'SHE COMES TO STAY THIS TIME'
EBERHARD LUDWIG stood before his dull Duchess, his eyes fixed on her
heavy, handsome face with a look of such stern anger, that the unhappy
woman felt herself to be a criminal before some harsh, implacable judge.
The phrases she had prepared in her mind during the two days since she
had expelled her rival from the castle faded away, and seemed to falter
from proud statements to a mere apology, an anxious pleading.
The Duke remained standing, one hand leant upon the back of a chair, the
other hung at his side, and Johanna Elizabetha could see that his fingers
were clenched and reclenched with such force that the knuckles showed
bluey white; otherwise the man might have been made of stone and his eyes
of metal, so motionless and rigid was the whole figure. He had entered
her apartment, and had demanded in a voice of controlled passion, deep
with the effort he made to render it cold and courteous, 'Madame, where
is your Highness's lady-in-waiting?'
She met the question with a tremulous torrent of words. 'I have dismissed
Mademoiselle de Grävenitz. I required her services no longer; she did not
please me; she has left the castle, probably the town. I do not know
where she is.'
'I ask again, Madame la Duchesse, whither you have sent Mademoiselle de
Grävenitz? You must have been aware of her destination before you
permitted a young lady to leave the shelter of our castle,' he said. And
the Duchess replied by an angry outburst, a hailstorm of reproaches,
before which Eberhard Ludwig remained silent, cold, rigidly
self-contained. The Duchess paused; it was like beating one's hand
against some adamantine barrier. She had the sensation that all she said,
felt, suffered, passed unnoticed; the man before her was waiting for
information, that was all. It was intolerable, and the hopelessness of
any pleading came to her.
'My husband,' she said in another tone, calm and cold as his, 'I have
endured enough. I have the right to dismiss my lady-in-waiting if I think
fit. I have done so, and the lady will not enter my apartments again, nor
will she be admitted to any court festivities wherein I take part.' She
turned away; her despairing consciousness of ultimate humiliation seemed
to choke her, though her very defeat was transformed to a moral victory
by her resigned dignity. The Duke moved forward. 'At least tell me what
has occurred,' he said hurriedly. 'When I left you three days ago there
was no word of any dispute. I thought I left peace,' he added in a
puzzled tone.
The Duchess came towards him. She held out her hands in a gesture of
appeal: 'Eberhard, be just to me! I bore it as long as I could, but that
woman's presence was a daily torture to me. Have a mistress, if need be,'
this last bitterly, 'but at least do not cause her to be my companion. It
is not fitting.' The blood rushed to the Duke's face. 'Mademoiselle de
Grävenitz is fit to be the companion of saints, of angels!' he retorted
angrily. 'She will return to court, I warn your Highness.' He turned
abruptly and left the Duchess's apartment.
If the Duke, with the blindness of the enamoured, really had imagined
peace to reign in his palace prior to his sojourn at Urach, on his return
even love and anxiety could not hide the excitement and unrest which the
departure of the favourite had caused in the castle of Stuttgart. Madame
de Ruth, flinging etiquette to the winds, had met his Highness in the
courtyard when he rode in from Urach, and had greeted him with the news
of Wilhelmine's flight. The good lady was genuinely distressed, and had
made unceasing search in the town, but naturally no one had thought of
seeking in the Judengasse behind the Leonards Kirche. Wilhelmine seemed
to have vanished off the face of the earth, and there were not wanting
murmurers among the Duchess's servitors who averred that witches had ever
been able to vanish at will, and that probably 'the Grävenitzin' would
return in the form of a black cat or a serpent, and suddenly change into
a woman again when it suited her. They were all in a flutter of
superstitious excitement; and Maria the maid, who loved Wilhelmine, went
about with reddened eyes, and was much questioned below stairs.
The Duke, on hearing the news from Madame de Ruth, had repaired
immediately to the Duchess, but, as we have seen, he had extracted no
information from the lady, she having none to give. When his Highness
left the Duchess's apartment he stormed up to Madame de Ruth's
dwelling-room, and after some deliberation summoned Forstner and charged
him with the unpleasant duty of leading a search party which was supplied
with a ducal warrant to enter all houses of every grade in Stuttgart.
Forstner, of course, urged patience; the missing one would return or
communicate, he said; but the Duke greeted the word patience with such an
outburst of anger that the 'Bony One' retired discomfited and gave orders
for the search with apparent zeal.
