The excitement in town grew daily. In vain were troops massed by whole
brigades, and held ready day and night in their barracks; in vain every
assembly was dispersed with the bayonet, and the loudest criers
arrested. Every day brought new and more serious disturbances. The
assemblages of the people, especially on the large public squares near
the palace, became more formidable; the threatening cries and
whistlings and cheers of the masses were heard more frequently; and the
soldiers, maddened by their incessant duties, could less and less
resist the terribly provoking irritation. Paving stones on one side,
and drawn swords on the other, encountered each other daily and hourly.
The number of more or less seriously wounded persons which were carried
to the public hospitals had become considerable. The last evening had
been especially fearful. A detachment of cuirassiers of the guards,
galloping forward with loose reins and drawn swords, had driven a large
crowd of people into one of the smaller streets that opened upon the
square near the palace, and at the other end a picket of dragoons
prevented escape. There ensued a scene of fearful confusion and
consternation in the crowd, thus hemmed in on both sides, while the men
were forcing their horses pitilessly into the thickest, striking right
and left with their heavy swords. The howl of anguish of women and
children, mingled with the cries of rage of the men, and the curses of
the soldiers, while imprecations and threats came down from the windows
of the houses, where peaceful men were frightened at their quiet work.
The commotion quickly spread further and further, and even in remote
parts of the city groups were formed in the streets, when the report
came that the imperial city on the Danube, generally looked upon as
thoughtless and frivolous, had had a complete revolution, and that the
oldest master of diplomacy, the cunning ruler of a whole generation of
men, had at last been driven from the scene of his triumphs. A thousand
cheers arose when the good news was proclaimed, and the great results
which a month before would have been looked upon as impossible, were
made known in detail. They asked one another why they should submit any
longer to misrule and ill-treatment by a privileged caste, if it
required but a firm resolve to establish freedom and equality among
them.
While thus even the most indifferent were gradually drawn into the
whirlpool of the revolution, one man sat in apathetic calmness in his
room, unconcerned about what was going on around him.
When Oswald returned the night before, after wandering aimlessly
through the crowded streets, and found his room empty and Emily's
letter on the table, he had laughed out so loud that an old lady who
had been living next door for twelve years was frightened out of her
first slumbers. Then he had thrown himself on the sofa. He was too
wearied and exhausted to be able to sleep. But after a while he started
up with a cry. He had dreamt that he was walking with Emily arm in arm
by the side of a precipice, whispering of love and caressing her hand,
and suddenly she had fallen away from his side down into the deep, from
rock to rock into fearful abysses, from which now cries for help and
groans of anguish were rising up to him. Oswald tried in vain to shake
off the horrible image; it had imprinted itself too deeply on his
over-excited mind. He would have sought rest and oblivion in sleep, but
he felt no longer tired. A thousand thoughts and images were chasing
each other wildly through his head, and he found himself unable to lay
the weird ghosts. He could only look on. Scenes of former days ran into
events of recent date, and the fat gentleman who had been in their
coupe from the last station suddenly changed into the public crier of
his native town, whose big bell he had followed often as a boy.
Oswald made a violent effort to rouse himself. He rang the bell and
ordered the fire to be rekindled. Then he sat down before the blaze and
recalled the first evenings at Paris, as they were sitting in their
modest lodgings in the fifth story of a house in the Quartier Latin
before the fire-place, and congratulated each other that at last they
were "at home." They had tried to make each other forget their troubles
and anxieties by jesting and caressing, and forming a hundred bright
plans for the future. But the golden, hopeful future had become a dark,
comfortless present; the jests had ceased, and the caresses had become
colder and colder. And then came evenings when Oswald came home out of
sorts and out of temper, having in vain called upon publishers who
"could not avail themselves of" his manuscripts; when he found Emily in
tears, and had to tell himself that he and he only was responsible for
these tears. Then came wretched scenes, when regret at their own folly
sought concealment under reproaches and accusations of fickleness and
heartlessness, and the tender little flower of love was ruthlessly
trodden under foot in the fierce encounter. And yet it had always been
Emily who, good-natured and light-hearted as she was, and full of
tender love for Oswald, had offered her hand to make peace. "I do not
reproach you," she had often said; "I should be perfectly happy if I
could but see you happy. But to see you unhappy, and unhappy through my
fault, that makes me wretched." Had she spoken the truth? Oswald had
then doubted it; now an inner voice told him that it was so, and that
she would never have left him if he had not driven her from him. He
took the letter he had found on the table and stared at the "Dear, dear
Oswald!" written by Emily's trembling hand, and then marked out by
another hand, and the two stains on the paper--the trace of tears she
had wept at parting with him. Oswald dropped the letter into the fire,
and groaned aloud as he saw how eagerly it seized the paper and
consumed it, and the hot draft carried away the black ashes. So there
was an end of that also.
