"That Toni should mention that unfortunate name! It makes you beside
yourself, Hermann, what has become of your self-command, your strength
of will?"
Grandmother and grandson were alone together, the portieres were drawn
up, the doors closed; they were secure from listeners. The Count had
not yet spoken a single word, with crossed arms he walked up and down
incessantly, without answering, without even hearing. The Praesidentin
shook her head.
"I cannot understand what there is so dreadful in this discovery. You
have searched long enough for the dead man's wife and child; you
declared it would give you back your rest if you were able to do
anything for them. You ought now to bless the chance which gives us at
last the opportunity of--"
The Count suddenly stopped.
"_Bless_ it? Let me alone, grandmother, you do not, cannot know what
has perished for me in this discovery!"
She went up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Hermann, you are beside yourself, and not in a state to look at this
matter calmly and sensibly, leave it in my hands. It is, of course, an
understood thing, that after this discovery, the girl cannot remain any
longer in the family. Bertha intends dismissing her. In any case, I
will see that it is done in the most considerate manner possible, and,
later on, we will try to find some guardian to assure her future. Do it
as handsomely as you are able, return to her the whole income which her
mother lost. Perhaps we may succeed in finding a suitable husband for
her, a clergyman, or some one of that sort, and then we might manage
unsuspiciously--"
The Count suddenly freed himself with a violent movement.
"Make no plans, grandmother," said he bitterly, "it is atonement to
injury that we have to do with. I had thought of another way of
expiating it, but I know that she will never, never take it from my
hand."
"From _your_ hand? I should think not. We must go to work with greater
care than that. Whatever you have to do with it, she must not suspect
in the least from whom it comes, or she might ask, _why_ we did it."
"And supposing she already knows?"
"Hermann!"
"She knows it, must know it! Now I understand the glowing, unforgiving
hate which she has shown towards me from the first moment, this
aversion to my presence, this altogether mysterious demeanour. How
strange that no suspicion of the truth ever entered my head; but it was
the name which led me astray. Oh, she knows all, I tell you, she
betrays it in every word, in every gesture. But one thing I have never
been able to tear from her, a secret, which she knows how to keep, and
yet I _must_ have certainty at any price!" In great agitation he
recommenced his pacing up and down the room. The Praesidentin stood
still, speechless. Whether she was terrified at the idea that he was
right in his conjecture, or at this outbreak of passion in the man who
was usually so calm and collected, was undecided, for the next moment a
slight sound was heard at the door.
"What is it? Who is there?" cried Hermann. He pushed back the bolt.
Without stood a servant, looking much embarrassed.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Herr Count; I did not know that
the door was locked. I wished to say--"
"Well, what--what?"
"Mademoiselle Walter is in the ante-room, and wishes to speak to the
Herr Count."
"Mademoiselle Walter?"
"With me?"
The Praesidentin collected herself. First she was evidently on the point
of sending a refusal, but Hermann anticipated her.
"I--will see her at once!"
The servant disappeared.
"Hermann, you ought not to speak to her now! You will betray yourself
whilst you are in such agitation! And what can she want?"
The Count had all at once regained his self-command, but an expression
of unspeakable bitterness appeared in his face.
"Calm yourself, grandmother! I know why she comes, it has nothing
whatever to do with this affair. It must be deathly anxiety, indeed,
which compels her to cross _my_ threshold."
The Praesidentin had no time to demand an explanation of what was a
mystery to her, for the servant had opened the door to show Gertrud in.
The Count was right; it cost her a fearful effort to cross his
threshold, and now it was at last done, she remained standing
speechless, her eyes fixed on the ground, like one conscious of guilt.
Her features were calm, but there was something almost terrible in the
fixed look and deathly pallor, almost as if life had left them.
Hermann advanced to meet her.
"You wish to speak with me, mein Fraeulein?"
"Yes."
The word fell softly, almost inaudibly from her lips.
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Pardon, grandmother,--may I beg you to follow me?"
He drew back the _portiere_ of the neighbouring room, and followed her
in there. The Praesidentin remained behind, she went to the door and
once more drew the bolt, then trod noiselessly to the closed
_portiere_, and quietly drew the folds somewhat aside--Hermann was
capable of anything in this mood, he must not remain unobserved.
No word had as yet been spoken between the two. The Count stood, to all
appearance calm, his hand supported by the table, and silently waited,
but with the same bitter expression, for Gertrud to speak. She tried to
do so, but was it really the deathly anxiety of which he had spoken?