Evening fell on the sun-baked streets of Stuttgart, and a faint breeze
wafted a recollection of field and wood through the open windows of the
castle. Eberhard Ludwig paced up and down, near the fountain in the
castle gardens, where he had been with Wilhelmine on the moonlit night of
the theatricals three months ago. He flung himself down upon the stone
bench where they had sat together. He covered his eyes with his hands, he
was tortured with memories, thrilled again to past raptures; his desire
was aroused, increased a hundred-fold by the anguish of absence. Could it
be true that such passion's enchantments were never to be his again? he
asked himself. His memory conjured up a thousand charms of his beloved,
her voice, her laugh, her touch. 'Wilhelmine, Wilhelmine!'
He sprang up. 'God! it is awful! Wilhelmine, my love, my mistress!' he
said aloud. Ridiculous poet-fellow! he listened as though he expected an
answer.
In the distance there was a rumble of thunder, and the restless breeze
rioted suddenly in the tree-branches for a moment, passed onward, then
swept back again rustling, then came a roll of thunder closer than the
last. Another pause--fateful it seemed, as though the garden trembled
before the coming storm. A white flash played intermittently upon the
fountain, followed by a thunderclap directly overhead, and a torrent of
rain poured down. The Duke stood still a moment, the rain beating upon
him. The storm delighted him, it answered to his tempestuous mood. He
turned away from the castle and walked in the direction of the garden
boundary on the south side, passing the drawbridge over the disused and
flower-filled moat of the castle wall. What would have been his emotions
had he known that his fancy led him to wander whither Wilhelmine had
passed but three days before? He came to the garden's limit and stood
looking towards the dimly discernible openings of several narrow streets,
the oldest and most ill-famed gangways of the town. Of a sudden he
descried a small form muffled in a sombre cloak. The street was utterly
deserted save for Eberhard Ludwig himself and this forlorn little figure,
and the Duke's attention was thus arrested. The pouring rain had not
extinguished the light of the two dilapidated hanging lamps, which were
fixed upon the walls of the street from whence had issued the diminutive
night-wanderer, whom the Duke saw was now making for the castle.
The true Wirtemberger vanishes like smoke before the first drop of rain,
and the Duke therefore concluded that any errand undertaken, and
continued, in a downpour must be for a purpose of paramount importance.
So he watched with curiosity the approaching figure, observing with
surprise that it was a child of some ten years old.
'Ha, young person,' called the Duke, as the child reached him; 'whither
away so fast, and what may he want in the castle gardens at this time of
night?'
Thus apostrophised, the figure hesitated; then apparently alarmed by the
sight of the Duke's military cloak, and probably taking him for a sentry
or a garden guard, the child ducked forward and would have made a bolt
past his interrogator. But the Duke, who was amused and half-suspicious
of the boy's errand, caught the figure by his heavy cloak, and dragged
him, a trifle roughly, under the light of the lantern at the opposite
street corner.
'Now he shall tell me where he was going,' Serenissimus said laughing.
The disdainful use of the third person singular seemed to anger the boy,
who stood silent and sullen, with bent head. 'But he _shall_ tell me,'
repeated the Duke, enforcing his command by a rough shake.
'I will not tell you! What concern is it of yours?' the boy replied at
length.
The Duke bent a puzzled look upon his prisoner, whose voice was refined,
and whose German was guiltless of the rude Swabian accent. He did not
speak like a gutter child, and the face which he turned upon Eberhard was
startlingly beautiful. Still the Duke was suspicious. Why should this boy
be slinking to the castle by night? His Highness disliked mysteries, or
thought he did; though, as a matter of fact, he was always attracted by
the mysterious, afraid of it, yet anxious to unravel. He gave the boy
another shake. It was a physical relief to shake some one after the long
hours of anxiety, and the control he had been forced to exercise upon his
longing to shake the Duchess--no new wish on his part, and the only
desire that estimable lady had inspired in his breast for many years. So
the Duke shook his little prisoner again and again.
The boy remained passive; he was breathless, but he met the Duke's
half-laughing, half-angry eyes with a bold look of defiance.
His Highness ceased shaking the child, feeling distinctly ashamed. 'Will
he tell me now?' he asked more gently.
As he said the words, something caught the uncertain light of the
lamps--a little jewel which glittered in the boy's coat. It was exposed
to view by the disarrangement of the cloak caused by the rough handling.
'Lord God!' exclaimed the Duke, catching the boy by the arm once more,
'where in the devil's name did you get that?'
The boy clasped his free hand over the jewel, and proceeded to kick
Eberhard Ludwig's shins with all the violence he could muster. 'A lady
gave it to me, and you shall never have it! I will kill you sooner!' he
cried grandiloquently.