And as he sat staring into the smouldering embers, his head resting in
his hand, the fever spirits began their mad dance once more. Faces of
marvellous beauty looked at him with large, loving eyes, and then
changed in a moment into grinning negro grimaces; Rector Clemens and
Professor Snellius came walking solemnly in grave converse and broke it
off abruptly to dance a wild Mazurka; Melitta, Helen, and Emily floated
by on a rosy cloud which changed into dismal rain, and the three
witches of Macbeth were shaking their snaky locks. Thus the whole
wearisome night passed away. When twilight began to peep in at the
windows the spirits grew paler and paler. Oswald opened a window and
let the cool morning air play around his heated temples. This refreshed
him somewhat. But as the streets began to become more lively he closed
the window again and let down the curtains; he wanted to see and to
hear nothing of life, for he hated life.
Emily's escape had hardly been noticed in the house. The only one who
knew more about it, the porter, felt no disposition to speak about it,
as he was not quite sure of his own share in the matter. It was
thought, therefore, that the lady had not been the gentleman's wife, as
was first believed, but his sister, and that the other gentleman who
had come for her had been her husband. The times, moreover, were too
eventful to leave much room for such small matters.
Such were Mrs. Captain Black's ideas when she called next day at noon
on Oswald, after the custom of the house. For it was the lady's notion
that she ought to inquire in person after the welfare and the wishes of
those of her guests who seemed to propose staying there for some time.
This was partly a matter of courtesy with her, and partly prompted by
her good old heart. She had a twofold interest in Oswald. The young
man's appearance, the expression of his eyes, and the tone of his
voice, had struck her, and reminded her wonderfully of long by-gone
days, and of a person whom she had loved tenderly and whose loss she
had never yet been able to forget. Then the young man came direct from
France, from where that unfortunate young friend had also come, and
where she had probably died. It is true the poor girl had never given a
sign of life, and it was highly improbable therefore that she was still
alive, but that did not keep Mrs. Black from feeling glad whenever a
Frenchman came to her house, as it looked like another chance to hear
something of the poor girl.
The good old lady was, therefore, not a little astonished and grieved
when she saw how pale and haggard Oswald looked this morning, a mere
shadow of the stately young man of last night. He had had a bad night
to be sure. It must have been a very bad night to pull down a young man
so grievously. Should she send for the doctor? No? But a cup of strong
beef tea with an egg stirred in? _Qu'en dites-vous, Monsieur?_ The good
old lady tripped away to attend to the beef tea herself, as no one else
could make it as well. And while she was busy about it she shook her
gray head again and again, because Monsieur Oswald--the stranger had
given that name--spoke German so very well, and looked so very sick and
unhappy, and yet had some resemblance to the lost one. Her eyes filled
with tears and she decided to ask him about the cause of his grief at
the risk of being considered indiscreet.