Her voice failed her, she could not.
Hermann's lips trembled, he saw well that he must speak first.
"I can guess what brings you here. You saw me come back unhurt, and
tremble now for the life of my opponent. Calm yourself! Though our
_rencontre_ was not altogether without effect, it was not dangerous.
Herr von Reinert has a slight wound in his arm, which caused his
usually sure aim to miss me. He has at present remained behind at the
gamekeeper's, the doctor is with him, and not the slightest danger is
to be feared."
At his first words Gertrud had raised her eyes with a look almost of
terror, but she now cast them down again.
"I thank you, Herr Graf, for the news, but you are mistaken--it is not
that which brings me here."
Not that! Then it was not anxiety which had blanched her cheeks so
terribly, which had given her this fixed, lifeless look--the Count's
eyes lighted up suddenly as they had done yesterday evening; the bitter
expression disappeared; he hastily came a step nearer.
"No! What was it then, Gertrud?"
She shrank back with a start; slowly he let fall his outstretched hand.
The girl struggled for breath.
"I came--to inform you of something. It concerns you--both of us. I am
compelled to leave this house to-day; my letter to the Baronin contains
an excuse--but I owe the truth to you."
She had brought out the words in an almost choked voice, and at the
same time strove visibly to avoid meeting his eyes. Graf Arnau drew
himself up decidedly; he knew what was coming now.
"I go as your enemy; but I will not do so secretly behind your back.
You asked me yesterday if a secret lay between us--you shall know it
now."
"I know it already!"
"How?"
"An hour ago I learnt your real name, and with it the reason for your
hatred to me."
She looked up at him as before, but now with the greatest horror.
"That is impossible, you cannot! You cannot know anything--anything,
except that it was the name of a deceiver, who took his own life, when
he found his crime discovered. That is what you have been told, is it
not? Or--did you know _more_?"
Hermann made no answer, his eyes sought the ground darkly.
"Answer me, Count Arnau! If any one on earth has a right to ask, I
have. What do you know?"
"All!"
In his blunt, broken tone, lay the whole dashed down power of his
nature in one word; the girl stood for a moment as if struck by
lightning.
"You knew it, and were silent!"
"It was my _father_, Gertrud!"
She suddenly drew herself up with almost fierce energy.
"You are right, Count Arnau, it was your father--and it was mine! I
shall not forget that."
A heavy, oppressive pause followed. At last Hermann raised his head
again.
"We have reached a point now where nothing more can be kept silent or
spared. Will you tell me _who_ has revealed the secret?"
Since the confession of the Count a strange change had passed over
Gertrud. The anxiety, the conflict which had hitherto been betrayed in
her manner, had given place to an unnatural calm; her glance, which had
avoided his so timidly, looked at him full and threateningly, and her
voice sounded firm and clear as she replied--
"My mother initiated me into the matter so soon as I was old enough to
understand it. She had no proofs to make good her rights, nothing but
the invincible conviction of her heart. My father did not dare to make
public the suspicion he had held for some time against his powerful and
influential superior; he mentioned it only to his wife on the morning
of the fateful day, and therefore she only was capable of guessing at
the truth. She knew that her husband was no cheat, that he was only the
sacrifice of a crime; of an already planned, treacherous a
assassination--"
"No, Gertrud, no, he was not that!" burst in Hermann. "A crime of the
moment, a deed of despair, but no plan. I know it--I was witness of
it!"
"Ah--you were a witness!"
The Count's eyes took a rapid survey of the room; it had only one
entrance, and that, he knew, was well guarded; nevertheless his voice
sank to a whisper as if he did not dare to trust the secret even to
dead walls.
