TRUE LOVE.
Through the unlighted streets of Vienna a carriage was slowly making
its uncertain way by night. The gas-mains had been wrecked,--that was
one of the results of the glorious days of "liberty,"--and only the
feeble coach-lamps lighted a path for the equipage.
The carriage halted before the Plankenhorst house, and the coachman
stepped down and held the door open while two women alighted, after
which he drove into the courtyard, leaving his passengers to make the
best of their way up the unlighted stairs. The hostess, coming to meet
them with a lamp in her hand, kissed one of her callers, who was
evidently a nun, and gave her hand to the other. The latter's hood
falling back revealed Edith's bright face.
"Heaven must have guided you hither, Sister Remigia!" exclaimed the
baroness, in a guarded tone.
"We had need enough of Heaven's guidance in this fearful darkness,"
was the reply. "Not a street lamp is lighted in the whole city, and
the pavement is torn up in many places."
"Heaven watches over its chosen ones," said Antoinette, leading her
guests into the dining-room, where the table was spread in readiness
for them, while the water was already boiling in the tea-kettle.
First assuring herself that no one was in the next room, the hostess
locked the door, bade her daughter serve the tea, and then drew her
chair to Sister Remigia's side. "What word does the general send?" she
asked.
"To-morrow is fixed upon for a general attack," replied the sister, in
an anxious tone.
"Did you know that things were going badly?" asked Antoinette.
"How so?"
"The insurgents are counting on a secret understanding with a part of
the investing forces. Goldner told me the whole plan. Of course I
pretended to be very much alarmed as to what would become of us who
have played so important a part in the uprising, if the city should be
taken. But the good young man bade me have no fear: in case of any
mishap, a plan of escape was arranged for those whose lives would be
endangered by remaining. He said that between the Mariahilf and
Lerchenfeld cemeteries the line of investment was held by a squadron
of hussars with whom the Aula had for some time been fraternising,
and that it was hoped this squadron would not only offer a free escape
to fugitives in case of danger, but would also join in their flight
and cover their rear, thus securing them a safe retreat into Galicia
or Hungary. The only thing in the way of this plan, it appears, is the
obstinacy of the squadron's commander, Captain Richard Baradlay."
"The same who drove the rioters away from the convent?"
"Yes."
"So far as I have learned," said Sister Remigia, "he has not since
then associated with the members of the Aula and the popular leaders."
"No," rejoined the baroness, "he has held himself aloof from them and
refused to be drawn into their scheme. His men would have yielded, but
they stand by their commander: if he bade them fight against their own
kith and kin, they would obey him. Lately, however, the rebels have
gained a new and unhoped-for ally."
"In whom?"
"In a woman, and a very dangerous one, too. She does not shrink from
the boldest and most perilous undertakings. She is the young
Baradlays' mother."
"But how, pray, could she have made her way through the investing
lines?" asked the sister, in astonishment.
"By a daring stroke that seems hardly credible. Fritz told me all
about it. This delicate widow of the late Baron Baradlay procured from
an old market-woman in Schwechat, the costume and basket of a
vegetable-vender, and then proceeded with this woman, on foot, her
basket of onions and potatoes on her back, through the lines of the
investing army, selling her wares on the way, until she reached the
city. She is now here in Vienna, at number 17 Singer Street, in the
shop of her attendant market-woman."
"And what is her object in all this?"
"To take her sons home with her. She wishes to persuade them to return
to Hungary and enter the government service there."
"Has she spoken with them yet?" asked the nun.
"Not yet, fortunately. She only arrived this afternoon. Goldner has
spoken with her, and she is to have an interview with her son Richard,
the cavalry officer, to-morrow morning. She is allowed to go to him
unmolested, and as surely as she speaks with him, he will yield to
her. The general will then be informed of the affair through his
secret agents, and before the hussars can carry out their plan, the
whole squadron is to be surrounded. Who is the commanding officer in
your section now?"
"The cuirassier major, Otto Palvicz."