With this desire she entered Oswald's room once more and found the
young man in the same position in which she had left him. He was
sitting on the sofa, his arms crossed on his bosom, his eyes staring
fixedly at an old French engraving, in which Andromeda was represented
chained to the rock and guarded by a dragon, while Perseus was coming
through the air to her rescue, with the gorgon's head in his hand. He
had noticed the picture in the early twilight, and long tried to find
out in the imperfect light what it could mean, till at last, as day
broke, he found it out. The engraving was extravagant, as most pictures
of that epoch. Andromeda was rather too small, a mere child in
comparison with the very tall and slender hero, who was just putting
one foot on the rock and preparing to strike a blow at the monster,
which opened its huge mouth wide and stared at him with basilisk eyes.
Still, it was not without merit in the conception, nor without delicacy
in the execution. The spark of hope which appeared in the girl's eyes
and the whole of her childish, beautiful features, and the heroic
indignation in the face of the youth, were well rendered; while the
landscape--a lonely rock in the boundless ocean, with the sun rising
above the horizon and the first rays trembling on the waves up to the
rock--showed something of Claude Lorraine's cheerful vigor and
grandeur. Oswald had looked at the picture again and again with a
feeling of painful sadness. The beautiful meaning of the ancient
myth--that bold courage carries the happy possessor with god-like wings
over land and sea, that the hero overcomes danger by a mere glance, and
finally that for him alone there blooms the sweet flower of love and
beauty on the rude rock in the vast inhospitable ocean of life--all
this had reminded the dreamer painfully of what he also had already
called his own of love and beauty; but only, alas! to lose it in a
short time and forever, forever!
Even now--when Mrs. Black at his request took a seat on the sofa, and
told him all she knew about the excitement in the city, the bloody
scenes which had taken place last night quite near by, in Brother
street, the large assemblies of people Unter den Linden, and the sad
times in which everything seemed to be turned upside down--even now
Oswald could not take his eyes from the picture. The old lady noticed
it and said:
"Yes! It was just so twenty-five years ago! It used to belong to a
countryman of yours, a dear old gentleman who has lived here many
years, and whom I loved like a brother. The picture is here, but
he----"
She sighed so grievously that Oswald, whom his own sorrow had not made
insensible to the sorrows of others, asked her kindly:
"He died, the old gentleman, did he?"
"I do not know," replied the old lady. "He went into the wide world in
order to save a girl whom I had brought up as my own child; a sweet,
lovely creature; but he did not come back, and she did not come back,
and I grieve over my loss, although it is now nearly twenty-five years
old. Have you, monsieur--ah! it is foolish in me to ask, but after all
nothing is impossible in this world--have you, monsieur, ever heard
anything of a Mademoiselle Marie Montbert and a Monsieur d'Estein?"
The old lady had asked the question so often, and received so often
nothing but a curt: _Non madame!_ in reply, that she scarcely noticed
Oswald's regretful shake of the head, and continued with animation:
"Ah, I knew it was so! No one ever heard of them. The world is so
large, and there are so many people in it! And in this great world and
this multitude of people how soon are two unhappy beings forgotten!"
The manner of the old lady was, with all her ingenuousness, so refined
and dignified; the deep-sunk eyes, still full of expression, looked so
gentle and kind; and her voice had such a true, good sound, that Oswald
felt strangely moved, and begged her with cordial warmth to tell him
something more about the two persons whose unhappy fate she deplored so
painfully after so long a time. Mrs. Black smoothed her black-silk
apron, and told him in simple words a simple, touching story.
Her husband, a brave but wild and reckless man, had compelled her for
years before he lost his life on the battle-field of Waterloo to
provide for her own support. She had taken lodgings in the rear part of
the building which she now owned, and rented out the larger part of the
rooms to single gentlemen. She had always tried to keep up pleasant
relations with her "foster-children," but with none of them had she
been on as friendly a footing as with a certain Monsieur d'Estein, a
descendant of French refugees, who supported himself by giving lessons
in the tongue of his ancestors. Monsieur d'Estein was an old bachelor
of kind heart but very eccentric, who had fallen out with the whole
world, and yet shared his last mouthful of bread with any one who asked
him for it. He had his own ideas about everything, and brooded
constantly over plans how to overthrow the whole world, while he led
all the time a most simple, harmless life.
