thought of Musdœmon, whom
guilty illusions had once painted in such seductive colors, so frightful
now that she had penetrated his mask and seen his soul through his body.
The wretched woman wept, not because she had been deceived, but because
her eyes were no longer blinded,--tears of regret, but not of
repentance; therefore her tears afforded her no relief. At this moment
her door was opened. She dried her eyes quickly, and turned away,
annoyed at being surprised, for she had given orders that she was not to
be disturbed. On seeing Musdœmon her vexation changed to fright, which
was dispelled when she found that her son Frederic was with him.
“Mother,” cried the lieutenant, “how does it happen that you are here? I
thought you were at Bergen. Have our fine ladies taken to running about
the country?”
The countess received Frederic with kisses, to which, like all spoiled
children, he responded very coldly. This was possibly the worst of
punishments to the unhappy woman. Frederic was her beloved son, the only
creature in the world for whom she felt an unselfish affection; for a
degraded woman often, even when all sense of wifely duty has vanished,
retains some trace of the mother.
“I see, my son, that when you heard I was in Throndhjem you hastened to
me at once.”
“Oh, no; not I. I was bored to death at the fort; so I came to town,
where I met Musdœmon, who brought me here.”
The poor mother sighed heavily.
“By the way, mother,” continued Frederic, “I am very glad to see you,
for you can tell me whether knots of pink ribbon on the hem of the
doublet are still worn in Copenhagen. Did you think to bring me a flask
of that Oil of Youth to whiten the skin? You did not forget, I hope, the
last French novel, or the pure gold lace which I asked you to get for
my scarlet cloak, or those little combs which are so much used just now
to hold the curls in place, or--”
The poor woman had brought nothing to her son, the only love she had on
earth.
“My dear boy, I have been ill, and my sufferings prevented my thinking
of your pleasures.”
“Have you been ill, mother? Well, are you better now? By the bye, how is
my pack of Norman hounds? I’ll wager that they have neglected to bathe
my monkey in rose-water every night. You’ll see that I shall find my
parrot Bilboa dead on my return. When I am away no one thinks of my
pets.”
“At least your mother thinks of you, my son,” said his mother in a
faltering voice.
Had this been the inexorable hour when the destroying angel hurls sinful
souls into everlasting torments, he would have felt pity for the torture
which at this instant wrung the heart of the unfortunate countess.
Musdœmon laughed in his sleeve.
“Sir Frederic,” said he, “I see that the steel sword has no desire to
rust in its iron scabbard. You do not care to lose the wholesome
traditions of Copenhagen drawingrooms within the walls of Munkholm. But
yet, allow me to ask you, what is the use of all this Oil of Youth,
these pink ribbons, and little combs? What is the use of all these
preparations for a siege, if the only feminine fortress within the walls
of Munkholm is impregnable?”
“Upon my honor, she is,” laughingly responded Frederic. “Certainly, if I
have failed, General Schack himself would fail. But how can you surprise
a fortress where nothing is exposed,--where every post is unremittingly
guarded? How can you contend against chemisettes which cover all but the
neck, against sleeves that hide the whole arm, so that only the face and
hands remain to prove that the young woman is not as black as the
Emperor of Mauritania? My dear tutor, you yourself would have to go to
school again. Believe me, that fort is not to be taken where Modesty is
garrisoned.”
“Indeed!” said Musdœmon. “But may not Modesty be forced to surrender, if
Love lay siege to it, instead of confining himself to a blockade of
delicate attentions?”
“Labor in vain, my dear friend. Love is already in possession of the
place, but he serves to reinforce Modesty.”
“Ah, Sir Frederic, this is news indeed,--with Love on your side--”
“And who tells you, Musdœmon, that he is on my side?”
“On whose, then?” exclaimed Musdœmon and the countess, who had listened
in silence until now, but who was reminded of Ordener by the
lieutenant’s last words.
Frederic was about to answer, and was already preparing a spicy account
of the scene of the previous night, when he remembered the silence
prescribed by the etiquette of duelling, which changed his gayety to
confusion.
“I’ faith,” said he, “I don’t know,--that of some clown perhaps, some
retainer.”
“Some soldier of the garrison?” said Musdœmon, laughing heartily.
