WHAT WE SAW AT CARLZIG
On the next day a strange thing happened, of which a mere chance, in
the first place, gave me the explanation. I was, needless to say, very
disheartened at what seemed the absolute impossibility of attempting to
rescue poor Asta.
"I am afraid it is all over with her by this time," I said to Von
Lindheim, when I had related what I had seen the night before. "At any
rate, if she is still alive her sand is running very low."
"And we can do nothing."
"I can't stay here, indoors," I said; for the whole affair was on my
nerves, and I felt almost suffocated in the little inn. "You had better
not come with me; but I am going to have a look at that grave, and see
if it is as they left it last night. After that we will go into Carlzig
together."
Accordingly, I set off along the valley, skirting this time the
boundary of the private wood until I came to a point about opposite to
where the men had been at work. Here, by the aid of a tree, I climbed
over the high wall and went cautiously through the wood leading down to
the water. Happily, for my presence in the wood was risky, the distance
was short, and when once I got sight of the Monastery, and could take
my bearings from the little door, I had no difficulty in finding what I
sought. The raised mass of earth spread with pine needles was there;
the hurdles, covered in like manner, were in position. I lifted one
and looked down with a shudder into what it covered. A grave, without
doubt, though empty as yet. The place was evidently untouched since
the men left it overnight. That was all I had come to see; so far I
was satisfied, and having replaced the hurdle, covered as I found it,
I made my way with all speed out of the grounds, and so back to Von
Lindheim. Then we set off together to Carlzig.
I was in rather a depressed state of mind, not seeing what I could do
towards effecting the purpose that had brought me there. My feeling now
was that the only thing to do was just to keep watch, in the faint hope
that chance might show me an opening into that house of mystery and
death. But the hope was so slender as to be scarcely more than despair,
for I was convinced that the quiet, cold-blooded tragedy I dared not
think about would be accomplished by that evening.
Beyond the man who had accompanied Count Furello from Buyda, and the
two ruffians I had seen in the wood, I was ignorant of the strength of
his household; at the same time I realized that, even had I a dozen
men at my back, to attempt to rescue Fräulein von Winterstein by force
would be absurd. It would only make matters worse. There was no law
to be invoked; the whole force, moral and physical, open and secret,
of the Government would be against me. If the poor girl's death were
deemed necessary for State reasons, not even her parents could have a
valid protest against it.
The walk into Carlzig took us, perhaps, two hours. It was through a
picturesquely wild country, which, however, seemed to me that day
dreary and gloomy in the extreme. Until within a mile or two of the
town we saw scarcely a living soul; no fitter locality for the Hostel
of St. Tranquillin (as we were told the Monastery was named) could have
been chosen.
Carlzig we found a fair-sized town, duller even than such places
at midday usually are. We looked up and claimed our baggage, and
arranged for a carriage to drive back with it. Then, having made a
few purchases, we went to the principal inn for luncheon. When this
was over and we were paying our bill, I felt Von Lindheim touch my
foot significantly under the table. I looked up quickly, following the
direction of his eyes, with a half apprehension that I should see the
man uppermost in my mind just then, Count Furello.
No.
The person he meant me to notice was a clean-shaven cleric, a
round-faced, rather distinguished-looking man, whose general air and
manner suggested that he had mistaken his profession. He had come into
the room with a hand valise, as though from a journey, and was now
refreshing himself with a bottle of wine, a bumper of which he poured
down his throat in a style not quite becoming his cloth. But his face
told me nothing more, and I glanced back inquiringly at my companion.
He looked serious enough, but merely returned a slight frown to silence
me. Then he rose; I followed. As we went out the priest looked up
carelessly, but no sign of recognition passed between him and Von
Lindheim. A waiting-maid bustling in with the man's dishes prevented
any further notice with which he might have been inclined to favour us.
"Who on earth was that?" I asked directly we were in the street. "You
don't imagine you saw _il Conte_ under that disguise?"
"No," he answered shortly, and went on. After a few steps he stopped,
as though to inspect a particularly uninteresting shop window, but, as
I knew, as an excuse for looking round. Then we walked on again, and
he took my arm.
"Who do you think that was?"
"I haven't an idea."
"The man who married the Princess and Von Orsova."
"Whew!" I could only whistle in surprise. "What in the world is he
doing here?"
"That is what I am wondering."
"His cure may be near this place. But then, why does he travel with a
bag?"
"And lunch at an hotel. A man of that sort would have had a meal before
he started, or brought some _wurst_ sandwiches in his pocket. I think
he had come a long journey."
"And is not at the end of it."
"Or why does he go to an inn?"
"You are right, Lindheim; it is suspicious. Shall we keep watch?"
There was a smaller inn nearly opposite to that in which we had
lunched. We went in, called for coffee, and took up our position at the
window commanding the street. For a long while we saw nothing of the
priest, but at length, just as we were wondering whether we were not
perhaps losing our time, a closed carriage rumbled along the street and
drew up at some distance below our inn. A man alighted and appeared to
give some directions to the coachman, who turned his horses and drove
off the way he had come. The man walked up the street towards us;
not a prepossessing fellow by any means, with his long nose, stubby
black moustache, swarthy complexion, and restless way of looking about
him. Something told me instinctively that he was making for the hotel
opposite us. Such was the case; he went in, returning in a few minutes,
as we felt certain he would, with the priest carrying his valise.
They went down the street in the direction the carriage had taken.
When they had gone a safe distance we went out and followed them. The
man who had fetched the priest kept looking round; he was a fellow
who, though far from being the salt of the earth, would have been
turned into a good imitation thereof in the days of Lot. A suspicious
curiosity was with him evidently second nature. However, we kept too
far behind for him to be able to distinguish what manner of men we
were, and we were careful to adopt a pantomime calculated to disarm
suspicion.
On they went till they reached the outskirts of the town, and there,
just beyond the bridge where the road crossed the river, we saw
the carriage waiting. They got in, the priest first, his companion
following after a good look round, which, however, we took care should
not fall on us. Then they drove quickly off, the road they took being
that which led to the Geierthal.
"What does it mean?" Von Lindheim asked.
"I can't tell. Except that I am certain they have gone to the Hostel.
Who knows? Perhaps those butchers are methodical enough in their trade
to give their victims Christian burial. Ah! it's horrible. Let us get
back. I must see the end of it."