Monsieur d'Estein had been living with her several years and had become
a warm friend of hers, who listened patiently to all her complaints
about hard times and domestic troubles, when one fine day a Colonel
Montbert, of the French army, came and called on his relation, Monsieur
d'Estein. The colonel was under orders for Russia--it was in 1812--and
he was accompanied by a little daughter of eight, a lovely child, whom
the father loved tenderly, and perhaps all the more tenderly as she
stood perfectly alone in the world, and had no one on earth to love and
protect her except her father. Until now she had followed the colonel
in all his campaigns, but the brave old soldier trembled at the idea of
exposing his only treasure to the dangers of a winter campaign, the
results of which he might even then have anticipated. As he had been in
Berlin in 1807, and had then made Monsieur d'Estein's acquaintance, he
came now once more to ask him to take care of Marie till he returned;
and if he should not return, there were the family papers, and a large
sum of money in gold and bills of exchange; and the friends looked at
each other and shook hands. The colonel kissed his little girl,
promised to bring her a sleigh with two reindeer from Russia, kissed
her once more, cried: _Adieu, ma chere! Adieu, ma petite!_ mounted his
horse and was gone.
Colonel Montbert never fulfilled his promise about the sleigh and the
reindeer. His little girl waited and waited for the sleigh and the
father till she was a tall young lady, but sleigh and father never
came.
Marie had grown up a tall, fair girl, so beautiful that the whole
neighborhood called her, unanimously, pretty Marie. She was a good girl
too, with a good heart, that could be merry with the joyous and weep
with the sorrowful. Her only fault was an over-active imagination, a
fondness of strange, extraordinary things--an inheritance from her
father, the French colonel of cavalry, whose adventurous, fantastic
disposition Monsieur d'Estein said approached very near to insanity.
This peculiarity of the girl caused much anxiety to Monsieur d'Estein
and to Mrs. Black, but especially to the former, whose plain,
straight-forward mind was utterly averse to everything irrational or
fantastic. "The girl ought to have no time for dreams," he used to say;
"she must learn to think and to act. She ought to have a counterpoise
to her gay dream-world in the prosaic reality of life. No man ought to
live in castles in the air." According to these views he sketched out a
plan of education for little Marie, with which Mrs. Black never could
fully agree, in spite of the unbounded respect she had for Monsieur
d'Estein's intelligence and character. Marie was to dress in the
simplest way, like the children of humble mechanics; she was to learn
every kind of domestic labor: and when she was grown up Monsieur
d'Estein carried his oddity so far that he sent her to a respectable
milliner. "One could never know but that it might become useful to her
in after life." Mrs. Black shook her head, but she could not be angry
at the old gentleman's odd notions when she saw how well he meant it,
and especially how successful he was. For the girl grew brighter and
fairer every day, and looked, in her simple calico dress and her plain
straw bonnet, as refined and as distinguished as the greatest lady in
the land.
Mrs. Black was proud of the girl. She had never had any children of her
own, but she felt as if she could never have loved one of her own
better. And was she not the child's mother? Had she not watched over
her in health, and nursed her in sickness? And was the girl not as
fondly attached to her as a daughter could be to a mother? Mrs. Black
was almost jealous of this love (she had had so little love in her
life) and did not like it that Marie had not evidently more confidence
in her than in her adopted father. But the latter was, for his part,
not less jealous. Mrs. Black even sometimes suspected that monsieur was
cherishing very different feelings for his beautiful niece, as he
called her, from those of an uncle for his niece, and that his system
of education which confined Marie very strictly to the house, might
have been prompted by other than pedagogic considerations. Monsieur was
at that time only forty years old. It was the mere shadow of a
suspicion, but subsequent events gave it strength.
One evening--it was a Sunday--monsieur returned from his promenade with
Marie very much out of temper. Marie also looked excited, and showed
traces of tears in her beautiful eyes. She went to bed as soon as
supper was over, and Mrs. Black begged monsieur to tell her what had
happened, till he at last consented.
