THE DUEL AND THE ROSE.
An hour afterwards the seconds had arranged all that was needful.
The next morning, in the earliest dawn, two carriages were seen driving
to a secluded spot at the farther end of the Prater.
Count Rivero and Herr von Stielow, with the seconds and a surgeon,
walked over the dewy ground of a small grassy opening amongst the
trees.
The preparations were quickly concluded.
Two crossed swords marked the barrier. The pistols were loaded, and
each combatant placed himself ten paces from the barrier. Lieutenant
von Stielow was very pale; his face bore traces of a sleepless night,
and there were dark circles below his eyes. Yet his expression was
calm, almost joyful.
His second, an officer of his regiment, stepped up to him and handed
him the pistols.
"There is yet time," he said, "for a little word of apology, and all
mischief will be avoided."
"You know I am always ready to bear the consequences of my words and
actions," replied Herr von Stielow; "to draw back now would be unworthy
and cowardly. But make yourself easy--I, at least, will do no
mischief."
He took the pistols. The seconds stepped aside.
The opponents saluted with their weapons.
The count looked fresh and calm, and showed no trace of emotion.
He had the first shot, and the right of advancing to the barrier.
He did not take a step forward, but raised his pistol, lowered it
slightly, and fired.
Lieutenant von Stielow's kepi flew from his head--the ball had hit the
upper rim.
The lieutenant raised his arm, took aim for a moment, but, as the
seconds could see, much too high, and the ball flew two feet above his
adversary's head.
"Count," said the lieutenant, with calm courtesy, "what honour and
custom amongst those of our position required, is now accomplished. I
beg to apologize for my words of yesterday."
The count came forward hastily, a look of great satisfaction shining in
his eyes, as a master who is well pleased with the conduct of a pupil.
And with dignity, but great kindness, he offered the young lieutenant
his hand.
"Not a word more," he said, heartily.
"Yes," said von Stielow, "I must beg for one word more, and that I may
say it to you alone."
The count bowed, and they walked together into the wood, out of the
hearing of the seconds.
"Count," said the lieutenant, and his lip trembled slightly, "what I
have to say--what I have to request, will, I fear, seem extraordinary
to you, but I hope you will reply to my question as frankly as I ask
it. Before we had exchanged shots it would have been a new insult; now
I venture to put it as from one man of honour to another."
The count looked at him inquiringly.
"How do you stand with--that lady?" asked Herr von Stielow; "you have a
perfect right not to reply, but if you will answer me, you will do me a
favour I shall never forget," he added warmly.
The count considered for a moment, and fixed his calm gaze on the eyes
of the young man who stood before him anxiously awaiting his reply.
"I will answer you," he said; and he drew from the pocket of his
over-coat a letter-case, and taking from it a letter, handed it to Herr
von Stielow.
He looked through it. He smiled, half sorrowfully, half contemptuously.
The count's dark eye rested on him with deep sympathy.
"One more request," said the young officer, "which can only be
justified by the strange position in which we are placed."
The count bowed.
"Will you lend me this letter? I give you my word of honour not to
retain it more than an hour, and that no eyes, save those of a certain
lady, shall see it," said von Stielow.
"This, too, is granted--a proof of my unbounded confidence."
"I take it, then, and I thank you from my heart."
"And now, sir," said the count, in a deep resonant voice, "permit me to
request your friendship. I am older than yourself, and many of life's
circumstances, which are still strange to you, lie before me like an
open book, and the book of life cannot be read without pain and sorrow.
The hand of a friend, of an older and experienced friend, is a great
protection--mine is always at your service."
And with a frank and noble movement Count Rivero offered the young
officer his hand. Stielow seized it, not without emotion.
"I have behaved like a foolish child," he cried, with candid
heartiness, "and I have to thank you for much; perhaps, for a happy
change in my life."
They returned to the seconds, and drove back to town.
Herr von Stielow went home, seated himself at his writing table, and
placed three bank notes, each for a thousand gulden, in a large
envelope; he added the letter with which Count Rivero had entrusted
him. He sealed and addressed the packet, then he rang.