'Be quiet, boy. I am a friend; tell me your errand. If it concerns the
lady who gave you that jewel, I alone can be of assistance.' In his
voice lay so pure a note of truth that the boy instinctively turned to
him trustfully.
'I have a message for the Duke from the lady. If you are a friend to her,
you can tell me how to find him. The lady says I am to go to the castle
and ask for Madame de Ruth, who will take me to his Highness if he has
come back from hunting; then she said all would be well.'
To the boy's astonishment his big questioner suddenly let go his arm,
and, leaning against the house wall, covered his face with his hands,
shivered as though from an ague fit. When the man took his hands from
before his face, the child saw that his eyes were full of tears. The boy
wondered why so many grown-up people were so foolish.
'Quick, boy! take me to her!' he cried.
'No; that is just what I am not to do,' was the reply. 'I am to tell her
where the Duke will meet her to-morrow morning early.'
'To-morrow morning! A million leaden moments! a century to pass! No! Boy,
take me to her! I am the Duke; take me to her, I order you.'
'No; you may be the Duke, but she has given me her commands, and they
mean more to me than yours.' The boy threw up his head proudly. Even in
his passionate impatience Serenissimus was struck by the boy's manner,
amused by this small gentleman.
'Preux Chevalier!' he said laughing; then bowing gravely to the little
muffled figure, 'you are perfectly correct, and I stand reproved; but at
least do me the honour to carry this ring to the lady, and tell her that
I await either her or her sovereign commands.'
The boy took the ring and vanished into the blackness of the side street.
Eberhard Ludwig remained looking after him into the gloom. A bitter
thought came to him of the superiority of this child of the back streets
over the Erbprinz of Wirtemberg--that poor, sickly, excitable boy, whose
disappointing personality was a source of constant irritation and
humiliation to his father. Eberhard Ludwig loved personal vitality, and
that vigorous manliness which he himself possessed, and which he saw
daily in the sons of his poorest subjects; and he suffered intensely
when he was brought into contact with his puny, unwholesome son. The
Duchess's passionate spoiling and injudicious love made matters worse;
the boy's health was in nowise benefited thereby, and it but served to
accentuate the fact that his father had little else save impatient pity
to bestow upon his disappointing offspring. This was in Eberhard Ludwig's
mind as his eyes rested absently upon the street opening whither had
vanished the erect little form of Joseph Süss--'preux chevalier,' as the
Duke had dubbed him. The summer storm had passed, leaving a delicious
freshness in the air and a fragrance which penetrated from the gardens to
the Duke. Eberhard Ludwig stood waiting near the entrance to the narrow
street or gangway, where the overhanging roofs dripped large splashing
drops upon the unpaved earth below. Now that realisation was in all
probability so near, his wild desire for Wilhelmine seemed to have
passed; a curious anxiety had taken its place. How strange, the Duke
reflected, that loss or absence should enhance the value of the beloved.
He tried to conjure up his agony of longing for his mistress. What mad
rapture, could he have clasped her at the moment of tremendous desire
which had been his half an hour earlier in the castle garden! Are we
really only children crying for the moon? and if the moon were given to
us, should we but throw it away into the nearest ditch--merely another
broken toy? he thought. These moods of Eberhard Ludwig's were frequent.
Like all poets, he had a vein of melancholy, a tendency to indulge
himself in a half-sensuous sadness, and these dreamings of his, which had
never been received with ought save uncomprehending impatience by the
Duchess, Wilhelmine had known so well how to assuage--not entirely to
dissipate, for she would have robbed him of a certain joy had she done
so; but she humoured him, understood him, wandered with him in the paths
of his enchanted melancholy, then suddenly brought him back to gaiety by
some witty word, some tender pleasantry. It was part of her immense power
over him, and indeed, it was no thing of the senses, but rather her
womanly genius, her innate knowledge of loving. As he stood awaiting her,
his heart cried for her; he was no longer stirred by physical desire,
but he craved the consolation of her presence as a child wearies for its
mother's love. Indeed, in most passions which have outlasted the flash of
sheer animal attraction, there has ever been that touch of mother-love in
the affection given by the woman to the man. And it is this which
eternally makes the entirely desirable woman older than the man she
loves.
The minutes passed slowly as Eberhard Ludwig stood waiting for some sign
from Wilhelmine. At length his Highness heard an approaching footstep. He
turned quickly, in his excitement not noting that the steps came from the
direction of the castle garden. He started forward with outstretched
arms. Forstner stood before him, a ridiculous figure as usual; his large,
tiresome nose shadowed on the wall by the uncertain light of the hanging
lanterns.