"Ah, he is the right man for the business. The hussars will be
decimated, and Captain Baradlay shot."
To all this Edith was forced to listen, but she suffered no look of
hers to betray how keenly it affected her. On hearing her lover's
probable fate, she nearly choked over a piece of ham, and had to
resort to a dose of vinegar to conquer a sudden faintness.
Alfonsine could not refrain from venting her spite on her cousin.
"Your appetite," said she, "does not seem to suffer greatly at the
prospect of losing your lover."
Edith helped herself composedly to another slice of ham. "Better to be
executed than buried alive," she rejoined. Holding out her glass, she
begged her cousin to pour her some chartreuse. "I must get used to it
if I am to be a nun," she remarked playfully.
Alfonsine handed her the bottle and bade her help herself, and Edith's
hand never once trembled as she filled her cognac glass to the brim
with the green liquor; then she poured out a glassful for Sister
Remigia.
"Drink with me, Sister Remigia," she cried, with a roguish smile; "we
must take something to keep up our spirits."
The nun made a show of reluctance, but was finally obliged to yield to
the seductions of her favourite beverage. Meanwhile the hostess
proceeded with her instructions.
"Don't forget the address," said she,--"number 17 Singer Street, the
vegetable shop in the basement. The mother will be sure to return for
her youngest son, and we must not let her escape us. Give the general
full information of these details in the morning, but take care that
Captain Baradlay doesn't get wind of the affair. That man must die,
and we must leave him no loophole for slipping out of our hands."
An incomprehensible child, that Edith! Even now she asks nonchalantly
for a piece of _fromage de Brie_, sips her chartreuse like an epicure,
and refills her companion's glass as often as it is emptied. A
well-spread table in this world, her soul's salvation in the next, and
meanwhile the quiet life of a cloister, seemed to satisfy her every
desire. Soon she was nodding as if overcome with sleepiness, and
finally she leaned back on the sofa, and her eyes seemed to be closed;
but through her long lashes she was watching intently the three women
before her. They thought her asleep.
"Is she always like this?" asked the Baroness Plankenhorst.
"She is incorrigibly lazy," replied Sister Remigia. "No work, no books
seem to interest her. Eating and sleeping are her sole delight."
"Well, we must make the best of the matter," returned Antoinette. "I
hope she will enjoy her convent life. An allowance will be made for
her support as long as she lives; that has been provided for."
"Are you, then, sure that she has lost her lover?"
"Quite. If he once has an interview with his mother, he will be
persuaded to desert. Her eldest son she has already drawn into the
net: he is now a recruiting officer in the Hungarian service, and is
busy raising troops. But if Richard fails to meet his mother, and
still refuses to join the insurgents, a ball will be sent through his
head at the critical moment--so Fritz assures me. Two of his own men
have vowed to shoot him if he opposes their wishes. So he has but a
short shrift in any case. By to-morrow evening he will be either a
dead man, assassinated by one of his troopers, or, if he attempts to
desert, a prisoner in the hands of Major Palvicz; and, in the latter
case, he will be shot day after to-morrow. It is all one to me how it
turns out. I don't wish him the ignominy of a public execution,
although he has given me reason enough to hate him."
When Sister Remigia at length aroused Edith and led her, apparently
half asleep, down to the carriage, Antoinette accompanied them with a
light, explaining as she went that all the men-servants had been
called away to the barricades. Her real purpose was to see Edith
safely seated in the coach, and sound asleep by the nun's side. She
had only the vaguest suspicions regarding her niece, but it was best
to take no chances.
The heavy coach rumbled slowly through the dark streets. Perhaps the
driver himself was half asleep. When they were well on their way,
Edith opened her eyes and peered cautiously about. Her sole thought
was to make her escape, even if a thousand devils stood guard at the
carriage door, and the ghosts of all who had fallen in the last few
days haunted the unlighted streets of the city. Sister Remigia was
already fast asleep; it was her eyes, not Edith's, that refused to
hold themselves open after the evening's ample repast. The chartreuse
had done its work.