"Take this immediately to Madame Balzer in the Ringstrasse. Give it
into her own hands," said he to the servant.
Then he stretched out his arms with a deep-drawn breath, and threw
himself into an arm chair.
"The meteor has vanished for ever!" he cried; "now shine kindly upon
me, thou pure, fair star, whose clear light smiles so peacefully."
His eyes closed; Nature claimed her rights after the wakeful night and
the excitement of the morning.
Late in the afternoon of the same day, some of the guests whom we met
formerly at Countess Mensdorff's, were assembled in a large and elegant
drawing-room of a beautiful old house in the Herrengasse, in Vienna.
The small fire burning in the marble fire-place cast glowing
reflections on the polished parquet floor. A hanging lustre, with three
branches, shed an agreeable light over the room, and here and there
sparkled upon the gold frames on the walls containing the family
portraits. Opposite the fire-place stood a large table, upon which
was a beautiful bronze lamp with a large blue glass shade, and the
high-backed chairs and sofas were covered with dark blue silk.
The mistress of the house, Countess Frankenstein, sat on a sofa near
the table. She was an elderly lady of that type of the Austrian
aristocracy which so strongly recalls the old French _noblesse_ of the
_ancien regime_, but possesses also the Austrian kindliness and
Austrian national feeling, a combination which makes the higher circles
of society in Vienna so peculiarly attractive.
The lady's partially grey hair was carefully arranged; a high dress of
rich dark silk fell around her in heavy folds, and beautifully-set old
diamonds gleamed in her brooch, her ear-rings and bracelet.
Beside her sat the Countess Clam Gallas.
On a low chair at her mother's side sat the young countess, in a
beautiful toilette, which showed she was going out later in the
evening.
Count Clam stood before her, leaning on the back of a chair.
They spoke of the great question of the day, and the whole party were
much excited by the ever-increasing certainty of the war about to break
out.
"I was with Mensdorff this morning," said Count Clam Gallas; "he told
me he could count the days before the declaration of war. After we, as
was only right, summoned the confederation to decide upon the fate of
the Duchies, General von Manteuffel marched into Holstein."
"But that is war!" cried Countess Frankenstein; "and what has happened?
What has Gablenz done?"
"Gablenz is here already," replied the count, "and his troops are
returning; we are in too small numbers there, and too much scattered,
to do anything. We are daily expecting orders to join the army in
Bohemia. Count Karolyi will be recalled from Berlin, and in Frankfort
the decree will be published for the mobilization of the whole of the
Army of the Confederation against Prussia."
"At last then," cried Countess Clam Gallas, "upstart Prussia will
receive due punishment, and all the evil the Hohenzollerns have done to
our Imperial House will be avenged."
"But how about Hanover?" asked Countess Frankenstein. "Is not Gablenz
to remain there with his troops?"
"Hanover has not yet decided," said the count.
"Incredible!" cried Countess Frankenstein and Countess Clam Gallas in
one breath.
"Has then Count Platen forgotten all his friendship for Austria?"
The young countess sighed.
"What is it, countess?" asked Count Clam Gallas; "our ladies must not
sigh when we mount horse, and draw the sword for the honour of old
Austria."
"I am thinking of the poor things whose blood must flow," said the
young countess, and she looked up as if she saw a picture of some scene
of horror.
The door was thrown open, and Lieutenant Field Marshal Baron Reischach
announced.
The Baron entered, smiling and cheerful as ever. He saluted the ladies
in his knightly style, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.
"You have grown, Countess Clara," said he jestingly; "this child really
looks over our heads."
He seated himself, and held out his hand to Count Clam Gallas.
"You favoured being," he said, "you will soon be in the field!"
"I expect orders hourly."
"We old cripples must stay at home," said Reischach, sadly, and a look
of grave melancholy passed over his jovial countenance, but soon
vanished again. "I saw Benedek before he started for Bohemia," he then
said.
"Has he gone already?" asked Countess Clam Gallas.
"He has started," said the Baron, "and he is now on the road that leads
to the Capitol or to the Tarpeian rock. He expressed that in a
different way, certainly, but not less excellently."