"That morning I was in my father's business room; I seldom went into
it, this time it was childish disobedience which took me there. The day
before my father had taken away a book which he thought unsuitable for
me; but my childish fancy was so much excited by the adventurous story
that I was determined to know the end of it. The book lay in his
business room; I knew this, and seized the first opportunity to get
possession of it. Scarcely had this happened before voices were heard
in the corridor; conscious that I had done wrong, I flew with my book
into a deep corner of the bay window, thinking that I should not be
there more than a few minutes, for my father was accustomed to drive
out at this hour. But this time he came in with your father. On account
of the sun the drawn curtain concealed me completely, and thus I was a
witness of a conversation, of which, at that time, I understood almost
nothing, but which, nevertheless, on account of its fearful
termination, was impressed upon my mind with terrible clearness. What I
heard at first was unimportant; the talk was confined entirely to
business matters. My father must already have made some demand of Herr
Brand which he now repeated, but which, however, was most decidedly
refused by him. Brand represented that he had already paid to the Count
the sum due to him, and, without special authority from the Prince,
could not give out any of the money entrusted to his charge, for which
he was of course responsible. My father must have seen that he was
lost, must have known no other way of escape, for he chose the most
dangerous plan of all, and made his inferior his confidant. He
confessed to him that he had already employed the sum received for the
payment of personal debts, but that the expenses of the Prince's
household now needed reimbursement, and that immediately, if all was
not to be discovered. He strove to persuade the steward to give him
sufficient for this from the balance remaining, promising that all
should be returned in a few weeks. The Count swore to take all upon
himself, he entreated, he promised, he at last threatened, but promises
as well as threats were lost upon the man's unflinching faithfulness to
duty. He answered, steadfastly, 'No.' I say once more, in spite of all
this, my father was not capable of such a diabolically thought-out
plan--the pistol, which lay loaded upon the table, was, it is my firm
conviction, designed for himself, he had intended, like many another
ruined man, to end his life by suicide had your father somewhat
moderated his answer to him, but his stern sincerity and
conscientiousness hastened the crime. He declared without mercy that
any one cognisant of guilt, was, in his opinion, a sharer of it, and
that he should feel himself obliged to make public what he had just
heard in order to prevent further harm, and thus drove the already
despairing man to madness. He knew that should _this_ happen his
honour, the honour of his family, was inevitably lost. I saw my
father's hand suddenly grasp the pistol, saw a flash--and Brand fell
dead before him."
Hermann stopped and passed his hand over his brow, which was wet with
cold drops, it was manifestly a fearful torture to relate this, but
Gertrud made no effort to spare him; the "iron sense of duty in the
father" seemed to have descended to the daughter, she listened
immovably.
After an instant the Count breathed deeply, and then continued--
"Terror must have stunned me, I could not utter a sound. I saw my
father open the door and cry for help, saw my mother rush in--what
happened later you know. It was found possible to throw the guilt upon
the dead--"
"Oh, yes, it was found possible!" interrupted she bitterly. "The only
voice which upheld the truth, the cry of the widow, was at once
silenced as the shameful accusation of a highly respected man, And
Count Arnau swore as witness--"
"Gertrud."
Such terrible hidden torment found vent for itself in the exclamation,
that Gertrud did not finish the sentence.
"You must pardon me, Herr Graf, if I am overpowered with bitterness at
the remembrance of this, we have suffered too long and too deeply under
it. Our little all, which our father had saved so carefully, was, of
course, seized, and my mother being quite without help, was compelled
to ask assistance of well-to-do relatives in W----. We found there
protection from actual hunger, but only under a hard condition. Our
relatives were honest, strict _buerger_ people, and would not suffer a
name amongst them which stood in the papers as that of a thief and a
cheat. My mother was forced to re-assume her family name, she did it in
order to save her child, then but a few months old, from absolute want.
But our misfortune was not kept secret by those around us--we have been
despised so long as I can remember."
It seemed, indeed, as if with these remembrances, all the hatred and
suffering of the past years was once more awakened, every word became a
passionate reproach. Hermann had listened in dark silence, now he said
with a sort of bitter resignation--
"I think it is a question which of us has suffered most under the
crime. Your youth may have been bitter--mine was terrible. My mother
died a few months after the dreadful deed, the year after my father
followed. No one was able to understand how it was that he treated his
only son and heir with an open hatred, though he at the same time
obstinately refused to be separated from him for a single hour. No one
knew that he guarded in him a witness of his guilt, and trembled hourly
at the thought that his dreadful secret hung upon the silence of a mere
child. Perhaps you can imagine what a lot that child's was! Had not my
grandmother at times stood protectingly between us, I know not what
terrible misfortune might have occurred. She it was who at that time
interfered with all her influence and wealth to avert threatening ruin,
which would have inevitably been followed by a discovery of the truth,
and who later, after the death of my father, and during her ten years
of guardianship, gradually managed to bring our affairs into order
again, so that I may now call myself a rich man. Need I tell you,
Gertrud, what a curse these riches have been to me? I could not give
back the embezzled sum without arresting suspicion, but I hoped in some
indirect way to make it up to those left behind. Since my majority I
have never ceased to try and find trace of you, have taken all possible
steps--in vain. I looked for Brand's widow and child, and never
imagined how near to me the latter was. Gertrud! Fate has led us
together strangely--did it really happen, in order that we might combat
life and death together?"
