Ambitious and free-hearted, he thought himself impervious to the wiles
of love--a frame of mind he declared indispensible to his art. His
success brought him gold as well as fame and but one achievement was
needed to complete his triumphs--the patronage of the Herwehes, the
noblest and wealthiest of all the great families within leagues of the
town. True, the baron and his son were away at present, engaged in the
war that still distracted the land, but the lady and her daughter were
at home in the magnificent castle which surmounted an eminence far above
the Rhine, in full view against the sky from the window of the artist's
studio. The fact that the Herwehes withheld their countenance from him
was a sore obstacle in the way of Friedrich's ambitions; their influence
extended to every class, and many lesser lights, professedly imitators
of the noble family, followed their example even in trivial matters.
Great was the young artist's satisfaction when one afternoon two ladies
descended from a coach (bearing the Herwehe coat-of-arms) which paused
in the street before his studio. Both were veiled, but Friedrich had no
doubt that his visitors were the baroness and her daughter, whose
patronage he so earnestly desired. When both were seated the elder
woman, throwing aside her veil, revealed a face that had lost little of
its youthful charm, and with a tone of haughty condescension said:
"I have seen some of your portraits, Master Reinmuth, and was pleased
with them. I wish you, regardless of time and cost, to paint my
daughter."
By this time Friedrich had to some extent overcome his trepidation and
with a profound courtesy replied,
"I shall be happy to serve you, My Lady, if you will be good enough to
indicate the time and place for the sittings."
"Elsa, dearest, what are your wishes?" asked the mother, and in a voice
whose tremulous sweetness thrilled the painter, the young woman replied:
"Let it be at the castle, my dear mother, tomorrow at this time. I would
rather not come to the studio, for I dread the ride over the rough
mountain road."
"I will be at your service, My Lady," answered Friedrich, and his
visitors departed without delay.
Friedrich marveled that his thoughts for the remainder of the day--and
much of the night--should revert to the demure little figure whose voice
had so moved him. Fame bespoke her the fairest of the fair, but it never
entered his imaginings that he, a humble portrait painter, could think
of the daughter of such an illustrious line but as one of a different
order of beings from himself. He had never thought seriously of love;
his mistress, he averred, had been fame. True, he had in idle moments
dreamed of a being that he might madly adore--and, alas for him, his
fancy had become embodied in human form. But why had this maiden so
affected him? She had not lifted her veil and had spoken but once, and
if her bearing were dignified and her form graceful, he had seen many
others no less charming in these respects nor thought of them a second
time. If he had analyzed his feelings he would probably have said that
the unusual impression was due to the recognition of his talent by the
Herwehes.
The appointed hour on the morrow found him following the footpath which
led to the castle gate--a much shorter though steeper way than the coach
road. Intent as he was on his mission, he could not but pause
occasionally to view the wonderful scene that spread out beneath him.
The cliff on which the many-towered old castle stood almost overhung the
blue waters of the Rhine, which here run between rocks of stupendous
height. A little farther down the valley, but in full view from his
splendid vantage-point, were vineyard-terraced hills interspersed with
wooded ravines and luxuriant meadows. The magic touch of early autumn
was over it all--a scene of enchanting beauty. On the opposite cliff was
an ancient ruin (now entirely vanished) and Friedrich recalled more than
one horrible tale about this abandoned place that had blanched his
youthful cheeks. At his feet lay the gray roofs and church spires of his
native town and perhaps a shadow of a thought of the renown he would one
day bring to it flitted through his mind--for on such an errand and such
a day what could limit his ambitious musings?
He soon found himself at the castle gate and was admitted by the keeper,
who knew of his coming. He was ushered into a magnificent apartment and
told to await the Lady Elsa's arrival--and the servant added that the
baroness was absent, having gone that morning to Coblenz to join her
husband.
Friedrich, in the few moments he waited, endeavored to compose himself,
though feelings of anxiety and curiosity strove with his efforts at
indifference; but when the oaken door swung softly open and his fair
client stood before him, he started as though he had seen an apparition.