"Tell us how he expressed it," cried Countess Clam Gallas; "it was no
doubt one of those strong speeches which no one but himself would ever
think of."
"'In six weeks,' said he thoughtfully, 'I shall either be on a
pedestal, or not even a dog will snarl at me!'"
They all laughed aloud.
"Excellent!" cried Countess Clam Gallas; "and does he believe in the
'pedestal?'"
"Not very much," replied the baron; "he does not trust the spirit and
the order of the army, and he does not trust himself."
"He may judge of himself as he will," cried Count Clam Gallas
vehemently; "but the army he has no right to mistrust. The army is
excellent, and its order exemplary; though truly, if General Benedek
continues to treat the officers, and especially the noble officers, as
he has commenced, and always to take the part of the common soldiers
and the sub-officers, order will not last long."
And the count with an angry movement pushed away the chair on which he
had leant, and paced up and down the room.
"It is certainly not my place," after a few moments, he said somewhat
more calmly, "to call in question his majesty's choice of commanding
officers, but I cannot feel great confidence in this Benedek and his
method. The feelings that dwell in the hearts of the old Austrian
nobility he cannot understand, and his so-called liberal principles
destroy discipline. It may be very well in an army like the Prussian,
where every one is a soldier--I understand nothing about that; but for
us it will not answer; still less will it answer to attempt novelties
which will place the army in opposition to their officers on the eve of
a great war."
The count had spoken with much warmth. No one replied, and there was a
momentary silence. Baron von Reischach interrupted it by exclaiming--
"But do you know, ladies, the last great excitement in Vienna?"
"No," replied Countess Clam Gallas, "what is it? a fresh success of
Wolter's, or a new eccentricity of Gallmeyer's?"
"Something much better than either," replied the baron, "a very piquant
duel."
"A duel? and between whom? do we any of us know them?" asked Countess
Frankenstein.
"It was between our little Uhlan von Stielow," said Baron Reischach,
"and that Italian Count Rivero whom you will remember well; he was here
some time back with the Nuncio."
"How very extraordinary!" exclaimed Countess Frankenstein; "has Count
Rivero been here long?"
"He came yesterday," replied Herr von Reischach.
"And in twenty-four hours a rencontre took place with Herr von
Stielow?" asked Countess Clam Gallas.
"It appears," said the baron, "that a lady is in the case. You have
surely heard of the beautiful Madame Balzer?"
The young Countess Frankenstein stood up and walked to the darkest part
of the drawing-room to a flower-table. There she bent over the flowers.
"I have heard the name of this lady in connexion with Herr von
Stielow," said Countess Clam Gallas.
"The new rights and the old came in collision," remarked the baron.
"And has any thing serious happened?" asked Count Clam Gallas.
"Not that I heard," replied von Reischach, "but I fear for our friend
Stielow; Count Rivero is well known as an excellent shot. But where is
our young countess?" he said, breaking off suddenly and turning his
head towards the other end of the drawing-room.
She was still bending over the flowers. Her mother gave her a quick
anxious look. She came slowly back to the light, with a freshly
gathered rose in her hand. Her face was very pale and her lips tightly
closed.
"I have plucked a rose," she said, in a voice that trembled slightly,
"to complete my toilette."
She fastened the rose into her dress, and took her place again
mechanically.
"Ah! I forgot the Countess Wilezek's soiree," cried Countess Clam
Gallas rising, "you will wish to prepare, and I must go home first."
"Allow me to accompany you," said Baron von Reischach, and they all
took leave.
The mother and daughter were alone. There was a silence.
"Mamma," said Countess Clara at last, "I do not feel well, and I would
rather stay at home."
Her mother gave her a sympathising look.
"My child," she said, "remember, I pray, what will be said if you do
not appear to-night, especially as you have already been seen."
The young lady supported her head with her hand; a sob echoed through
the silence of the room, and her slender figure trembled, tears fell on
the rose in her bosom.
A servant threw open the door, exclaiming, "Baron von Stielow."