'Really, Monsieur de Forstner!' broke out the Duke angrily, 'it is
intolerable to be thus followed! Am I not at liberty to take a stroll
unquestioned?'
The astonished courtier attempted to explain that he had not known his
Highness to be wandering near the Judengasse, but Eberhard Ludwig cut him
short and desired him to go on his way. Forstner begged to be permitted
to accompany his Highness. 'This is not a part of the town where it is
fitting your Highness should be alone at night.' The reproving tone of
the schoolmaster (that inextinguishable dweller of the innermost which
abides for ever in the breast of every honest German) crept into the
words, and Eberhard Ludwig's irritation was the more aroused.
'Will you go and leave me to myself, Forstner, you insufferable ass!' The
words broke forth half fiercely, half humorously.
Forstner drew himself up with a certain stiff dignity. 'Were that term
applied to me by any but my Prince, I should answer with the sword,' he
said.
The Duke laughed impatiently. 'I retract--I apologise--I beg your
forgiveness; you are an excellent fellow, a dear friend--only for God's
sake, man, go away!'
'But your Highness--I beg you to consider----' the other began.
'Look here, Forstner,' the Duke interrupted, 'if you don't go--now, at
once, and leave me alone, upon my soul I will run you through!' He
half-drew his sword.
'Really, Monseigneur,' replied Forstner, 'I am ready to obey your
Highness, but----'
'Well, then, _go_!' The Duke was getting beyond himself; each moment he
feared Wilhelmine would appear, and Forstner was not a person he desired
as witness either to his meeting with his beloved, or to her advent from
the lowest part of the town.
The estimable Forstner had at length commenced his departure, but he was
distant only a few paces when the Duke heard a laugh coming from the
gloom of the shadowed Judengasse. It was a laugh which, though
low-pitched and quiet, had a resonant distinctness which caused it to
carry a long way.
'Wait, for Heaven's sake, till he is gone,' his Highness whispered over
his shoulder into the darkness, observing to his dismay that Forstner had
halted.
'Did your Highness call me?' asked the too-devoted friend, and made as
though to return.
'No; I coughed. Do go away!' shouted the Duke in return, and set himself
to cough vigorously, for behind him from the darkened street there came
the unmistakable sound of Wilhelmine's irrepressible laughter.
At length the angular figure vanished, and the Duke sprang round with
arms outstretched, and into them he received the stately form of his
mistress, who lay upon his breast; for once unresponsive to his
passionate kisses, while she laughed in a very agony of mirth.
'Forgive me, Monseigneur,' she said at last, her voice still shaking with
laughter; 'but you know the scene was really beyond me. I heard all, and
oh! Forstner was so droll, and you too.' She began to laugh again. 'Oh,
how delightfully undignified, mon Prince--when you coughed to hide my
laughter.'
Once more she leaned against Eberhard Ludwig's shoulder and rocked with
merriment. The Duke also laughed, but a trifle ruefully; that meddler
Forstner had destroyed the rapture of his meeting with Wilhelmine, had
broken the charm of his pensive mood; and besides, the Duke knew from
experience that when Wilhelmine began to laugh like that he would
probably hear no serious word from her during the evening. Even in their
passion's transports he had known his mistress suddenly go off into a
series of 'fous rires,' and no man enjoys the most harmless laughter at
such moments.
'Wilhelmine, for God's sake stop laughing, and tell me where you have
been since the Duchess--since the Duchess----' he hesitated, not knowing
how to express the summary ejection from the castle.
'Since her Highness had the goodness to turn me out.' Wilhelmine was
serious now, though her lips still twitched with mirth, and her eyes were
mischievous and teasing. 'Nay, your Highness, that is my secret. I have
always a hiding-place whither I can vanish when you are not good to me.
Shall I disappear again? I have but to say a mystic word and your
Highness will clasp empty air.' She was play-acting, as she often did,
and she looked up at him with such dazzling eyes that he caught her to
him with masterful passion.
'Witch! enchantress!' he murmured. 'What matters it where you were; you
are here now with me, and never to part again!'
'Till death us do part,' she answered. 'Nay, those are the words men say
to their wives, not to their----' A note of bitterness pierced the
mockery of her tone.
'Ah! heart of mine,' he broke in vehemently, 'would that I could make you
Duchess! You are my wife by all laws of fairest nature and love! This is
a more holy thing than marriage--nay, this is true marriage!' It was the
eternal lie of lovers: the old futile, pathetic, impossible pleading of
those whose love cannot be sanctioned by law. Wilhelmine's face darkened.
