COUNT HANS.
There was a dinner at Count Capriani's, and Count Hans Treurenberg,
slender and erect, the embodiment of elegant frivolity, had just said
something witty. One of his fellow-aristocrats, a noble slave of
Capriani's, had been discoursing at length upon the new era that was
dawning upon the world, and had finally proposed a toast to the union
of the two greatest powers on earth, wealth and rank. All present had
had their glasses ready; Count Hans alone had hesitated for a moment,
and had then remarked, with his inimitable smile,--
"Well, let us, for all I care, drink to the marriage of the Golden Calf
to the Chimera." And when every one stared in blank dismay, he added,
thoughtfully, "What do you think, gentlemen, is it a marriage of
expediency, or one of love? Capriani, it would be interesting to hear
your views upon this question." Then, in spite of the lowering brow of
the host, the aristocrats present burst into Homeric laughter.
At that moment a telegram was brought to the Count. Why did his hand
tremble as he unfolded it? He was accustomed to receive telegraphic
messages:
"There has been an accident. Lato seriously wounded while hunting.
"Selina."
An hour afterwards he was in the railway-train.
He had never been to Dobrotschau, and did not know that the route which
he had taken stopped two stations away from the estate. The Harfink
carriage waited for him at an entirely different station. He had to
send his servant to a neighbouring village to procure a conveyance.
Meanwhile, he made inquiries of the railway officials at the station as
to the accident at Dobrotschau. No one knew anything with certainty:
there was but infrequent communication between this place and
Dobrotschau. The old Count began to hope. If the worst had happened,
the ill news would have travelled faster. Selina must have exaggerated
matters. He read his telegram over and over again:
"There has been an accident. Lato seriously wounded while hunting."
It was the conventional formula used to convey information of the death
of a near relative.
All around him seemed to reel as he pondered the missive in the bare
little waiting-room by the light of a smoking lamp. The moisture stood
in beads upon his forehead. For the first time a horrible thought
occurred to him.
"An accident while hunting? What accident could possibly happen to a
man hunting with a good breechloader----? If--yes, if--but that cannot
be; he has never uttered a complaint!" He suddenly felt mortally ill
and weak.
The servant shortly returned with a conveyance. Nor had he been able to
learn anything that could be relied upon. Some one in the village had
heard that there had been an accident somewhere in the vicinity, but
whether it had resulted in death no one could tell.
The Count got into the vehicle, a half-open coach, smelling of damp
leather and mould. The drive lasted for two hours. At first it was
quite dark; nothing could be seen but two rays of light proceeding from
the coach-lamps, which seemed to chase before them a mass of blackness.
Once the Count dozed, worn out with emotion and physical fatigue. He
was roused by the fancy that something like a cold, moist wing brushed
his cheek. He looked abroad; the darkness had become less dense, the
dawn was breaking faintly above the slumbering earth. Everything
appeared gray, shadowy, and ghost-like. A dog began to bark in the
neighbouring village; there was a sound of swiftly-rolling wheels. The
Count leaned forward and saw something vague and indistinct, preceded
by two streaks of light flashing along a side-road.
It was only a carriage, but he shuddered as at something supernatural.
Everywhere he seemed to see signs and omens.
"Are we near Dobrotschau?" he asked the coachman.
"Almost there, your Excellency."
They drove through the village. A strange foreboding sound assailed the
Count's ears,--the long-drawn whine of a dog,--and a weird,
inexplicable noise like the flapping of the wings of some huge captive
bird vainly striving to be free. The Count looked up. The outlines of
the castle were indistinct in the twilight, and hanging from the tower,
curling and swelling in the morning air, was something huge--black.
The carriage stopped. Martin came to the door, and, as he helped his
former master to alight, informed him that the family had awaited the
Count until past midnight, but that when the carriage returned empty
from the railway-station they had retired. His Excellency's room was
ready for him.
Not one word did he say of the cause of the Count's coming. He could
not bring himself to speak of that. They silently ascended the
staircase. Suddenly the Count paused. "It was while he was hunting?" he
asked the servant, bluntly.
"Yes, your Excellency."
"When?"
"Very early yesterday morning."
"Were you with him?" The Count's voice was sharper.
"No, your Excellency; no one was with him. The Count went out alone."
There was an oppressive silence. The father had comprehended. He turned
his back to the servant, and stood mute and motionless for a while.
"Take me to him," he ordered at last.
The man led the way down-stairs and through a long corridor, then
opened a door. "Here, your Excellency!"
They had laid the dead in his own room, where he was to remain until
the magnificent preparations for his burial should be completed. Here
there was no pomp of mourning. He lay there peacefully, a cross clasped
in his folded hands, a larger crucifix at the head of the bed, where
two wax candles were burning--that was all.
The servant retired. Count Hans kneeled beside the body, and tried to
pray. But this Catholic gentleman, who until a few years previously had
ardently supported every ultramontane measure of the reigning family,
now discovered, for the first time, that he no longer knew his Pater
Noster by heart. He could not even pray for the dead. He was possessed
by a kind of indignation against himself, and for the first time he
felt utterly dissatisfied with his entire life. His eyes were riveted
upon the face of his dead son. "Why, why did this have to be?--just
this?"
His thoughts refused to dwell upon the horrible catastrophe; they
turned away, wandering hither and thither; yesterday's hunting
breakfast occurred to him; he thought of his witty speech and of the
laughter it had provoked, laughter which even the host's frown could
not suppress. The sound of his own voice rang in his ears: "Yes,
gentlemen, let us drink to the marriage of the Golden Calf to the
Chimera."
Then he recalled Lato upon his first steeple-chase, on horseback, in a
scarlet coat, still lanky and awkward, but handsome as a picture,
glowing with enjoyment, his hunting-whip lifted for a stroke.
His eyes were dry, his tongue was parched, a fever was burning in his
veins, and at each breath he seemed to be lifting some ponderous
weight. A feeling like the consciousness of a horrible crime oppressed
him; he shivered, and suddenly dreaded being left there alone with the
corpse, beside which he could neither weep nor pray.
Slowly through the windows the morning stole into the room, while the
black flag continued to flap and rustle against the castle wall, like a
prisoned bird aimlessly beating its wings against the bars of its cage,
and the dog whined on.