Countess Frankenstein looked amazed, her daughter rose quickly; a deep
blush glowed on her face, she sank back in her chair, and her eyes
still swimming in tears were fixed on the door. The footman took the
silence of the countess for consent, as it was her custom to receive at
that hour, and disappeared.
Lieutenant von Stielow entered.
He was as cheerful as ever; no trace of the emotions of the morning
appeared on his face, only his former expression of good-humoured
carelessness had gone; a grave, an almost solemn earnestness was seen
in his whole bearing, his eyes shone with a calm brilliance. His
unusual earnestness made him look more handsome than before.
He walked towards the ladies. Countess Clara cast down her eyes and
played with her handkerchief. Her mother received the young officer
with perfect calmness.
"We have not seen you for some time, Herr von Stielow," she said;
"where have you been disporting yourself?"
"Our duty is more strict than it was, countess," said von Stielow, "and
leaves us but little time--war seems decided upon, so we ought to get a
little accustomed to some of its inconveniences."
"Herr von Reischach has just been here, and he spoke of you," said the
countess.
"What did he say?" cried von Stielow anxiously; "he told, I fear, some
malicious history?"
And his eyes sought the young countess, who continued to look down, and
who made no movement.
"He caused us to fear that something had happened to you," said the
countess, glancing at him from head to foot, "but I see he was
mistaken."
Herr von Stielow smiled, but it was not the merry laugh he would have
given a short time before at the lucky termination of a duel; it was a
serious happy smile.
"Herr von Reischach takes too great an interest in me," he said, "and
the fears he expressed on my behalf are groundless."
Countess Frankenstein looked round quickly at her daughter.
"Are you going this evening to Countess Wilezek's?" she asked.
"I have never been introduced to her," replied the young officer in a
tone of regret.
"At least you will accompany us there, will you not?" said the countess
rising; "I have a slight alteration to make in my toilette; my daughter
is quite ready and will entertain you until I return."
Herr von Stielow rose and said, joy beaming from his eyes:
"I am quite at your commands, countess."
Countess Frankenstein left the room without heeding the appealing looks
of her daughter. The two young people were left alone. They were
silent. At last Stielow approached the young lady's chair:--
"Countess Clara!" he said in a low voice.
The young countess raised her eyes and looked at him with surprise,
while an expression of pain appeared on her lips. The light fell on her
face as she lifted her head, and he saw that her eyelids were slightly
red.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "you have been weeping?"
"No," said the young lady firmly, "I have a headache. I have begged
mamma to leave me at home this evening."
"Countess Clara," he said, in the same earnest, gentle voice, "I wish
to give you an answer to a question--an explanation," he stammered, "of
a conversation we had at Countess Mensdorff's. I have never since
spoken to you alone."
She interrupted him.
"This is scarcely a time to answer questions," she said, with a half
scornful, half melancholy smile, "which I have already forgotten."
"But I have not forgotten them, and I must give an answer."
She made a movement of refusal. Without heeding it, he asked:--
"Do you believe my word when I give it you as a nobleman?"
She raised her eyes to his face, and said, "Yes."
"I thank you for your trust in me, Countess Clara," he said. "I give
you my word of honour I am free--free as the air and light, from every
chain."
An expression of joyful surprise passed over her face.
"I do not understand you," she said in a low voice.
"Yes, Countess Clara, you understand me," he cried vehemently, "though
I have not told the whole truth. I am free from a fetter which was
unworthy; but I seek a chain to bind me for ever to my happiness--a
chain that I can wear without a blush."
She was extremely agitated. She looked at him for a moment before she
again cast down her eyes, and in that look he thought he read an answer
to his hopes, for, with a happy smile, he came a step nearer to her.
"I do not understand all this," she stammered; "explain to me."
"I cannot explain," he interrupted, "to a strange lady, only to her who
gives me the right to consecrate my life to her, and to have no secret
from her."
"Good Heavens! Herr von Stielow," she cried, still more embarrassed, "I
ask you seriously to explain."
"Then you give me the right to explain to you?"
"I did not say so," she cried, and rose.