Marie and he had been walking up and down in the long avenues of the
public park, chatting cozily with each other, and had then gone into
one of the public gardens, there to order some refreshments for Marie
and himself. They had just taken their seats at a table when two
gentlemen, who had before been sitting at a distance, had come and
taken seats near them. Monsieur, who turned his back to them, had not
noticed them, and only became aware of their presence when he saw
Marie, who was talking to him, cast half-curious, half-embarrassed
glances at somebody behind him. He turned round to see what was the
matter. At the same moment one of the gentlemen approached their table.
He was a remarkably handsome man--monsieur could not deny that, in
spite of his irritation--a lofty, noble figure, a superb head, a fine
though somewhat exhausted face, large deep-blue eyes, with a haughty
and yet kindly expression. He lifted his hat and in very good
French--monsieur and Marie had as usual conversed in French--he asked
leave for himself and his companion to join their company. Monsieur was
the most courteous man in the world, but he said there had been
something in the manner of the distinguished stranger which had filled
him instantly with a violent aversion against him, and he had therefore
replied dryly and curtly that he and mademoiselle preferred remaining
alone. Thereupon a slight altercation between him and the stranger had
taken place, which ended in his rising and leaving the garden with
Marie, pursued by the scornful laugh of the two gentlemen. From that
evening Marie showed a decided change in her whole manner. Formerly gay
and cheerful, she now hung her head, turned pale and red by turns, was
at one time immoderately merry and at another time wretchedly sad.
Neither Mrs. Black nor monsieur knew what to make of it. Misfortune
would have it that monsieur must be taken sick just then, so that Mrs.
Black had to spend nearly her whole time in his room nursing him, and
Marie consequently was left much to herself. Formerly monsieur had
regularly gone for her to the place where she learnt her profession;
now she had to come home alone. What happened to her during these days,
into what snares she had fallen, Mrs. Black never found out. But one
morning, when she came to wake the poor girl, she found the room empty,
and a little note on the table, in which the unfortunate child stated
that irresistible reasons, which she could not now explain, compelled
her to leave town; that she begged her benefactors with tears in her
eyes to forgive her if she rewarded them for their great love with
apparent ingratitude, and that she hoped to God the day would come, and
come soon, on which all this sorrow would be changed into joy.
That day had never come, but the poor lady had suffered more and more.
Monsieur had nearly lost his senses when he heard of Marie's escape,
and had sworn a fearful oath that he would not rest an hour till he had
rescued Marie from her miserable seducer and personally avenged himself
on the man. Monsieur was the man to keep his word. The little weakly
body harbored an energetic soul. This became evident now, when a
ruthless hand had cruelly destroyed the happiness of his life. For Mrs.
Black could now no longer doubt that the strange man had loved the lost
one with all that intense passionateness which is so often found in
such reserved, eccentric characters. He carried on his search with
restless activity. Success crowned his efforts. He found traces. Where
they led him? He said nothing about it, but observed the strictest
silence upon the whole affair, even to his friend, Mrs. Black. He
packed his trunks as if for a long journey, tore himself from her,
promising to send her news in a week--and now twenty-five years had
passed, and Mrs. Black was still waiting for a fulfilment of that
promise....
The old lady had so completely abandoned herself to her own
recollections that she had forgotten her first intention to inquire
after Oswald's troubles. She was only reminded of this when she noticed
how pale the young stranger's face had become during her recital.
"But you are really worse than I thought, dear sir," she said. "Your
hand is burning hot, and--pardon an old lady--your forehead also is
hot. Let me send for my physician!"
"I beg you will not do it," said Oswald, making a violent effort. "I
must tell you: I have not slept a moment all last night, probably from
over-fatigue during my long journey."
"Then you ought at least to lie down for a few hours," begged the old
lady. "I know very well young people cannot do without sleep like us
old people."
"I mean to do it," replied Oswald, as Mrs. Black rose. "You'll see a
few hours' sleep will set it all right again."