'Monseigneur, if you could make Forstner and his sort believe that, I
should not be taunted and insulted. But come, now, we cannot discuss this
here. Will you tell me where you propose to lodge me this night, or shall
I vanish again?' Her gaiety had returned.
'I must ask you to accept the hospitality of my roof to-night,' he said
gravely; 'to-morrow I will seek a fitting abode for you.'
'Ah! a mistress's separate establishment.' Her voice was bitter again.
Was there ever such a difficult woman for lover to deal with? But that
was half her charm.
'Wilhelmine, do not torture me. I will do all I can, and I pray you,
never call your house a mistress's establishment--call it rather the
palace of my heart's queen.'
'Prettily put, and meaning exactly the same!'
She was laughing once more; she loved when Eberhard Ludwig spoke in this
chivalrous tone, as every woman does, thinking it a tribute to her own
especial dignity when it is often only a deft trick of speech. Laughing
and talking and teasing her beloved, she allowed him to lead her away
through the gardens.
Within the castle commotion prevailed. Serving-men and maids ran hither
and thither in an excited and aimless fashion; they started back in
surprise and dismay when they perceived Wilhelmine's tall figure beside
the Duke, but neither his Highness nor the lady stopped to question the
servants on the cause of the disturbance. When they reached the first
floor, where dwelt the Duchess Johanna Elizabetha, and would have passed
on to gain Wilhelmine's apartments, they found themselves confronted by a
group of persons talking in excited whispers. Prelate Osiander, certainly
not one whom Eberhard Ludwig desired as a witness to Wilhelmine's
re-entry; Madame de Stafforth, the Countess Gemmingen, one of the
Duchess's ladies; Dr. Mürger, second court physician; two of her
Highness's waiting-women. Madame de Ruth was also there, and it struck
Wilhelmine as ominous that the lady of many words and ready wit stood
silent and constrained.
'What is this?' queried Eberhard Ludwig angrily in a loud tone. The
assembled persons turned in startled surprise. Osiander came forward.
'Your Highness's wife, the Duchess Johanna Elizabetha, is sick unto
death, and your Highness was not to be found for all our search,' he said
sternly, and without deigning to cast a glance upon Wilhelmine.
'What ails the Duchess?' asked Eberhard Ludwig, turning to Dr. Mürger.
'It would seem to be a stroke of blood to the brain, your Highness--a
dangerous thing to one of the Duchess's robust physique. Dr. Schubart is
occupied in bleeding her Highness. My assistance was dispensed with,' he
added in an offended tone.
At this moment the door of the Duchess's chamber opened, and Monsieur le
Docteur Schubart, first doctor to the court and a very pompous person,
appeared.
'I am relieved to be able to declare her Highness the Duchess to be
returned from her strange swoon. I have the honour to announce that her
Highness's cherished life will be spared to her devoted subjects.'
The man was odiously unctuous and self-satisfied. Madame de Stafforth
burst into weak weeping, while Osiander gravely offered his
congratulations to Eberhard Ludwig upon the recovery of 'his noble and
devoted wife.' There lay something of true dignity and sober goodness in
the Prelate's whole being which never failed to impress Wilhelmine, and
she felt his entire ignoring of her to be a heavy public reproof from a
competent judge. There was a moment's awkward silence when the Prelate
ceased speaking, and every eye was turned to the pair of handsome lovers
as they stood side by side, framed in the oaken panelling of the doorway
leading to the stairs. Madame de Ruth, who hated pauses, came forward and
held out her hand to Wilhelmine.
'My dear, I am glad to see you,' she said kindly.
Wilhelmine, whom Osiander's disapproval had irritated, replied calmly:
'Yes, I have returned, and to stay this time!' It was said defiantly.
Now it is well known that love makes the wisest of mankind foolish, and
that the poet in love is a perfectly unaccountable being. Eberhard Ludwig
was poet and lover, and he lost his head on this occasion.
'Returned to stay, dear lady, as long as my poor court can harbour and
amuse so fair a visitant!' he said; then, turning to Madame de Ruth, he
added in a lower tone, which was yet perfectly audible to most of the
assembled company: 'The rain-cloud brought back sunshine to us. A flash
of lightning carried her from Elysium to earth once more. A mysterious
Black Cupid led her to me! but we must be very careful, for she can
vanish at will, this beautiful enchantress.'
It was said in extravagant homage, half in pleasantry, but several of
those present, and notably the Duchess's waiting-women, heard the unwise
words. When Wilhelmine swept past them on her way to her chamber they
drew back in superstitious awe, and she heard them murmur, 'Witch and
sorceress! we must not offend her.'