She walked towards the door by which her mother had left the room. He
hastened to her, and seized her hand.
"Give me an answer, Clara," he cried.
She stood still, with drooping head.
"Clara," he cried again, in a low, earnest tone, "you wear a rose on
your breast. In olden days, ladies gave to the knight whose love and
service they accepted for ever, a gift, to be a sacred talisman in
battle, and to be with them in death. We, too, are on the eve of bloody
days. Clara, will you give me that rose?"
"The rose is a symbol of purity and truth," she said gravely.
"It is the symbol, then, of her who dwells in my heart, and who will
dwell there for ever," he cried, and added, in an imploring tone,
"Clara, I am worthy of the rose!"
She fixed her eyes on his, and gazed at him for several moments. Then
she raised her hand slowly, unfastened the rose from her dress, and
held it towards him, blushing and trembling, as she cast down her eyes.
He walked passionately towards her, seized the rose, and covered the
hand that held it with kisses.
"Clara," he said, firmly and gravely, "this flower will fade, but the
happiness you have given me will bloom in my heart as long as it
continues to beat. Heaven, I thank thee!" he cried, "I have found my
star!"
He drew her gently towards him.
Without speaking a word, she leant her beautiful head on his breast,
and wept gently.
Countess Frankenstein entered. At the rustle of her dress, her daughter
hastened to her, and threw herself into her arms. Herr von Stielow
approached the old lady.
"Countess," he said, "I can only repeat to you what I said to your
daughter in my great happiness. I have found my star. May it not light
the heaven of my life for ever?"
The countess showed surprise, mixed with a certain amount of
satisfaction.
"I leave the answer to my daughter," said she; "and will abide by her
decision."
"And what do you say, Countess Clara?" he asked.
She held out her hand.
"Then may God bless you!" said the countess, as she gently put her
daughter from her, and held out her hand in her turn to the young man,
who kissed it respectfully.
"Now," cried the countess, "we must go. We shall see you to-morrow,
Herr von Stielow. To-day you will only afford us your protection to
Countess Wilezek's."
"Oh, mamma," cried Countess Clara, "can we not stay at home to-day?"
"No, my child," said her mother, "people would make remarks, and you
know I like everything to be done in the correct manner. It is the
foundation of all true and lasting happiness."
"Well, then," cried Herr von Stielow, "adieu until to-morrow; my
newly-risen star will light up the night until the dawn!"
His betrothed gave him a smile. There was a half troubled, half roguish
question in her look.
He raised the rose he held in his hand, pressed it to his lips, and hid
it beneath his uniform upon his breast.
The countess rang. A servant brought the ladies' mantles. Herr von
Stielow accompanied them in their carriage to the palace of Countess
Wilezek, in Wallnerstrasse. After he had taken leave of them, he walked
dreamily through the evening streets of the capital.
Clear merry voices rang through the open windows of the Cafe Daun. The
numerous officers of every branch of the service congregated there
rejoiced at the prospect of war, and many cheerful voices rang out into
the night, destined soon to be mute for ever.
Von Stielow hesitated for a moment before the entrance of the Cafe
Daun, but the noisy mirth of his comrades did not suit his present
mood.
He walked on. He thought over all that had occurred, and rejoiced at
the quarrel which had brought him freedom.
He pursued his way along the Graben, by the rothe Thurmstrasse, and,
sunk in sweet dreams, he followed the banks of the Danube. He was near
the Aspern bridge. A man in a dark cloak came up to him.
"God bless me! Herr von Stielow," he cried, accosting the young
officer, "you were going along as if you had become a philosopher, and
were seeking the stone of wisdom."
"Good evening, dear Knaak," replied the lieutenant, holding out his
hand to the well-known and favourite comic actor of the Karl Theatre,
"what brings you here? Is the theatre over already?"
"I do not act to-night," replied Knaak, "and I am just going to the
Hotel de l'Europe, where all our people are to be. Come too, and laugh
with us a little."