Indeed, it flashed on him at once that all the perfection he had
imagined, all the beauty of which he had dreamed, stood before him in
the warm tints of life, though to his heated fancy she seemed more than
a being of flesh and blood. In truth, the kindly eyes, the expressive
and delicately moulded face, the flood of dark hair that fell over
shapely shoulders, the slender yet gracefully rounded form, and, more
than all, that certain nameless and indescribable something that makes a
woman beautiful--did not all these proclaim her almost more than mortal
to the over-wrought imagination of the young visionary?
"Are you ill?" were her first words when her quick eye caught the
ghastly pallor of the artist's face and the bewildered look that
possessed it.
At the sound of her voice he strove desperately to regain his composure.
"No, not ill," he said. "I still suffer from a wound I received in the
army and the climb up the mountainside somewhat overtaxed my strength."
"I am sorry," she replied. "Had I known, I would gladly have come to the
studio."
The look of sympathetic interest with which she accompanied her words
was a poor sedative to the already overmastering passions of the artist,
but by a supreme effort he recovered himself to say:
"No, no; it is better that I do not pass so much of my time there. I
have applied myself too closely of late. Are you ready, lady, for the
sitting?"
"Yes," said she. "I have been preparing for you. Follow me." She led the
way through several magnificent apartments to one even more splendid
than the rest. "In this room," she continued, "I would have the portrait
painted, and as a setting can you not paint a portion of the room
itself?"
Friedrich assented in an absent manner and taking up his palette was
about to give his fair subject directions to seat herself to the best
advantage when he saw she had already done so, with a pose and
expression that might have delighted even a dispassionate artist's
eye--if, indeed, any eye could gaze dispassionately on the Lady Elsa
Herwehe. She had arranged the drapery of her dull-red silken robe so as
to display to the best advantage--and yet not ostentatiously--the
outlines of her graceful figure, and her dark hair fell in a shadowy
mass over her shoulders. Her face bore a listless and far-away
expression--was it natural, or only assumed for artistic effect?
Friedrich knew not, but it made her seem superhuman. The artist took up
his brush but his brain reeled and his hand trembled.
"You are surely ill," exclaimed Lady Elsa and would have called a
servant, but a gesture from Friedrich detained her.
"No, lady, I am not ill"--and losing all control of himself he went
madly on--"but I cannot paint the features of an angel. O, Lady Elsa, if
it were the last words I should utter I must declare that I love you.
The moment I saw you a tenfold fury seized my soul. I never loved before
and I cannot stem the torrent now. O, lady, the difference between our
stations in life is wide--but, after all, it may soon be otherwise; I
have talent and the world will give me fame. This love in a day has
become my life and what is mere breath without life? If you scorn me my
life is gone"--
The Lady Elsa, who was at first overcome by astonishment, recovered
herself to interrupt him. "Peace, you foolish babbler," cried she. "You
came to paint my likeness, not to make love to me. If you cannot do your
task, cease your useless vaporings and depart. Think you the daughter of
an historic line that stretches back to Hengist could throw herself away
on a poor portrait painter, the son of an ignorant peasant? Take you to
your business or leave me."
To Friedrich every word was a dagger-thrust. He seemed about to reply
when--as awakening from a dreadful dream--he rushed from the apartment
and fled in wild haste down the stony path to the town. Locking himself
in his studio he threw himself on the couch in an ecstacy of despair and
passed the greater part of the night in sleepless agony. From sheer
exhaustion he fell into a troubled slumber towards morning--if such a
hideous semi-conscious state may be called slumber. In his dream he saw
a host of demons and in their midst a veiled figure at the sight of
which his heart leaped, for it seemed the Lady Elsa. She approached and
offered him her hand, veiled beneath the folds of her robe; when he had
clasped it he stood face to face, not with the lady of his love, but
with the sin-hardened and sardonic features of Gottfried Winstedt, the
old soldier-comrade whose dreadful fate he had forgotten! With a wild
start he awoke and his thoughts immediately flashed to the strange
casket the old man had given him. The words of that anomaly of a man
came to him with an awful significance: "When thou shalt so desire some
earthly thing that thou wouldst barter thine eternal welfare to secure
it, thou mayest open this casket."