"God grant it!" said the old lady, cordially pressing Oswald's hand
once more. "Pray, pray, no ceremony! I will inquire again a few hours
hence."
What had he been told just now? At the very first words of the old lady
he had no longer doubted that this was the continuation of the story
which mother Claus had told him in Grenwitz that evening when he and
Timm had sought shelter in her hut. All the details agreed. Just as the
old lady had described the strange gentleman, the portrait of Baron
Harald looked now, put of its broad gold frame; and had not the
beautiful poor girl, whom he had so sadly ill-treated, borne the name
of Marie d'Estein, like the adopted daughter of Monsieur d'Estein?
But that was not the reason why his blood froze in his veins and his
limbs shook as in violent fever. It was another terrible fear, which
rose with demoniac power from the lowest depths of his soul. Was it the
work of fever spirits--was it incipient insanity--which changed in his
inflamed imagination Monsieur d'Estein, the eccentric teacher of
languages, into his father, the strange old man? and the beautiful
daughter of the French colonel into the lovely young woman with the
sweet eyes, around whose knees he once used to play during bright
summer mornings in the cosy garden behind the town wall, while the
white butterflies were fluttering about the blue larkspur?
And mad thoughts chased each other once more in wild haste. Old, long
forgotten thoughts awoke and answered clearly from long ago; strange
doubts, that had troubled him as a boy and as a youth, came again, and
said: There is the solution! So much that he had never been able to
explain in his life became of a sudden quite clear to him. It had not
been pure fancy, then, which made Mother Claus see in his face
continually the features of Baron Oscar, "who fell with Wodan;" nor
mere humor, when Timm declared, "You have the very face of the Grenwitz
barons!"
Oswald darted up and went to the mirror. A deadly pale face with
strange, wild eyes stared at him there. "See there! The evil spirit not
laid yet! It has not had victims enough yet! Must there be many more
sacrifices? Can a vampire die of his own venomous glance? A bullet? Eh!
a bullet, nicely driven in at the temples--that might make an end to
the gruesome story! But what will bring death really--a death from
which the soul can never awake again?"
Oswald uttered a fierce cry. A hand seized his arm, and over the
shoulder of his image in the mirror he saw a distorted face grinning at
him.
"Oho!" said Albert Timm. "Are you going on the stage, dottore, that you
stand before the looking-glass and rehearse monologues which might
frighten an honest man out of his wits? Let me look at you in the
light? Upon my word, you have a strange look about you. Little Emily,
eh? You ought to be glad she is gone, before she made you a mere shadow
of your shadow! You see, I know everything; and I know a good deal
more; and I am going to tell you something that will make you wish to
live again, you melancholy Prince of Denmark! But before I tell you,
send for a bottle of port wine or something; I am as dry as a salted
cod this morning."
Mr. Timm, as usual, did not wait for Oswald's answer, but rang the bell
and ordered port wine and caviare. "None in the house? Go to the
Dismal Hole, just around the corner, my man, quite near by. Give Mr.
Albert Timm's respects to Mrs. Rose Pape, and come back in a trice,
curly-headed youth!"
Mr. Timm's statement, that he had taken nothing that morning, was
evidently untrue. He diffused a remarkable smell of liquor around him;
his face was very red, and his eyes less bright than usual. Possibly he
might have sat up all night; his whole appearance made it probable. His
linen was less tidy than ordinarily, and the brown overcoat had
evidently made the acquaintance of numerous whitewashed walls and
stained tables. Mr. Timm's circumstances had not improved since Oswald
had seen him last.
He did not deny it; on the contrary he raised, unasked, the veil from
the unattractive picture of the last months.