Herr von Stielow thought for a moment. He felt a repugnance to going
home; he was too excited for serious conversation; how could he better
pass the evening hours than with these cheerful people, who, in their
merry thoughtlessness and happy natures, form an eternal world of youth
in the midst of serious life.
He placed his arm within the actor's, and said:--
"Well, dear Knaak, I will come with you, to see if these warlike times
affect the humour of the Karl Theatre."
"My dear sir," replied Knaak, "all the Krupp cannons added to all the
needle guns in the world, could not disturb us,--that is to say," he
added, gravely, "if we were all together. I, for my own part, am often
sad enough when alone: for I am a North German by birth, and all my
early recollections lie north; but now I am in heart an Austrian, and
the war which is before us makes me very wretched."
"It must be so with many of us," replied von Stielow; "my home, too,
lies in the north. It is a melancholy war,--although, as a soldier, I
cannot but rejoice that this sword, which has so long been dragged over
the pavement, is at last to be used in earnest."
A slight sigh did not quite harmonize with this warlike zeal; perhaps
he thought of the newly risen star of his life, and feared it soon
might set in bloody clouds.
They had reached the large Hotel de l'Europe, which, with the Crown
Prince Hotel, occupies the whole length of the Asperngasse. They went
into the spacious restaurant through the large doorway, and having
passed through it, they came to a closed door, through which they heard
cheerful voices and merry laughter.
Knaak opened the door, and with von Stielow entered a somewhat small
square room, adorned with hunting pieces and pastoral scenes, where a
motley company were assembled around a table on which stood a cold
supper, already showing in some of the principal dishes large gaps,
proving the assaults that had been made upon it. On the table stood a
large bowl filled with fragrant punch; and silver wine coolers filled
with ice showed the white heads of champagne bottles peeping from them.
In the midst of the company sat the whimsical queen of the Karl
Theatre, the spoilt and sometimes naughty favourite of the public,
Josephine Gallmeyer.
Beside her sat her especial friend old Grois, the last remaining actor
of the times of Nestroy--a strongly made man with coarse features, with
which he was however capable of rendering every shade of expression,
and a voice full of comic modulation.
On the other side of the table sat alone and thoughtful the young actor
Matras, with his handsome intelligent face, which can represent on the
stage of to-day the true old Viennese fun; and near him, in earnest
conversation, sat Mademoiselle Schwoeder, a dark-eyed young singer, and
Doctor Herzel, editor and critic, a man of middle height with a quick
intelligent face.
The entrance of Knaak and von Stielow was hailed with joy by the
Gallmeyer; she seized a champagne cork lying near her, threw it at
them, and cried:
"Thank God for two sensible men. Come here, Knaak, sit by me; and you,
Herr von Stielow, opposite, that I may look at your uniform,--I like
it. I could not have borne these weary folks much longer. Matras sits
there and says nothing, and the Schwoeder and the Doctor are like a pair
of folded gloves, and then there is old Grois,"--she shook the old
actor roughly by the shoulder,--"he has given a moral lecture. You can
think how amusing that was."
She seized a bottle of champagne and poured out a large glass of the
pearling fluid for Knaak who sat beside her.
"There, drink it," she cried merrily, "and may it make you witty."
"My life!" she exclaimed, as she looked at von Stielow, who, following
her directions, had seated himself opposite; "My life! Herr von
Stielow, how handsome you are to-day; whatever has happened to you; you
look really splendid!"
"Take care, Herr von Stielow," said Knaak, "if Pepi falls in love with
you it is all up with you, 'tis a case of
"And seek I e'er
A knight t' ensnare
Resistance nought avails him."
She tapped Knaak upon the mouth as she cried:
"All very well, but when people look as romantic as Stielow there, they
are of no use to me. I wager he has not a bit of room in his heart.
Besides," she added, with the greatest gravity, "I don't fall in love
so easily. I must see the baptismal registry first."
"What for?" asked von Stielow.
"She must know if he is of age and free to spend his money," said
Matras.
"Matras is always thinking of money, poor fellow! he has so little,"
she cried, "but no, that's not it. You see I made up my mind, my lover
and I should never have more than fifty years between us, and so the
older I get the younger must be my lover, to make me quite sure that he
has no more years than fall to his share. I have made up my mind, and I
shall always stick to it."