Fearing that his curiosity might some time overcome him and dreading the
threat of old Gottfried, he had buried the casket in a lonely spot and
quite forgotten it. His dream recalled it to his memory at a time when
no price would be too great to pay for the love of Elsa Herwehe. He
sprang from his couch and hastened to the secluded corner of his
father's garden, where he had buried the mysterious casket in a wrapping
of coarse sack-cloth. Returning to his room and carefully barring the
doors he opened the box with little difficulty. It contained a roll of
manuscript and a single sheet of yellow parchment. Friedrich unrolled
this and a small scrap of paper fell at his feet. It bore these words in
faded red letters:
"Thou who art willing to bear the consequence, read; the incantation on
the parchment, if repeated in a solitary spot at midnight, will bring
the presence of the Prince of Evil, though thou canst not know the
meaning of the words. He will give thee thy desire at the price of thy
soul. But beware--thou hast yet the power to recede."
Friedrich read these words with a strange fascination, nor did the
solemn warning in the slightest degree alter his purpose to seek a
conference with the enemy. The parchment bore but a single verse in a
strange language, and the artist thrust it in his bosom with a feeling
of triumph. A glance at the manuscript showed it the story of Gottfried
Winstedt's life, which he contemptuously flung into the grate, saying:
"What care I for the doings of the brutal old fool? To-night I will seek
the old ruin across the Rhine which stands opposite the Herwehe
estate--my future estate, perchance; no one will interrupt my business
there!" And he laughed a mirthless laugh that startled even himself, for
a hoarse echo seemed to follow it; was it the Fiend or the ghost of
Gottfried Winstedt who mocked him?
Meanwhile, the Lady Elsa sat in her chamber overcome with surprise at
the actions of the artist; annoyed and angry, yet half pitying him, for
he was a gallant young fellow, sure to gain the world's applause--and
what woman ever found it in her heart to wholly condemn the man who
truly loves her? She ordered a servant to restore to Friedrich his
painting utensils which he had left in his precipitate flight, but the
man returned saying he could not gain admittance to the studio and had
left his charge at the door.
The following day--the same on which Friedrich had recovered the fatal
casket--the baroness returned from Coblenz, accompanied by her eldest
son. She inquired as to the progress of the portrait and Elsa in a half
careless, yet melancholy tone told her all and even expressed pity for
the poor artist. But the haughty noblewoman was highly incensed at the
presumption of the young painter and Heinrich, the son, who was present,
flew into an uncontrollable fury and swore by all he considered holy
that the knave's impudence should be punished. Snatching his sword he
left the castle in a great rage. Elsa called to him to desist, but her
words were unheeded. She then appealed to her mother: "Will you permit
the rash boy to leave in such a passion? You know his fiery temper and
he may do that which will cause him grave trouble."
"I will not hinder him," replied the baroness. "Let him chastise the
churl for his presumption; if we do not make an example of someone, the
village tanner will next seek your hand."
"And if he did, would I need hear his suit? Why give farther pain to the
poor artist, who is already in deepest distress?"
"I shall half believe you heard his suit with favor if you urge more in
his defense," said the mother petulantly, and Elsa, who knew her moods,
sighed and was silent.
Meanwhile the wrathful young nobleman pressed on towards the town. The
sun had already far declined and flung his low rays on the broad river
till it seemed a stream of molten gold. The red and yellow hues of early
autumn took on a brighter glow and the town, the distant vineyards and
the wooded vales lay in hazy quietude. But little of this beauty engaged
the mind of Heinrich Herwehe as he bounded down the mountain path. As he
brooded over the insult to his sister his anger, instead of cooling,
increased until the fury of his passion was beyond his control. In this
mood he came to the outskirts of the town where, to his intense
satisfaction, he saw the artist approaching. Friedrich was hastening
toward the river and would have taken no notice of the young baron, whom
he quite failed to recognize. But he was startled by a fierce oath from
Heinrich, who exclaimed:
"Ha, you paltry paint-dauber, draw and defend yourself or I will stab
you where you stand."