Assuring herself of her companion's condition, Edith softly opened the
door at her side and sprang lightly to the ground, unperceived by the
deaf and sleepy coachman. Swiftly, and with wildly beating heart, she
ran back toward the heart of the city, leaving the coach to lumber on
its way without her. It was only with difficulty that she could find
her way in the dark. The tall tower of St. Stephen's loomed up ahead
of her, and thither she turned her steps, hoping to find some one in
that neighbourhood to direct her farther. With limbs trembling, and
heart anxiously throbbing, now that she was safe from observation, the
poor girl hastened on as best she could. Twice as she ran she heard
the great tower-clock strike the quarter-hour, and she knew she must
have gone astray; for half an hour suffices to go from one end of the
inner city to the other. Coming to a street corner, she paused and
looked about for the tower, and at last made it out on her right. Then
she knew where she was, and concluded that Singer Street must be
somewhere in the vicinity. As she stood there in uncertainty, the
great clock struck again--midnight this time--and, as it struck, a
fiery rocket shot upward from the turret's summit,--a signal seen and
understood by some one in the distance.
By the bright but momentary glare of this rocket, Edith's eyes sought
in all haste the name of the street in which she stood. With a thrill
of joy, she read on the wall over her head the word "Singerstrasse."
Now she had the Ariadne clue in her hand, and, before the rocket burst
and its light suddenly went out, leaving her in apparently deeper
darkness than before, she had learned that the house next to her was
number 1, and that consequently all the numbers on that side of the
street were odd. By simply counting the doors she could soon find
number 17.
Feeling her way with her hands like a blind person, lest she should
omit a door in her course, Edith moved slowly from house to house,
counting the numbers as she went.
"Thirteen, fifteen," she whispered; "now the next will be seventeen.
Who is there?" she cried suddenly, starting back in alarm as her hands
encountered a human form.
"The blessed Virgin and St. Anne!" exclaimed the unknown, equally
frightened. It proved to be an old woman who was crouching in the
doorway, and over whom Edith had unwittingly stumbled.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" panted the girl, recovering from her fright.
"You see I was so startled at finding any one here."
"And I was startled, too," rejoined the other. "What do you wish here,
miss?"
"I am looking for number 17."
"And what is your errand at number 17?"
"I wish to speak with a woman, a vegetable-vender who arrived here
this evening with another market-woman."
"This is the house," said the old woman, "and I have the key in my
pocket. Follow me."
She opened the narrow basement door and admitted the girl, following
her and locking the door behind them. At the end of the corridor a
lamp was flickering on the floor in the draught. The old woman raised
the lamp and examined her guest by its light. At sight of the convent
dress she started back with an exclamation of surprise. In the young
girl's form and face, as she stood there under the feeble rays of the
lamp, was something that suggested to her the saints and martyrs of
old.
Edith was conducted to a low basement room, in whose corners she saw
piles of potatoes and beets, with strings of onions hanging on the
walls. In the middle of the room stood two straw chairs, on one of
which was a tallow candle stuck into a hollow potato, while the other
was occupied by a woman dressed in the costume of a Vienna
vegetable-vender. She looked up and calmly surveyed the newcomer. Her
face was not one to betray surprise at any unexpected occurrence;
indeed, its expression indicated an unusual degree of self-mastery.
But the girl practised no such self-control. Hastening forward and
sinking on her knees before the stranger, she seized her hand and
looked into her face with wide-open eyes.
"Baroness Baradlay," she exclaimed breathlessly, "they are plotting to
murder your son!"
The other started slightly, but stifled the cry that rose to her lips.
"Richard?" she stammered, forgetting her caution for an instant.
"Yes, yes," cried the other; "Richard, your Richard! Oh, dear madam,
save him, save him!"
The baroness looked into Edith's face with searching scrutiny. "You
are Edith?" she asked.
The girl started in surprise. "Have you heard my name already?" she
asked.