They all laughed.
"Then you will soon come to swaddling clothes," remarked old Grois
drily.
"Papa Grois," cried she, "don't make such bad jokes; I have enough of
them, from 'swaddling clothes' to 'experienced persons.'"
"And where is the Grobecker?" asked Knaak.
"She has quarrelled with her duke," said Doctor Herzel.
"What again, already?"
"She maintains he is making love to little Pepi, and she will not have
it."
"What a passion it is!" cried the Gallmeyer. "Soon there will only be
duchesses and princesses acting in the Karl Theatre. Well, for my part
I shall stick to Pepi Gallmeyer."
And she sang,
"My mother is a washerwoman,
And but a ballad girl am I,
And when a sweetheart comes to woo,
Away I to the washtub fly."
"Yes, it is true," said Grois; "you would be spoilt as a duchess. Do
you know what she did the other day? The Duke della Rotunda gave us a
great supper at his hotel. It was all quite princely, and footmen in
white stockings handed the most excellent dishes. Pepi did nothing but
gape; at last she said, 'My lord duke, where is the Schwemme? I can't
stand this, 'tis too fine for me.'"
"What is the Schwemme?" asked von Stielow.
"It is what they call the second class restaurants in Vienna; they have
them in every hotel here to accommodate traveller's servants."
"And they are a thousand times more amusing than that tiresome old
duke, with his silver candlesticks and stork-legged lacqueys," laughed
the Gallmeyer.
The door was opened hastily, and a beautiful young woman holding a
newspaper in her hand entered. It was Madame Friedrich-Materna, an
opera-singer, then engaged at the Karl Theatre.
"Have you heard it yet?" she cried, "war is declared, or as good as
declared; it is here in the 'Evening Post;' our ambassador is recalled
from Berlin, and the army is ordered to march into Bohemia."
"Then it is all up with us," cried the Gallmeyer, "all up with merry
Vienna; and," she added, glancing compassionately at von Stielow,
"alas! how many handsome young fellows will get shot."
Old Grois raised his head.
"We must have something patriotic in the theatre, something of the good
old kind; monkey tricks won't do, when a bloody tragedy is being played
outside."
"I must go to the editor's office," said Doctor Herzel, with some
importance. He rose and seized his hat.
A waiter entered.
"Is Baron von Stielow here?" he asked.
"What is it?" cried the young officer.
"Your servant with an orderly; they have been looking every where for
you."
"Duty," cried von Stielow, and rose--
"Farewell, my hosts. Your health, Fraeulein Pepi."
He emptied a glass of punch and left the room. A cavalry soldier in a
cuirassier uniform handed him a sealed official paper.
The young officer opened it. His face expressed happy pride.
"On the staff of General Gablenz!" he cried joyfully.
"Where is the general?" he asked.
"In the Hotel zur Stadt Frankfurt, Herr Lieutenant."
"All right; I come!"
And with a quick step he hurried along the shores of the Danube, not
dreamily, as he had come, but with head proudly raised, sparkling eyes,
smiling lips, and his sword clattering on the pavement.
Suddenly he walked more slowly. A cloud passed over his brow.
"I am to march out to this merry war at which every soldier's heart
beats higher, and at the side of a general, whom every Austrian rider
regards with pride and admiration, and yet--what a scarcely tasted
happiness I leave behind--shall I ever find it more?"
Slower and slower grew his steps, until at last he stood quite still;
and lost in thought he gazed into the Danube, where the bright lamps on
the bridge were reflected.
"The shining light up there," he murmured, "below cold, grey death!"
With a hasty movement he awoke from his reverie. "What is love," he
cried, "if it makes us sad and cowardly! No, my sweet lady, I will be
thy brave proud knight, and thy talisman shall bring me honour."
He drew the rose from his breast and pressed it to his lips. Then he
walked on with a quick merry step, and with laughing lips he hummed to
himself--
"And had she not promised my life to be,
No life would ever be won by me!"