At the last words his voice once more sank to those soft, deep tones,
which she had already once heard from his lips, and the girl's whole
being trembled before it, as it had done then, but she knew the danger
now, and fled from it.
"Not this tone, Count Arnau,--I beg you--let us keep to the subject."
He silently bowed in assent.
"At the time my father paid out the sum, he received a receipt from his
chief, Count Arnau. Did you know of it?"
"No. But my father himself undertook the seizure of the steward's
papers. He will have destroyed it."
"It was not destroyed. A chance allowed it to lie hidden for years. It
is in my hands!"
In speechless consternation Hermann drew back, the same moment the
_portiere_ was torn open, and the Praesidentin stood before them.
"You must be mistaken, mademoiselle! It is impossible, it cannot be!"
Gertrud had turned round surprised, but not frightened, and met the old
lady's threatening glance firmly--
"I am not mistaken. I repeat, the receipt is found, and has been in my
possession an hour."
Meanwhile Hermann had collected himself, and now once more roused all
his energy.
"You have the paper with you? May I see it?"
She shrank back at the proposal, and involuntarily laid both hands
protectingly on her bosom. He smiled bitterly.
"Do you fear a renewed theft? I give you my word of honour that the
paper shall be returned to you uninjured."
Slowly Gertrud drew it out and gave it to him; he opened it, the
Praesidentin's eyes hung in breathless suspense on his features.
No one spoke for some seconds, but the Count leaned more and more
heavily on the table, his cheeks pale as death; with averted face he at
last, without speaking a word, gave back the paper, threw himself into
a chair, and covered his eyes with his hand.
The Praesidentin knew enough.
"Mademoiselle--" it was in vain that she endeavoured to make her voice
firm, it trembled audibly--"Mademoiselle, you can, and will not, make
any use of this document; it accuses the dead."
Gertrud drew herself up scornfully; so soon as a third interfered, all
her courage returned.
"You think not, Frau Praesidentin? But the dead Count died as a highly
respected, honourable man, and my father lies dishonoured and disgraced
in the grave. Do you imagine that his daughter would refrain from
avenging him?"
"Do not build too many hopes on this paper; our tribunals cannot
proceed against the dead, and as for the living--we are ready for any
sacrifice, for any reparation within the bounds of possibility--" She
stopped suddenly, even this energetic woman's eyes sank almost timidly
before Gertrud's. "Take care, mademoiselle!" cried she, breaking out
into anger, "take care not to drive us to do our utmost. The family of
Count Arnau is still powerful and influential enough, and they will
risk all, if it concerns their honour. Do not dare to let that paper
out of your hands, else ruin might come upon yourself."
An expression of unspeakable scorn curled Gertrud's lips.
"I will wait and see if this mighty influential family succeed for the
second time in defying justice. I will see if the law of the land will
dare to refuse it to me when I come before them with this proof. Spare
your words, Frau Praesidentin. What I had to fear was overcome before I
came to you, now nothing more can intimidate me."
She had spoken with cold, firm decision. If her features had seemed
fixed before, now they seemed turned to stone; the only expression in
them was a fearful determination. The Praesidentin saw that nothing more
was to be gained here. She placed herself before the door, covering it
with her body.
"Now then, Hermann, you must guard your own and our honour! It must
be!"
Her eyes, even more than her words, challenged the Count to get
possession of the fateful paper by force.
Hermann had risen, he too seemed to have made a last decision, but with
a wave of the hand, he dismissed his grandmother's proposal, and went
up to Gertrud, who stood before him, still firm, and fearless.
"Gertrud!"
She shrank slightly, but did not alter her decided expression.
"I have no right to expect or ask forbearance from you. Do what your
conscience tells you. You can raise no accusation against Count Arnau,
my father--he is dead; but on the ground of this document you can
publicly demand that the money which was withdrawn from you be
returned, and thus cleanse your father's name from the stain which
rests upon it, transferring it to mine instead."
In face of _his_ words Gertrud looked somewhat inclined to waver, she
hung her head.
"I--know it."