"Ill-luck has pursued me step by step," he said, throwing himself on
the sofa and stretching his legs. "At the very time when I made the
discovery which I am going to tell you as soon as the wine comes, you
disappeared from Grunwald, leaving not a trace. The next day the police
caught us at faro, and--I was banker--confiscated all I had--several
hundred dollars--which I needed sorely, since on the following day a
bill of mine became due. I could not pay it, of course. The horrid
manichean, to whom I owed the money, had me put in prison, and there I
have been till about a week ago. How I got out? My landlord, the old
scamp, at last bethought himself of going to Moses and threatening him
with certain stories--well, never mind that! Here I am, a free man once
more, and here comes the wine and the oysters. Come, Oswald, fill your
glass! Hurrah for the brave! Man! I tell you I am beside myself at
having found you out so soon. I was prepared for a long hunt. And now I
am going to tell you a story that will make you jump out of your skin.
Yes, out of you skin! For you will have to lay aside the whole
miserable creature you are now and put on an entirely new man, whom I
have made ready for you, without any merit or claim of your own, but
from pure friendship on my part. And now another glass and I'll begin!"
Mr. Timm pushed the plate with the oyster-shells, which he had quickly
piled up, from him, and swallowed a full glass; filled it again, drew a
bundle of papers from his pocket, laid them on the table before him,
leaned his head on both arms, and with a loud hearty laugh at Oswald,
he said:
"What will you give me, _mon cher_, if I change you from a poor fellow
into the son and heir of a great baron, with a rental of ten or twelve
thousand a year? But I see you are already nearly overcome. I do not
mean to harass you any longer. Listen!"
There are moments in our soul's life when the overwrought brain looks
upon the most extraordinary, the most fantastic events, as ordinary and
quite natural occurrences. Thus it was now with Oswald. That Timm
brought him the confirmation of his suspicions, that he proved to him
in black and white that he had not dreamt, that he transformed a wild
fancy into a legal, well-authenticated document--all this appeared
quite natural to Oswald. There were Marie Montbert's family papers.
Her real name was that of her mother, Marie Herzog, who had found her
way to Paris, there to meet Colonel Montbert. And Oswald knew that
his mother's family name was Herzog. There was a copy of the
church-register, obtained by Timm's indefatigable activity and
mysterious connections, which proved the marriage performed at St.
Mary's between M. d'Estein _alias_ Stein, and Marie Elizabeth Herzog.
And then the baptismal certificate: On the 22 December, 1823, a son was
born unto Amadeus Stein and his wedded wife, Marie Herzog, who in holy
baptism received the name of Oswald. There were the letters which Baron
Harald had written to Marie during his residence in town in the spring
of 1823; there Marie's letters to the baron; a letter written by M.
d'Estein to Marie during the summer of the same year, in which he tells
her that he has at last discovered her hiding-place at Grenwitz, and
beseeches her by the salvation of her soul, to follow him when all
shall be prepared for her flight, etc.
"You see," said Timm, "it is all right and complete, and you can trace
every thread of this curiously complicated affair from beginning to
end. The identity of the persons can be established by documents and by
witnesses alike, for the evidence of Rose Pape alone would upset every
argument on the adversary's side. She knew your mother and was present
at your birth and at your baptism. The woman, it is true, is not
willing just now to appear in court and to testify to facts which make
her appear in an unfavorable light; but money makes the devil dance,
and Mrs. Rose will speak out if she is well paid. That is no trouble,
therefore. My only fear is that you have not energy enough for such a
thing. I must tell you frankly, I thought at first it might not be wise
to tell you anything at all about it, you have such very absurd notions
about many things, and so I dropped the old baroness a hint or two, but
she did not receive them very graciously, and----"
"In a word," said Oswald, and he turned still paler than he had been
before, "you wished to sell your discovery to the baroness, and she did
not pay you the price you demanded."
"Hear! hear!" said Albert, with sincere admiration. "You develop there
a talent for business which I did not expect. Well, take it for granted
it was as you guess; that will not prevent you from making proper use
of your claims. But, dearest _periculum in mora_! if you wish to become
not only the nephew of the baroness but also her son-in-law, you must
make haste. Things have come about which I foretold you last winter.