"I know you from my son's letters," was the reply. "In your face and
your words I read that you can be none other than Richard's betrothed.
But how did you learn all this,--that I was here, who I was, and that
Richard was in danger?"
"I will tell you all," answered Edith, and she gave a hurried account
of what she had overheard at her aunt's that evening. "But they were
mistaken in me," she concluded. "They thought my spirit was broken and
that they could do what they wished with me. But I ran away from them;
I ran all the way here in the dark, and though I never saw you before,
I knew you at once. God protected and guided me, and he will lead me
still farther."
The speaker's passionate words betrayed so much nobility of soul that
the baroness, quite carried away with admiration, put her arm around
Edith's neck and let her eyes rest tenderly on the face of the girl
who showed such true love for her Richard.
"Calm yourself, my child," said she, "and let us take counsel
together. You see I am perfectly composed. This plot is to be carried
out to-morrow morning, you say?"
"Yes, I am sure of it."
"Then half the night is still left for defeating it."
The girl clasped her hands with a beseeching gesture. "Oh, take me
with you!" she begged.
The other considered a moment. "Very well," she replied, "you may
come, too."
Edith clapped her hands with delight, while the baroness opened the
door and called the market-woman.
"Frau Babi," said she, "we must set out at once, and this young lady
will accompany us."
"Then she must wear another dress," interposed the old woman.
"And have you one for her?" asked the baroness.
"Oh, plenty of them." And with that Frau Babi raised the cover of an
old chest and rummaged about for garments suitable for a young peasant
girl's wear. She seemed to have an ample stock of old clothes.
"A charming little market-wench!" exclaimed the old woman, when she
had wrought the desired metamorphosis. "And now for a basket to carry
on her back. You never carried anything like that before, I'll
warrant. But don't fear; I'll find you a light one and fill it with
dry rolls that won't weigh anything. We two will manage the potatoes
and onions."
Edith regarded it all as an excellent joke and hung her basket on her
back in great good humour.
The clocks were striking two as the three women at length reached the
Kaiserstrasse. At the barricade there was no guard visible. The
investing forces here consisted only of a small detachment of cavalry
whose main body was encamped at Schwechat; and cavalry is never used
for storming barricades. Nevertheless, there were sharpshooters
posted in the neighbouring houses to guard against a possible assault.
Thus the women were able to pass unchallenged.
It was a more difficult task, however, to get through the investing
lines. But those who remember the Vienna of those days will recall the
unfilled hollow between Hernals and what was then known as the
Schmelz, designed to receive the water that flowed from the mountains
after heavy rains. Hewn stones and wooden planks lined the sides of
this depression. It was not a pleasant spot to visit, but it offered a
good hiding-place to any one seeking concealment.
Frau Babi led the way down into this hollow, which was then, luckily,
free from water. Climbing out on the farther side, she looked
cautiously around and then bade the others follow her, first drawing
up their baskets for them.
"Leave them here," said she. "The hussars are over yonder."
At a distance of two hundred paces could be seen a couple of men
standing by a watch-fire, while beyond them, within the cemetery, five
or six more fires were burning in a group, indicating the encampment
of the squadron.
"I was right," added the old woman. "You two go on now; you won't need
me any longer."
Taking Edith by the hand, Baroness Baradlay advanced toward the first
watch-fire. The sentinels saw their approach, but did not challenge
them until they were very near.
"Halt! Who goes there?" cried one of the horsemen.
"Friends," was the answer.
"Give the countersign."
"Saddle horses and right about!"
At this the hussar sprang from his saddle, approached the baroness,
and kissed her hand respectfully. "We have been looking for you,
madam," said he.
"Do you know who I am, Paul?"
"Yes, madam, and thank heaven you are here safely."
"Where is my son?"
"I will take you to him at once. And that pretty little creature?" he
asked, in a low tone, pointing to Edith.
"She comes with me."
"I understand."