"You know it! Well, then, you also know that it will be my ruin. I
have tried in strained activity to forget the curse which I have
inherited. I have accomplished much, and hoped everything from my
career; that is, of course, at an end, so soon as public shame reaches
me. Neither my office nor my connection with the Prince's household can
stand before that; I must resign it, henceforth to hide a dishonoured
name in darkness and inactivity. For a nature like mine, this means
ruin, Gertrud; power and the right to use it lie in your hands.
Retaliate as you will, if you _can_ ruin me, then do it."
A deep sigh heaved the tormented girl's breast, she would have rushed
away, but the ban of his eyes and voice held her enchained. He stood
before her, without entreaty, but also without reproach, only his eyes
burned in passionate unrest, they searched her's deeply--deeply as if
he must and would read the depths of her soul.
"Gertrud! It concerns your father's honour, and my destruction--do it!"
The girl's arm sank hopelessly, with a heart-rending expression she
looked up, as if begging for mercy, her eyes met his, a moment passed,
an eternity for both, then Gertrud suddenly seized the paper
convulsively with both hands--it fell in fragments at her feet.
The Praesidentin stood speechless; she had not understood the last scene
between the two, nor Hermann's incomprehensible behaviour, only now
that she saw him draw the girl passionately towards him, the truth
began to dawn upon her. The proud old woman tottered and supported
herself by a chair, this was too much in one hour.
Meanwhile Gertrud lay half insensible in Hermann's arms, and he bent
over her with an expression of tenderness, which the grandmother had
never before seen in his firm, cold features.
The passionately longed-for certainty was his at last, now he knew,
too, for whom she had trembled yesterday.
But the energetic girl did not succumb many minutes to this fearful
agitation, she raised herself and tried to escape from his arms.
"You are saved, Count Arnau---Farewell!"
He stood as if struck by lightning.
"Gertrud, for heaven's sake, what does this mean?"
"I leave this house at once. Do not hold me back, I must go."
"And do you really imagine," cried Hermann, "that I will let you go?
Oh, your incomprehensibleness does not alarm me any longer. You have
given a right over you by this sacrifice which I shall know how to
use."
Gertrud looked earnestly at him for a moment.
"No," said she at last, "with this sacrifice I have torn every tie
between us for ever. What has happened does not exist for the world,
and the daughter of the thief, Brand, can never be the wife of Count
Arnau."
He took both her hands gently--
"Gertrud, not this bitterness. Can you not credit me with the power of
protecting my wife before idle tongues?"
"Your wife, perhaps, but not yourself. My real name cannot remain
unconcealed, so soon as I emerge from dependence and obscurity, and I
have lived in aristocratic families long enough to know what is thought
on such points. They would hardly pardon you your _buergerliche_ wife,
and you would suffer under the continual persecution, until you would
at last be compelled to retire to the hated obscurity of private
life--on my account."
The Praesidentin, who had stood hitherto like one in despair, now
breathed freely again at these words, which she saw were not without
effect upon her grandson. He must, indeed, have himself recognized the
undisputable truth of her argument, but he still strove against it.
"Gertrud, at this moment, under the influence of this agitation, we
cannot make any weighty decision for our future. Promise me later--"
"No," interrupted she firmly, "the word of separation must be spoken
now. Count Arnau, you know the relations of our country and Court
better than any one else--answer me! Can your influence, your career
still continue the same, if you break your connection with the nobility
and with the Prince's household?"
The Count looked down, unprepared for an answer.
"I knew it! And now hear my last word. I shall not have made the
sacrifice in vain, and, therefore, under the circumstances, I can never
be your wife. Do not try to dissuade me, or to find me, it would be in
vain. By this sacrifice I save your future, and that, with such a
nature as yours, will be such as to dispense with a wife's love.
Farewell!"
An unspeakable bitterness rang in her last words, but she left him no
time to reply, and erect and stately, walked towards the door; here,
however, the Praesidentin met her. Deeply moved, she silently held out
both hands.
For an instant Gertrud took them, then disappeared in the neighbouring
room.
The Praesidentin went up to her grandson and laid her hand on his
shoulder.
"You may thank the girl's high principles, Hermann, for saving you from
a folly which you would have had to repent all your life. She saves
you, and us all!"
The Count did not answer, his eyes were fixed on the door where Gertrud
had disappeared.
The Praesidentin bent down, and carefully picked up every fragment of
the torn paper, then lit a candle, and held the pieces over the flame.
As the last sank into dust and ashes the old lady breathed freely--
"Thank heaven! The evil is at an end!"