“Yes,” said my friend; “do you know him?”
I was glad that three crashing, tremendous chords came from the
orchestra just then, giving me time to collect myself before I replied:
“I am not sure whether it is the same person: I knew a Baron von Herisau
long ago: how old is the gentleman here?”
“About thirty-five, I should think,” my friend answered.
“Ah, then it can't be the same person,” said I: “still, if he should
happen to pass near us, will you point him out to me?”
It was an hour later, and we were all hotly discussing the question of
Lessing's obligations to English literature, when one of the gentlemen
at the table said: “There goes the Baron von Herisau: is it perhaps your
friend, sir?”
I turned and saw a tall man, with prominent nose, opaque black eyes, and
black mustache, walking beside a pretty, insipid girl. Behind the
pair went an elderly couple, overdressed and snobbish in appearance. A
carriage, with servants in livery, waited in the open space below the
terrace, and having received the two couples, whirled swiftly away
towards Altenstein.
Had I been more of a philosopher I should have wasted no second thought
on the Baron von Herisau. But the Nemesis of the knowledge which I had
throttled poor Otto Lindenschmidt's ghost to obtain had come upon me at
last, and there was no rest for me until I had discovered who and what
was the Baron. The list of guests which the landlord gave me whetted
my curiosity to a painful degree; for on it I found the entry: “Aug.
15.--Otto V. Herisau, Rentier, East Prussia.”
It was quite dark when the carriage returned. I watched the company into
the supper-room, and then, whisking in behind them, secured a place at
the nearest table. I had an hour of quiet, stealthy observation before
my Coburg friend discovered me, and by that time I was glad of his
company and had need of his confidence. But, before making use of him in
the second capacity, I desired to make the acquaintance of the adjoining
partie carree. He had bowed to them familiarly in passing, and when the
old gentleman said, “Will you not join us, Herr ----?” I answered my
friend's interrogative glance with a decided affirmative, and we moved
to the other table.
My seat was beside the Baron von Herisau, with whom I exchanged the
usual commonplaces after an introduction. His manner was cold and
taciturn, I thought, and there was something forced in the smile which
accompanied his replies to the remarks of the coarse old lady, who
continually referred to the “Herr Baron” as authority upon every
possible subject. I noticed, however, that he cast a sudden, sharp
glance at me, when I was presented to the company as an American.
The man's neighborhood disturbed me. I was obliged to let the
conversation run in the channels already selected, and stupid enough I
found them. I was considering whether I should not give a signal to my
friend and withdraw, when the Baron stretched his hand across the table
for a bottle of Affenthaler, and I caught sight of a massive gold ring
on his middle finger. Instantly I remembered the ring which “B. V. H.”
had given to Otto Lindenschmidt, and I said to myself, “That is it!”
The inference followed like lightning that it was “Johann Helm” who sat
beside me, and not a Baron von Herisau!
That evening my friend and I had a long, absorbing conversation in my
room. I told him the whole story, which came back vividly to memory, and
learned, in return, that the reputed Baron was supposed to be wealthy,
that the old gentleman was a Bremen merchant or banker, known to be
rich, that neither was considered by those who had met them to be
particularly intelligent or refined, and that the wooing of the daughter
had already become so marked as to be a general subject of gossip.
My friend was inclined to think my conjecture correct, and willingly
co-operated with me in a plan to test the matter. We had no considerable
sympathy with the snobbish parents, whose servility to a title was
so apparent; but the daughter seemed to be an innocent and amiable
creature, however silly, and we determined to spare her the shame of an
open scandal.
If our scheme should seem a little melodramatic, it must not be
forgotten that my friend was an author. The next morning, as the Baron
came up the terrace after his visit to the spring, I stepped forward and
greeted him politely, after which I said: “I see by the strangers' list
that you are from East Prussia, Baron; have you ever been in Poland?” At
that moment, a voice behind him called out rather sharply, “Jean!” The
Baron started, turned round and then back to me, and all his art
could not prevent the blood from rushing to his face. I made, as if by
accident, a gesture with my hand, indicating success, and went a step
further.
“Because,” said I, “I am thinking of making a visit to Cracow and
Warsaw, and should be glad of any information--”
“Certainly!” he interrupted me, “and I should be very glad to give it,
if I had ever visited Poland.”
“At least,” I continued, “you can advise me upon one point; but excuse
me, shall we not sit down a moment yonder? As my question relates to
money, I should not wish to be overheard.”
I pointed out a retired spot, just before reaching which we were joined
by my friend, who suddenly stepped out from behind a clump of lilacs.
The Baron and he saluted each other.
“Now,” said I to the former, “I can ask your advice, Mr. Johann Helm!”
He was not an adept, after all. His astonishment and confusion were
brief, to be sure, but they betrayed him so completely that his
after-impulse to assume a haughty, offensive air only made us smile.
“If I had a message to you from Otto Lindenschmidt, what then?” I asked.
He turned pale, and presently stammered out, “He--he is dead!”
“Now,” said my friend, “it is quite time to drop the mask before us. You
see we know you, and we know your history. Not from Otto Lindenschmidt
alone; Count Ladislas Kasincsky--”
“What! Has he come back from Siberia?” exclaimed Johann Helm. His face
expressed abject terror; I think he would have fallen upon his knees
before us if he had not somehow felt, by a rascal's instinct, that we
had no personal wrongs to redress in unmasking him.
Our object, however, was to ascertain through him the complete facts of
Otto Lindenschmidt's history, and then to banish him from Liebenstein.
We allowed him to suppose for awhile that we were acting under the
authority of persons concerned, in order to make the best possible use
of his demoralized mood, for we knew it would not last long.
My guesses were very nearly correct. Otto Lindenschmidt had been
educated by an old Baron, Bernhard von Herisau, on account of his
resemblance in person to a dead son, whose name had also been Otto.
He could not have adopted the plebeian youth, at least to the extent
of giving him an old and haughty name, but this the latter nevertheless
expected, up to the time of the Baron's death. He had inherited a
little property from his benefactor, but soon ran through it. “He was
a light-headed fellow,” said Johann Helm, “but he knew how to get
the confidence of the old Junkers. If he hadn't been so cowardly and
fidgety, he might have made himself a career.”
The Polish episode differed so little from my interpretation that I need
not repeat Helm's version. He denied having stolen Otto's share of the
money, but could not help admitting his possession of the Von Herisau
papers, among which were the certificates of birth and baptism of
the old Baron's son, Otto. It seems that he had been fearful of
Lindenschmidt's return from America, for he managed to communicate with
his sister in Breslau, and in this way learned the former's death. Not
until then had he dared to assume his present disguise.
We let him go, after exacting a solemn pledge that he would betake
himself at once to Hamburg, and there ship for Australia. (I judged that
America was already amply supplied with individuals of his class.) The
sudden departure of the Baron von Herisau was a two days' wonder at
Liebenstein; but besides ourselves, only the Bremen banker knew
the secret. He also left, two days afterwards, with his wife and
daughter--their cases, it was reported, requiring Kissingen.
Otto Lindenschmidt's life, therefore, could not hide itself. Can any
life?