“What, my son!” exclaimed the countess in her turn. “Are you sure that
she loves a rustic, a serf? What luck, if you are sure of it!”
“Oh, of course I am sure. But it’s not one of the soldiers of the
garrison,” added the lieutenant, with an offended air. “I am sure enough
of what I say, however, to beg you, mother, to cut short my very
unnecessary exile at that confounded castle.”
The countess’s face brightened on hearing of the young girl’s fall.
Ordener Guldenlew’s eagerness to visit Munkholm now appeared to her in
very different colors. She gave her son the benefit of them.
“You must give us an account, Frederic, of Ethel Schumacker’s loves. I
am not surprised; the daughter of a boor can only love a boor. Meantime,
do not curse that castle which yesterday afforded you the honor of the
first advances towards an acquaintance, from a certain distinguished
personage.”
“What, mother!” said the lieutenant, staring at her,--“what
distinguished personage?”
“A truce to jests, my son. Did no one visit you yesterday? You see that
I know all about it.”
“I’ faith, more than I do, Mother. Deuce take me if I saw a face
yesterday, except those of the masks carved beneath the cornices of
those old towers.”
“What, Frederic! You saw nobody?”
“No one, mother!”
In omitting to mention his antagonist of the donjon, Frederic obeyed the
law which bound him to silence; besides, could that clodhopper be
counted as any one?
“What!” said his mother. “Did not the viceroy’s son visit Munkholm last
night?”
The lieutenant laughed.
“The viceroy’s son! Indeed, mother, you must be dreaming, or else you
are joking.”
“Neither, my son. Who was on guard yesterday?”
“I myself, mother.”
“And you did not see Baron Ordener?”
“Not a bit of it,” repeated the lieutenant.
“But consider, my boy, he may have entered in disguise. You never saw
him, having been brought up at Copenhagen, while he was educated at
Throndhjem. Remember all the stories about his caprices and whims, and
his eccentric ideas. Are you sure, my son, that you did not see any
one?”
Frederic hesitated an instant.
“No,” he cried, “no one. I can say no more.”
“Then,” replied the countess, “I suppose the baron did not go to
Munkholm.”
Musdœmon, at first surprised like Frederic, had listened attentively. He
interrupted the countess.
“Allow me, noble lady. Master Frederic, pray tell me the name of the
dependent loved by Schumacker’s daughter.”
He repeated his question; for Frederic, who for some moments had been
lost in thought, did not hear him.
“I do not know; or rather--no, I do not know.”
“And how, sir, do you know that she loves a dependent?”
“Did I say so? A dependent?--well, yes; he is a dependent.”
The awkwardness of the lieutenant’s position increased momentarily. This
series of questions, the ideas to which they gave rise, his enforced
silence, threw him into a confusion which he feared he could not much
longer control.
“Upon my word, Mr. Musdœmon, and you, my lady mother, if a mania for
asking questions be the latest fashion, you may amuse yourselves by
questioning each other. For my part, I’ll have nothing more to say to
you.”
And flinging open the door, he disappeared, leaving them plunged in an
abyss of doubt. He hastened down into the courtyard, for he heard
Musdœmon’s voice calling him back.
He mounted his horse and rode toward the harbor, where he intended to
take a boat for Munkholm, thinking that there he might find the stranger
who had given rise to such serious thoughts in the greatest
feather-brain of a feather-brained capital.
“If that was Ordener Guldenlew,” he reflected, “then my poor Ulrica--But
no; it is impossible that he could be such a fool as to prefer the
penniless daughter of a prisoner of State to the wealthy daughter of an
all-powerful minister. At any rate, Schumacker’s daughter can be no more
than a caprice; and there is nothing to hinder a man who has a wife from
having a mistress too; in fact, it is quite the stylish thing. But no,
it was not Ordener. The viceroy’s son would never wear such a shabby
jacket. And that old black plume without a buckle, beaten by the wind
and rain! And that great cloak, big enough for a tent! And that
disordered hair, with no combs and no frizzes! And those boots with iron
spurs, covered with mud and dust! Indeed, it could never be he. Baron
Thorwick is a knight of the Dannebrog. That fellow wore no decoration.
If I were a knight of the Dannebrog, I believe I should wear the collar
of the order to bed. Oh, no! He had never even read ‘Clelia.’ No, it was
not the viceroy’s son.”