"Fool," replied the astonished artist, "who are you that thus accosts me
on the highroad?"
"That matters not; defend yourself or die." And with these words the
impetuous young nobleman rushed upon the object of his wrath. But
Friedrich was no insignificant antagonist; he had served in the army and
had acquired the tricks of sword-play, and for a contest that required a
cool indifference to life or death, his mood was far the better of the
two. Little caring what his fate might be and without further words he
coolly met the onslaught of his unknown enemy. Such was Heinrich's fury
that he quite disregarded caution in his desire to overcome an opponent
whom he despised. Such a contest could not be of long duration. In a
violent lunge which the artist avoided, the nobleman's foot slipped on
the sward and he was transfixed by his adversary's rapier. With scarce a
groan he expired and Friedrich, hardly looking at his prostrate foe,
exclaimed:
"You fool, you have brought your fate upon yourself!" and, as he
sheathed his sword, added, "Who you were and why you did so set upon me
I cannot conceive, but it matters not; I doubt not that the confessor to
whom I go will readily absolve me from this deed."
He pursued his lonely way to the river's edge, where he stepped into a
small boat and as he moved from the shore he muttered, "O, Elsa, Elsa,
he who would give an earthly life for love might be counted a madman;
what then of one who seeks to barter eternity for thee?" He soon reached
the opposite bank of the river and began the steep ascent to the ruined
castle. He beheld, in the gathering twilight, the same romantic scenes
that had so thrilled him but two days ago and could scarce believe
himself the same man. Darkness was rapidly gathering and by the time he
reached the ruin the last glow of sunset had faded from the sky. He
crossed the tottering bridge over the empty moat and entered the
desolate courtyard. Here, in the uncertain gloom of the lonely ruin, he
must wait the coming of midnight and wear away as best he could the
ghostly monotony of the passing hours. But his purpose was fixed; his
desperation had been only increased by the events of the day, and
seating himself on a fragment of the wall he determined to endure
whatever came. He heard the great cathedral bell of the distant town
toll hour after hour and when midnight drew near he unfalteringly
entered the vast deserted hall of state. Here he lighted his small lamp,
whose feeble beams struggled fitfully with the shadows of the huge
apartment. He drew forth the parchment--he had not mustered courage to
look at it since morning--and as the last stroke of the great bell died
in the gloom, he muttered the strange language of the incantation.
Suddenly there came a rushing sound as of a gust of wind, which
extinguished his lamp, and, forgetting that he must repeat the fatal
words, he let the parchment fall. The wind whiffed it he knew not
whither. No visible shape came before him, but in a moment he felt the
awful presence and a voice sepulchral and stony came out of the
darkness:
"Mortal, who art thou that dost thus summon me? What wilt thou?"
Sick with terror and yet determined even to death, Friedrich answered:
"And knowest thou not? Men speak thee omniscient. But I can tell thee of
my hopeless love--"
"Nay, I know all," continued the voice. "Relight thy lamp and I will
tell thee how thou mayst gain thy desire."
Trembling, Friedrich obeyed and looked wildly about, expecting the
visible form of the Fiend, but he saw nothing. Yet he felt the horrid
presence and knew that his awful visitant was near at hand.
From out of the darkness a heavy iron-clasped book fell at his feet and
the voice continued: "Open a vein and sign thy name in the book with
blood."
Friedrich with changeless determination obeyed and the book disappeared.
"Take this gold," said his dreadful monitor, and a heavy bag fell at the
artist's feet with a crash, "and I will give thee graces to win the fair
one's heart. Repeat the incantation that I may depart."
For the first time since it had disappeared Friedrich thought of the
fatal parchment and in an agony of horror remembered that it was gone.
He would have rushed from the castle but the power of the presence held
him immovable.
"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? Thou knowest; tell me, in
God's name!"
"Fool, tenfold fool, dost thou call on my archenemy to adjure me? The
parchment is naught to me; it was thy business to guard it. I can wait
till day-break when I must depart, and with me thou must go."