The old hussar left his horse in his comrade's care and led the two
women toward a small whitewashed house which stood within the
cemetery, and had formerly been used as the grave-digger's dwelling,
but now served as Richard's quarters. He occupied a little room that
looked out upon the city, and this room he had that moment entered
after a late night ride.
"There they are again!" he cried, bringing his fist down heavily on
the table, upon which the latest newspapers from Pest were spread out,
showing a number of articles marked with red. "Into the fire with
them!"
But, angry as he seemed to be at finding the papers thrust upon his
notice, Captain Baradlay could not persuade himself to burn them
unread; and having once begun to read, he could not stop. Resting his
elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he read over and over
again the marked passages, his brow darkening as he proceeded.
"It is not true, it cannot be true!" he exclaimed, struggling with his
feelings. "It is all false, it is utterly preposterous!"
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he crumpled the papers up in
his hand. Old Paul entered, and Richard turned upon him in a passion.
"What thieving rascal has been stealing into my room and leaving these
infamous newspapers on my table?"
Paul made answer with his accustomed phlegm: "If you told me a thief
had carried off something, I could understand it; but that a thief
should bring you something is stranger than anything I ever heard
of."
"A bundle of newspapers is smuggled through my locked door every day,
and laid on my table. Who does it?"
"What do I know of newspapers? I can't read."
"You are trying to fool me, Paul," rejoined his master. "Don't you
suppose I know that you have been learning to read these last three
months? Who is your teacher?"
"Never mind about him. He was a trumpeter, a student expelled from his
university, and he died yesterday. He had been at death's door for a
long time. I begged him not to take all his learning with him to the
next world, but to leave me some of it."
"And why did you want to learn to read?"
Straightening himself up, the old soldier answered firmly: "Captain, I
could easily give you a false reply to that question. If I wished to
deceive you, I could say I had learned to read because I wanted to be
promoted. But I will tell you the truth: I have learned to read in my
old age in order to know what is going on at home."
"So you too read this stuff? How does it get in here?"
"Never mind that now. I have to report that two ladies wish to speak
with Captain Baradlay."
The astonished officer thought he must be dreaming when his old
servant opened the door and he found himself face to face with his
dear and honoured mother, while, peering out from behind her back, was
seen the sweet young face of the girl he loved more than life itself.
Both forms were clad in coarse peasant garments, bedraggled with rain
and mud. What Richard had just been reading with so much incredulity
in the newspapers from Pest, he now saw to be true. Women of noble
birth were forced to flee from their homes in disguise because of the
outrages committed by bloodthirsty hordes of marauders; husbands and
brothers were slain before their eyes, and their houses were set on
fire. The picture of all this passed before him in fancy, as he found
himself in the presence of his mother and his betrothed.
He embraced and kissed the former in a passion of tenderness, but
toward the latter he bore himself with shyness and reserve, hardly
able to believe it was actually his Edith.
"So it is all true that the papers tell us?" he asked his mother,
pointing to the newspapers on his table.
The baroness glanced at the marked items. "That is but a thousandth
part of the truth," she replied.
"I must believe it now," he rejoined, "from the mere fact that you are
here before me as a living proof." He struck the table an emphatic
blow. "Henceforth no general shall order my movements! You only shall
command me, mother. What would you have me do?"
The baroness drew Edith to her side, and then turned to her son. "This
girl has told me what to ask of you. Only an hour ago I myself was at
a loss how to proceed."
"Edith!" whispered the young man, caressing the little hand extended
toward him. "But how has it all come about?"
"This convent pupil," replied the mother with a tender look at Edith,
"overheard a plot that was forming for your destruction. Whatever
course you choose, you are a dead man if you tarry here longer. Arrest
for desertion on the one hand, and assassination on the other,
threaten you. And this dear girl, without a moment's loss of time,
without stopping to weep and wring her hands in despair, escaped from
her guardians and sought me out in the dead of night, to beg me make
all haste and save you while there was yet time."