Helen is engaged to Prince Waldenberg, and the engagement is to be made
public in a few days here in town. Anna Maria arrived last night, and
stays at Prince Waldenberg's house with the Princess Letbus, the mother
of his highness. Now I have already dug a superb mine underground, in
order to create a useful confusion in the enemy's camp, and we can
begin the attack. I am as sure as of my own life that Helen has no
fancy for the prince, and that she would say No! even at the last
moment, if she knew that you are her cousin, and that she can recover
the fortune she loses by the discovery, by marrying you. But she will
not believe anybody who would tell her of the whole affair, except one
man, and that man is--yourself. Oswald, consider the stake! One single
bold step, and the girl whom you love--don't deny it!--whom you love
madly, is yours. A fortune such as you never dreamt of is yours. You
will have at once all that others spend a lifetime to gain; all that
they would unhesitatingly risk their very life for! Surprise works
wonders! Drive to the prince's house in William street; ask to see the
young baroness; tell her, if it must be, in her mother's presence,
not that you want to marry her--for that will come as a matter of
course--but that you have made this discovery under such and such
peculiar circumstances; and I will eat my own head if the girl does not
fall upon your neck and let the prince go when he chooses."
Albert was prepared to see Oswald at first reject this adventurous plan
altogether; for, suitable as it was for a man of Timm's character, and
capable as he was of carrying it out boldly, he knew Oswald's
hesitating disposition. His most sanguine hope was to find it accepted
after a long discussion. Great therefore was his joyful surprise when
Oswald, who had not said a word during the whole long explanation, now
rose and said:
"You are right. There is but one way. I must go myself, and at once."
"Brother!" cried Timm, jumping up and enthusiastically embracing
Oswald; "that is the most sensible word you ever spoke in your life."
Oswald shook himself free, with a shudder which Timm did not notice in
his great excitement.
"Leave me alone now!" he said. "You see how very much I am surprised
and shocked by your revelation. I must collect myself for the
interview."
"For Heaven's sake; only no new scruples!" cried Timm. "Fresh fish is
good fish! I am afraid, if I leave you, you will discover a thousand
Buts!"
"I promise you upon my word I will go to her within an hour. I suppose
you can leave me the papers? They might be necessary if the baroness
makes opposition."
Timm cast a malignant, suspicious glance at Oswald. He did not like to
give up the papers. If Oswald should play false; if--but there was not
time to consider long; and there was something in Oswald's manner which
made him shrink from making objections, a decisive firmness in the
firmly-closed pale lips, a dismal fire in his large eyes. Timm had
never seen him thus. It was no longer the old, fickle Oswald Stein; it
was Baron Harald's son who was standing before him.
"Well," he said, "do as you please. I see you are determined to go the
whole length! But, Oswald, if the enterprise succeeds, and I cannot
doubt now but it must succeed, do not forget the man who has furnished
you the means."
"You may be sure," said Oswald, with a strange smile, "that, as far as
material advantages are concerned, you shall not fare worse in the
matter than myself."
This promise moved the generous Timm so deeply that he was much
inclined to embrace Oswald once more. But the latter made a gesture
which looked not unlike disgust, but which failed to have any effect
upon Timm. He only laughed, and said: "Well, I see you are learning
your part. I will not detain you any longer. Good-by, Oswald! Play your
part well. It is three o'clock now. At four I will come again and
inquire how you have succeeded. Adieu till then."
Oswald paced the room slowly after Timm had left him. Then he went up
to the engraving, and looked at it long and anxiously. "It is too
late!" he murmured. "I cannot save her; I cannot set her free from the
rock to which fate has chained her. But I will see her once more, and
clear my memory of the disgrace with which this blackguard, no doubt,
has loaded me. She shall not believe that I could use such unfair
means. Who knows how far this man has used my name in order to attain
his end."
He stepped to the table and arranged and folded up the papers. Then he
began to dress himself for the proposed interview. It took him some
time. He felt as if he were benumbed in all his limbs, and had to sit
down more than once to let an attack of vertigo pass off. At last he
was ready. He put the papers in his pocket and left the room.