"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? I adjure thee"--but the
voice was silent and the mighty power still chained its victim to the
spot. It were useless to follow the blasphemous ravings of the
unfortunate youth, who cursed God and humankind as well as the enemy
until the first ray of the rising sun darted through the crumbling
arches, when the inexorable power smote him dead and doubtless carried
his spirit to the region of the damned.
Herwehe Castle--and, indeed, the whole town and countryside--was in a
wild uproar on the following morning. The young nobleman had been found
murdered, sword in hand, and all knew from the wailing mother the
mission on which he had set out the evening before. Friedrich was
missing and was instantly accused as the murderer. Companies of furious
retainers and villagers scoured the countryside until at last a party
searching the old ruin found the object of their wrath. He lay dead upon
the floor of the ancient hall of state with only an extinguished lamp
near him and, to their amazement, a bag of gold.
Various theories were advanced concerning him and his death. The
commonly accepted one was that he had stolen the gold and murdered the
young nobleman and, being struck with remorse, had ended his life with
some subtle poison. But none ever knew the real fate of the poor artist
save his old father, who guessed it from reading the manuscript of
Gottfried Winstedt, which he found unconsumed in the grate of his son's
studio.
VII
A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH
Twenty miles from Luxemburg we come to the French border, where we must
pay another fee to the German official who occupies a little house by
the roadside and who takes over the number-plates which we received on
entering Germany. The French officer, a little farther on, questions us
perfunctorily as to whether we have anything dutiable; we have purchased
only a few souvenirs and trinkets in Germany and feel free to declare
that we have nothing. We suppose our troubles with the customs ended and
the Captain, who purchased several bottles of perfume in Cologne--the
French are strongly prejudiced against German perfumes--rests easier.
But in Longwy, a small town four or five miles from the border, another
official professing to represent the customs stops us and is much more
insistent than the former, though after opening a hand-bag or two and
prying about the car awhile, he reluctantly permits us to proceed. And
this is not all, for at the next town a blue-uniformed dignitary holds
us up and declares he must go through our baggage in search of
contraband articles. A lengthy war of words ensues between this new
interloper and the Captain, who finally turns to us and says:
"This fellow insists that if we do not give him a list of our purchases
in Germany and pay duty, our baggage will be examined in the next town
and if we are smuggling anything we'll have to go to jail."
This is cheerful news, but our temper is roused by this time and we
flatly refuse to give any information to our questioner or to permit him
to examine our baggage. He leaves us--with no very complimentary
remarks, the Captain says--and we make as quick a "get-away" as
possible. We keep a sharp look-out in the next two or three villages,
but are not again troubled by the minions of the law. We begin to
suspect that the officers were simply local policemen who were trying to
frighten us into paying a fee, and we are still of this opinion.
After crossing the border we follow a splendid road leading through a
rather uninteresting country and a succession of miserable villages, a
description of which would be no very pleasant reading. Suffice it to
say that their characteristics are the same as those of similar villages
we have already written about--if anything, they are dirtier and uglier.
They are all small and unimportant, Montmedy, the largest, having only
two thousand inhabitants and a considerable garrison. This section was
the scene of some of the great events of the war of 1870-71. About noon
we come to Sedan, which gave its name to the memorable battle if,
indeed, such a one-sided conflict can be called a battle. The Germans
simply corralled the French army here with about as much ease as if it
were a flock of sheep--but the Captain insists they would have no such
"walk-away" to-day. The ancient inn--bearing the pretentious name of
Hotel de la Croix d'Or--where we have lunch, endeavors to charge one
franc "exchange" on an English sovereign, thereby arousing the Captain's
ire, not so much on account of the extortion as for the presumption in
questioning an English gold-piece, which ought to pass current wherever
the sun shines. He indignantly seeks a bank and tells down French coin
to the landlord, along with his compliments delivered in no very
conciliatory tone. Sedan is an old and untidy town of about twenty
thousand people and aside from its connection with the famous battle has
little to interest the tourist.