"Edith!" stammered the young man once more, overcome by his feelings.
"These are times," continued the baroness, "when mothers are calling
their sons home; but you have refused to listen to that call."
"I will listen now, mother; only tell me what to do."
"Learn of your own soldiers. The watchword by which we entered your
camp is, 'Saddle horses and right about!' It points your course to
you."
"So be it, then," said Richard, and he stepped to the door and issued
an order to old Paul.
"The die is cast," said he to his mother as he returned to her side.
"But what will become of you?"
"The Father above will watch over us," she returned calmly.
"But you cannot go back into the city," objected Richard; "it will be
stormed to-morrow on all sides, and you would be in great danger. I
must be off while we still have darkness and rain to cover our flight;
and you had best come with me to the next village, where you can get a
conveyance and escape into Hungary. Take Edith with you, too, mother."
The women, however, both shook their heads. "I am going back into the
city, my son," declared the baroness.
"But the town will surely be taken to-morrow and you will be in
danger," protested Richard.
"Nevertheless I am mindful but of one thing: I have another son there,
and I am going back for him, no matter how great the peril. I must
bring him away at all hazards."
Richard buried his face in his hands. "Oh, mother," he cried, "how
small I seem to myself before your greatness of courage and loftiness
of purpose!" He threw a look at Edith, as if to ask: "What will
become of you, delicate lily uptorn by the blast? Whither will you go,
where find shelter?"
Edith understood the questioning look and hastened to reply. "Don't be
anxious about me. Your mother will accompany me to the convent.
Punishment awaits me there, but it won't kill me; and I shall be well
taken care of until you come back for me."
The sound of horses' hoofs fell on their ears.
"Time is flying, my son!" exclaimed the baroness. "You must not linger
another moment."
A slow rain was falling. The hussars were drawn up in order, and their
captain had nothing to do but mount his horse and place himself at
their head.
"Saddle horses and right about!" sounded the subdued watchword; and
the squadron wheeled around. The trumpeter was dead, but the valiant
band needed no bugle blast to spur it forward. In a moment it had
vanished in the mist and darkness.
The two women were escorted by old Paul back to the watch-fire, where
the market-woman awaited them. Paul himself was to remain behind with
one other sentinel to deceive the patrol and allay suspicions. Then
the two were to hasten after their comrades.
* * * * *
Dawn was breaking when Edith reA"ntered the convent. A cry of horror
was raised in the refectory over her appearance at such an hour. In
the whole nunnery not an eye had been closed that night, so great was
the alarm caused by Sister Remigia's return unaccompanied by her
companion. The door of the coach had been found open, Edith was not
inside, and the sister, awaking from her slumbers, could not account
for her disappearance. And what made matters worse, no one dared take
any action that should publish the scandalous occurrence abroad.
Edith found herself besieged with questions on all sides: where in the
world had she been, and what had she been doing all night?
"I will give my answer this evening--not before," she declared; and as
her unheard-of contumacy yielded to no threats or scolding,
chastisement was resorted to.
The pious sisters were horrified when they began to undress their
obstinate charge and found her clothes all wet and stained with mud.
Who could tell where she had been roaming about in the night? But she
would answer not a word to their questions.
The rod and the scourge were applied with no sparing hand, but neither
the one nor the other could make her confess. The brave girl only
closed her teeth the more tightly when the shameful blows struck her
tender body, and after each stroke she whispered to herself: "Dear
Richard!"--repeating the words until at last she fainted under the
torture. When she recovered consciousness she found herself in bed,
her body half covered with plasters. She was in a high fever, but was
able to note the approach of nightfall. She had slept nearly all day.
"Now I will tell where I have been," said she to those around her bed.
"I went to the camp of the hussars and passed the night in the room of
my lover, their captain. Now you may publish it abroad if you choose."
At this fearful revelation the prioress threw up her hands in
consternation. Naturally she took every precaution to keep the matter
secret; for had it been allowed to leak out, the good name of that
nunnery would have been ruined.